“Hungry, Mama,” Michael complained, now that he’d stopped crying.
“I have an idea. Let’s have breakfast in bed today,” I suggested.
“Oh, yes,” the children said in unison. They thought it was a fun game, but in some strange attempt to block out reality, I refused to get out of bed. As long as I was in bed, I was safe, untouchable.
“I’ll tell Cook,” Frances said as she slid out of the big bed.
“Thank you.”
Frances gave me a warm smile. She understood, but I could see that she was more frightened than she was letting on. Frances was a different person when Archie was around, but when separated from him, she tended to regress to the frightened insecure girl she’d been when we first met her. I wished that Hugo would have sent Archie home with us, but knowing Hugo, he had his reasons for asking him to stay on in London. I trusted his judgment, but without a man about the house, I felt as vulnerable and exposed as Frances.
**
It was mid-morning when they came. I smoothed down my skirts and patted my uncovered hair, suddenly self-conscious of my appearance. Would it make any difference to these men how I looked? Would appearing sober and demure influence their opinion of me, or were their minds already made up, their decision made? My hands shook as Ruby knocked timidly on the parlor door and announced the visitors.
“Come,” I called out, wishing that I could climb out the window and run for my life. I was glad that the children weren’t in the house. Valentine was in the paddock with Joe. Once she got on her pony, she forgot her pique at not having Archie to teach her, and Michael was in the meadow, picking flowers with Frances. Both children had been subdued, even after our breakfast in bed, instinctively sensing that something was wrong. Valentine gave me a great big hug before going off with Joe, her eyes full of worry. She was very perceptive for a child of three.
I was surprised to see Reverend Snow rather than the grim men from the diocese. He looked uncomfortable as he entered the room, his wide brown eyes gazing at something just beyond my shoulder rather than straight at me, which was a sure sign that he was here against his better judgment. I liked Reverend Snow, and thought him a good and kind man, but today I burned with resentment against him, furious that he would believe such tripe about me and summon the men from the ecclesiastical committee.
“Reverend Snow, please have a seat,” I offered coolly. “Can I offer you some refreshment?”
“No, your ladyship, but I thank you.” The reverend remained standing, his hands tightly clasped in front of him. He radiated tension and regret.
“My lady, this is not a social call, much as I would like it to be. I don’t know if you’ve been informed, but an accusation of witchcraft has been made against you.”
“By whom? I have a right to know,” I demanded, suddenly outraged now that I heard the words spoken out loud.
“I am not at liberty to say. Once an accusation of such conduct is made, I must report it to the bishop. I had no choice in the matter,” he added apologetically. “I hope you understand.”
I inclined my head. Did I understand? The man had known me for years, had offered me counsel when I needed it. Could he really believe that I was Satan’s familiar and practiced the dark arts?
“I don’t believe a word of it,” he exclaimed vehemently, as if he’d read my thoughts. “Lady Everly, I know you to be a good, God-fearing woman, and I will state as much at the trial, but you must beware. People are frightened, and they will say anything when they feel threatened, or when they believe there will be no consequences to their actions, at least not to them personally.”
“Are you here to arrest me, Reverend Snow?” I asked calmly, despite the erratic banging of my heart.
“I am here on behalf of the committee. I asked to be the one to speak to you. Since there’re no facilities for detaining prisoners in Cranley, I have asked the committee to allow you to remain in your own home until the trial, which will be in three days’ time. I ask that you do not leave the village, or the house, for that matter. I’ve brought Mark Watson with me. He will remain here with you until the trial. I’ve asked him to be respectful and unobtrusive. Perhaps he could sleep in the kitchen, or anywhere else you deem appropriate.”
“So, am I under house arrest?” I asked, suddenly wishing I could just throw both men out. I knew Mark Watson from the village. He was a burly man in his late thirties, one who could restrain me with one arm tied behind his back. We’d never actually spoken to each other, but he always appeared taciturn, his anger barely contained. They’d picked the perfect man for the job. Mark Watson would have no qualms about doing what was necessary to keep me from leaving, particularly if he’d be handsomely paid.
