The Queen's Gambit (The Wonderland Series: Book 4)

by Irina Shapiro

  “I love it,” she replied honestly. “It’s exquisite.” Archie lit up from the inside from her praise, his lips stretching into a happy smile.

  “I’m glad.”

  The cook gave Frances a look of disapproval from beneath her lashes. As Lord Everly’s ward, she had no business in the kitchen, but she hated eating alone, and she wanted to be with Archie, especially today. Frances stared down the cook, poured herself more broth, and sat down across from Archie, happy to keep him company while he ate.

  “I thought I heard hoof beats in my sleep,” Frances said as she took a sip.

  “Hugo left at dawn,” Archie replied, but didn’t elaborate. He gave her a meaningful look across the table, silencing the next question. Whatever Hugo was doing, was not for the ears of the cook.

  “Will you walk to the church with me this morning?” Frances asked as she smiled at Archie sweetly.

  “Of course. You wish to pray?”

  “Not exactly,” Frances replied as she gave him her own look, warning him not to ask anything more.

  “I’ll bring in some firewood and fetch water for Ruby; then I’m free to go, but I must be back by noon. Master Bowden is sending over two grooms for me to interview. If they suit, I’ll ride over to Nash House with them to collect the rest of Lord Everly’s horses,” Archie informed her as he reached for another slice of bread. “Just give me a quarter of an hour.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Frances answered with a wicked grin before leaving the kitchen.

  **

  Frances slid wooden pattens over her shoes, fastened her cloak, and pulled on her hood. It was terribly cold outside, but she didn’t mind. The walk to the church wasn’t that long, and if things went as she planned, she’d have her joy to keep her warm. She watched as Archie finally emerged from the house. He was wearing a warm cape that bulged slightly over the hilt of his sword, and a wide-brimmed hat, which made him look like a dashing highwayman. Normally, Archie wouldn’t hold her hand when walking in public view, but the frosty grass was slippery, making her glide in her pattens rather than walk. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

  “So, why do you really want to go to church?” Archie asked as they set off.

  “Because I want to advise the vicar of our intention to marry. He can call the banns this coming Sunday, so after calling them again for three consecutive Sundays, we’ll be free to marry.”

  Archie stopped short and stared at Frances as if he were seeing her for the first time. “And when did you decide this?” Frances wasn’t sure if Archie was angry or amused. Sometimes it was hard to tell. His expression was very serious, but his eyes were twinkling beneath the brim of his hat, and his lips twitched as if he were trying not to smile.

  “This morning. I am now eighteen, and there’s no reason for us to wait any longer.”

  “But Lord Everly…,” Archie began.

  “Archie, I know that you have great admiration for Lord Everly and want to honor his wishes, but this should be our decision. I don’t want Lionel’s money. Do you?”

  “Never did,” Archie replied as he smiled widely at Frances. “But I thought you wanted to be a June bride with a bouquet of wildflowers and blooms in your hair,” he teased.

  “At this point, I don’t mind carrying a bouquet of bare twigs and wearing an extra petticoat for warmth. I just don’t want to wait any longer. I want us to be man and wife at last.”

  “Let’s go talk to the vicar then.”

  Archie pulled her close and planted a solid kiss on her lips, in full view of the woman who was walking down the lane. The woman gaped at them just as Frances lost her footing on the slippery slope and grabbed Archie’s arm to keep from falling. Archie wrapped an arm around her and pulled her against him, nearly falling himself. They burst out laughing, making the woman walk faster as if she might catch whatever they had.

  December 2014

  Surrey, England

  Chapter 10

  The graveyard was bathed in abundant sunshine, making the snow on the ancient tombstones sparkle in a festive way not at all appropriate to a cemetery. The squat church tower with its familiar blue clock rose toward the cloudless sky, reminding Simon of the time. It was nearly eleven, time for the appointment with Reverend Lambert.

