What others are saying
about
“A lovely, haunting story. The first paragraph drew me in and I could not stop. The author’s writing is superb, like a river flowing through a beautiful landscape that is sometimes light, sometimes dark and threatening. A gorgeous book!”
Susanne O’Leary, author of A Woman’s Place
~
“V.R. Christensen’s work reminds one of literature from the turn of the century, when masterful writers gave their characters emotional gestures and restrained dialogue. A tremendous accomplishment for a contemporary writer.”
Janie Bill, author
~
“What really makes this work is the author’s understanding of social attitudes in the 19th century. An enjoyable read!”
N. Gemini Sasson, author of Isabeau: A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer
~
“Poor Imogen, cursed with money. All the things that money does to a family, the paradoxes of having and not having, of how money ruins the best of intentions, and the author combines all this with writing of the highest quality.”
Jeff Blackmer, author of Draegnstoen and Highland King
~
“What scandalous mystery, what delicately hinted corruption wrought behind closed doors! The dialogue flows effortlessly, drawing the reader into the times. Of Moths and Butterflies is masterful for its genre!”
Hawaiibased mystery author, Toby Neal
Author of
Cry of the Peacock and Gods and Monsters
For information about these and other works please visit www.vrchristensen.com
Captive Press Publishing
Copyright 2011 by V.R. Christensen
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.
Cover design by V.R. Christensen and Captive Press. Please contact either party for copyright info, or see the copyright info page at the end of this book. Interior book layout formatting by V.R. Christensen and Captive Press. Illustrations by B. Lloyd. For more information about her, visit her website or see the About the Artist page. For all other citations regarding quotations and images used in the creation of this book, please see the copyright info page.
Table of Contents
Front Matter
Words in praise of Of Moths and Butterflies
Part one
Chapter One - Some terrible news
Chapter Two - Imogen makes a decision
Chapter Three - The runaway
Chapter Four - Gina Shaw
Chapter Five - Maid of all work
Chapter Six - Death notice
Chapter Seven - Worship
Chapter Eight - An introduction, of sorts
Chapter Nine - Miles Wyndham
Chapter Ten - A compromising situation
Chapter Eleven - The mural
Chapter Twelve - Circuses and insects
Chapter Thirteen - Overheard
Chapter Fourteen - Found?
Chapter Fifteen - Friends in unexpected places
Chapter Sixteen - A confession
Chapter Seventeen - Change of plans
Chapter Eighteen - Psyche
Chapter Nineteen - An insect collection
Chapter Twenty - The Blue Morpho
Chapter Twenty- one - Found!
Chapter Twenty-two - Returned to London
Chapter Twenty-three - Society
Chapter Twenty-four - Common acquaintances
Chapter Twenty-five - An interview
Chapter Twenty-six - A proposal of marriage
Chapter Twenty-seven - Weakness
Chapter Twenty-eight - Arrangements
Chapter Twenty-nine - Remorse
Chapter Thirty - A request
Chapter Thirty-one - Announcements
Chapter Thirty-two - Rebuked
Chapter Thirty-three - Marriage morning
Chapter Thirty-four - Vows
Part two
Chapter Thirty-five - The mistress of Wrencross Abbey
Chapter Thirty-six - Occupation
Chapter Thirty-seven - An accident
Chapter Thirty-eight - Promises
Chapter Thirty-nine - Demands
Chapter Forty - Counsel and a warning
Chapter Forty-one - A cottage scene
Chapter Forty-two - Responsibilities
Chapter Forty-three - Discoveries
Chapter Forty-four - Interrupted
Chapter Forty-five - Nightmares
Chapter Forty-six - Guests expected and unexpected.
Chapter Forty-seven - Imogen states her objections
Chapter Forty-eight - More counsel
Chapter Forty-nine - Incompatible
Chapter Fifty - Mrs. Barton advises
Chapter Fifty-one - Preparations
Chapter Fifty-two - An intruder
Chapter Fifty-three - The solicitor
Chapter Fifty-four - Mrs. Montegue
Chapter Fifty-five - Tried and tested
Chapter Fifty-six - In Ethne’s room
Chapter Fifty-seven - Home
Chapter Fifty-eight - Truly stated
Chapter Fifty-nine - Family gatherings
Chapter Sixty - Precautions
Chapter Sixty-one - Rivalry
Chapter Sixty-two - An agreement
Chapter Sixty-three - Solace found
Chapter Sixty-four - An evening’s amusements
Chapter Sixty-five - An uninvited guest
Chapter Sixty-six - A grim scene
Chapter Sixty-seven - Archer makes a decision
Chapter Sixty-eight - Conflagration
Chapter Sixty-nine - Injuries
Chapter Seventy - The truth
Chapter Seventy-one - Sacrifice
Chapter Seventy-two - Presumption
Chapter Seventy-three - Set free
Chapter Seventy-four - Captured
Chapter Seventy-five - Endings and beginnings
Illustrations
Illustration one - Frontispiece one or Imogen contrite
Illustration two - From his portfolio he withdrew several documents
Illustration three - He placed himself beside the churchyard gate
Illustration four - She was seated on the floor
Illustration five - She returned to the Abbey
Illustration six - Aren’t you the fine gentleman this evening
Illustration seven - She gazed upon the insect-strewn walls
Illustration eight - The more the room filled, the more alone she felt
Illustration nine - The enlightenment she sought was not to be had
Illustration ten - He waited for her answer
Illustration eleven - Frontispiece two
Illustration twelve - Not too young to understand
Illustration thirteen - A chill came over her
Illustration fourteen - And you play, too
Illustration fifteen - Her behaviour seemed to auger some dark association
Illustration sixteen - There was a chance, albeit a small one
Illustration seventeen - They were to the second landing when the whispering began
Illustration eighteen - She began gathering up the broken glass
Illustration nineteen - She was standing at the mirror when she heard the knock
Illustration twenty - Not sleeping, no
Illustration twenty-one - She opened the window
Illustration twenty-two - They made their way home
Part one
People have very little idea how great are the injuries which imprudence draws on them, or they would not despise this homely virtue. Especially for young women is prudence required in the conduct of love affairs. There is no end to the tale of misery we could tell resulting from its want. Marriage would not be the lottery it is, if girls would exercise a little prudence. They should never engage themselves to a man of whom they know nothing—the past of their future husband ought to be clear to them.