“In a manner of speaking, yes. Please comply with this order. It will only make things worse if you don’t. The trial will be held at the church after Sunday service.”
“And am I not allowed to seek evidence which might help me, or round up witnesses who would speak on my behalf?” I asked, astonished by the unfairness of the situation.
Reverend Snow shook his head. “If anyone wishes to speak on your behalf, they must come forward of their own accord at the trial. And I can’t imagine what evidence you might present to disprove an accusation of witchcraft. All I can advise is that you appear respectful, composed, and try to maintain your dignity. Any outburst on your part will result in ill will toward you, which might sway the judges’ favor.”
Reverend Snow backed toward the door, clearly as eager to leave as I was to be rid of him. “Good day to you, Lady Everly, and my heartiest sympathies on his lordship’s arrest. I had hoped he would be here in your hour of need.”
“As had I,” I said, barely holding back the tears.
Chapter 6
Archie sprang to attention when he saw Tess emerging into the yard behind the inn. This was the fourth time she’d come out, but before it’d been to empty out chamber pots, hang out the washing, and go to the privy herself. She’d kept her eyes firmly averted from where he waited, her shoulders stiff with tension. Archie was bored of sitting in one spot, but he had to be within range of the back door of the inn to spot Tess coming out. She looked around furtively before giving a small wave. Archie was beside her in seconds.
“They’ve gone to the downstairs parlor for their midday meal. There are quite a few patrons t’day, so it might take longer than normal to get served. Ye ‘ave a ‘alf ‘our, at best. Follow me,” she said as she led him into the inn and up the dim stairs to the rooms above.
“If they catch ye, I’ll say I’d never seen ye. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“These two rooms ‘ere.” Tess unlocked the rooms and motioned for Archie to enter. “I’ll be back when the church clock strikes the ‘our to lock ‘em again. ‘Urry!”
Tess disappeared down the stairs while Archie searched the first room. The inn was a small one, the rooms cramped and dark. A small window which faced the front yard was so grimy as to barely let in any light. Archie looked around. Other than two cloaks and hats, he saw nothing of interest. There were no folios which might contain documents, or anything else in writing. The two clergymen who shared this room didn’t bring so much as a clean shirt. The room stank of stale sweat and unwashed feet. The bed linens were rumpled and gray, the bed not nearly large enough for two grown men to share.
Archie gave up and moved on to the other room. This one was a trifle larger, with a window that faced the back of the inn. The chamber was cleaner, and the bed was neatly made, likely by the occupant himself. The window was partially open to allow some fresh air to ventilate the room. This man appeared to be more fastidious, his cloak hanging on a peg and his fresh linen neatly folded and stowed in a small leather satchel. Archie looked beneath the garments, but there was nothing else in the bag. A small bar of lye soap and a hairbrush were placed next to the ewer and basin, and there was a well-thumbed Bible on the pillow, but there was nothing else of a personal nature. Archie turned on his heel
in frustration. Did these clerics not bring anything in writing? There wasn’t so much as a pot of ink or writing paper.
Archie stilled as he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. It couldn’t be Tess, so it was either the innkeeper or one of the clergymen. He pressed his ear to the door. The steps were growing closer, and since there were only two rooms in the passageway, they were heading toward one of the rooms. Archie looked around in a moment of panic. There was nowhere to hide. The only avenue of escape was the window, which was barely large enough for Archie to squeeze through. He crawled through the window, cursing silently as his shoulders got momentarily stuck in the narrow frame, then laid himself flat on the pitched roof, praying for purchase as he dug his heels into a slight indentation. If he moved an inch, he would slide straight down into the yard, feet first. He’d have sprained ankles at best, broken bones at worst. And, he would most likely be caught snooping.
