Of Moths and Butterflies Read Online Free PDF

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