Laura. Valentine, The Young Woman's Book
Chapter one
October 1881
ITH
EACH CREAK in the floorboards above,
Imogen’s nerves tensed. She wanted to sleep, needed to. The fire in
the parlour had gone out, but it wasn’t a particularly cold night,
and the warm glare of firelight seemed too harsh an interruption to
the soothing darkness.
Again, the footsteps overhead. The doctor had been upstairs for hours now and this late night vigil did not bode well. If the man should die, she might at last have the liberty she’d so long desired. But where would she go? How would she live? Yet there were concerns more immediately pressing. The shameful circumstances of her life here, the events which had led up to the tragic finale of the evening, these secrets must come to light. Perhaps the doctor was hearing of them now.
It had not been her intention to hurt him. She had only meant to stand up to her uncle. She had reached her limit and she could take no more. She wanted the torment to end, the daily battle to hold onto the last vestiges of self-respect that still remained to her. But now she sat in this limbo between freedom and ruin. If he lived, could she leave him? If he died could she stay? Her conflicting and tumultuous emotions betrayed themselves only in her occupation of busily fingering the fringe of her paisley shawl. Out of date, it was her mother’s and she wore it often. She wore it for comfort.
A knock at the parlour door startled her from her meditations. Mary entered, followed closely by the doctor. He paused a moment before crossing the threshold, his frame a black silhouette against the lights that burned in the hall.
Imogen sat up, pulling her shawl more tightly around her.
“Your uncle requests his solicitor, Miss Everard.”
Silently she nodded and arose. She crossed to the writing desk, where she sat down to compose the line or two required. She blotted and sealed the message, then gave the direction for its delivery.
The doctor returned to his patient, leaving her once more to her dark thoughts, interrupted only by the creaks and groans of a centuries-old house and by the hall clock as it marked off, second by agonising second, the passing of time. And of one man’s life.
It was not an hour later when she heard the doorbell ring, followed by the sound of voices. The doctor and the lawyer held a brief and hushed conference before climbing the flight of stairs to her uncle’s rooms. What secrets were being relayed in those indistinct and earnestly offered words? How many more must know before this would all be over? Would it ever be over? She closed her eyes upon the unanswerable question. And waited.
* * *
A pale autumn sun was just beginning to rise when the gentlemen returned downstairs with the news. The doctor spoke kindly before taking his leave, offering his heartfelt condolences and advising Imogen to get some much needed rest.
The lawyer remained.
A man of imposing stature and stern demeanour, Mr. Watts might be called intimidating by some. For many years he had been in her uncle’s service, and in that time he had become Mr. Everard’s confidant. Perhaps not a friend, but an advisor and a bearer of his secrets—and now, presumably, of her own as well.
“You have aunts,” he began without preface.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll go to them. They’ll take you.” It was as much a question as a statement.
“Yes, of course. But–” She hesitated to say more.
“You don’t wish to go?”
She averted her gaze, unable to answer.
“Have you alternatives?”
“No, sir, not that I can see.”
The lawyer leaned back in his chair. “You have a cousin. One in particular, I think. Your aunt’s nephew by marriage. Is that not a possibility?”
For a woman in her position, alone, without resources, with hardly a character to speak of, marriage was the only conceivable choice. Still… “I’m not sure it is, sir. Not just at present.”
Another long silence followed as he examined her carefully. At last he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew an envelope.
“If you’ll be so good as to examine this, Miss Everard,” he said. “I’ll return in a few hours’ time. We can discuss matters in further detail then.”
Imogen looked at the letter but did not take it from him. Patiently, he laid it on the table before rising to gather up his coat and hat.
“I’ll show myself out,” he said.
Imogen saw him as far as the drawing room door, where he turned once more to speak.
“I’ve already sent word to the family. You can leave the formalities to me.”
“Thank you, sir,” she answered, relieved to know that these burdens, particularly that of informing her aunts of their brother’s death, would not be hers.
“Get some rest if you can,” he said, and turning, shook his head before shutting the door behind him.
Rest? There was no rest to be had here. Not with her uncle lying upstairs. Not with the family coming any hour now.
The sight of the letter still lying on the table reminded her that she had an obligation to read it. She took it up but could hardly bring herself to break the seal. She placed herself in one corner of the sofa and smoothed the document across her lap. And read. Yet it took some doing to convince herself that the words she saw were the words that had truly been written.
So he had thought of her, after all. Ten years under his roof and now he regretted. Now he wished to do something for her. In disbelief she stared into the newly resurrected flames. If only they could offer some answer as to what she ought to do.
“You look an absolute wreck, Imogen.”
She awoke to the sound of the familiar voice and, seeing him, arose to greet her cousin. Roger placed a kiss on each cheek and stood back to look her over more studiously. Tears had gathered by now. She felt the prick of them, but would not allow them to spill over.
“Are you really so very sorry?”
“I’m not inhuman, after all. He raised me, provided for me since...”
Roger reached out to her, but she drew away and returned to her place on the sofa.
“They’re here, then?” she asked him. “My aunts have come?”
He sighed in frustration. “I came ahead of them.”
“I’m so glad,” she said with a look of honest relief. “Yours is the only face I can bear to look at just now.”
He smiled and his manner relaxed once more. “I was uncertain whether I should come, you know.”
“Why should that be?”
“Well,” he paused and looked at her pointedly. “You’ve been rather unpredictable of late.”
“Have I?” she asked and looked away.
“Well, yes, if you want to know.”