Archie held his breath as he heard a movement right next to his head. A pale hand appeared for a moment before the window was pulled shut and locked from the inside. Archie remained still, pondering what to do. He saw Tess emerge from the inn, looking about her like a frightened rabbit. She must have seen the man heading back upstairs and couldn’t find a way to warn Archie.
“Psst,” Archie hissed. Tess looked up, her mouth opening in shock when she saw Archie plastered against the roof. She was about to say something when a gruff voice called out to her from inside.
“Tess, where are ye, girl? There’s vegetables as needs peelin’, and slops to be fed to yon pig. Get yer sorry arse in ‘ere this minute.”
Tess threw Archie a look of apology as she disappeared back inside. Archie shifted his weight and yelped in surprise as the heel of his boot came free and he slid down the pitched roof, crashing onto his left side painfully. The yard beneath the roof was littered with wooden splinters, pebbles, and heaps of refuse which would be shoveled into a bucket and fed to the pig. Archie felt a wooden splinter digging into his ribs as his face scraped against something hard and sharp. His shoulders were bruised from squeezing through the narrow window, and his left ankle throbbed painfully.
“What the devil was that?” the innkeeper bellowed from somewhere inside.
Archie got to his feet and hobbled for cover. A trickle of blood ran down his cheek and his left side hurt like hell, but he didn’t think anything was actually broken. Archie massaged his sore wrist as he hid behind a thick oak just as the publican exploded into the back yard. He looked around in confusion, then noticed the disturbed patch of mud where Archie had fallen. The innkeeper looked up, shrugged, and went back inside just as Archie slid down to the ground and leaned against the tree for support. Every inch of his left side throbbed, but he didn’t care about the pain. He’d found nothing of value, which was concerning since time was running out.
Archie saw Tess’s anxious face peer into the yard, her eyes scanning for him. She looked relieved when she failed to spot him, and emerged into the yard with a bucket full of slops for the pig. At least she didn’t get caught helping him, which was something. He wouldn’t want to be responsible for Tess losing her place. At eleven, she was helping to support her family. He’d have to stop by later and thank her for helping him.
Archie allowed himself a few minutes to recover before laboriously getting to his feet. It was a long walk to his father’s farm, and would take him at least two hours in his condition, especially since he had to stay off the road. “Damn it all to Hell,” Archie cursed as he stepped onto his injured foot. He found a stout stick and used it to take some of the weight off his ankle as he ambled along. He needed to come up with a new plan for helping Lady Everly.
Chapter 7
Hugo pulled his hat lower over his eyes and stepped into the soupy fog of the April morning. The Black Dog was a small and dingy inn with two tiny rooms situated in the rafters, and a publican who served only a greasy stew and cheap ale all week long. It catered to the lower orders and reeked of rancid meat, spilled beer, and loneliness, but it suited Hugo just fine. He needed to lose himself among the anonymous throngs of London until it was time to return to the Tower, and no one paid any heed to the patrons of the Black Dog. During the day, it was frequented by ferrymen and stevedores who came in for an affordable dinner, and at night, it was filled with men who wanted a bit of company, but had nowhere else to go.
The street was already roiling with activity, the road full of wagons, riders on horseback, and women going about their morning shopping. Hugo kept away from the walls for fear of having a chamber pot upended on his head, or stepping into a pile of refuse concealed by the shadows created by the overhanging upper floors. He was dressed like a tradesman, but he didn’t need to smell like one, especially when about to confront Henry FitzRoy, 1st Duke of Grafton.
Hugo walked along briskly, his hands thrust into the pockets of his leather doublet. In truth, he wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish. Even if Henry owned up to the truth, there wasn’t very much he could do at this stage. Withdrawing his statement would do little to exonerate Hugo since the damage had already been done. The best he could hope for was to discover exactly what their Royal Majesties had on him and attempt to discredit the evidence. Hugo growled in frustration as he increased his pace. Neve was alone in Cranley, facing a trumped-up accusation of witchcraft, and he was powerless to help her. Archie would do what he could, but Hugo felt a maddening helplessness which stoked the fires of his anger.