  “Oh, come on, Simon,” Heather called impatiently from the church porch. “We’ll be late.” She had no desire to loiter in the cemetery; instead she marched directly to the church, eager to begin.

  Simon threw one last look at the headstone of Roland Everly, the man who’d fathered him and watched him grow, but never once acknowledged him as his own son, or even so much as attempted to forge any kind of relationship with him. Roland had paid for Simon’s education, which was the extent of his involvement in Simon’s life, and he wouldn’t even have done that much had Stella Harding not threatened him with exposure. Roland would not have relished a divorce from his frosty wife, so he just whipped out his checkbook and wrote out a check, relieved to have gotten off so easily.

  Roland was a man who liked ease. His friends referred to him as “Rolly”, a pet name worthy of the playboy. He hadn’t worked a day in his life, instead devoting his time to numerous affairs, jaunts to Scotland for grouse shooting and rounds of golf on the world’s finest courses, and a devotion to his wine cellar, which was probably the finest in Surrey. Simon never did understand what drew his practical, logical mother to a man like Roland Everly. She’d given over twenty years of her life to that pillock, and he hadn’t so much as mentioned her in his will for fear of alerting his wife to his relationship with the housekeeper. It was a blessing of sorts that Simon never knew Roland was his father until after his death, or he would have had a few choice words for his “devoted” sire. The only good thing that came out of all this was Simon’s relationship with Max, who was his older half-brother. If only they had known. And now it was too late.

  In time, Max’s stone would take its place next to his father’s, Simon remaining the only Everly left of the line. Heather was forever on him to change his surname, but Simon was hesitant. Max was gone for just over three years now, but despite Simon’s discovery of the blog post stating that Maximillian Everly died in Barbados in 1686, he was still considered alive in 2014. It would take years to have Max declared legally dead, and truth be told, Simon still held out hope that Max would one day just saunter into the village and say it was all a great big misunderstanding. They would go have a pint or two, and have a laugh at Simon’s overactive imagination and the impossibility of time travel.

  For a few months, Simon harbored fantasies of following Max to the seventeenth century, but finally gave up on the idea. It seemed plausible in the middle of the night when the shifting shadows looked like faces of the dead and the memories of Max flooded his mind, but in the cold light of day, it was ludicrous. Even if the passage really existed, and even if traveling back in time were possible, there seemed no way to navigate, and once there, Simon had no idea how he would even go about looking for Max. Max could be long dead by the time Simon finally showed up, or possibly not even there yet, because, for all he knew, Simon could end up in the realm of Elizabeth I, or better yet, her famous father. Rescuing Max was just a pipe dream; a younger brother’s longing to help the only flesh and blood he had left besides his mother.

  “Simon,” Heather bellowed from the porch. Heather was stomping from foot to foot, freezing in her stylish high-heeled boots and short leather jacket trimmed with fox fur. For some unfathomable reason, she felt the need to look sexy for the vicar, God bless her soul. Simon supposed he had no cause to complain about his girlfriend — no — fiancée now, looking beautiful, but for some reason, her choice of attire annoyed him. Heather was all about appearances, and although in this day and age there was nothing unusual about that, he sometimes wished there was a little more substance to his fiancée.

  Simon obediently turned away from the gravestone and began walking toward the church when something caught his eye. He knew this graveyard like th
e back of his hand, had played Hide-and-Go-Seek here as a boy, and then spent Halloween night at the graveyard on a dare when he was sixteen. He’d nearly soiled himself when he’d heard someone prowling around in the darkness, an eerie howl splitting the night just as the moon was obscured by the clouds and it grew pitch dark. Of course, it had been his friends playing a dirty trick on him, but it scared him shitless.

  The two graves looked weathered and old, the larger stone leaning a bit to the side, and the smaller one practically swallowed by weeds. These graves weren’t there before, Simon was sure of that. He brushed aside the snow-covered weeds to read the barely legible inscription.

