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

by Irina Shapiro

  The coffin was lowered into the ground, and clumps of dirt hit the lid with heartbreaking finality. That sound would haunt me for the rest of my days. I reached for Hugo’s hand, but he just stared straight ahead, his hand rigid in mine. He walked away alone as soon as the funeral ended, going toward the village rather than home.

  Cook put out some food and drink for the mourners, but I just couldn’t face the trial of having to be social after burying my daughter. I hid in Hugo’s study, comforted by the indifferent stares of distant relations glaring at me from the paintings, and the dusty smell of books and maps.

  “May I come in?” Archie asked as he entered the room.

  I shrugged. He could hide with me if he wanted to. Archie sat down and looked at me. I didn’t make eye contact, but his gaze was fixed on my face, demanding that I respond.

  “He needs you,” Archie said bluntly.

  “I don’t recall turning him away.”

  “He’s suffering,” Archie replied, still holding my stare.

  “As am I.”

  “You don’t understand; he blames himself,” Archie explained patiently.

  “It wasn’t his fault any more than it was mine. It happened,” I replied brusquely.

  I couldn’t tell Archie that in the darkness of a sleepless night, I blamed myself as well. Had I taken Elena to the future, she might have lived. She might have been saved with something as simple as a dose of antibiotics. But I hesitated. I waited. I listened to Hugo when I knew that the situation was critical. Hugo had recovered, and I foolishly assumed that Elena would too. In my stupid twenty-first-century brain, I still believed that everything would always be okay; everything would blow over the way it had done in the past. There would be an eleventh-hour miracle, a happy ending for all.

  Elena’s death was my first real encounter with tragedy. Sure, I’d lost my father when I was a child, and then watched my mother drink herself to death, but those events had been the result of choices, choices that ruined my childhood, but might have been prevented had my parents cared more about me than they had about themselves. Elena’s death was not a choice, or was it? Was it the result of my own selfishness and ignorance?

  “He brought the sickness from Reading,” Archie said. “He passed it on to Elena.”

  “Archie, he couldn’t have known,” I rounded on him. What was the point of allocating blame? “Hugo didn’t feel ill until the next day. Had he known, he’d never have gone anywhere near Elena. There’s no sense in blaming anyone. It won’t bring her back.”

  “No, it won’t,” Archie agreed, “and there’s no sense in blaming anyone, but that’s what people do when they are grieving. They look for answers. They go over every detail in their mind and try to rewrite what happened in an effort to make sense of it all. Deep down, Hugo knows that he’s not to blame, but he can’t accept that this was a random act. He must give it meaning, and by blaming himself, he has someone to rage at other than God.”

  I stared at Archie, suddenly seeing him in a new light. Archie was always stoic, reticent, and a little intimidating. I would trust Archie with my life without giving it a second thought, but as of this moment, I trusted him with my heart as well. I never understood how deep his waters ran, or how intense he was under that gruff exterior. I remembered seeing him for the first time years before and dismissing him as a callous youth, a pretty boy who was ignorant and beneath my notice.

  I didn’t say anything, just walked around the desk and laid my head on Archie’s shoulder as his arms came around me like steel beams of support. I loved this man with my whole being, but not in any kind of romantic way. Archie was the closest thing I’d ever had to a brother, and to a real friend, and at this awful moment, I felt blessed.

  Chapter 27

  Hugo stared balefully at the grimy walls of the cottage. He’d been hiding out here for days, the way he had when he was a boy. The old ramshackle dwelling belonged to an old wisewoman who had lived in the woods. She was nothing more than a harmless old woman knowledgeable in herbal cures, but the previous clergyman had run her out of the village under the threat of being burned as a witch. Reverend Wilkins had not been as compassionate or progressive as Reverend Snow. He’d been a brimstone and fire minister who believed that God’s will had to be obeyed at all cost, and therefore, any type of interference in the form of herbal cures was a direct affront to the Almighty. The fact that the old woman helped countless women miscarry unwanted children hadn’t helped her case.