Damn Henry Fitzroy, damn the Marquise de Chartres, and damn James II most of all for the coward that he is, Hugo thought savagely. The web of political intrigue which he’d been surrounded by since adolescence seemed to have become even more intricate and twice as dangerous, making Hugo feel like a trapped fly about to face the spider. He’d put his life on the line repeatedly, and what had he accomplished except disgrace, attempts on his life, and the need to constantly look over his shoulder? And now his wife was threatened, his children vulnerable, and his estates in danger of being confiscated if he were pronounced guilty, leaving his son with nothing to inherit but shame and poverty.
There was a time when he longed to return home from the twenty-first century, believing his rightful place to be at Everly Manor and at the side of the king he served, but now Max’s words kept ringing in his ears. “Go back to the future, be Lord Everly. Take over my life.” Max had no idea how tempting his offer was. To live a life of peace and religious freedom was a reality Hugo could only dream of. Even if by some miracle he managed to talk his way out of this charge, there was still the accusation against Neve and the never-ending political wheeling and dealing which was nearly impossible to avoid for a man of his standing. Perhaps if he didn’t know what the future held, he’d be more driven to change the present, but the die was cast, the history books printed, and nothing could be done to undo the events of the past few months. The consequences of James’s actions would reverberate throughout history, resulting in several failed rebellions and countless deaths, but at this stage, Hugo no longer wanted any part of that story. He just wanted to live in peace with his family, a dream which was slipping away at an alarming rate.
Hugo finally reached the duke’s London residence and looked around for a suitable spot to wait for Henry Fitzroy to make an appearance. Hugo had imagined this encounter from every angle and decided that a sword wouldn’t do him much good. Instead, he brought a flintlock pistol and a dagger, neither of which he planned on using. The pistol wasn’t even primed or loaded; it was simply for show, since Hugo had no intentions of shooting Henry Fitzroy, 1st Duke of Grafton. He had enough problems without killing the man in cold blood. However, he did wish to speak with him, and that in itself presented a problem.
Hugo couldn’t very well call at Henry’s house since he was presumed to be in the Tower, so he had to await his opportunity. Two hours later, there was still no activity. Henry was a night owl, so it was reasonable to assume that if he went out, it wouldn’t be first thing in the morning. It was now well pa
st noon, but the house looked almost uninhabited. Had Henry decamped to France? Hugo wondered. He stepped from foot to foot, tired of standing.
If an interview with Henry produced no results, he would need to figure out a different way to clear his name, but at the moment, nothing at all came to mind. Short of requesting an audience with the royal couple, there was nothing he could do, and even if he were granted an interview, there was nothing he could say that would prove his innocence.
Hugo tensed as he saw a fine carriage come around the corner and roll up to the house, the coachman dressed in the livery of the Duke of Grafton. He must have just come from the carriage house behind the manor. This was Hugo’s chance, as long as the carriage wasn’t for the duchess. He left his vantage point and walked in the direction of the vehicle. The coachman paid him no mind, so Hugo stopped just behind the carriage as he waited for Henry to emerge from the house. Hugo noted with satisfaction that this was one of the more luxurious models, with doors on both sides. Most carriages were limited to just the one door, but Henry Fitzroy had to have the latest style from France.
A few moments later, the door opened and Henry finally emerged, dressed in a suit of aquamarine satin, cream-colored hose, and a wig which hung nearly to his waist. His shoes boasted shiny red heels, which were complemented by red bows at the front. He carried a silver-tipped walking stick, which would make for a very nice weapon should he decide to bash Hugo over the head. Hugo pulled open the door of the carriage just as Henry’s servant pulled it open on the opposite side and the two men got in simultaneously, Henry eyeing Hugo with undisguised horror.
Comes The Dawn (The Wonderland Series: Book 5) Page 4