Of Moths and Butterflies Read Free

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.