  The cottage still smelled of herbs despite being vacant for nearly two decades. Parts of the roof had rotted away, and it was colder inside than out, but Hugo didn’t care. He simply couldn’t bear to be around anyone. A nearly empty cask of brandy sat next to him on the floor, and some bread and cheese were left over from last night, now the feast of hungry mice.

  Hugo leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He couldn’t hide here forever, but the thought of going home made his stomach twist into knots. How could he face Neve when he was solely responsible for Elena’s death? How could he go on living when Elena was gone? There had been terrible moments in his life, but he’d never felt as forsaken as he did now. Was this God’s way of punishing him for allowing his children to be baptized into the Protestant Church? Was this the price he had to pay for trying to give them an easier existence? How did he go on knowing that his decisions had cost Elena her life? How could he be a husband to Neve when his own ignorance had torn her heart out?

  Hugo poured out the rest of the brandy and gulped it down in one swallow. He couldn’t have known that he’d been exposed to the putrid throat. He might have gotten it from handling the corpses of the dead soldiers, but he had no way of knowing. He’d come in contact with numerous people while searching for Brad, from innkeepers along the road to Widow Starkey. Any one of them could have been carrying the sickness. But, he had known that he wasn’t well when he got home. He’d felt feverish, and there was that telltale tickle in his throat, but he’d been so desperate to see Neve and the children that he ignored the signs and allowed himself to hold and kiss Elena and Neve. Neve was immunized against the disease, but not poor Elena. She’d been an innocent victim of his own stupidity and selfishness. And now she was gone, and he was left behind to carry his guilt for the rest of his days.

  Hugo drew up his knees and rested his head on his folded arms. He had to go back; had to do his duty by Neve, the children, and the estate; had to live, but he wasn’t at all sure how to start.

  “Get up!” The words came from somewhere above his head, and Hugo opened up one eye to see Archie towering over him. “Enough of this!”

  Archie physically hauled Hugo to his feet and glared at him from beneath the brim of his hat. “I’ve given you three days to feel sorry for yourself, your lordship,” he said with biting sarcasm. “And now you will pick yourself up and go home to your grieving wife and your frightened children, or so help me God, I will beat you to a pulp.” Archie looked like he meant every word. His hands were balled into fists at his side, and his eyes were blazing with anger.

  Hugo gazed back at Archie, a bitter smile spreading across his haggard face. “Thank you, Archie,” was all he said before walking out into the cold December twilight.

  Chapter 28

  Hugo came home that night: cold, unshaven, and heart-breakingly distant. He called for a bath, and remained lying prone in the steaming water with his eyes closed, his profile reminiscent of a stone effigy. Only the hard set of his jaw and the furrow between the eyebrows indicated that he was still awake, and tense as a bow. He finally climbed into bed, but didn’t reach out to hold me, or offer any words of comfort; just lay still, his eyes fixated on the embroidered tester of the bed. Hugo had never been one to just start analyzing his feelings, but I’d never known him to be insensitive or irrational — or so stoically silent. I could tell by his haggard face and haunted eyes that he was gutted by grief, and was torn between pity and anger, my own emotions boiling over after days of the terribl
e strain of trying to hold it together for the sake of the children.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Hugo,” I finally said, needing to break the barrier of silence between us. I didn’t care what he said as long as he responded to me and allowed me a glimpse into his tortured soul.

  “It was,” he replied tersely.

  “It was just as much my fault as yours. I should have taken Elena to the hospital; I shouldn’t have waited,” I replied, finally putting my own guilt into words.

  “It was I who advised you to wait. First, I infected her, and then I condemned her to death,” Hugo replied through clenched teeth, his voice full of self-loathing. I gaped at him, astounded by the depth of his guilt. I couldn’t imagine any parent who didn’t torture themselves with what-ifs after losing a child, but Hugo was being completely irrational, and given his need to punish himself, there wasn’t much I could say, so I groped for the only line of reasoning he would respond to.

