I never wanted to return to the past, but I would if there was a way to navigate through time and go back to that moment just before Elena got ill. I would give anything to turn back the clock to keep her from coming in contact with Hugo when he returned that night, already carrying the infection. I would quarantine all the children, and then if Elena still got sick would have taken her straight to the future and to the nearest hospital. Or to Doctor David Lomax, who would have prescribed a dose of antibiotics and saved my baby. That’s all it would have taken, just a dose of antibiotics.
I shook my head as if to chase away my awful thoughts. There was no way to go back. There was no way to save Elena; death was final. And then there was the second death, as described in a poem by Thomas Hardy, “The To-Be-Forgotten.” Well, there would be no second death for Elena as long as Hugo and I were alive. She would live in our hearts and never be forgotten. I began to recite the poem in my mind as I made my way down the ridge, amazed that I still remembered the words, but it had struck a chord in me when I’d read it at school. The poem made me realize that although it had never been a conscious decision on my part, I had allowed my parents to die in my mind. There came a point during my teenage years when I stopped thinking about my mother, stopped missing her, and even stopped blaming her. I’d forgotten about my father as well, let go of the man who’d abandoned me when I needed him most. The poem sprang to mind again just after my baby died. No, there would be no second death for Elena.
I heard a small sad sound,
And stood awhile among the tombs around:
"Wherefore, old friends," said I, "are you distrest,
Now, screened from life's unrest?"
—"O not at being here;
But that our future second death is near;
When, with the living, memory of us numbs,
And blank oblivion comes!
"These, our sped ancestry,
Lie here embraced by deeper death than we;
Nor shape nor thought of theirs can you descry
With keenest backward eye.
"They count as quite forgot;
They are as men who have existed not;
Theirs is a loss past loss of fitful breath;
It is the second death.
"We here, as yet, each day
Are blest with dear recall; as yet, can say
We hold in some soul loved continuance
Of shape and voice and glance.
"But what has been will be —
First memory, then oblivion's swallowing sea;
Like men foregone, shall we merge into those
Whose story no one knows.
"For which of us could hope
To show in life that world-awakening scope
Granted the few whose memory none lets die,
But all men magnify?
"We were but Fortune's sport;
Things true, things lovely, things of good report
We neither shunned nor sought ... We see our bourne,
And seeing it we mourn."
I approached the grave, removed the wilted flowers and replaced them with fresh ones, glad to see that the grave was tidy. I crouched by the stone so that Elena’s name was at eye level, and spoke to her the way I did every day. I’d never know if she heard me, but I hoped that on some spiritual level she knew she was loved and missed. I wished that I had a picture of her, even a sketch, just something I could look at to help me recall the tiniest details of her features. No matter how hard I tried to keep her in my heart the memories were becoming fuzzy, her sweet face fading just a little more with every passing day.
Having finished my one-way conversation, I finally got to my feet, but felt reluctant to leave. The graveyard was so peaceful, especially on this warm June morning. The birds sang, bees buzzed from flower to flower, and a gentle breeze moved through the leaves overhead and made ripples in the grass. I walked over to a bench and sat down, enjoying the profound silence. There were times when silence was ominous, but this silence was rejuvenating somehow. It was almost as if I could hear a voice on the wind telling me that everything would be well, everything would fall into place. A few more weeks and it would be as if we’d lived here always, just another couple raising their children in a sleepy English village, making plans and dreaming of the future.
I would remember the happy times, of course, but I would finally be able to let the nightmares recede into my subconscious. I would be able to file the snapshots of my seventeenth-century life into the album of my mind, not to be taken out again for fear of stirring up the past. There were so many things I wished to forget: my incarceration in Newgate; Hugo, barely holding on to consciousness after the shooting in Paris; Frances, white as a sheet as the lifeblood flowed out of her after her abortion; saying goodbye to Jem, saying goodbye to my baby, saying goodbye to Archie and Frances; and finally, standing over Max’s lifeless body, unable to call him by his real name or give him a proper burial. So much tragedy in such a short time.
