The Lovers

by Irina Shapiro

  “During the late-seventeenth century, the area now known as Mayfair was sparsely populated. The houses belonged mostly to wealthy nobles who needed land to build great manor houses but still wished to remain close to Whitehall Palace. The population of Mayfair grew exponentially in the eighteenth century, but we believe that the skeletons date back to the original occupants. The first house built on that site belonged to one Lord Asher. He was one of the men instrumental in bringing Charles II back to England and served on the Privy Council until his death in 1699. Asher was a great favorite of Charles II and was mentioned in several documents from the period.”

  “Could the woman have been his wife?” Rhys asked, now clearly intrigued with the picture Quinn was painting.

  “She could have been. Asher’s first wife died when he was in his early forties, and he eventually remarried, but there’s no mention of his wife’s name, at least not in the documents I’ve studied so far.”

  “Where there any children?”

  Quinn took a sip of espresso to give herself a moment to think. She knew about Barbara, but hadn’t seen her mentioned anywhere. She couldn’t very well bring her up before she had factual proof of her existence.

  “I’m not sure. I’m still looking into that.”

  Rhys shrugged good-naturedly. He seemed more interested in the second skeleton.

  “And you don’t think that our Romeo was of noble birth?” he asked.

  “He enjoyed good nutrition and fine health for the period, but his clothes were not of the same quality as those of the woman, and he seemed to have used his right hand extensively, which would lead me to believe that he might have had to work for a living.”

  Rhys looked thoughtful at this theory. “Or, he could have been a nobleman who enjoyed swordplay.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Quinn conceded.

  “Excellent work, Dr. Allenby. We have a starting point, and now I can get the costume and set designers to start working on some ideas. In the meantime, we need to find out who the woman was and what happened to her. If she were a noblewoman, it might be easier to trace her rather than her companion. Have you any leads?”

  “I plan to visit all the churches in the area and see if I can find a parish registry from the period. The entries are not likely to be online, but most churches still keep the old records, if they weren’t burned—which is, of course, a possibility given the timeframe we’re working with.”

  “Yes, of course, the Great Fire of London.”

  “Precisely.”

  Quinn replaced the documents in her folder and put them away in her briefcase, ready to leave.

  “Dr. Allenby,” Rhys said, his expression thoughtful, “would it be common for a house built during the period you suggest to have an oubliette?”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Quinn replied, startled by the appropriateness of the question. She’d been so focused on the players that she hadn’t given any thought to the location of their remains. The chest had been found in some sort of shaft, which would have been well beneath the ground, even during original construction.

  “Oubliettes are mostly found in old castles, ones that had subterranean dungeons. They might have been used by royals to dispose of those who’d been accused of treason or had fallen afoul of them in some way. Or by overlords whose word was law on their lands. I’ve never come across any mention of an oubliette in a private residence in London.”

  “Any theories?”

  “Perhaps the space was never intended as an oubliette. It could have simply been part of a cellar or a separate chamber used for hiding objects of value. Lord Asher was a wealthy man.”

  “Could it have been a well?”

  “Had it been a well, there would’ve been water damage to the chest. No, I believe the space was dry, even at the time of our victims’ death.”

  “So, someone locked two young people in a chest—as a punishment, I presume—lowered said chest into the shaft, and left them to die? And no one noted their disappearance?” Rhys speculated.

  “We have no way of knowing if anyone noted their disappearance, but clearly the young people weren’t rescued.”

  He nodded in agreement, his eyes twinkling with interest. “So, for all intents and purposes, our couple was murdered?”

  “Yes, they were. Whoever put them in that chest meant for them to die.”

  “I’ll get onto my writers and see if they can come up with a couple of fitting scenarios for our dramatization. In the meantime, I look forward to hearing what you’ve discovered.”

  Quinn stood up to leave.

  “Dr. Allenby.”

  “Please, call me Quinn,” Quinn said. She hated the forced formality of her title.

