Hugo and the Maiden

by S. M. LaViolette

  “But since you come from a big family you must want children of your own some day?”

  He snorted. “Good Lord, no.”

  “You don’t like children?” She sounded horrified.

  “I don’t dislike children, I’ve just never imagined myself as a father.” Nor can I imagine the patter of little feet up and down the corridors of Solange’s. “What about you?” he asked, already guessing her answer.

  “Yes, I want lots of children.”

  Hugo could picture her imaginary offspring: strapping sandy-haired boys with bovine expressions like Clark’s and blonde, blue-eyed little girls with their mother’s sparkling eyes and zest for life.

  Why did the image leave him feeling so utterly exhausted?

  He waited for more questions, but they never came. Instead, her body gradually softened against his and her breathing turned deep and regular, until he knew she was asleep.

  Hugo stared into the darkness: he’d never felt so awake in his entire life.

  ◆◆◆

  “Hugo!”

  Hugo’s eyes flew open and he squinted against the blinding light. “Wha—?”

  Something huge fell on him—something warm and squirmy with sharp elbows. Hugo struggled to breathe.

  “Hugo!” Cailean bellowed in his ear.

  “Cailean, you’re crushing him.” Martha’s voice seemed to come from a long way off.

  “Let Mester Hyougo up, lad,” a male voice ordered.

  Cailean rolled off him, grabbed him under the arms, and yanked him to his feet.

  “Thank you,” Hugo gasped, looking from Cailean to the man holding the lamp. “Mr. Packard?” he said stupidly.

  “Aye.”

  Something suddenly occurred to him and his head whipped around. “You’re safe, little brother! I was bloody worried about you!”

  Cailean flung his arms around Hugo and squeezed.

  “Urgh, Cailean—” Hugo patted his massive shoulder and squirmed until Cailean released him.

  The lad caught Martha up in a similar embrace and twirled her around in a circle, kicking up sand.

  “Cailean! Put me doooooooown!”

  “He was right worried about the two of you,” Packard said. Or at least that’s what Hugo thought he said. He still had a difficult time understanding most of the islanders.

  “Do you know where he was?” Hugo asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “Hidin’ with Lily in one of the caves on the east side.”

  “Why?”

  “Din’t say.”

  Hugo yawned. “What time is it?”

  “Barely dawn.” His gaze strayed to Martha, his blue eyes sharp and speculative.

  “Nothing happened here,” Hugo hastened to assure him. “I know you saw us sleeping on the blanket, but—”

  “Aye, aye. Come along now.”

  Hugo couldn’t help thinking the man looked a bit grim. Well, likely he was losing good fishing hours to rescue them.

  They folded up the blankets, handed Martha into the boat, and then Hugo and Cailean pushed it off, Cailean jumping aboard last. Hugo had imagined the cave was farther inland, but it turned out that the tunnel was twisty, rather than long. Outside it was a beautiful morning, the water around Stroma like glass, the sun just barely over the horizon.

  Martha fussed absentmindedly with her hair and dress, no doubt wondering what she’d say to her father about being in the Gloup overnight with Hugo.

  He turned to find Cailean regarding him with a worshipful stare. “Is Lily safe?”

  Cailean nodded, but his gaze turned to one of worry, and he glanced toward Jem and then at Martha, clearly wanting to say something.

  “What is it?” Hugo asked.

  But Jem just shook his head and Cailean looked away. What was going on? Would the islanders really be so offended that he and Martha had gotten stuck while looking for Cailean?

  Hugo bristled at the thought; he dared anyone to so much as look sideways at Martha. Especially Clark; the man had better mind his step.

  Hugo would speak to the vicar, himself, and assure him that nothing inappropriate had happened. Thankfully, he could do so with a clear conscience. Aside from a chaste kiss, he had behaved like a complete gentleman for the first time in his life. It was about as enjoyable as he’d always suspected it would be.

  He could also tell the vicar about Martha’s betrothal, which would put an end to any other foolishness. Hugo wouldn’t say anything to the vicar, now, but he would send back some money after he got home, just to thank him for all that he and Martha had done for Hugo.

