“Everly, I was told you’d been arrested,” Henry gasped as he made to open the carriage door to step out.
“Don’t you dare get out, FitzRoy. Instruct your coachman to drive,” Hugo demanded as he trained a pistol on Henry. The Duke of Grafton visibly paled, his hand shaking as he used the walking stick to knock on the roof of the carriage. The vehicle began to move down the street, its progress slow and stately due to the midday traffic.
“Their Majesties claim to have evidence of my treason, evidence they could have gotten only from you,” Hugo spat out, disgusted with the fop before him. “Did you volunteer it, or did pressure have to be applied?”
“Hugo, I am sorry, truly I am, but I had no choice. My cousin gave me an ultimatum. It was either your head on the block, or mine.”
“Ah, so the choice was obvious,” Hugo replied sarcastically.
“What would you have done?” Henry demanded, suddenly angry. “I’m in a precarious position, Hugo, torn between my cousin, the Queen of England, and my uncle, the exiled king who hopes to regain the throne. Betraying Mary can result in death and the forfeiture of my lands and titles. Turning my back on my uncle can have very much the same outcome should he manage to gather enough troops and gold to mount a successful attack.”
“So, you sacrificed me to save your own skin,” Hugo said dispassionately. “And what do you think Mary would do if she suddenly came into possession of evidence of your treason?” Hugo asked nastily.
“You have nothing, Everly.”
“Don’t I? I have about as much as you did when you gave me up. Evidence can be conjured up, just as it can disappear. Wouldn’t you say?”
Henry shook his head, making his curls sway like a curtain. “Hugo, the evidence I gave to Mary is flimsy at best. The letter could have been written by anyone, anyone at all. There’s no signature, and no seal. You can fight this, and you can win. William and Mary would never sign an order of execution without granting you a trial. I believe you have a fair chance of walking away from this unscathed.”
“I see you’ve given this some thought,” Hugo mused, lowering his gun. “How very considerate of you.”
“Hugo, killing me will accomplish nothing. And it’s not as if you were innocent, is it? I don’t know how you managed to get out of the Tower, but you can stay and fight to clear your name, or you can escape to France as you have before, although I’m not too sure of the welcome you’d receive from the king or the Marquise de Chartres. He needs you in England, not cooling your heels in France while playing the courtier at Versailles,” Henry Fitzroy sneered. “Now, would you be kind enough to get out of my carriage? I am on my way to see my cousin, Her Majesty Queen Mary. Shall I send her your regards?”
“By all means,” Hugo replied sourly as he opened the door and jumped from the carriage, which was barely moving. The last thing Hugo saw as he turned to walk away was Henry FitzRoy’s self-satisfied smile.
Chapter 8
Hugo laid the pistol on the table, removed the dagger from the shaft of his boot, and sat heavily on the bed, his head in his hands. The meeting with FitzRoy had been an utter waste of time, and he felt humiliated and upset by the other man’s dismissive attitude. As things stood now, the royal couple had no choice but to try Hugo; to release him would make them appear weak and gullible. So, he was back to square one. He had one more day until he had to return to the Tower, but he had no plan.
Furthermore, he was worried sick about Neve. Hugo knew that Archie would do everything in his power to keep Neve from coming to trial, but the way things were going, it was entirely possible that he would be unable to stop the proceedings. Hugo longed to be with Neve, but instead, he would molder in the Tower while awaiting the mockery of a trial which would probably send him to the gallows. He supposed that being a nobleman would at least ensure that he was beheaded rather than hanged, a more noble and dignified death, in Hugo’s opinion, but then again, if convicted of treason, he might be sentenced to death by drawing and quartering, something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.
Hugo sat up and uncorked the bottle of brandy he’d purchased the night before in a fit of despair. He took a large swig, and then another, before resolutely returning the bottle to its place. He jumped to his feet, grabbed the dagger and left the room, suddenly in a hurry.
Chapter 9
Late afternoon shadows had lengthened into evening, a miasma of gloom settling on the house. Even the children were subdued. They’d had their supper in the nursery and were now quietly playing, too overcome with the atmosphere to fight and argue as they usually did. Neve sat in the front parlor staring into the fire, an open book on her lap. She didn’t appear to be frightened, just pensive and weary. Her lips were pressed together into a thin line and her eyes were hooded, her gaze unfocused.