  “Then you must call me Rhys. I can’t help noticing that it’s almost lunchtime,” he said with an innocent smile.

  “So it is.”

  “I would love for you to join me. I took the liberty of booking a table. Do say you’ll come.”

  Quinn tried to swallow down her irritation. She had no desire to have lunch with Rhys Morgan. In fact, she’d made plans to see her cousin Jill. Jill had turned her back on a high-powered position in an accounting firm just over a year ago and opened up a vintage clothing shop in SoHo. Quinn still hadn’t seen the place, and she’d hoped she might take Jill out to lunch to celebrate her new venture. But to refuse his offer would be churlish, so Quinn nodded in acquiescence.

  “Only if you promise not to force-feed me any more cake.”

  “Upon my honor,” Rhys quipped as he held his hand over his heart.

  Chapter 20

  The restaurant Rhys took Quinn to was the type of place one would never take notice of just walking past. It was tiny and ultramodern, decorated entirely in white with abstract paintings adorning the walls. The servers all seemed awfully young—polished women and solicitous men, dressed in uniforms of pristine white. Quinn had to admit though that the food was sublime. Her swordfish served over pumpkin ravioli with feta cheese crumbles and caramelized onions was superb.

  “Do you like it?” Rhys asked, eager to hear her opinion.

  “Fantastic,” Quinn replied. “You really are a foodie,” she observed with a smile.

  “I suppose I am. When I was a boy, my mother made the same dishes every week. She was a single, working mum, so she had no time or extra money to get too creative. I swore that when I grew up I would try something different every day.”

  “You must have been a handful,” Quinn observed, trying to imagine Rhys as a precocious child.

  “More than you can imagine. I had acute asthma when I was a child. Any type of strenuous activity or anxiety could set off an attack. My poor mother was always frantic with worry, imagining that I would have an attack whilst on my own and not have my inhaler nearby. She forbade me to participate in any afterschool activities or play with the other boys. I envied my older brother, Owain, who was always playing football and going swimming at the beach with his friends during the summer. I was only allowed to sit on the sand and breathe in the bracing sea air,” he mimicked with a grimace of disgust, which made Quinn laugh.

  “I suppose that’s when my interest in television began. I used to read a lot, especially during the summer holidays, and I put on one-man productions of various plays for my mum. She worked as a hairdresser, but before she got pregnant with Owain and married my dad, she had aspirations of going to the university and studying medieval literature. She was a huge mythology fan, particularly anything to do with King Arthur.”

  “Where did you grow up?” Quinn asked as Rhys refilled her wine glass, clearly in no rush to get back to the office.

  “Pembrokeshire, Wales.”

  “So, you speak Welsh?”

  “Just a few words. I understand everything, but we always spoke English at home, being on the wrong side of the Landsker Line. Have you ever been to Wales?”

  “Yes, many years ago while on holiday with my parents. We visited St. Govan’s Chapel in Pembrokeshire. That mus
t have been very close to where you grew up.”

  “Yes, but I’ve actually never been. My mum wouldn’t let me go because of all the steps. She was afraid I’d have an attack. What did you think of it?

  “I was just dumbstruck by it, even as a child. To me there was something utterly magical about building right into a cliff. You could hardly tell where the chapel ended and the cliff began, as if it simply grew out of the stone. My mum told me the story of St. Govan hiding from the pirates inside a crevice in the cliff face that shielded him from prying eyes. I had nightmares for days about being swallowed up by stone.”

  “You were an impressionable child, weren’t you? Did you dig up your parents’ garden looking for artifacts?” Rhys asked with a teasing smile.

  “No, not really. I was more interested in genealogy when I was a child.”

  “Really, why is that?” Rhys looked at her with genuine interest, and suddenly something caught in Quinn’s throat. She hadn’t meant to have this conversation. He’d been so open about his own childhood that she suddenly felt as if she couldn’t lie to him. She rarely told people the truth about her origins. It was a painful subject, and not one she cared to discuss with anyone. People meant well, but the look of pity on their faces was usually enough to undo her.