She knew it was true. Since the day, nearly three months ago, when she had quite suddenly come to realise the nature of her value to her uncle, and to the gentlemen who came to borrow money from him, she had begun to see the world in a very different light. She understood now what dangers lurked behind the seemingly innocent smiles and glances offered between a man and a woman, the friendly touch of a hand on her arm. How quickly these turn into something more, crossing the lines of propriety when no obstacles are set in place to check them. To such things, her uncle had turned a blind eye. If it meant keeping business then who was he to deny a man some little reward for his trouble?
Roger had always treated her with respect, but she was no fool. She knew very well that, underneath it all, he was little different from the others. For the names of the card rooms, and the gaming houses, and those other houses, all of which she ought to have known nothing, were the same, whether they were mentioned in reference to her cousin’s exploits or to her uncle’s more practical business dealings. Perhaps they were all the same at heart, these “gentlemen”. But Roger would never hurt her as others had done. He would never force her to give him what he desired. She knew that. But neither could she freely give what had already been taken. Not to him. Not to anyone.
“What is this?” Roger said, observing the letter that had been dropped upon his entrance and which now lay haphazardly on the floor. He picked it up and, with a look, made his request.
She nodded her answer.
Roger unfolded it and read. Finishing it, he laid it down and looked up at her in astonishment. “What do you make of this?”
“What do you think?” And she really wanted to know.
“It looks to me as though your darling uncle has attempted a last gasp attempt to buy back his soul, if you want my opinion. It should be a relief to you, truly. You may live your life as you like now.” He examined her a moment. “You should be happy.”
“With my family, everyone I’ve ever known, looming over me, ready to prey upon my good fortune? Do you think my aunts will be happy to know that my uncle overlooked them in favour of me?”
He rubbed at his forehead. “And so what do you propose to do?”
“What can I do? I’m not yet twenty-one. I’ll still require a guardian for another year or more. A year, Roger! My aunts will insist, and what then?”
Roger sat down beside her and watched. A dark coil of hair fell across one shoulder as she lowered her head to hide the tears that would come, however hard she tried to stop them. He brushed her hair from her face, and a tear or two as well.
“Dear Imogen?” he said, that pleading look once more in his too penetrating eyes.
Imogen moved to free the strand of hair he’d just taken between his fingers. “Roger…please.”
“What other choice do you have?” He was clearly trying to be patient, but the effort showed. “Besides, of course, the one I’ve been persuading you to consider these many months now.”
“Which you know you don’t mean.”
“I know no such thing. Imogen, I am in earnest!”
“So am I.”
“You will not marry me?”
“I can’t.”
“Of course you can,” he said with a wave at the letter that now lay on the side table. “You can do whatever you like now.”
“The money, Roger. It complicates things.”
He rose to his feet and began pacing before her. She waited for his remonstrance, for some vain assurance. It did not come.
“I don’t mean to accept it. I don’t want it.”
Roger started, his eyes wide as he faced her. “Are you mad? This is what you’ve been waiting for. For heaven’s sake, take it and set yourself free!”
“I can’t take it and have any respect for myself. It’s payment.”
Roger stopped and turned to her once more, a look of disgust upon his face. “No. No it isn’t,” he said, his hand slicing the air as if scolding a wayward child. “Not like that. It’s—”
“They’ll wonder why he gave it to me,” she said interrupting him. “I’ll never have a moment’s peace. They’ll wonder why and they’ll find out if they can, though I’m sure they know enough already.”
“Drake Everard was a vulgar brute and deserved to be hanged for what he’s done to you!”
“Roger!” Imogen said, stopping him again. “You don’t know…anything…” The unspoken question, “do you?” hung in the air.
Roger sat down beside her, his hands clasped tightly before him. “I know what he was capable of,” he said in a voice low and hoarse with the effort to suppress his anger. He did not look at her. “I know that those fellows who came to him for money would like to have taken much more away than a few pounds of liquid cash.”
So he knew. He could guess, at any rate. Clearly he did not know all, but his understanding, so far as it was formed, convinced her that only by the most drastic of measures could she ever hope to separate herself from a history that had so far defined her and would prejudice all against her. Herself included.
The sound of hooves outside brought Roger to his feet. He crossed to the window and looked out.
“Have they come, then?” Imogen asked.
Roger turned, but hesitated. “Yes, they’re here.”
Chapter two
HY
DIDN'T YOU tell us your uncle was ill?” Muriel demanded the moment
Imogen entered the room. “This is a terrible shock. There must have
been some sign, some warning. Why didn’t you send for me?”
“He was well enough yesterday, Aunt.”
“This comes from not taking better care of him,” Muriel said and took a chair near the fire. “Do you never think of others?” The twisting of the lace on her newly adopted mourning betrayed her dismay, but she turned her emotions outward, as was her habit.
Imogen crossed to the window to look out onto the street. All was consumed in a blanket of fog. Within, a bluebottle buzzed and thudded, beating itself against the glass in a desperate attempt to be free. She closed the curtain upon it, leaving the wretched creature to destroy itself in peace.
“Aunt Ellison,” Roger said, breaking the silence, “perhaps there is something I can get you?”
Imogen turned to watch him, grateful for his attempt to diffuse the tension.
“I’m too distraught to eat,” Muriel answered. Her hand waved him away, then paused in mid-air. With a suspicious eye, she examined the sideboard where some morning refreshment had been laid out prior to the arrival of the guests. “Well…perhaps I might take something light, if Paulson made it. I trust her cooking far above that of anyone else in this house.”
“She’s been gone some time, I’m afraid,” Imogen answered, and knew full well that her aunt knew it, too.
“How you do run this house! You don’t still have that Mary person do you? There’s something about that girl I don’t like. Are you sure she’s respectable?”
“Yes, Aunt,” Imogen said, answering both questions at once and seating herself on the sofa opposite.
“It’s a good thing you’ll be coming away with me. I’ll teach you how to manage a house properly.”
“I don’t think I mean to go anywhere, Aunt. Not just yet.”