Things would be different now. There would be no fear of arrest and execution, no accusations of witchcraft, no more goodbyes. Hugo and I would be just an ordinary couple. The thought made me smile. Would we ever be ordinary? Could I ever really be the person I used to be? “Yummy Mummy.” That’s what Simon had called me in jest. I suppose the silly term was better than “traitor’s lady”, “witch”, or “whore.” I’d heard those often enough in the past four years.
I sighed and rose to my feet. It was time to return to my new life. By the time I got back to the house, the children would be up, demanding breakfast, running downstairs barefoot to watch their favorite show, and basically turning the house on its ear. After breakfast, Hugo would devote an hour to his online computer course, and then we would leave the children with Stella and go out for a drive, switching off as soon as we reached a deserted stretch of road. Hugo’s driving set my teeth on edge, but I guess that could be said about anyone teaching someone to drive. He kept comparing cars to horses, which made me want to strangle him. He was growing more confident though, and in a week or two, I’d take him onto the motorway and let him cruise for a few miles as a reward for all his hard work.
I actually loved seeing him behind the wheel. When Hugo and I visited the future several years ago, Hugo had no desire to learn to drive or hone his computer skills since, deep down, he always knew he would be going back to his real life. Now this was his real life, and his desire to learn everything a man of this age would know was a kind of reassurance that he had no regrets, which was a blessing really since the passage was now really and truly closed, the choice taken out of our hands forever.
I was so lost in my thoughts that it took a moment for me to realize that something in the atmosphere had changed. I hadn’t seen anyone enter the churchyard, nor had I heard anything other than the sounds of nature, but I was suddenly aware with unwavering certainty that someone was watching me. I looked around, seeing nothing but gravestones, their occupants slumbering peacefully in the morning sunshine. Then I heard something like an intake of breath coming from the church porch. My head swung around like a pendulum, my heart suddenly racing with fear. I don’t know why I was afraid, but I suppose it was just the surprise of realizing that I wasn’t on my own as I had imagined. I set my basket on the bench, my eyes trained on the church porch. I thought I saw a flash of something, but it was no longer there. All was still and quiet, but I was sure that I wasn’t alone.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” I called out as I approached the church cautiously. I should have run the other way, but something compelled me to find out who’d been watching me. My heart nearly stopped when I saw a figure step forward, an apparition in a filthy blue gown with a dirty face and limp curls. It gave a cry of anguish and hurled itself into my arms, the dirty urchin transformed into Frances. She smelled of stale sweat, fear, and blood.
“Is it really you?” Frances sobbed. “Have I really found you?”
I wrapped her in my arms, and we stood cli
nging to each other for what seemed like an eternity. My heart was thumping with joy and apprehension at the same time. How did she come to be here? The stone with the six-petalled flower had been replaced, the wall reinforced. How was this possible? And what had happened to make her come? Where was Archie? Whose blood was on Frances’s gown and hands? She didn’t appear to be hurt, just shocked, but something was very wrong. Frances was too overcome to say anything just yet. She was shivering, her body small and slight against me. Frances had always been petite, but she’d lost weight since I’d seen her last. She was gaunt, but I could feel the slight swell of her belly against my own.
“Oh, Franny,” I breathed, my vision blurred by tears. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“I need help,” Frances finally whispered. “Please, help me.”
“Of course, I’ll help you. Where is Archie?” I looked around, but no one else came out of the church.
“Neve, he’s hurt. He’s dying. I left him in the crypt.” Frances was crying hard now, her body shaking with sobs. She’d held it together until she saw me, but now she seemed to be coming apart at the seams, the shock of whatever happened finally catching up with her.
“Frances, focus,” I commanded as I took her by the shoulders. “Think of Archie.” She nodded in understanding as she squared her shoulders against what was to come and gathered her last reserves of strength.
The two of us dashed back inside the church and down the steps to the crypt. It was dim, the only light coming from above, but I could see Archie lying on the floor, his face like marble. He was completely still, not even the rise and fall of his chest visible beneath the blood-soaked fabric of his shirt. Blood was smeared all over the stone floor, and Archie’s hands were red from holding his hands to his wound in a futile effort to staunch the bleeding.
“I dragged him through the passage,” Frances said, and I noticed the bloodstains on her gown for the first time. “They would come for him if I didn’t.”