  “Hugo, if you believe in God and His divine plan, you must see that Elena’s death was His will,” I reasoned. I didn’t believe that for a moment, but I knew it would bring him some measure of comfort.

  “Neve, I don’t believe that God — to use a phrase I learned in the future — micromanages our lives. We had a choice, and we made it. I made it. I told you to wait. Had you listened to your instinct, Elena would have lived.”

  I was glad that we were finally talking, but Hugo’s reasoning made me want to throttle him. For the first time in days, I was angry rather than just broken and lost, and it actually felt good to feel fury coursing through my veins. It made me feel alive after days of walking the knife’s edge between life and death.

  “Yes, Hugo, we had a choice, and I made mine,” I cried, desperate to get through to him. “I chose to wait. I could have argued with you, could have defied you, but I didn’t. We made a grave mistake, and paid with the life of our child. Must we wallow in self-pity? I need you to share my grief. I need you to support me instead of indulging in this self-flagellation, or I’ll go to pieces,” I screamed at him, but his grief was so impenetrable as to block all reason.

  “I’m sorry, Neve, but I am unable to do as you ask.”

  “Unable or unwilling?” I cried, my voice quivering with agitation. “You are not the only one who lost a child.”

  “I need time,” Hugo replied woodenly.

  “How much time?”

  “As much time as it takes. I plan to leave for London come morning,” he said with a heart-wrenching finality. He was running away, something I’d never known him to do, and it scared me to death. He needed to deal with what had happened and his role in it, and he had to be here for the rest of us rather than leaving us adrift in a sea of grief, while he did everything in his power to bury his feelings beneath a flurry of activity.

  “You will do no such thing,” I replied, my voice surprisingly strong despite the blind rage that was flowing through me.

  “You can’t stop me,” Hugo spat out. “The king is gone, and things are changing rapidly. I need to be there.”

  “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” I said, my voice now deadly calm. “You will NOT leave your family and go plot and scheme with the other parasites who are already picking over the bones of the corpse of this monarchy, and are double-talking and maneuvering in a desperate effort to worm their way into the graces of the next.”

  “I’m going,” Hugo replied, quietly, but firmly.

  “Then you might not find me here when you return,” I spat back at him.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that I will not be treated this way. I know that you are sick with grief, but I am still your wife, and Valentine and Michael are still your children, and we need you. If you have no need of us, I know a place where we can have a better life, and a safer one.”

  That finally elicited a reaction. Hugo sat up and looked at me, his eyes blazing with fury. “Are you threatening to leave me and take the children?”

  “I am.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Try me.”

  “You are mine to command,” he said, finally blowing the lid off my fury. I threw myself at him, pounding my fists against his chest.

  “Yours to command, you righteous bastard? How dare you? How dare you treat me like I’m your chattel rather than a human being who is overcome with sorrow and guilt?” I punched him until he finally lost it and flipped me onto my back, his hands pinning my wrist to the bed.

  “Go ahead,” I goaded him. “Show me what it means to be your wife. Exercise your husbandly rights. Are you going to beat me too? Isn’t that the acceptable form of punishment for a disobedient wife?” I was panting now, but I couldn’t turn back, couldn’t stop. I was taunting him intentionally and cruelly, but he had crossed the line, and at that moment, I despised him and wanted no part of him. I saw that realization dawning in his eyes as Hugo lost that last shred of control.

  His eyes blazed with the kind of rage I’d rarely seen, his mouth twisted with anger. He drove his knee between my thighs, pushing them apart as he rammed himself into me. I tried to throw him off, but he was too strong. I clawed at his hands, and bit his lip as his face came closer to mine, but my body betrayed me, my hips grinding against his in a fierce need to connect with him in any way I could. This wasn’t making love; this was him punishing me, and me punishing him in return. He released my hands, and I scratched his face, drawing blood with a growl of satisfaction.