  It took less than ten minutes to get from the caves to the beach at Nethertown, where a great number of yoles were up on the sand.

  Hugo frowned; was it Sunday today?

  “Why are none of the boats out?” Martha asked.

  Jem’s jaw moved back and forth, his gaze shifty.

  Martha looked at Hugo and he shrugged.

  Only then did Hugo notice all the people standing higher up on the beach. “Jesus,” Hugo muttered under his breath. It looked like the entire population of the island, even Gerry Boyle, had gathered to greet them. He swallowed. Were he and Martha really in so much trouble?

  “Jem?” Martha’s voice was unnaturally high.

  Robert Clark stood at the front of the crowd and he and two other men came forward to catch the yole.

  Before they even reached the shore Cailean scooped up Martha and hopped into the frigid water, which came to his knees.

  Hugo scrambled toward the bow as the two men beached the boat. “What in the—”

  “Put her down right now, Cailean,” Robert Clark ordered, his expression stern. The huge lad jolted.

  “It’s all right, Cailean,” Martha soothed. “You can set me down.”

  He did so, and then scuttled away from Clark, visibly frightened.

  “You’ve scared him.” Martha frowned at her betrothed. “There’s no reason to—”

  “There’s been an accident, Martha.”

  Martha looked over the crowd of people. “Is somebody hurt? My father—where’s—” Her eyes darted wildly before settling on Clark again. “Where’s my father?”

  Clark cleared his throat. “There was a fire at your cottage and—well, I’m sorry, but your father was there. He must have been sleeping when—”

  “No.” She shook her head violently, backing away from Clark as if he were attacking her. “No. You’re lying—” She stumbled, and Hugo lurched forward to catch her.

  Martha twisted in his grasp, tears streaming down her face as she stared up at him. “Hugo—tell him he’s lying!”

  Hugo slid his arms around her slender, shaking shoulders, his gaze riveted to Clark. For once, the other man’s face contained only sorrow, no dislike or fear.

  “What happened?” Hugo asked as he stroked Martha’s back.

  “Maybe a candle fell over or the vicar put something on to cook and forgot about it.” Clark shrugged. “It’s hard to say.”

  Hugo thought about how absentminded Mr. Pringle had been the day he’d invited him in for tea. And then he thought about the vicar’s expression when Hugo had told him that Martha would never leave the island without him.

  I’ll take care of that, he’d said.

  Hugo’s stomach churned, as if he’d eaten something rotten. Had this been Mr. Pringle’s way of taking care of things?

  “It can’t be right, can it, Hugo?” Martha’s fingers dug into his waist.

  “I don’t think Mr. Clark would lie to you, love,” he said quietly.

  But Martha didn’t seem to hear him. “He can’t be gone. He was here just hours ago—he can’t be gone so fast, not without some sort of … warning or chance to say goodbye. That’s not how it’s supposed to happen. Is it?”

  Hugo frantically searched his mind for something that might comfort her. But, in his experience, that is exactly what happened to the people you cared about: they left you when you least expected it and without warning.<
br />
  Clark laid a hand on Martha’s shoulder. “Come, Martha. My mother and sister are waiting for you at the house. We will take care of you.”

  Hugo felt her body stiffen slightly and he held her gaze, looking for some clue as to what she wanted—needed.

  Her eyes pled with him—begged him to do or say something that would take away her pain and return her life to the way it had been yesterday, when her father had still been alive.

  But he couldn’t give her that. Nobody could.

  She dropped her gaze and stood unresisting as Clark slid his arm around her shoulders.

  Hugo swayed toward her as Clark led her away, his hands twitching to grab her back. But she wasn’t his to comfort, was she? She had told him only hours before of her betrothal.

  Martha had an arm around Clark’s big body and clung to him, her feet stumbling as the crowd parted for them. She sobbed like her heart was breaking.

  Hugo suspected it was. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to help her.

  Chapter 20

  Hugo dried his face on what used to be his second-best waistcoat but was now his hand towel, and then washed the rag in the rapidly cooling wash water and hung it out to dry.