Muriel stared at her, dumbfounded.
“There is Aunt Julia of course,” Roger suggested.
Muriel’s gaze shifted slowly to Roger. It seemed to take her a moment to understand him. “Impossible!”
“It’s quite impossible.” Julia, just returning from her brother’s room, had overheard enough of the conversation to answer for herself. “I have my hands full as it is with Roger,” she said, opening her fan and taking a seat as far from the fire, and her eldest sister, as possible.
“No, you will come to me, Imogen. It’s already settled. You need guidance, a chance to redeem yourself. After a little while under my care you might be able to recommend yourself for something useful. A governess position, I should think. Nothing grand of course, not with this shadow your uncle has left hanging over you. Are you training to go into service, Roger?” she said, turning a glaring eye on her sister’s nephew as he offered her a plate.
“I’m only trying to be helpful.” He smiled, which Muriel seemed to find all the more irritating.
“Sit down, will you.”
He obeyed.
“You’re fortunate you did not suffer worse, Imogen,” Muriel continued. “And with your education you will be able to recommend yourself better than most. Your uncle provided for you very well in that respect. You should be grateful.”
Muriel’s fingers drummed the table beside her as she narrowly examined her niece. Imogen was not proud, but she nevertheless felt the intrusion. This was her house now, and what she wouldn’t give for a little peace and privacy within it.
This room especially had once been a sanctuary to her. Her own little corner, where she could practice, study and read without interruption. It was here that her uncle had allowed her to try her hand at decorating. She had chosen lilies as the motif. The ubiquitous symbol of purity and virtue. Clusters of them, strewn across every wall. She had thought herself clever in choosing the carpet, a modern design, with its mirrored and opposing blooms—lilies of course—their stems intertwining throughout the centre and around the edges as though they grew as vines—or writhing snakes.
The lilies! They might as well have been cabbage roses or peonies. And they mocked her, their orange stamens staring at her like a hundred thousand little eyes.
Roger cleared his throat. “Is there something more I might get for you, Aunt Ellison?” he asked, that charming grin once more upon his face.
Muriel did not answer him. Instead, she turned to her sister. “What do you plan to do with him, Julia?”
“I’ve long since given up making any plans of my own for him. He is his own man and he must choose his own way.”
“Then I think you should not have undertaken the project in the first place. He needs grounding.”
The beating of Julia’s fan quickened perceptibly as she raised her chin to answer. “Perhaps I’ve not done as well for him as I had hoped to do, but at least I stood up to responsibility when it presented itself and did what little I could.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
“Only that I know better than to abuse him for my own failures. You’re unnecessarily hard on Imogen. She’s not quite so wretched as you make her out to be. What deficiencies she has are as much your fault as anyone else’s, for it was you who ought to have provided for their remedy. You were—are—her godmother, after all.”
“Whatever I may have failed to do in the past, Julia, I mean to make up for now.”
“By treating her like a burden to be shouldered? Do you think she will easily overcome what she has endured? Not with you reminding her of it at every possible opportunity. You may think you mean well, Muriel, but it’s possibly too late.”
Muriel opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again when a small dog entered the room, only to turn back and hide itself behind a mass of black crepe.
“Mrs. Bower has come to dress the body,” Lara announced from her place at the doorway. She sniffed the tears from her eyes. “How are you, Imogen?”
“Her uncle has died, Lara,” Muriel answered for her, then turned back to Imogen as her sister quit the room once more. “Mr. Watts was vague about the details. He said it was a fall?”
Imogen’s chest tightened. “Yes, Aunt.”
“On the stairs?”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“You were with him?”
She closed her eyes against the vision, the memory of his groping hands. His lewd and insinuating accusations assailed her. “I was.”
“Was he...?”
“Yes, he had been drinking,” she said, anticipating the question.
“Do you hear this?” Muriel said to her sister. Then, turning again to Imogen, “How is it you could have allowed him to get himself into such a state that he could not manage a flight of stairs?”
“You can’t blame Imogen, for his overindulgence,” Roger objected.
“Her familiarity with his habits should have led her to use better judgement.”
“I don’t believe there’s anyone alive who could have kept him from doing what he liked.”
“Roger, it’s all right,” Imogen said. “She’s right. It was my fault. It is my fault. His death,” and shaking her head, she added, “everything.”
Muriel’s grasp tightened around the carved rosewood arm of her chair. “I’m not sure I meant to go so far as to blame you for his death.”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Ellison,” Roger argued, “it sounded very much as though you did.”
Julia, having risen quite suddenly, placed a warning hand on her nephew’s shoulder.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Roger said, taking the cue and sitting back once more in his seat. “Certainly you meant no harm.”
No one said anything for a long time. Imogen was simply frozen with anger and resentment. With suffocating anxiety. Was this truly her fate?
The door opened and Mary entered.
“Mr. Watts has returned, Miss Imogen.”
“Very good,” Muriel said, rising, “I would like to have a word or two with him myself.”
Mary stopped her. “Mr. Watts was most particular, ma’am. He wishes first to speak with Miss Imogen before he will see anyone else.”
Muriel slowly lowered herself back into her chair, watching with narrowed eyes as Imogen followed Mary out.
* * *
Mr. Watts stood as Imogen entered.
“You’ve had a chance to examine the document I gave you?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you any questions?”
She stared at him in silence for a moment or two, uncertain how or where to begin.
“I’m at your service, Miss Everard.”
Imogen, unable to find the words, abandoned her attempt to speak.
“It will be best, I think, to be open,” he said.
Of course he was right. If anyone could help her, it was he. “Very well, sir,” she began with sudden but deliberate determination, though the colour rose high on her face. “I imagine you are familiar with my circumstances?”
Mr. Watts nodded solemnly.
“And you know something of the nature of my life here?”
He nodded again, but with a more condoling air this time.
“It is my fault what happened. I—”
“No one blames you. He didn’t blame you.”
Imogen sat back, lost, for the moment, for words. “Are they quite in stone, these provisions?” she asked when she had at last recovered her ability to think.