The servants had been jittery since Reverend Snow’s departure, unnerved by the unexpected installation of Mark Watson. They floated on silent feet, their gaze averted as they served the evening meal and laid the fires. Frances suspected that Neve knew exactly what they were thinking. A person didn’t need to be guilty to be judged so, and in their eyes, she had already been condemned, and so had Frances by association. She suspected that the servants already questioned her relationship to the Everlys. Hugo presented Frances as his ward, but the people in the village and on the estate were well aware that no ward had existed before Hugo’s mysterious disappearance a few years ago. There was talk of witchcraft then, Neve being the one suspected of spiriting Lord Everly away with the help of Satan.
Frances knew of Neve’s ordeal in Newgate Prison after Lord Everly’s sister Jane had accused her of witchcraft and paid some thugs to arrest her without a warrant, deliver her to the prison, and leave her there without any hope of a trial. And then Lord Everly had returned from France, the place most Englishmen thought was right next to Hell itself, being the den of iniquity and lewdness. She’d heard the whispers in the kitchen when Polly thought no one was listening. Polly thought that Frances was Lord Everly’s mistress, a cast-off lover who’d been married off to Archie for the sake of convenience. If only Archie knew, Frances thought. If anything befell Neve, Frances would be next in line. Oh, how she wished Archie was back. He’d taken her from the convent and within a space of a few hours went from being a threat to becoming her champion and protector, the one person in the world who would do anything for her. Lord and Lady Everly had taken care of her and loved her as a daughter, but Archie was her husband, the man sworn to protect her, the man she trusted with every fiber of her being. The servants were suspicious of him as well, despite the fact that he’d grown up near Cranley and had been one of them his whole life. The only one who remained unaffected by all the speculation was Ruby.
Frances called for Ruby as soon as she returned to her bedchamber under the pretense of needing her help, but what she wanted was to talk to Ruby privately. Archie had taught Frances to be vigilant, and to always be acutely aware of everything that went on around her. He taught her to notice signs of danger and discontent in those close to her, especially servants. He’d also taught her how to fight during the years they’d spent in Rouen. Frances knew how to use a dagger. She’d protested when Archie first suggested teaching her, but now she was glad. She wasn’t planning on stabbing anyone, but it was good to know that she wasn’t completely helpless, not like she’d been before when Lionel beat her and raped her, and she thought she’d had no recourse. Perhaps if she’d been the woman she was now, she simply would have killed him in his sleep and saved herself, but forewarned was forearmed, and she would never allow anyone to abuse her again.
Frances turned when Ruby entered the room and smiled at the girl to put her at ease. She always looked a little unsure of herself, but tonight she was noticeably jumpy, her eyes darting around nervously. “Ye called for me, Mistress Hicks?”
“I just wanted to talk to you,” Frances explained, gesturing Ruby to a chair. Ruby perched on the end, her back rigid. She wasn’t accustomed to bei
ng treated like a guest despite Frances’s attempts to befriend her. She was a waif of a girl, just about Jem’s age, and treated unfairly by the other servants who assigned her the lowliest tasks and left her out of their gossip due to her age. But Ruby was no fool, Frances knew that, and she picked up on everything that went on in the house. Sometimes being invisible was an asset.
“Ruby, what do you know of Mark Watson?” Frances asked without preamble. Ruby had lived in Cranley all her life, as had Mark Watson, so she was bound to know something of the man, even if only by reputation. The man scared Frances, and she hoped that Ruby would allay her suspicions by telling her that he was a good man.
Ruby shrugged and looked away for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “He’s a rough man, Mistress Hicks. He’s docile enough when sober, but ‘e has a black temper when drunk, and gets violent. He keeps company with the blacksmith,” she added, shuddering. Frances had heard stories of the blacksmith’s legendary temper. He wasn’t a man to be trifled with, and his brute strength, acquired through years of hard work made him dangerous when provoked.
“And does Master Watson have a wife?” Frances asked. She couldn’t recall if he were married from seeing him on occasion at church.