  There. Now he was ready for work tomorrow. His last day of work, in fact.

  The day after—Saturday—Packard would ferry Hugo over to the mainland where he’d engage a room at the inn, purchase some clothing and shoes, and then hire a post chaise to take him south. A seat on the mail would be far cheaper, but Hugo refused to be crowded into a small space with far too many other bodies.

  He emptied out the wash water and turned the pot upside down, staring at nothing while he tried to ignore the heavy feeling that settled over him whenever he thought about leaving this wretched little island. But there was no reason to delay any longer. He’d already extended his stay by another week because it hadn’t felt right to bugger off right after Mr. Pringle’s funeral.

  He’d stayed so long that he was now leaving on the same day as Martha’s damned wedding. He was sorely tempted to go to Mr. Stogden tonight and tell him that he wasn’t coming to work tomorrow, that he was leaving Stroma a day early.

  Hugo was trudging toward Stogden’s house to do exactly that when he recalled that he’d promised to eat his last dinner on the island with Cailean tomorrow at the Greedy Vicar.

  Hugo muttered a vulgar word and turned back to his damned lean-to.

  He was looking forward to seeing Cailean and some of the other islanders, of course, but he wasn’t looking forward to encountering Martha and Clark together. He’d been avoiding the Greedy Vicar because Martha had been staying in the tiny inn’s guestroom until she was married.

  It wasn’t that he couldn’t stand seeing Martha happy—although that might have been difficult—but rather that she didn’t even look like her normal self.

  He knew she was grieving for her father, of course, but beneath that grief Hugo saw a sort of resignation, as if life had now divulged everything to her and her future held no surprises or secrets.

  Hugo suspected that was exactly what marriage to Robert Clark would be like: they would have children, he would fish, she would work their small piece of land and take care of their family, and they would scrape by.

  It was a grim future, in Hugo’s opinion.

  Not that being married to a whore would be any rosier.

  You promised the vicar that you’d try.

  Hugo gritted his teeth against the familiar, annoying refrain; it was like a Greek chorus had taken up residence in his bloody skull.

  The woman had been secretly betrothed to Clark. What was he supposed to do, club her on the head and drag her to London? If the vicar had known that his daughter’s affections were already attached—or if he’d known the truth about Hugo—he wouldn’t have wanted Martha anywhere near—

  Something big and warm landed on his shoulder and Hugo yelped and spun around.

  Cailean was cringing, his eyes as round as coach wheels.

  “Oh, sorry for screeching, little brother—you scared me.” Hugo forced a soothing smile but then frowned when he saw Cailean’s cheeks were wet, his eyes red-rimmed. “What is it?” His eyes narrowed. “Has Hamish been bothering you again?”

  Cailean shook his head violently.

  Hugo grunted. “Good.” He’d given Hamish Fergusson’s arse a proper kicking for teasing Cailean. “What is it, then?”

  Cailean reached out, as tentative as a child, and took Hugo’s arm.

  “You want me to go with you?”

  Cailean nodded.

  Hugo followed, but the big lad didn’t release his wrist. The boy had stuck closer than ever to him since Lily’s desertion. It turned out the female otter had a love interest—a boy otter who had a rather nasty disposition as far as Hugo could tell. Hugo had named the new otter Joss, since the big, brutish-looking bastard reminded Hugo of his nemesis from the old days: Joss Gormley.

  Hugo had passed that little tidbit along to Mel in his last letter, certain she would be amused and share it with Joss in her next missive to the other man.

  He knew he should feel bad about naming a snaggle-toothed water rat after Joss when the real Joss had offered Hugo the use of Lady Selwood’s—his wife—London house while Hugo sorted out his business.

  The gesture was a kind one and Hugo was grateful. Doubtless he should show his gratitude by treating Joss with more respect.

  But Hugo wasn’t ready to change the tenor of their relationship at this point. Besides, he doubted that Joss would even know how to deal with a polite Hugo.

  Cailean yanked on Hugo’s arm, almost pulling him off his feet. “Slow down, little brother. There’s no rush.”

