Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  “I hid you. Thornton was determined to oust William Pitt as Chancellor of the Exchequer. Had anyone learned what he’d done to you it would have destroyed any chance to get Pitt out. He wanted me to commit you to Bedlam or lock you in your room, out of public view. He tried to convince me you were insane.”

  “A madness that he was driving me to, and that horrible school nearly put me over the brink.”

  “Poor darling. Poor, poor darling. Your mama is weak and afraid to be alone. I couldn’t let Thornton near you anymore, but I lacked the strength to rid myself of him. I hid you in that miserable institution because he’d never look for you there.”

  “Then why didn’t you write to me or visit on holidays?”

  His mother put her hand to her throat. “I, I don’t know why, except that I was so afraid. Everything went blank while I was with him. I worried about you constantly, my love, but I was terrified to contact you.”

  “Did he hit you? Did he threaten your life?”

  “If only I could tell you he did. But it wasn’t like that. He was just a terrifying man. You remember, don’t you? How his footstep chilled to the marrow. I knew he didn’t love me. He loved the Mayfair address, this estate, the coachmen, the servants, and most of all, my money. With me he could shine at court, and nothing was allowed to threaten that. I remember I used to pray Napoleon wouldn’t kill your father in Italy. As long as I wasn’t a widow, the Duke of Carlow couldn’t marry me.

  “But I came to see you the moment I could. We were in London. The House of Lords was consumed with worry about Napoleon selling the Louisiana Territory to America. We all knew that French monster planned to use the money to invade England. Thornton had to attend every meeting.

  “Lady Hester Stanhope, William Pitt’s niece, of all people, smuggled me out of London to visit you.”

  His mother began to tremble. She sat back on the sofa. “How you hated me,” she said, her voice a choked whisper. “Even when that horrible headmaster commanded you to kiss me, you refused, brave boy. How could I explain to a ten-year-old child trapped in hell that his rich mama couldn’t help him?”

  A hand fluttered to her face, covering her eyes, but Hugh saw tears sneak between her fingers. Crying … for him? A thin curl of sympathy tugged at him. He pulled a chair up beside her and sat down. How she’d scolded him for rumpling his handkerchief. Unnerved, afraid, he found the crushed cloth in his pocket and pressed it to her cheek. She took the handkerchief, held it over her eyes, and then kissed it.

  “I filled the coach with tears that night,” she said, laughing a little and blowing her nose into the sodden cloth. “You were so thin and pale. Your clothes were too light for those grim, dank buildings. I gave the headmaster funds to find you a warm coat and feed you more. Did your life improve after my visit?”

  “I suppose it did. Improvement was so easy at that school — an extra blanket made a child a king. I do remember we were given beef after you left. That’s right … we all thought it an early Christmas present. So yes, life did improve.”

  “I’m so glad,” she said, smiling, her wet eyes glistening.

  “But there is a happy ending,” she went on, “if you care to call it that. You were already at Eton on the tenth of May in 1804, when William Pitt regained his seat as Chancellor of the Exchequer. Thornton demanded I come to the House of Lords to hear him denounce Pitt. A pitiful last-ditch attempt. No one listened.

  “Thornton was fuming as we left Westminster, so he didn’t notice a little boy running to him. ‘Murderer,’ the child cried. He spit blood at Thornton’s face. Over and over again, crying ‘murderer, murderer.’

  “Thornton hit that boy with his cane, but the child wouldn’t cease. We were too shocked to move. Other members of Parliament gathered. They witnessed everything.

  “Within months the duke was dead of tuberculosis.”

  “My God,” said Hugh, too stunned to say more.

  “I never saw the duke after that — didn’t even help him to the coach. I ran, and I told the driver to gallop. I did not look out the window until we were miles away.”

  The picture of his mother, his childhood, was suddenly distorted, like a watercolor splashed until nothing was recognizable. Hugh swiped a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

  “I wrote to you. I told you the duke was dead.”

  Hugh got up and paced again. “Yes, but the rest of it. The twins … Why didn’t you write me about the little boy?”