Ruby blushed to the roots of her hair, and her lip began to tremble.
“What is it, Ruby?” Frances asked gently. Has he done something to hurt you?”
Ruby shook her head stubbornly. “No’ me.”
“Who then?”
“Mark Watson had a wife, but she died years ago. He tried courtin’ me mam after da died. Mam were still grievin’, but said she needed a man about the place, ‘specially with all us children to take care o’. Master Watson were kind at first; chopped wood, brought buckets o’ water from the well, even played with the younger boys, but then ‘e changed once ‘e thought Mam and ‘e had an understandin’.”
“In what way?”
“He’d get in a temper and curse at Mam and me younger siblings, callin’ ‘em useless vermin. Mam tried to soothe ‘im with sweet words, the way she did with Da, but he‘d get more abusive, ‘is anger fueled by ‘er attempts to calm ‘im. One night I saw ‘im hit Mam in the face after she said somethin’ to displease ‘im. She began to cry, and ‘e called her a stupid cow and stormed off, slammin’ the door. Mam banned ‘im from the house after that, said she didn’t need no brute about the place to lord it over us. We were that glad. He frightened us, and we all knew what would happen should they wed. We’d feel the sting of his belt more often than no’, mistress, and more besides.”
“More?” Frances asked, confused.
“Tessy and me, we saw the way ‘e looked at us. We were just eight and ten then, but ‘e watched us when Mam wasn’t lookin’, ‘is eyes undressing us. A few times ‘e followed me to the privy and pulled the door open, hopin’ to catch me with me skirt around me waist. It wouldn’t ‘ave stopped there.”
“Did you tell your mother?” Frances asked, horrified. She knew only too well what it was like to be a helpless child stalked by a grown man.
“Oh, aye. Mam ‘ad noticed it too, and that were part of the reason she sent ‘im away. He never forgave ‘er, and spread vicious lies about ‘er in the village. But people ‘ave known me Mam since she were a girl, so no one believed ‘im. She’s a virtuous woman, and ‘ad no man about the place since Master Watson.”
“I see,” Frances said thoughtfully. “Thank you, Ruby. Just give him a wide berth for the next few days.”
“I will, that,” Ruby replied. “May I go now?”
“Of course.”
Frances sat on her bed and chewed on her lip. She was afraid to have Mark Watson in the house, especially during the night when she would be alone. She’d seen the way he looked at her, as if she were fair game. His gaze had been insolent and lewd at the same time, and intimidating. He’d never dare look at her if Archie were here, but Archie was in London, and she felt exposed and vulnerable. She’d known as soon as she looked at the man that he had a cruel temper. There was something in his stare that reminded her of Lionel. He’d been mild and charming when they first met, but changed immediately after the wedding, subjecting her to the kind of cruelty her thirteen-year-old self could never have imagined. Now she was older and had more experience of the world, she knew that many violent men hid behind a placid mask that they presented to the world, and according to Ruby, Mark Watson was one of them.
Frances had passed him on her way to the stairs after leaving the parlor. He’d requisitioned a chair, and positioned himself by the door — a constant reminder that they couldn’t leave. No wonder the children were so quiet; they were frightened by his presence.
Frances sprang to her feet, picked up a candle, and made her way downstairs. She shouldn’t leave Neve alone with a man like that, not at a time when Neve was alone and helpless. They’d sleep together tonight, safe in the big bed with the children, and tomorrow maybe Archie would come home.
Frances avoided looking at Mark Watson as she hurried past him toward the parlor and opened the door. Neve was still sitting in the same spot; the book opened to the same page. Jem sat across from her, his eyelids drooping as he stared into the fire. It was upsetting to see Neve so withdrawn, but it was even stranger to see Jem so subdued. The boy who came back wasn’t the boy who left them in Paris. Frances set down her candle and took a seat on a settle, suddenly feeling even more deflated. Until that moment, she hoped that everything would resolve itself, but she suddenly realized with a flash of unexpected clarity that nothing would ever be the same.