  Elena Mary Everly

  Beloved daughter

  Simon stared at the grave, confused. He knew every Everly in this cemetery thanks to Max, and he’d never seen this child’s grave. And it had to be a child since the stone was much smaller than the rest. The date of death had been swallowed by the earth long ago, and despite his curiosity, Simon had no time to start digging up the stone. Simon brushed the snow from the larger stone.

  Hugo Everly

  Born 1650 – Died 1689

  Simon took an involuntary step back, his skin prickling with gooseflesh. What did this mean? He’d seen Hugo Everly’s portrait every day of his life; had heard the story of his disappearance, and had even speculated with Max as to what could have befallen him. The seventeenth-century lord vanished without a trace one day, never to return — much like Max. There was no record of when he died or where he was buried, all his correspondence gone and his personal possessions much as he left them. To Max, who was fascinated with family history, it was a tantalizing mystery, but to Simon, who only participated in order to please his idol, it was all rubbish. He never much cared for the overbearing, scowling man in the portrait. But now, Hugo Everly was suddenly buried in the graveyard with the year of his death there for all to see. He’d vanished in 1685, but died in 1689. Where had he been for four years, and how did he die? Where had the gravestone suddenly come from? Simon shivered, unable to tear his gaze away.

  “Simon, don’t make me come and get you,” Heather screeched, now really annoyed.

  Simon tore his attention away from the two stones and jogged to the church. He would come back tomorrow without Heather and see if the stones were still there.

  **

  Reverend Lambert was waiting for them in his office, his round face wreathed in a smile of welcome. “Simon, how good to see you. It’s been a while,” he added as he poured tea for them and added a splash of milk to his own mug.

  Translation: I haven’t seen you at Sunday service since you were a teenager and your mother dragged you here by force, but nice of you to show up now that you need someone to marry you. God forgives all sinners, even you.

  “Reverend Lambert, it’s such a pleasure to finally meet you,” Heather interjected smoothly. “Simon was saying just the other day that we should just get married in London, but I think it’s important to stick to tradition. So many generations of Everlys married in this very church, and Simon, being the last of the line should be married here as well, don’t you agree?” She had removed her jacket, revealing the blood-red cashmere jersey with a deep V-neck that left the good reverend nearly speechless with awe.

  “Well, yes,” the reverend agreed, his eyes finally leaving Heather’s ample cleavage, “but Simon is technically not an Everly, at least not in the eyes of the church. His parents were never married, my dear.”

  “Yes, I know, but it’s just a formality these days, isn’t it? No such a thing as “bastard” anymore,” Heather reminded the reverend cheerfully. “Once Max is declared legally dead, Simon will be the new Lord Everly, and will officially change his name from Harding to Everly, won’t you, darling?” she prattled on.

  “If it means that much to you,” Simon muttered. He was more than happy to keep his mother’s name. Stella Harding had raised him, loved him, and supported him all his life. Her name meant more to him than the surname of the pompous liar and cheat who impregnated his mother. The man was more interested in stuffing dead animals at that hideaway of his than spending time with either of his sons. Roland had brought other women there too, because having a wife and a long-term mistress living under the same roof just wasn’t enough for that pathetic letch.

  “Simon,” Heather called to him. “You are a million miles away. I was just telling the reverend how eager we are to be married.”

  “I rather like summer weddings,” Simon offered, but Heather completely ignored him.

  “End of January, I think. It’s taken me this long to finally get Simon to propose, so I see no reason to wait another six months to marry. Do you have an open Saturday?”

  “Let me just check the calendar,” Reverend Lambert suggested as he threw Simon a sympathetic look. “Ah yes, here. The last Saturday in January is available, so we have much to discuss.”

  “I’ll just leave all the planning to you two,” Simon said as he edged toward the door. Weddings normally took months to arrange, but Heather, being a photographer, had numerous contacts in the wedding industry, and could plan a lavish affair in a matter of weeks by calling in some favors. Simon was sure that she already had a dress picked out, and a caterer she wanted to use. Her business partner would take care of the wedding photos, and the invitations could be printed by the end of the week and in the mail by Friday. Heather’s father would finance the whole enterprise, so all Simon had to do was show up on the appointed day and remember to say “I do” when asked a question by the reverend.

