Free Angels and Insects by A. S. Byatt Page B

differences between us—if you could trust me a little. I don’t know what I am talking about—why
should
you trust me? I want so much to be able to do something for you. Anything at all. I own nothing in the world, as you know. So it is all folly. But please command me if I can help in the least way, ever.’
    She was drying her eyes and face with a lacy handkerchief. Her eyes were slightly pink round the rims, and swollen. He found this touching and arousing. She gave a little laugh.
    ‘You have given the little girls a glass anthill and a glass hive. You once promised me a cloud of butterflies. That was a pretty idea.’
    She held out her little hand—always gloved—and he brushed it with his lips, a butterfly-kiss that nevertheless stung his senses and beat in his veins.
    He resolved that she should have her butterflies.
    *   *   *
    It changed his relation to her, to have seen her so unhappy. A new sense of protectiveness mingled with what had been pure worship, making him notice new things: Edgar’s brusquenesses towards her, the way in which her sisters chattered eagerly to each other about wedding plans and she moved about at a distance, either left out, or reluctant to join in, he was not sure which. He began collecting caterpillars of various kinds from various places, and enlisted Matty Crompton and the little girls, without revealing why he wanted the creatures. He gave instructions: they were always to be brought with their food plants, with whatever leaves they were found on. He borrowed rabbit hutches and dove cages, in which, as the caterpillars made themselves cocoons, he placed them to hatch. It turned out to be difficult to co-ordinate a
cloud
, but he persevered, and managed to hatch several small blues, a large collection of whites, some red admirals, tortoiseshells and fritillaries, along with one or two greenish woodland butterflies and a collection of moths, buff ermines, footmen, goat moths and other nocturnal fliers. Only when he thought his hatchings contributed as much of a
cloud
as he was likely to manage did he ask Harald for permission to release the creatures in the conservatory—‘I shall see they do not damage the plants there, there is no danger of an invasion of ravenous larvae. I promised Miss Alabaster a
cloud of butterflies
and now I think I have one.’
    ‘You have been very assiduous, I can see. They are certainly more beautiful in flight than on pins. She will be enchanted.’
    ‘I wanted to—to make her smile—and had nothing to offer—’ Harald looked at William Adamson and brought his white brows together.
    ‘You are concerned about Eugenia.’
    ‘I gave the little girls a glass hive and a glass anthill. I promised her, in a foolish moment, a cloud of butterflies. I hope you let megive her this—ephemeral—gift. It will only live a few weeks, Sir, if that, as you know.’
    Harald had a way of looking piercing and benign, as though he read thoughts. He said, ‘I imagine Eugenia will be delighted. So shall we all, we shall share her moment of magic. Magic is not a bad thing, William. Transfiguration is not a bad thing. Butterflies come out of the most unpromising crawling things.’
    ‘I do not hope—’
    ‘Say nothing. Say nothing. Your feelings are to your credit.’
    The butterflies were released very early one morning, before any of the household was up. William, running downstairs at six, found a very different population from the daylight one—a host of silently hurrying, black-clad young women, carrying buckets of cinders, buckets of water, boxes of polishing tools, fistfuls of brooms and brushes and carpet beaters. They had come like a cloud of young wasps from under the roof of the house, pale-faced and blear-eyed, bobbing silently to him as he passed. Some were no more than children, hardly different from the little girls in the nursery, except that the latter were delicately swathed in petticoats, and frills, and soft festoons of muslin, and