“Quite.”
“There are no conditions?”
“Not outside the usual kind.”
“I’m not of age,” she reminded him.
“It will be held in trust until you are.”
“And I am to live with my aunt?”
“You’ve other choices to consider, as well, do not forget.”
“Such as?”
“Your chances are very good, Miss Everard. Your position is a fortunate one. You have much to recommend you. If you were to marry… Of course your husband would have control over the money and all of your earnings, but if you were to marry well...”
“Mr. Watts,” Imogen protested. “Would you want a son of yours to marry someone in my situation? Money aside, I think you know what I mean.”
His answer was given in a blank stare.
“I don’t approve of these provisions, sir. It doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t seem decent.”
“It is not for me to judge the soundness of my clients’ decisions, only for me to see that they are carried out with exactness.”
“Did my uncle have a reason for disinheriting my aunts?”
“He did what he thought best under the circumstances. You’ve been left in a precarious position. The money will make up for—”
“They will contest.”
Mr. Watts, cut short, sighed. “It’s possible, of course.”
“Is it possible to refuse it?”
He offered her a curious look.
“I would much rather make my own way. You will think me foolish, I know, but this money… It’s no blessing to me. I cannot see it as such. You cannot persuade me to do it.”
Again Mr. Watts had no answer to give.
“Is it not possible to make some amendment, to give it to them as though it were never meant to be mine?”
“No. The will must be read as it has been written.”
“Could I give it to them myself, then?”
“You can do whatever you wish once you turn twenty-one.”
Her voice was strained as she spoke. “Until then I am, by law, by my uncle’s act of depraved charity, condemned to the tyranny of those who would seek to gain by it themselves.”
“Your position is regrettable, Miss Everard. But I assure you that with a fortune to your name your chances are much better than they ever could be without it.”
“So there is nothing you can do to help me?”
“I have advised you to the utmost of my ability.”
Imogen blinked, unable to answer more. So that was that, it seemed. She had inherited her uncle’s fortune. She might have been grateful that she was no longer under his power. Instead, he had transferred that privilege to his sisters. That was their inheritance.
She vaguely heard his goodbye through the cacophony of her own thoughts. The clocks had been stopped. There was no noise at all save on the streets outside; the carriages as they drove past, the people walking to and fro in the daily business of their harried lives. At least they were free.
Imogen went again to the window and looked out, envying with unholy passion everyone she saw. As she rested her hand on the sill, her fingers brushed against the dead flies that lay there. She looked at them, found she could not take her eyes from them. That they had beaten themselves to death in their desperation to be free required no supposition at all.
She turned to the door. Could she do it? The answer came without much consideration. She must. There was no other choice. Were she to remain… Her gaze fell once more to the windowsill.
She crossed to the door and opened it an inch or two. Mr. Watts’ voice could be heard in the next room. She stole out into the hallway and up the three flights of stairs to her garret room, where she packed, as quickly as she could, only as much as she could easily carry. She would wait until morning if she must, but by first light she would be gone from this house, never to return. Not willingly, at any rate.
Chapter three
S
IMOGEN LEFT the city behind her she drew in a great breath. But the
fear and doubt, the sorrow and guilt, did not abate with the release
of it. She had bought a ticket to Kent, simply because it was the
first train leaving. From there she had chosen a small, out of the
way town to which no one would think to go and where no one could
possibly arrive by chance. No holiday spot, no thoroughfare to bigger
and better places. But now she must think what she was to do once she
got there.
What little she had brought with her—borrowed from her uncle’s cash box—would not keep her long. But this was no great obstacle, so long as she could find work. For a woman with no practical skills however, there were not many opportunities open to her. Yet she was not without experience. Her uncle had always had a difficult time retaining servants, but of late his temper had worsened, his habits had become blacker, his language bluer. Imogen, finding it necessary to lend a hand now and then in order to keep up the proper appearances, had contributed where and how she might. She had found the occupation a comfort. Such work allowed her to forget her worries and, better yet, had provided her with an excuse to avoid serving her uncle in far unworthier respects. The most difficult of chores had been denied her, it was true, but she had watched, and in theory, at least, she knew she was capable. Neither did she feel herself above it. Perhaps once. Not so now.
She considered, too, that there was possibly a certain safety to be found in such a position, for the merits of so humbling herself had already been tested. The men who had come to do business with her uncle had taken much interest in his refined and charming niece. In her labours assisting the staff, wearing a borrowed apron, with her hair untidied and her hands begrimed, she found herself beneath their notice. In this manner she had found safety. Could she find it again?
Through the train’s window, the great rolling countryside spread out before her. The fields and hedgerows, the houses placed at great distances one from another, and now and then, the quaint little village, all welcomed her with a promise of room to move and fresh air to breathe—a place to lose oneself entirely.
The appearance of a large country estate, a few miles outside of Ashford, provided Imogen with her first introduction to the small village that would be her new home. Soon another, and then another appeared. And when the most charming of these, a large abbey converted into an elegant country house, came into view, her decision was confirmed. It was here she would seek employment.
* * *
“Where has she gone, Roger?” Muriel asked upon entering her brother’s house that morning.
“Imogen, you mean?” Julia answered in astonishment. “Is she not here?”
“You must know where she is.”
Roger, puzzled, took an instinctive glance up the stairwell before turning his attention back to his aunt’s sister.
“Where are the servants?” Julia asked. “Where’s Mary?”
“Sobbing in the kitchen, I suppose. There is no one else.”
This was greeted by questioning looks from both Julia and Roger.
“Why is Mary crying, Muriel?” Julia asked when no answer seemed forthcoming.
“She says she doesn’t know where Imogen is. That she took her breakfast up to her and she wasn’t there. I’m afraid I rather interrogated her.”
“I’m not sure that was necessary,” Julia answered.
“And now I’ve been left to wait, alone, for nearly an hour, with no one here but…” She pointed toward the floor above and her brother’s room.
