Archie left the dormitory and headed toward Sister Angela’s hut. Her dwelling was closest to the gate, and she lived there alone, preferring to remain close to her potions and on hand should one of the sisters take ill and need looking after. Sister Angela slept in the back room where she kept a spare cot for patients. Archie pushed open the door. The front room looked much as he remembered it when he came to take Frances away after the death of her baby. Dried plants hung upside down from the roof, and a mortar and pestle sat on the wooden table by the window. Several empty stone jars waited to be filled with ointments, and a beaker containing some bitter-smelling solution sat uncorked, the fumes evaporating into the air. The door into the other room was tightly shut, but Archie could smell the putrefaction.
He nudged the door open with his foot and sucked in his breath. Sister Angela lay on a cot by the cold hearth. She was wearing a linen shift, and her hair was uncovered. It was thin and gray, the strands matted on the pillow. Her pale blue eyes were glazed with suffering, her cheeks sunken, giving her the appearance of a living skull. Archie couldn’t see the filth beneath the blanket, but he could smell it from where he stood. The chamber pot was empty.
Julia lay on the second cot, her freckled face white and still. Her bright hair framed her face, making her pallor all the more shocking. Her eyes, so like Archie’s, were open and staring, but no longer seeing. Archie gently closed his sister’s eyes before turning to Angela.
Sister Angela tried to raise her hand, but couldn’t find the strength. Archie poured some water from a pitcher and held the cup to her chapped lips. Angela drank greedily. The water ran down her chin and onto her shift and soaked the fabric, but she didn’t seem to notice. Archie refilled the cup, but Angela shook her head slightly. She’d had her fill. The water would probably go right through her and result in another bout of diarrhea.
“Leave this place, Archie,” she whispered hoarsely. “Leave now before you take ill. Everyone is gone.”
“I can’t leave you like this,” Archie protested.
“I’m already dead. Please, save yourself. Don’t touch anyone or you’ll expose yourself to infection.”
“What happened? Who brought this pestilence to you?” Archie asked. It didn’t really matter, but he felt the need to ask.
The old nun barely had energy enough to keep her eyes open, but she gathered what strength she had and began to speak. “A new nun came to us two weeks ago. A young girl named Agnes. Reverend Engel brought her on his visit. Agnes said she was feeling poorly, but Mother Superior thought it was just nerves, and dismissed her complaint. The girl fell ill the next day. Bloody flux. The pestilence spread quickly, more so because we couldn’t isolate the sick. Someone had to care for them, so everyone was exposed. We managed to bury the first few victims, but then there was no one left to dig the graves. We said a prayer and left them where they were. Julia and I were the last to fall ill.”
“When did Julia…?” Archie asked, his voice breaking on his sister’s name.
“She breathed her last yesterday. She’s at peace, Archie. Let her go.”
Archie highly doubted that his poor sister would ever be at peace after what she suffered during her short life, but it was futile to argue with a woman who likely wouldn’t last the night.
“How’s Frances?” Sister Angela croaked. “Is she well?”
“Yes, she’s well. We’re married now.”
Sister Angela nodded. “I always knew you two would find your way to each other.”
“Please, let me help you, Angela. I can’t just leave you here to die alone.”
“Go away, Archie. Touch nothing, not even the animals. There’s no telling what carries the infection. I have no fear of death. The good Lord will welcome me into his embrace whether I lie in earth or on this cot.”
Archie nodded, acknowledging the truth of Sister Angela’s words. There was nothing he could do, and handling the corpses would only expose him to infection, and Frances as well. He had to go against his instinct and leave the sisters as he found them.
Sister Angela gave a feeble wave, ordering Archie to leave. He took one last look at his sister’s face. She did look peaceful. A small smile was on her bluish lips, as if she were happy to go at last, her trial on Earth finally over. He wished he could bury her at least, but Angela gave him a stern look.
“Look after Frances,” she croaked, making him feel guilty for wanting to take the risk.