  “Did I say something wrong?” he asked, his eyes widening with sudden anxiety.

  “No, you didn’t. It’s just that I was abandoned as a baby. When I found out that I’d been adopted, genealogy became something of an obsession.”

  “Have you ever tried to find your parents?”

  “I don’t know who my parents were. I was left in a church pew and found by the priest. I was turned over to the state and eventually put up for adoption. I have no desire to track down my natural parents, but I would very much like to know who they were and why they gave me up. It would fill a void that has existed inside me since I was a child, and answer questions that have been gnawing at my mind.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like why they couldn’t just go through the proper channels and put me up for adoption legally. I tried to tell myself that being left in a church meant something, but there were times when I thought that I’d been disposed of like rubbish. Whoever my parents were, they couldn’t be bothered with me, so they just left me.”

  Quinn was surprised to see that Rhys didn’t look remotely pitying. Instead, he gazed at her with surprise, his eyebrows lifting in astonishment.

  “Rubbish? I think not. Making films and documentaries is all about studying human nature, as I’m sure being a historian is, and deep down you know that no one leaves rubbish in a church. Whoever left you there wanted to make sure that you were found by someone who would do the right thing by you. They left you in what they perceived to be the safest possible place. It was a declaration of love, the final act of a caring mother. You might never know who she was or what prompted her to do what she did, but know that she loved you.”

  “My mum said the same thing, but I always thought that she was just trying to comfort me.”

  “She was trying to comfort you, but that doesn’t mean that what she was suggesting wasn’t true,” Rhys replied. “And did it comfort you?”

  “For a time. But I longed to know who my parents were, especially my mother.”

  “My situation is very different, but I can understand how you feel. My father died when I was two. I have no memory of him, except sometimes, I dream that I can hear his voice reading me a bedtime story. I suppose the memory is stored somewhere deep in my subconscious. Of course, I know who he was and have seen pictures of him and heard stories, but I would have liked to know him for myself. When I was a boy, I’d often wished that my mum would remarry, so that I’d have a dad. My brother is seven years older than me, so he had memories of our father and felt resentful of any man who might try to take his place, but I just longed for a man in my life.”

  “Did your mum remarry?”

  “Yes, but only after I’d went off to the university. Dawydd had been in love with my mother for years. He’d been a friend of my father’s when they were at school. I think he liked her even back then. She’s happy,” Rhys added with a warm smile.

  “And your brother?”

  “Oh, Owain never left Pembrokeshire. He owns a butcher shop and lives a few minutes away from Mum. He checks up on her regularly and drops off the children for a few hours in the process. Mum loves babysitting, so everyone wins.”

  “How many children does he have?”

  “Owain has four boys and a girl, and Dawydd’s daughter has three girls, so it’s a full house when they are all there. I always go home for Christmas. It’s a far cry from what it used to be when it was just the three of us. Of course, there are always the usual digs about my failure to produce more grandchildren for them,” Rhys said with an irreverent shrug. “There’s time.”

  “My parents moved to Marbella when Dad retired. They love it there. I’ve never told them this, but I actually dread Christmas since they left. I always have a place to go, but it’s not quite the same as being with your family, is it?”

  “No, it’s not. Why not go spend Christmas with them this year?” Rhys suggested as he took a last sip of his coffee and rose to leave.

  “I just might do that,” Quinn replied. She gathered her coat and bag and followed Rhys out of the restaurant.

  “Thank you for lunch, Rhys. It was lovely.”

  Rhys leaned forward and kissed her softly on the cheek before returning to his office. Quinn looked after him for a moment, then dashed toward the nearest tube station. Lunch lasted for over two hours, but she could still catch Jill before the shop closed for the night. She had some shopping to do.