  Hugo’s mouth came down on mine, swallowing my fury. His thrusts became more vicious, but I welcomed the assault, meeting him thrust for thrust. I was in pain, but I didn’t care. Pain was better than hopelessness and grief. Pain was better than stony silence. Pain was life.

  I wasn’t sure when the anger turned to a need for forgiveness and a plea for love. Hugo’s head dipped into my shoulder as he collapsed on top of me, his body shaking with sobs. He’d held in his pain all these days, but now that the floodgates had opened, he was a drowning man, unable to stop. I’d never seen a man cry like that, never felt the depth of another’s grief so intensely, but as my tears mingled with his, we held each other, silently renewing our bond and offering each other forgiveness.

  “I’m sorry,” Hugo finally breathed. “I am so sorry. I would give my life in a second if I knew it could bring our baby back.”

  “I know,” I whispered to him as I brushed the hair from his face. “I know.”

  “My life is worth nothing without you and the children,” Hugo said as he rested his forehead against mine. “I’d be adrift, as I had been before I met you. Please, Neve, please don’t ever leave me, no matter how foolishly I behave. You are my reason for being.”

  “And you are mine,” I replied, as I kissed him tenderly with my swollen lips.

  “I didn’t mean what I said,” Hugo continued. Now that he was talking, he had to get it all out, had to make me see what was in his heart. “You are my love, my partner, and my best friend. It is I who is yours to command,” he pleaded, needing to hear that he was forgiven.

  “I know you didn’t mean it.” He buried his face in my neck, his breathing still ragged. The crying had unburdened him for the moment and allowed him a tiny bit of release, which would help him take the first step toward healing.

  “Go to sleep, Hugo. You need your rest. And tomorrow, we will prepare for Christmas and celebrate with our children in a quiet, dignified way, respectful of Elena’s memory.”

  “Thank you,” Hugo murmured as he rolled off me and closed his eyes. Now that the storm had passed, he was exhausted, his voice slurred with fatigue. “Thank you for loving me.”

  I squeezed his hand as he slipped into a deep sleep, grateful to at least have my husband back.

  Chapter 29

  I was glad to see the old year out, proud of myself for surviving Christmas and Boxing Day on which the lord and lady of the manor were expected to visit the tenants and give them gifts. All I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and
drift until the razor-sharp edges of my grief began to dull, and not disembowel me every time I so much as thought of Elena, but I didn’t have that option; I had to function. Valentine and Michael were unusually subdued, their heads turning in unison every time a door opened as if expecting their sister to come back. Valentine accepted our explanation that Elena went to Heaven, at least for the time being, but Michael kept asking for “Ena,” and looking for her everywhere. Every night, Hugo carried him through the house so that he could check all the rooms to make sure his twin wasn’t hiding somewhere. It broke my heart in ways I didn’t know it could be broken.

  I don’t think I would have survived those first two weeks without the support of Frances and Archie, which made the thought of losing them even more painful. Soon they would marry and leave us, and I would be parted from the only two people whom I could rely on besides Hugo. At a time like this, I felt my isolation very keenly. I had no family or friends to lean on, no support network, or enough mental distractions to find even temporary oblivion from my thoughts. Archie and Frances, as if by some unspoken agreement, had taken charge of the children; Archie doing his best to entertain Valentine while Frances saw to Michael. They were giving us time to grieve and heal, and I was surprised to find that with each day that passed, we learned to accept the “new” normal and forge a way ahead. I went about my routine, taking each day as it came. I felt numb, but at least I was no longer sneaking off to an empty room to cry my heart out whenever something reminded me of Elena.

  “Archie and I will postpone the wedding until the summer,” Frances informed me as we sat in the parlor one January afternoon, watching Michael toddle from one piece of furniture to another. He still liked to hold on for support, even though he could walk. He was a cautious one, unlike Elena, who had always been the leader and risk-taker.