  “But Simon,” Heather called after him as he escaped from the overheated office.

  “I know you’ll have it all in hand, darling,” Simon called as he sped past the altar and toward the steps to the crypt. He hadn’t been in church in years, and having read Henry’s diary was curious to see if he could spot the six-petaled flower which supposedly opened the passage to the past. Let Heather make her plans and weave her wicked web; he had more interesting things to do.

  December 1688

  Paris, France

  Chapter 11

  Max leaned against the stone parapet of Pont Neuf and gazed at the city spread before him, the winding ribbon of the Seine splitting it in half. Today, the water was a pewter-gray, reflecting the leaden sky liberally dotted with thick, stormy clouds. Max often crossed the bridge on his way to Notre Dame Cathedral. At first, he’d gone there simply as a tourist, to enjoy the architecture and the stunning windows, but as time passed, he found himself drawn to the great cathedral for other reasons. Max had been raised in the Church of England, but his religious life consisted of going to church on Christmas and Easter, and attending the weddings, christenings, and funerals of various acquaintances. Religion meant nothing to him, and Max secretly subscribed to the sentiments of Karl Marx, who called it “the opium of the masses.”

  But, Notre Dame stirred something inside of Max, a desire for something higher than himself perhaps. He enjoyed finding a seat in an out-of-the-way pew and studying the breathtaking beauty of the Gothic cathedral. On fine days, the sun shone through the magnificent stained glass windows, turning the nave into a rainbow of color as each bit of colored glass took on a life of its own, and added its tiny voice to the harmony that was the music of the heavens. Sometimes, Max got lucky enough to come upon choir practice, and he remained still for the duration, sitting with his eyes closed as the notes soared to the vaulted ceiling above, the voices of the children as pure as the souls of angels.

  Max wasn’t really sure when he began praying. It was a need he’d often suppressed, especially while healing from his injury, but in the anonymity of Notre Dame, he was finally able to pour his heart out to the God he never believed in, and found solace he never sought. But, what he also found was an unwanted truth.

  He was alive only by the grace of God, he knew that, and perhaps by the grace of Vivienne Benoit as well. Vivienne had taken it upon herself to get Max back on his feet, and she had succeeded. Max had been
told that he likely wouldn’t survive for very long. The hole in his intestine would leak gastric fluids into his abdominal cavity, and he would die of infection — sooner rather than later. One physician offered to operate, but Max had refused. If he didn’t die of infection, he’d die of whatever botched procedure the seventeenth-century quack would try to perform. With no sterilization, antibiotics, or anesthesia, it would be easier to simply slit his wrists and be done with it.

  It had been Vivienne who’d hit upon a solution after Max’s prolonged suffering. She’d noticed that Max felt better until he ingested solid foods, and had put him on a regime of liquids for a month, having reasonably deduced that if his gut was leaking, he’d be long dead, therefore, the damage couldn’t be so drastic that it couldn’t be healed. The liquid diet left Max feeling weak and permanently hungry, but the pain in his abdomen decreased dramatically since there was no strain on the affected area. Vivienne gradually introduced some milk-soaked bread, mashed vegetables, and bits of fish, monitoring Max’s reaction to the food.

  Miraculously, he felt better. The hole must have had an opportunity to heal on its own, allowing Max to slowly return to a somewhat normal diet. He still avoided eating foods that were hard to digest, but at least he was thriving, so much so that he eventually renewed his visits to Juliette. Max supposed he should have been saving every penny for his return voyage instead of spending his money on a whore, but he needed to feel that he was living rather than just existing. He visited Juliette once a fortnight, spending his precious wages on a few hours of sexual oblivion in the arms of a woman who was grateful for his patronage, and devoted herself to pleasing him rather than judging him as a mistress would.