Roger turned to Julia for some answer, but she had nothing to suggest. Determined to learn what he could, and to waste no time about it, he climbed the stairs to Imogen’s room. Sure enough, the tell-tale signs of a sudden and hasty departure were present. Though most of her clothes remained, her necessaries were gone, as well as her heaviest mantel and a leather bag she used when she travelled—and that wasn’t often. This was a bitter pill to swallow, and he was forced to ask himself some very hard questions.
What would make her take such drastic steps? Could her decision to leave, and so abruptly, without any warning at all, possibly be to avoid his enduring petitions? Or was it simply in desperation to escape the prospect of living under her aunt’s tyranny with a fortune hanging over her head and everyone bearing down upon her to fight for their share of what she so desperately did not want? The first possibility left him humbled and disappointed. The second made him livid. That circumstances, that her own family, should oppress her to such an extent that she would take flight... He sat down on the bed to collect himself properly before going downstairs with the news that, to all appearances, his cousin, his dearest friend, the woman he loved, had fled home, family and fortune.
Roger returned to the parlour to find the aunts had gathered. All were waiting for him, it seemed, and some news of Imogen. Mr. Watts was there too, having recently arrived. Stoic and ashen-faced, Roger delivered his report.
“Gone! Could she be so ungrateful?” was Muriel’s reaction. “With her uncle lying in state and not even a word to tell us where she’s gone or why!”
“I think it’s fairly clear why,” Roger replied.
“Would you mind enlightening me?”
Roger turned to Mr. Watts. “You have come, I believe, to read the will?”
Mr. Watts cleared his throat. “Mmm. Yes.”
“Should not my niece be here to hear it?” Muriel inquired.
“Miss Everard has already been informed of the provisions made for her.”
All eyes were fixed on Mr. Watts as he took his place at the table. From his portfolio he withdrew several documents, which he examined before at last deigning to proceed. The will was read. The truth was revealed.
A single, sharp intake of breath was heard. And then the room fell deathly silent.
“You will wish to contest, of course,” Mr. Watts said after several minutes had passed, wherein Lara had looked up from the little dog on her lap, hardly seeming to have found the proceedings remarkable at all.
Julia’s fan fluttered at blinding speed.
Muriel sat rigid and fuming. “Most certainly I wish to contest. This is absurd! There must be some mistake.”
“Considering the precarious circumstances in which your niece has been left, and I dare say not by Mr. Everard’s carelessness alone,” he added rather pointedly, “I think it quite understandable that he would wish to provide her with some means of security.”
“She has taken it, then. She has taken the money and fled.”
“She has not taken it, Mrs. Ellison. In fact, I believe she has gone with the hope of escaping it, and the temptation it will undoubtedly provide to those who would further oppress her.”
“She has fled to escape it?” Muriel repeated to herself, or to a spot on the floor, it was uncertain.
“I believe so, yes.”
She lifted her gaze to meet the lawyer’s, a distinct air of hope prevailing in both look and tone. “She has forfeited it?”
“That’s not possible. She is not yet of age. She has, I believe, something over a year before she will have the power to make any decision whatever regarding it.”
“Unless she were to marry,” Julia suggested, offering Roger a knowing look.
He took her meaning, but what was the use? She was gone. That’s all he could think of.
“We have to find her,” Julia said.
“Yes, of course,” Muriel answered, her eyes flashing with renewed purpose. “She must be found. Of course she must be found! There can be no question of that.”
The air of determination in her voice ought to have given Roger hope. Instead it made his blood run cold.
“Do you have any idea where she might have gone?” Julia gently asked of her nephew.
Slowly, he turned his gaze upon his aunt. “I wish to God I did.”
From his portfolio he withdrew several documents.
Chapter four
MOGEN'S
IMPRESSION OF Wrencross Abbey improved upon closer inspection of it.
Handsomely adorned with Gothic windows and doorways, and with spires
and chimneys that vaulted to the skies, it was a magnificent
structure. And its apparent age, with its weatherworn stonework and
profusions of ivy, made it appear a romantic sort of place, if not
exactly cheerful.
She arrived at the front door, and it was not until it was opened to her that she realised the first of her mistakes. The gentleman, after greeting her with that cursory respect adopted by all great men of service—to butlers and footmen, particularly—seemed to reconsider his manner once she had stated her purpose. Why she had not thought of it, she could not imagine—her mind had been too occupied with her mission, she supposed, and the anxiety inherent in the uncertainty of her success—but she ought to have applied at the kitchen door, not here at the front of the house as though she were some guest to be revered. She felt the heat rise in her face. Steadying herself, she inquired as to the possibility of speaking with the housekeeper. The butler bowed again, this time with an air of suspicious deference, but nevertheless requested that she enter and wait. Left to herself, she took the opportunity of observing her surroundings, the high wainscoted walls, the coffered ceiling, the faded paint—and the dust. There was so much of it. Surely her arrival was timely.
“What can I do for you, miss?” the housekeeper inquired on finding her thus occupied.
“I’m looking for work please, ma’am.”
The housekeeper’s smile faded. Her brow lowered and she looked at Imogen very closely, her eyes scanning her face, her clothes, the bag she had carried with her.
“No ladies live here to attend upon,” she said.
“I’ll take anything, ma’am.”
“Your name?”
“Gina Shaw,” she said. She had made the decision on the train. A new name for a new life. Though it wasn’t exactly new. It was only an abbreviation of her own, after all. She had objected to its use once before, once when one of her uncle’s “gentlemen” had insisted on calling her by it. It seemed befitting now. Common and low. The surname she had chosen at random. Together she hoped the two would prove too undistinguishing to raise question.
“Gina, is it?”
At that moment a pair of doors at the end of the hall opened. Imogen looked, but saw no one emerge from nor enter the room to which they belonged. A library, by all appearances.
“I’m not sure I have anything to offer you,” the housekeeper said, calling back Imogen’s attention.
“But surely you could use the help?”
