Of Moths and Butterflies - By V.R. Christensen Page 0,3

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