“God be with you, Sister,” Archie said as he left the hut. He considered finding some laudanum and leaving it by Sister Angela in case she changed her mind, but he knew she’d never take her own life. She’d lie there quietly and wait for death to come and claim her, serene in the knowledge that she would soon meet her beloved Lord and be free of earthly suffering. She was weak and hollow-eyed, but Archie saw no fear in her gaze, only acceptance.
Archie considered opening the barn and letting the animals out. Perhaps they were afflicted, or perhaps this sickness didn’t strike beasts, but after one look inside the barn, he changed his mind. There were three cows, two horses, and several goats. The animals hadn’t been fed in at least a week and were too weak to move. Only two of the goats looked like they still might be saved since they managed to eat some hay through the slats of their enclosure. Archie herded them through the narrow wooden door and set them free in the woods. At least they wouldn’t starve. He then closed the door to the convent, making sure the latch slid into place on the inside. He couldn’t bury the sisters, but the least he could do was make sure that the animals wouldn’t get into the compound and gnaw on the bones of the dead. He said a silent prayer for them all before removing his gloves and kerchief and washing his hands thoroughly with morning dew. He rubbed his hands with new leaves until they were raw and cleaned the gloves on the grass before putting them away. Only then did he go to wake Frances.
Archie tucked the cloak more securely about Frances and sat up, still unable to get to sleep. He knew he’d done the right thing under the circumstances, especially now that he knew Frances was with child, but his heart still ached. Julia would have wanted to be buried next to her children; instead, her body was left to slowly decompose in Angela’s hut. He couldn’t save her from death, but he could have saved her from that. He should have buried Julia, or at the very least made a funeral pyre and burned her body. It would have been more respectful than just leaving her there to rot. But, it was too late to do anything, and he would have to live with his guilt for the rest of his life.
Archie poked life back into the fire and stared into the flames. Now there was another problem to consider. If Reverend Engel had become infected with the bloody flux and brought it back to his parish, it was quite possible that there was a raging epidemic sweeping through the nearby villages, but there was no way to get news. Buying food from farmers might be dangerous, which meant that Archie had to either hunt or fish to keep them from starving over the next few days. There was no fish in the stream where they’d bathed, and Archie didn’t have anything to hunt with. He’d caught the rabbit quite by chance since the poor creature had broken its paw when it fell into a ditch and couldn’t run away. Archie could build a trap easily enough, but that would mean that they had to remain in the vicinity until something was caught, which was out of the question. They had to move on. The sooner they got to London, the sooner they’d be safe.
June 2015
Surrey, England
Chapter 49
I slung a basket over my arm and grabbed a pair of secateurs from the shed as I made my way to the museum gardens. Mr. Shilling, the elderly gentleman from the village who tended the gardens had taken a few days off due to a badly sprained ankle, so I volunteered to help out since I had time on my hands. The day was as perfect as only a June day could be, and after three days of miserable drizzle, I was glad to be outside. The sky overhead was a sea of blue, the sun shining brightly and quickly burning off the dew sparkling on the lush grass and delicate leaves. It was just past eight in
the morning, but already the air was warm and likely to get much warmer by the afternoon. The smell of roses was intoxicating as I stopped for a moment to admire the colorful bushes and take a deep breath, enjoying the wonderful aroma.
Hugo had been struck by inspiration sometime during the past week and decided to take the children fishing at a nearby stream. He’d found several fishing poles, two of them just right for youngsters, and had spent hours digging for worms with the children in the muddy garden the day before. They’d gone off right after breakfast, armed with their gear, a can of worms, and a basket of goodies prepared by Mrs. Harding. Simon had gone off to London on some mysterious errand, and Stella was busy baking scones in the kitchen, to be ready in time for the opening of the tearoom at ten. She baked several batches every morning, especially if there was a large tour group scheduled to come through. Misty, a young woman who made numerous urns of coffee and tea in the tearoom, was on hand to help, baking her “secret recipe” currant buns alongside Stella Harding. The two women had been up to their eyeballs in flour, so I left them to it. Deadheading some rose bushes in the gardens would keep me occupied for at least an hour, and get me out of the house where I always seemed to be under the watchful eye of Mrs. Harding.