  “That’s not the sort of thing you put in a letter, especially about a Peer of the Realm when the country is riddled with wartime spies.”

  Hugh hit his fist on an inlaid side table. “Why not tell me that you didn’t love him? What would have been the harm?”

  As if retreating to safer ground, Lady Davenport left her chair and went to the window. He heard her teeth chatter, but he couldn’t stop the question surging in his soul. “Why, Mother?”

  She jumped a little. “I was ashamed. I was afraid you and your father would cackle about me. Two bitter men sharing bitter memories … ”

  She spun from the window, her face a mask of anguish. “Why do you suppose that little boy cried ‘murderer’?”

  Hugh shook his head.

  Her fingers dug into her hair, raking through the strands until the combs clattered to the floor. “I think it’s because he didn’t know the word for ‘rape.’” A sob shook her. Eyes closed, she shivered as if she would rattle apart. “Did he ever … touch you?”

  Hugh felt hollow. For the first time he could remember, he looked at his mother without rancor. Her high cheekbones, scored with the wrinkles he once made fun of, were formed by rivers of worry — for him. Her eyes — once luminous, now dulled with age — had seen his tragedy and had lost their shine for his sake. He had scoffed at her pain, her weakness, but he couldn’t anymore.

  He went to her and held her trembling body in his arms. He drank in the perfume of her hair and buried his face in her neck. “He never did get to touch me, Mother.”

  She threw her arms around her son and sobbed into his chest. “How I wracked my brains for excuses to interrupt when he was with you. But I’ve always worried that maybe … maybe once I wasn’t there in time.

  “No,” Hugh said. “You kept me safe.”

  Her arms tightened around him. An ache so old it had become part of him shredded as his heart pressed against hers. Each beat communicated the complicated terms of trust and forgiveness. Their breathing steadied, muscle and sinew relaxed, until they each possessed a nugget of security that their souls would never shut on one another again.

  Finally, his mother relinquished her grip and patted Hugh on the chest. “You’re a good lad.”

  He laughed. A surprised smile suffused her face. “Now, please don’t condemn the Albright girls,” she told him. “I’m the one to bear all guilt for your feelings against high-born women. They’re innocent.”

  “Innocent.” Hugh shook his head and looked away. Nothing she said could tamp his suspicions about Ellie and her sisters. “We’ll see soon enough.”

  Chapter Ten

  “It’s impossible to reconcile the Hugh at High Tor with the drawing room Hugh who is as rotten as an old potato,” Ellie ranted back in the bedroom with Claire and Peggity. “How can I love a man so changeable?”

  “I’ve never been subjected to such despicable sentiments in my life,” said Peggity, pacing like a wild thing. “The man is beyond redemption.”

  “He was dreadful,” Claire agreed. “His mistrust is deeply ingrained.”

  Slapping at dust on her dress as if it were tiny bits of Hugh, Ellie declared, “Who would I share eggs with at the breakfast table — the monster or the treasure?”

  Peggity roamed the floorboards. “His disdain for the feelings of women with rank is inexcusable.
He is petty, infantile, and utterly disagreeable.”

  “Not utterly disagreeable,” Ellie interjected. “Just mostly disagreeable in the house.”

  “Well I have no intention of slinking around the barn in trousers just to find out,” Peggity said. “We must find that necklace immediately and leave.”

  A pang shot through Ellie. “Leave?”

  Claire reached for her sister’s hand. “You can’t spend the rest of your life pretending to be a stable hand. It’s time to go.”

  “And he’s a beast,” Peggity added.

  “Yes, yes, he is.” Throat closed and heart knotted with confusion, Ellie nodded. “Tomorrow we find the pearls and depart.”

  • • •

  Hugh beat Ellie to the stable the next morning. As she flung back the door, she saw him standing outside Manifesto’s stall feeding the horse carrots. Rather than being alarmed, like a good horse, Manifesto nosed about for more. “What a traitor,” she admonished the stallion, trying to keep anxiousness from her tone. “One minute he won’t let a soul near him but me, and the next he’s accepting treats from strangers.”