  Hugo glanced around; Cailean was leading him in a familiar direction: toward the Gloup. He wanted to run in the opposite direction. Please, God, not another night in the Gloup.

  But God wasn’t listening.

  Cailean started down the ravine-like path that led toward the caves and Hugo dug in his heels. “Cailean, I don’t think—”

  Cailean jerked Hugo’s arm so hard it was either go along with him or lose a limb.

  “All right, all right. But you’ll need to let go of my hand so I can—”

  Hugo let out an undignified squawk as an otter loomed out of a crack in the wall at them.

  Well, perhaps loomed was a bit of an exaggeration, but still …

  “What’s going on?” he asked Cailean.

  The lad pointed to the grasses and dried kelp behind Lily. A small rill trickled down the cave wall, close enough for the otter to drink or wet its fur, which they seemed to like.

  Hugo squinted and leaned closer. “Is that—" He jerked back when a tuft of dried grass moved. “Good God—Lily has babies.” They were two tiny brown lumps and Lily was trying to shove them farther back into the crevice/nest.

  Hugo clapped Cailean on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Cailean, you’re an uncle. So, what are they called pups, kits, hatchlings?”

  Cailean’s pale blond eyebrows knitted.

  “What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy for Lily and, er, Joss? At least I guess he’s the father.” Hugo glanced around for the male otter but, thankfully, didn’t see him.

  Cailean leaned down, as if to touch the babies, and Lily made an angry chirping sound, her expression decidedly unfriendly. Cailean cut Hugo a look of profound sadness.

  Ah.

  “It will be all right, Cailean,” Hugo said. “She’s just a new mum. Give her a bit of time and—”

  Strident chittering came from the left and Hugo whipped around: it was Joss.

  He was standing on his hind legs, his mouth open, holding a clam in his sharp-clawed hands. Or paws.

  “Christ, that thing has some teeth,” Hugo muttered, grabbing Cailean’s arm. “Come on. We’re upsetting them, little brother. We’d better—”

  Cailean spun around and bolted up the path.

  “Cailean, wait!” Hugo called as the lad scrambled up the trail,
sobbing.

  Joss bared his teeth and loped toward Hugo, looking more like a weasel than a sea otter.

  “Bloody hell.” Hugo backed away—he didn’t like turning his back on the creature—his feet sliding on the scree.

  The otter snarled.

  “Oi!” Hugo yelled.

  The creature jolted at the loud sound and stopped.

  “That’s right,” he snapped, pointing a finger at the animal. “You mind your manners. And you.” He turned to Lily, but the female had disappeared deeper into the nest. Hugo frowned over at Joss, who was slowly advancing on him, once again baring his teeth. “You watch yourself, lad,” he warned.

  And then he turned and ran like a coward.

  Cailean was nowhere in sight when Hugo finally scrambled to the top. It was almost dark and Hugo would break his neck if he went looking for him at night. He’d check on him in the morning, before he went to work.

  As Hugo trudged back to his lean-to, he thought about Cailean and what his life would be like without his otter. Lily had been with the boy for almost three years. Before Hugo came along, the otter was his only friend. And now Hugo was leaving.

  “Shut up, Hugo,” he ordered himself as he approached his encampment.

  He stopped and frowned; the flaps on the lean-to were down. He thought he’d left them up, which he usually did until he went to bed.

  He strode to the lean-to and pulled back flap. “Martha,” he said, sounding breathless to his own ears. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hello, Hugo.”

  She was sitting on his worn but clean bedroll. Mr. Stogden had given him a heather-stuffed pad to go under his blankets and Hugo’s little bower was both comfortable and fragrant.

  He stepped back. “Does Clark know you’re here?”

  “It’s not his business.”

  Hugo gave an unamused bark of laughter. “I beg to differ. I’m sure he would, too. Martha—”

  “I told him I couldn’t marry him.”

  Joy and dread leapt in his chest. “Oh?”

  “I thought about what you said—that night in the Gloup.”

  “What did I say?”

  “That you weren’t a good man. That you’d done bad things and would likely do them again.”