I couldn’t really tell the difference, but Simon insisted that his mother was much happier since Hugo and I returned from the past. I never felt any undue warmth from the woman since on some level she probably blamed me for Max’s death, but she did seem to make it her life’s mission to look after us well. The only time I actually saw an unguarded smile was when she was with the children, Michael in particular. She seemed to have a real soft spot for him, perhaps because Michael reminded her of Simon at that age. Or maybe because she sensed his vulnerability.
Valentine was naturally more independent and opinionated. Michael, on the other hand, was quick to cry and run for the safety of our arms. There were times when I caught him glancing around, a look of confusion on his little face as if he were looking for someone. Perhaps I was reading too much into it, but I’d read something about twins a long time ago. The bond that formed inside the womb was never broken, even by death, and I suspected that perhaps Michael was looking for Elena. They had been very close before Elena’s death, and Michael, although too young to really understand, instinctively missed his twin sister.
There had been an incident in London when Michael spotted a dark, curly-haired girl of about his age walking with her mother. He tore his hand out of mine and went running toward the girl, screaming “Lena, Lena.” It nearly broke my heart. Hugo was sure that Michael would get over it in time, especially once he had more children his own age to play with, but I wasn’t so sure. I knew that I would never get over the loss of my baby, no matter how many years went by, so it was possible that Michael would feel the loss of Elena for the rest of his life as well.
It didn’t take me long to deadhead the roses and pull some weeds from the flower beds. The grass could wait a few days before cutting, by which time Mr. Shilling would be back to work. I took out my secateurs and cut a dozen primroses. They’d always been my favorite, partly because of their sunny color, and partly because of the heady scent. The fishing party had not yet returned with their catch, so I wasn’t immediately needed back. I walked through the gates and made my way down the ridge toward the church. I hadn’t been back to St. Nicolas church since the night we returned, and my heart thumped painfully as I approached the wall, reminded of that day.
To anyone who looked at the two lichen-covered graves in the churchyard, the occupants would mean nothing having died hundreds of years ago, but to me, they’d died only months ago, and the pain was still raw. I involuntarily glanced toward what once was a crossroads outside of Cranley. Max had been buried there, but there was no sign of either the road or the marker. Were his remains still beneath the ground or had they been moved or desecrated when they built the new road? Perhaps not, since the road would have been paved over rather than dug up. I had to admit that I was surprised that a marker had been erected in the church cemetery. Perhaps it was proven in time that Max hadn’t committed suicide as was initially assumed, but had actually been murdered in the Tower of London. We would never know, and perhaps it was for the best. Hugo would feel even guiltier if he had to live with the knowledge that Max’s murder went unsolved and unpunished.
There was a little mystery that Hugo had managed to clear up. Ever since meeting Max in the twenty-first century, Hugo had wondered why the family name remained Everly if Clarence Hiddleston had indeed inherited the title. It had taken him nearly two weeks of searching through dusty boxes in the attic, but he did find an old family bible from the 1700s which had been started by Clarence once he took possession of Everly Manor. Clarence married in 1691, and the marriage was recorded in the Bible as having taken place between Clarence (Hiddleston) Everly and Marjory Cartwright. Clarence and Marjory went on to have five children, three of them boys, whose names were recorded as Thomas, Edward, and John Everly, completely eliminating Clarence’s surname.
“What do you think that means?” I asked Hugo as I looked at the fragile Bible over his shoulder. There were several generations of Everlys listed, but the name Hiddleston never cropped up again.
Hugo shrugged. “I suppose we’ll never know, since we can hardly ask Clarence, but I would think that he decided to drop the name of the man who was never really his father and died in such disgraceful circumstances. Sharing a name with an accused traitor would bring him notoriety, which Clarence had probably enjoyed. So, he became Clarence Everly and eventually sold off Ernest Hiddleston’s estate in Kent and moved permanently to Cranley.”