The housekeeper pulled herself up to her full height. Which was not much. “Are you implying that my staff have been slack in their duties?”
“No, ma’am. Of course not. Only that a house this large… Surely there must be something you can find for me to do in it?”
This speech seemed to do little to placate the woman, and yet she was considering. Imogen could see it.
“Have you any references?”
She felt her hopes sink. “No, ma’am.”
“No experience then?”
And rise again. “Yes, ma’am. Some experience.”
“The name of your former employer?”
She hesitated. She must provide some reference, even if it were of a dead man. Perhaps that was the best kind, after all. “Mr. Drake Everard, ma’am, late, of London.”
The sound of wood sliding across wood, like a chair drawn across a floor, could be heard from the region of the open door. She glanced again, but saw nothing.
“You are used to early hours and late nights?” the housekeeper asked with apparent doubt. “To hard work on hands and knees, to carrying and cleaning and blacking and washing?”
“As I said, ma’am, I’ll take anything.”
“That was not the question I put to you.”
“I’ve done a little of everything, ma’am, I assure you. And what I do not know how to do, I can learn and learn quickly.”
“I don’t have time to train a new maid. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do for you.”
With that, Imogen was dismissed. She turned to go, but took a passing glance once more in the direction of the open doors and found, to her surprise, a white haired gentleman standing within the frame of it, watching her in her embarrassment and prepared, or so it seemed, to stare her quite out of countenance.
The outer door was opened for her, and taking her cue, she left the house.
* * *
“You did not want the help, Mrs. Hartup?” Sir Edmund Barry inquired from the doorway of his library.
The housekeeper started and turned to him. “It’s been some time, sir, since you’ve given me leave to hire anyone new.”
“That does not answer the question. Can you use the help? I believe you can.”
“She’s not made for the kind of work I would want her for.”
“Does she not have two hands? Is she crippled? Maimed? An idiot?”
“Of course not, sir.”
Sir Edmund turned back into his library and Mrs. Hartup understood that she was to follow.
The library was an addition to the old structure of the house, and had been built to match it as much as possible. Indeed it was sometimes difficult to tell where the old Abbey ended and the new began. The library itself jutted out at an odd angle from the main structure of the building and had once been intended to serve as a conservatory. In recent years, and wishing to have a private egress onto the grounds and a view more pleasing, Sir Edmund had moved the library here from the upper floor, blocking up the windows with bookcases made especially to fit. A doorway on each of the exterior walls led out onto a charming expanse of lawn flanked on all sides by weedy and rank gardens. On the wall opposite from the doors through which Mrs. Hartup had just entered, was a fireplace. And near it, though not exactly before it, stood a monument of a desk, designed to serve as a fortification between its occupant and those who threatened to disturb his peace.
Mrs. Hartup found Sir Edmund here, examining, if vaguely, something on the desk before him. He posed his question without looking at her. “She gave you a reference, I believe.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, unable to account for his interest in the girl. “Only one, though.”
“And it was?”
“She gave the name of Drake Everard.”
“So she did. Her answer was curious, didn’t you think? ‘Late of London,’ were her words. ” A short and contemplative pause followed this as he turned to look out the window. “Did she mean, I wonder, that her former employer is no longer in London, or that he is no longer?”
Uncertain whether this question was directed at herself or merely offered rhetorically, she refrained from answering.
Sir Edmund turned to her. “Do you think it possible you can find me a London paper, Mrs. Hartup?”
“I suppose I can, sir. I might send Charlie to get one for you.”
“He’s not a page boy, Mrs. Hartup. But yes, that will do. Only…”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want as many as can be found. From the last week or two. Be sure the death notices are in them, will you?”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” she said and turned to attend upon her errand.
“Where have you sent her?” he asked stopping her.
“The girl?”
“Yes, the girl!”
“She has gone on her way. I don’t know. I believe I saw her walking in the direction of Mr. Wyndham’s house.”
Sir Edmund’s eyes flashed to meet hers. The question, unspoken, was nonetheless clear.
“I did not send her there, Sir. She went of her own accord.”
An expletive erupted from his lips before he found the coherency to offer his next command. “Send Charlie after her. Bring her back.”
“Sir. I don’t have time to train a woman of questionable ability or to—”
“Hire her, I say! I’m not giving you permission. I’m giving you an order.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, taking little care to veil the irritation she felt.
* * *
Imogen was disappointed. She didn’t dare deny it. With her head held high, and fear and misgiving mounting in her heart, she set her footsteps toward another house not far off and whose tower was just discernible through the treetops. She had accomplished half the distance when she was stopped.
“Miss Shaw!” came the voice.
She turned to find a young boy, perhaps eight, running toward her.
“Are you Miss Shaw?” he asked, breathing hard.
“I am,” she answered.
“I’ve come to fetch you. You’re to return to the Abbey.”
That feeling of hope, so unfamiliar to her, soared again upon hearing this.
“May I?” he asked, and without waiting for the answer, he took her bag from her.
They walked in silence for some time as Imogen surveyed the boy. He was a beautiful child with hair nearly as dark as her own and eyes like water, clear and brilliant. He spoke well too, and so she hesitated to consider him one of the servants. His clothes were finely cut, if a bit worn, and his manner ingratiating. By the way he turned to her several times during their journey, she could tell he was examining her with equal interest. Yet nothing was spoken between them until she was once more standing within the Abbey’s entrance hall.
“I’ll go find Mrs. Hartup for you,” he said and was gone.
Mrs. Hartup, when she returned, stared at Gina for a long minute before at last releasing a frustrated breath. She had hired her but she did not seem pleased with her decision.
“Follow me, if you will,” she said.
Imogen obeyed. The house was built around a courtyard, the entrance hall forming the main transept. To her right, against the east wall, stood the staircase, and beyond this lay several state rooms and a ballroom. In the lower west wing of the house was a dining room, another drawing room, and the library.