  “I wouldn’t say we’re strangers,” said Hugh, scratching under Manifesto’s mane, making the horse groan with pleasure. “He sounds a bit like you.”

  “Humph,” said Ellie, pulling Manifesto’s bridle off the wall.

  As she passed, Hugh whispered, “Wouldn’t you like to groan a bit in the wild morning sun?”

  She pushed him away with more violence than she’d intended. “Has Valaire been saddled yet?” she snapped.

  Hugh shifted back a bit, an amused smile curling his lips. “How about this morning, you tack up Valaire and I’ll saddle Manifesto?”

  “Manifesto loves carrots, but it’s quite different putting a saddle and bridle on him.”

  “We’ll never know if I don’t try though, will we?”

  “I just feel this morning … ”

  “I swear, Toby, sometimes I think you’re intentionally trying to keep this stallion to yourself. He’s a big boy, it’s time to let go.”

  Ellie clenched her teeth and handed Hugh the bridle. The bit “accidently” hit his kneecap.

  “So sorry,” she said. Fists balled by her sides, she left for the tack room to fetch the saddle. When she came back the heavy piece of leather slipped from her hands and landed on Hugh’s foot. “Oh dear, did I hurt you?”

  “Not really,” he responded, holding the injured foot up and rubbing the toe. “I’m quite all right.”

  “Oh what a relief.” She picked up the saddle and dropped it on his other foot.

  “Ouch,” Hugh cried. “Are you angry with me?”

  “What a fumble fingers I am this morning.” Ellie pressed her fingers to her lips. “Angry with you? Heavens no.”

  Hugh’s eyes looked troubled for a moment, but they softened a second later.

  Though Ellie tried to will Manifesto with her mind to bite his new groom, the horse stood still as Hugh tacked him up. Pulling the girth a notch tighter, he gave the horse a satisfied pat. “Look at that, he didn’t move a muscle.”

  “He lies low around blackguards,” Ellie mumbled under her breath.

  Oblivious, Hugh led the stallion to a paddock outside. “Do you think the old beast would mind if I climbed aboard?” he asked, slipping the stirrups down.

  “Any self-respecting horse would buck you off in an instant,” she grunted.

  Hugh laughed. “Let’s just see about that.” He vaulted into the saddle. Manifesto stood motionless for a second, then, like an explosion, the horse launched himself into the air, all four legs off the ground. The stallion spun, hind legs pumping, then sprang like a cat, reared, and sent Hugh tumbling to the ground.

  “Are you all right?” cried Ellie, furious that she should feel a shred of concern for the rogue. She raced to his prone figure.

  “Well, I’m a stupid man,” Hugh said. “I shouldn’t have surprised him like that.” Manifesto galloped to the far side of the paddock. The horse shook his mane, watching Hugh with alert suspicion.

  “Why can’t you give him time to get used to you?” Ellie said, kneeling in the dirt by Hugh’s side. “La, give the horse patience.”

  Hugh put his thumb under her chin, holding her face in an amiable grasp. “I could lie here and listen to you scold me forever.”

  “Well you’d look pretty silly doing it,” she replied, jerking her face away. She scrambled to her feet and walked briskly across the paddock to collect Manifesto. “We need to start this training session, or we’ll lose the Haldon Gold Cup.”

  Hugh struggled to his feet and brushed off his trousers. “You’re upset. What did I do?”

  His bitter reaction the night before clamored in her brain. She whirled on him. “I don’t know you,” she said.

  Without waiting for a response, she swung onto Manifesto’s back. Not bothering with the gate, she jumped the horse over the paddock fence, leaving Hugh in a cloud of dust.

  • • •

  Much to Ellie’s annoyance, at breakfast Lady Davenport announced that a dance teacher would arrive shortly to show them the steps to Beveridge’s maggot, the latest craze in London.

  A frustrated groan leaked from her lips. Claire caught her eye. The sisters had planned to scour the house and fields until they found the Fitzcarry pearls. Peggity would search the interior of Cowick Hill, Claire the first mile of drive into the estate, and Ellie would cover as much of her ride home on Old Nell as possible.