That explanation had a ring of truth to it. Clarence had been a sullen and selfish boy, one who would have enjoyed going from a nameless nobody to being recognized as the nephew of a notorious rebel and spy. It would have been interesting to learn more of his life, but it seemed that Clarence never did anything notable, therefore vanishing from history as a puddle vanishes once the sun comes out.
I passed beneath the low arch and looked around. The graveyard was quiet and still, the stones basking in the mellow sunshine, the grass rippling in the warm breeze. I approached the graves slowly, almost reluctant to see the neglected plots. Max’s stone was taller, with only the name “Lord Hugo Everly” and the dates etched into it. Elena’s grave was smaller, her name almost invisible. It was overgrown and sad. I set down my basket and began to clear away the dead leaves and weeds, and tear off the ivy until the stone was clearly visible. I closed my eyes and ran my fingers over my daughter’s name. “Elena,” I whispered, hoping to feel something of her spirit, but all I felt was a melancholy emptiness. My baby wasn’t there. Not anymore.
I laid five roses on Elena’s grave and five on Max’s. He’d been an enigma, a thorn in my side, a threat, but also a blessing. If not for him, Hugo would be dead, and I would be a widow. Perhaps Max’s sacrifice hadn’t been intentional, but it was a sacrifice nonetheless. It was a life for a life, and he’d inadvertently gifted me the life of my husband.
I said a prayer for Max before walking on through the cemetery. There was one more thing I had to do today — something which I knew would be painful. I walked slowly among the graves, reading the names and dates, the remaining two roses still in my basket. They had to be here somewhere. I found headstones for Anne and Horatio Hicks, Archie’s parents, and one for Reverend Snow and Godfrey Bowden, who had been Hugo’s estate agent. I had stumbled upon a cluster of stones belonging to Clarence’s family and some of his children’s descendants, and wandered among the graves of the Henshalls, who had been numerous, but there were no headstones for Archibald and Frances Hicks. That was perplexing. Unless Archie and Frances left Cranley for good, this would be their resting place, as well as that of their children, if they had any.
Of course, it was completely within the realm of possibility that Archie and Frances had moved on. Archie hated farming and had no desire to take on his father’s farm after h
is death. He might have sold up and moved his family someplace else, possibly even to London. He’d go to a place where there was potential employment since I couldn’t see Clarence taking Archie on, but somewhere deep inside, I didn’t buy that hypothesis and the absence of gravestones left me deeply disturbed. I wasn’t sure why I was so upset; perhaps it was the lack of closure. Finding out when Archie and Frances died would have told me something of their life after we left, and would have allowed me to find out if they ever had children. Not finding any trace of them didn’t necessarily mean anything sinister, but it was worrying, and my gut instinct whispered urgently, telling me that something had befallen them not long after we left.
The peace of the graveyard was suddenly disturbed by the sound of an engine and the voices of men. I looked around to see what the commotion was all about. A construction vehicle had pulled up in front of the gate, and several men exited the church, carrying buckets, a ladder, and various tools. They seemed to be leaving for good. Reverend Lambert came out after them, his round face glistening with perspiration. He seemed upset and retreated back into the church after exchanging a couple of terse words with the workers. The men walked toward the truck, joking and laughing as they loaded up the tools and the ladder. The reverend exited the church shortly after the truck pulled away and walked off without so much as a wave in my direction. I waited for the coast to be clear before entering the church and descending to the crypt. I wasn’t really sure what I hoped to find, but some unseen forced dragged me down those steps.
The crypt smelled of fresh paint and cool stone. The ceiling had been painted white, and the walls had been repaired, fresh mortar drying between the ancient stones and new blocks of stone visible here and there where the original ones had cracked or crumbled. I moved toward the effigy of Bruce the Crusader, and stared at the spot on the wall which normally displayed the six-petalled flower used to open the passage to the past. The stone had been replaced, the flower gone, the passage closed forever. I sank onto a small bench worked into an alcove at the back.
Comes The Dawn (The Wonderland Series: Book 5) Page 26