Of Moths and Butterflies Read Free Page B

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,