  Lady Davenport interrupted her thoughts. “Poor girl, there’s no call for groaning. We shall all be especially careful not to worsen the effects of your fall from the sidesaddle the other day. No manhandling, gentlemen.

  “By the way, I’ve asked your parents to come to your aid. They should be here quite shortly.”

  “My parents,” Ellie said. “Whatever for?”

  Lady Davenport’s eyes flew open, the picture of shock. “Well, because of the terrible wound to your leg.”

  “Perhaps I ought not to dance if it’s as bad as all that,” said Ellie, seizing on a plausible escape to free her to search for the necklace and then leave Cowick Hill before her parents arrived.

  “Nonsense, my dear,” the older woman trilled. “The exercise will be good for you. Besides, we can’t have a wallflower with so many handsome men in need of a partner.”

  Claire patted her lips with a napkin. “My parents shouldn’t be disturbed. Ellie’s wound is healing neatly. Let’s send a messenger to them at once and tell them the crisis has passed.”

  To Ellie’s surprise, Lady Davenport appeared flustered, dropping her fork on the floor and bumping into the footman when he bent to fetch it.

  A benign smile suffused Chase’s face during the ruckus. “I’m afraid this is all my fault,” he said. “Your father is an Egypt scholar, is he not?”

  “Both my parents are,” Peggity replied.

  “I have more than a passing interest in the gods of ancient Egypt, so, using your injury as an excuse, I urged Lady Davenport to send for your family. My design was to corner them for an in-depth discussion of the pyramids at Giza. Rather selfish of me, wasn’t it? You’re right, we must send a messenger to stop them.”

  The table went silent. Ellie looked at her sisters. If their parents stepped over the Davenport threshold they would make her take the glasses off. Hugh would recognize her, and all her lies and deceptions would spill into the clear light of day. She clenched her napkin and scrambled for some excuse to put the meeting off.

  Peggity caught her eye. When Ellie could think of nothing, Peggity spoke. “There’s nothing my parents would rather do than spend time in good company talking about pyramids.”

  “Are you certain?” said Chase, his voice ringing with concern.

  “They’ll be p
articularly pleased if you mention the Rosetta Stone,” Claire added.

  Chase beamed as Ellie’s heart sank into her trim leather slippers. She forced what she hoped would pass for a smile onto her face. “Thank you for your concern for my health,” she told Lady Davenport.

  For the rest of the meal, Ellie moved her food about her plate, trying to make it look as if she were eating. Sport sensed an opportunity and sat by her knee. She sneaked him forkfuls of breakfast.

  Before the spaniel chewed the last bite of sausage, however, the dance master arrived. He posed in the door to the breakfast room, his white shirt glowing beneath a vest littered with embroidery. White breeches clung to his calves, and the lapels of his jacket were trimmed with black velvet. He pointed a beribboned slipper and pirouetted to the table.

  Lady Davenport fluttered to her feet. “Monsieur Tatu! Look, my chickadees, it’s our esteemed balletomane, Monsieur Gaspar Tatu.”

  Monsieur Tatu dropped to one knee and pressed her fingers to his lips. “My lady, my rapture.”

  Giggling with delight, Lady Davenport tried a deep curtsey, clunking Monsieur Tatu on the head with a breast.

  The balletomane rose looking flushed and smoothed his well-oiled Byronesque curls. The other guests stifled titters, but the scene increased Ellie’s irritability.

  “Monsieur Tatu and I met in London during the season last year. “Monsieur, you were as dazzling then as you are now. Thank you for coming all this way to teach my country chickens a few steps to thrill the barnyard.”

  “It is my honored pleasure, Madame.” Monsieur Tatu smiled, revealing yellow, spindly teeth.

  “Shall we begin the dance?” he continued. “Where is your ballroom? Are the musicians ready?”

  “Truss, are the musicians assembled?” Lady Davenport asked the butler.

  “They have been warming up for the last half hour, Madame,” he replied.

  The dance teacher bowed low and took Lady Davenport’s hand. He pointed his toe and led the guests in procession up the stairs to the ballroom.