  Chapter 21

  March 1665

  London, England

  Elise lifted the spoon carefully to Lady Matilda’s lips, but the older woman refused to swallow any more broth. She’d taken a turn for the worse over the past few days and had barely eaten anything at all. Her already angular bones jutted out beneath papery skin that had acquired a gray pall over the past twenty-four hours. The old lady’s breathing was labored, and her brow glistened with sweat but was cool to the touch.

  “Cold,” Lady Matilda breathed.

  “I’ll fetch a hot brick,” Elise promised and picked up the bowl to return to the kitchen. Lady Matilda needed nourishment; perhaps she’d take some milk. Elise had asked Lucy to take out the chamber pot, but it proved to be empty, as Lady Matilda seemed unable to make water. That couldn’t be a good sign.

  “How is she?” Edward demanded when he met Elise in the corridor.

  “She is very poorly,” Elise replied truthfully.

  “Thank you for everything you are doing for her,” Edward said. He looked genuinely distressed. He’d even remained at home for the past few evenings and spent at least an hour each night sitting by his mother’s bedside.

  “Do you think she will improve?” he asked, barely able to keep hope from his voice.

  “I pray that she will,” Elise replied. “Dr. Fisk bled her again this morning.”

  “Dr. Fisk is a bloated old fool,” Edward spat out. “She’s gotten worse since he’s been attending her, but he’s the best physician in London. Even His Majesty seeks his advice on various matters of health.”

  “I’ve no doubt Dr. Fisk is doing everything he can to cure Lady Matilda,” Elise answered diplomatically. She didn’t think that bleeding an old woman who’d barely eaten for days would help, but what did she know? Dr. Fisk was a renowned physician who enjoyed the favor of the king, and surely he knew his business. Perhaps the bleeding would purge Lady Matilda of infection, as Dr. Fisk hoped, and restore her appetite. Once she was able to consume beef broth and meat, she’d make more blood.

  “I’m sure you’re right, Elise. I’m just too upset to think clearly.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” Elise inquired. “I was just on my way to the kitchen to get a hot brick for her ladyship.”

  �
�Thank you. I don’t require anything. I’ll just sit with my mother for a bit.”

  “As you wish,” Elise replied and continued downstairs.

  Since Lady Matilda had been ill, Edward had been kinder to Elise. No further mention of her infertility had been made, nor had James visited her chamber. Come to think of it, Elise hadn’t seen James about the house at all. Normally, she caught sight of him throughout the day, mostly when gazing out the window, but she hadn’t seen him for several days. She thought he might come to visit Lady Matilda, the dowager being his grandmother, but Lady Matilda never acknowledged James or spoke of him. Perhaps she had no wish to see him.

  Elise kept a stack of heavy damask squares and a small stoppered vial of vinegar by her bed, but she hadn’t had the opportunity to make use of them, for which she was grateful. She had to last one more month until the sailing, and then she would be free of James, as well as her husband, once and for all. Perhaps once Edward returned to court, she could risk visiting Gavin in Southwark again.

  Elise handed the bowl to a servant and extracted a hot brick from the oven using iron tongs. She carefully wrapped it in a thick towel and hurried back upstairs. Lady Matilda’s room was shrouded in darkness since the shutters were kept closed even during the day. The rosy glow of the fire cast shadows onto the great bed and the frail old lady in it. Edward sat next to the bed, his elbows resting on his thighs, his head in his hands. Gone was the fashionable courtier, replaced by a grieving son who suddenly looked years older than his age. Divested of his dark wig and elegant clothes, Edward looked like an old man.

  Elise slipped the brick beneath the blankets and pushed it up against Lady Matilda’s feet. They were ice-cold despite two pairs of wool stockings. Her mother had complained of being terribly cold just before she died. It’s as if all the warmth of life had seeped from her body, leaving her a cold husk, ready for the grave. It was a morbid thought, but Lady Matilda looked like an effigy, her face still, like a wax death mask. Elise put her hand on Edward’s shoulder in a gesture of sympathy and he took it and kissed, seeming grateful for the support. He understood only too well what was happening. No amount of leeching or bleeding would help his mother. She was in God’s hands now.