April 1689
London, England
Chapter 10
Max watched the last streaks of the peachy sunset fade into the gathering darkness, the first stars beginning to twinkle in the dusky sky. He couldn’t open the window, but a fresh draft seeped in, dispelling the fetid stench of the cell. The guard would bring supper just after sunset, so at least there was that to look forward to. The food was barely edible, but Max was hungry and bored. The hours passed with glacial speed, the day dragging on for what seemed like a week. When he’d been here last, he feared imminent death, so the time seemed to conspire against him and go faster, but now that Max was waiting for Hugo to return, two days felt like a fortnight.
Max left the window and sat down on his cot. He’d purchased a candle after using up the one left by Hugo, but didn’t bother to light it just yet. He needed to conserve his supplies since he’d paid for food and wine. He didn’t need the light anyway. What was there to see save the grimy walls and sooty beams? Max stretched out on the hard bed, folded his arms behind his head, and indulged in a bit of fantasy. He wouldn’t go back to the future until he knew exactly what befell Hugo Everly. He had to admit that he felt a twinge of pity for Hugo, but if Hugo’s arrest resulted in a death sentence, Max had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
The pangs of conscience that had tortured him for the past few years would finally be appeased, as would God. Max had come to realize with an unwavering certainty that everything that had befallen him since coming to the past had been the result of his attempt on Hugo’s life in the twenty-first century. He’d tried to take the life of a man who meant him no harm, an offense against God, and God promptly dispensed justice. Max had paid for his sin by being sent to Barbados, where he nearly died while buried alive, and then attempted to kill Hugo once again in Paris. Max was convinced that the only reason God had allowed him to survive the mortal injury Hugo had inflicted on him in that Parisian mine was so that he could finally understand the error of his ways and find a way to atone.
Two days ago, Max was ready to die in Hugo’s place, and was convinced that sacrificing himself was the only way to appease an angry God, but now that Hugo had rejected his offer, he felt lighter and more hopeful. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to die after all. He’d learned his lesson, tried to make amends, and had given Hugo an opportunity to see his wife and try to disprove the evidence against him. Once Hugo was back, Max would be free, in every sens
e of the word. The slate would be wiped clean, and he would be able to finally start living his life in a way it was intended to be lived. He would make every effort to be a good and kind man. He would help others, give to charity, and offer forgiveness instead of plotting revenge. Perhaps this whole ordeal had been for a reason. He’d learned, and grown as a human being. He was no longer the selfish, self-absorbed man he’d been in the twenty-first century, who longed for power and influence. He’d stop trying to control everything and allow God to show him his purpose.
Life truly was a wonderful journey when one stopped trying to influence the outcome and simply surrendered control. It had a plan of its own, and Max was suddenly sure that his own future was just about to begin. Even if Hugo managed to accomplish what he set out to do, Max would return to the future with a clear conscience. He was suddenly full of plans and ideas. Once the media circus caused by his return began to die down, he could do anything he pleased. He could rekindle his political aspirations, travel, make an effort to find a suitable woman to marry, or do nothing at all and allow destiny to take its course. It had so far. He’d never known the kind of pain and fear he’d experienced since coming to the seventeenth century, but he’d also never felt as alive or as connected to the universe. In some ways, he couldn’t wait to see what was in store for him next.
Max stared at the dark ceiling as he crossed his feet at the ankles. Strange that had he not overheard the conversation about Hugo’s arrest, he might have already been back in the twenty-first century. Instead, here he was, at the Tower of London, once again playing a vital role in the life of his hero/nemesis. It was a shame really that he couldn’t tell anyone about what happened to him since opening the passage in the crypt, for surely they’d cart him away to some out-of-the-way institution and throw away the key. Perhaps once he got back, he could share his stories with Simon, since he now knew about the passage anyway and had visited the Everlys only a few months ago. Max was deeply saddened by the news of his mother’s death, but there was a part of him that felt a twinge of relief. His mother had loved him, and wanted the world for him, but she had also been demanding, demeaning, and at times cruel and indifferent to his feelings. She had done her best for him, but Lady Naomi Everly hadn’t been possessed of an emotional nature. She was a woman who still believed in honor and duty at the expense of one’s own desires, and had viewed his illness as a stain on the family name rather than a condition which made him vulnerable and unbalanced.
Comes The Dawn (The Wonderland Series: Book 5) Page 5