They mounted the staircase, where Imogen took in more carefully the once grand splendour of the place. The wainscoted panels were in need of dusting and polishing. The portrait bestrewn walls, once blue, had faded now to a sombre and melancholy grey.
At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Hartup turned to her.
“There,” she said with an impatient wave of one hand, “is the west wing. Sir Edmund’s rooms are here,” she said, indicating the door nearest them. She jerked her head then in the opposite direction. “The east wing,” she said, “is no longer in use. We keep up as well as we can with what is.”
Mrs. Hartup walked on.
Another flight of stairs brought them to the uppermost floor, where the servants’ quarters and several storage rooms were situated. At the end of the hall, Imogen found her room. Though small, it would suit her well enough.
Mrs. Hartup cast her eyes about the room before turning them once more upon Imogen. “Your things will be sent up shortly,” she said. “You may have the remainder of the day to settle in. We’ll see how you get on tomorrow, though I’ve no doubt you’ll be more trouble than you’re worth.”
“You doubt my ability,” Imogen dared to say in an attempt to reassure the woman, and perhaps herself as well. “You cannot doubt my determination.”
Mrs. Hartup turned and gave her another evaluating stare. “We shall see,” she said again, and left, closing the door behind her.
Chapter five
MOGEN
AWOKE WITH a start to the sound of pounding on her door. Tired and
shaken, she opened it to find Mrs. Hartup standing on the other side,
her face red with exertion—and displeasure.
“Still in bed are you?”
Imogen rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She had slept well. Unusually well. “What time is it?”
“I haven’t the time to wake you every morning. I suppose next you’ll want your breakfast brought to you in bed.”
“Of course not. I’m sorry. I—”
“You can find your way to the kitchen, I expect?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’ll begin there this morning.” She held out a well-worn grey woollen garment. “See if this fits you. And don’t take too much time about it. You’re late enough as it is.”
Imogen dressed in the dark and could not quite see, but could sense that the fit was not right. A breeze could be felt about the ankles, and the bodice draped rather loosely.
It was not until she was standing in the gas lit corridor that she realised the true state of the matter. Not only had the garment been allowed to collect a good deal of dust, but during its time in storage it had also become the repository for a family of moths. As she made her way downstairs, she picked as many casings from her skirt and bodice as possible, making note, at the same time, of the several holes she would have to mend before she could give it a thorough washing. Still, it would do. She would not have to spoil her own clothes. For this she was grateful. She had only brought with her what she had deemed necessary. The black silk she had worn the day before, a few simple day dresses. That was all.
Imogen descended and upon turning at the second landing, was met by Sir Edmund. Uncertain what to do, she kept her eyes to the ground and waited for him to pass her by. In some houses, at least she had heard that it was so, the servants were expected to turn their faces to the wall and make as much room as possible, as if they didn’t exist at all. Her uncle had never made such demands of his servants, but neither had he paid them any mind. He simply ignored them, until they caused him displeasure, which they seemed inevitably to do.
Sir Edmund passed by without seeming to take notice of her. She sighed inwardly, but too soon. He turned again, and without quite looking at her, he spoke.
“You’ve come to us from Mr. Drake Everard, I think you said.”
She looked at him, but found she could not answer.
“He is recently deceased, if I understood you correctly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The news comes as a shock to me.”
How she dared to ask the question, she did not know. The words were formed and out of her mouth before she could think to stop them. “You knew him, sir?”
He looked at her then. “I knew him very well at one time, though I’ve not seen him in–” He stopped abruptly, as if remembering to whom he was speaking. He cleared his throat and drew himself up. “The servants’ stairs are in the cloisters. Did Mrs. Hartup not instruct you?”
“No, sir. I believe she must have forgotten.”
“I doubt it. Your time with Everard may have been difficult. I hope you won’t expect it to be much easier here.”
Her blood ran chill. What exactly could he mean? What exactly could he know?
“Mrs. Hartup will expect as much of you as did your former employer, despite what they say about country positions being less demanding.”
At this she felt a wave of relief. If the workload was all he had meant to imply, then she would accept any task expected of her, and do it gladly.
“And I like my servants to be seen as little as possible. Will you remember that?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered and looked down once more.
“You’ll go back and take the servants’ stairs.”
She curtsied and made her way back up, passing him as he watched her. He followed then, at a little distance, and when she turned down the corridor to the east wing, where the nearest entrance to the cloisters was situated, she glanced back to find him watching her still.
Shaped as a “U” as the house was, the cloisters lined the inner courtyard, providing a transition between the outdoor and indoor spaces. The upper floor was enclosed in leaded glass while the lower remained open to the formal garden by a series of columned arches. On each of the wings, east and west, the cloisters were public spaces, though little used, this being precisely what recommended them best for servants’ use. In the central transept they formed a part of the old library, now Sir Edmund’s private rooms. And so the servants could access the upper floors only by separate staircases situated at the extreme ends of the house. It was hardly convenient, unless one were a permanent resident and had a strong disinclination to knowing how one’s hot water arrived at one’s rooms.
Imogen presented herself in the kitchen, still bleary eyed from her sudden waking. Mrs. Hartup was there to meet her, and without preface or explanation, a can of blacking was placed into her hand, along with a pail containing various instruments of curious purpose.
“The stove,” the housekeeper offered by way of explanation. “And you’d best get it done before cook comes down or there’ll be a to-do.”
The fire had been lit already, and so the increasing heat served as further incentive to getting her work finished quickly. Still, Mrs. Hartup found it necessary to prod her at intervals, admonishing her to scrub harder, to remove that bit of soil there, and then to polish faster. And she did, finishing with only a minute or two to spare before the cook entered the kitchen.
“Who is this?” Mrs. Prim demanded, looking Imogen up and down. Clearly the paradox that was the new maid’s appearance was a difficulty for the cook. Imogen, with her fair skin and fine features, was nevertheless decorated in blacking and soot, wearing a moth-eaten and age-faded merino dress, a soiled apron and a pair of shoes made of the finest leather.