My mind was teeming with questions, but answers would have to wait. Archie needed immediate help, and the only person who would know how to deal with this was Hugo.
“I’ll be right back,” I promised. “Stay with him.” I raced back up the steps and exploded into the church where I could get cellular reception. Thank God I’d stuffed my mobile into my pocket before leaving the house.
“Pick up, pick up,” I begged as Hugo’s line rang. He was asleep when I left, but his mobile was on the nightstand next to the bed.
“Neve?” Hugo’s sleepy voice answered. “Are you all right?”
“It works,” I yelled, sounded demented. “It still works. Hugo, come to the church. NOW!!!! It’s urgent.” I didn’t bother to explain, but I heard an intake of breath, an expletive, and then confirmation that Hugo was on his way. I had no idea what he inferred from my garbled speech, but he understood the urgency I was feeling. He heard it in my voice.
Hugo appeared ten minutes later, dressed in jogging pants, a T-shirt, and trainers on bare feet. His hair was disheveled and his face shadowed by stubble, but he was fully awake and ready for whatever needed to be done. He gave me a quick once-over to make sure I was all right. I was vibrating with anxiety, my hands clasped in front of me as if I were praying. I could barely get the words out, but Hugo followed my gaze and jogged down the steps to the crypt with me on his heels. I heard a gasp of shock as he was confronted by the horrible sight. Frances was weeping softly as she sat on the floor next to Archie. She was holding his hand, which was limp and white — the hand of a dead man. She stared up at Hugo, no doubt shocked by his sudden appearance, then sprang to her feet and ran into his embrace, burying her face in his chest.
“Dear God,” Hugo breathed as he took in Archie’s condition.
“Archie is dying,” Frances cried, her eyes full of hope and desperation at the same time. “Do something. Please!!!!”
Hugo knelt next to Archie and pulled up his shirt. Parts of the fabric were stuck to the skin with dried blood, but Hugo could get an idea of where Archie had been wounded. Archie’s chest and stomach were a striking white, the curly red hair on his chest a stark contrast to the alabaster skin. I stared at his chest, willing it to rise and fall, but saw nothing. Hugo placed two fingers on Archie’s neck. He obviously heard a pulse because he looked up at me, eyes hopeful.
“Neve, call Doctor Lomax’s surgery immediately. Ask him to come to the church. And take Frances up to the house. It’ll be difficult enough to explain Archie without having to explain a seventeenth-century maiden covered in blood. I will stay with Archie until the doctor arrives.”
Frances opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. I could see a look of relief on her face; she was no longer alone. By taking charge, Hugo lifted the enormous burden off her tiny shoulders. Later, we would find out what happened, but for now, we had things to do. I pulled Frances along as she gaped at a passing car.
“What…?” she mouthed.
“Later.”
Frances could barely walk up the ridge. She was exhausted and confused. The new house standing proudly on the ridge and overshadowing the old manor house in which we’d lived in the past left her speechless, but she was too eviscerated by fatigue and worry to ask any more questions. Mrs. Harding didn’t bat an eyelash as I pushed Frances through the door and toward the stairs. “Shall I put the kettle on?” was all she asked as she peered at us from the kitchen doorway. The woman was a gem.
“Yes!” came my instant reply.
I sat Frances by the unlit hearth and went into the master bathroom. I hit the light switch and turned on the taps to fill the bath. The bathroom began to fill with fragrant steam as I poured some bath oil into the water and went to fetch Frances. She stepped through the doorway and squinted at the bright light, unused to its intensity.
“Come, love. A hot bath will do wonders.”
Frances just stared at the water gushing from the tap. “It comes out hot?” she asked as she reached out a tentative hand and felt the water. “Oh,” was all she said. She looked near collapse, so I turned her around and began to undo the laces at the back of her gown. They were all tangled and I couldn’t undo the knots, so I pulled out a pair of small scissors and just cut them in my impatience. Frances stood still as I took off the gown and pulled the shift over her head before rolling down her torn and dirty stockings. Her shoes looked almost completely worn through.
“Come,” I said gently as I helped her into the tub. Frances cautiously sank into the hot water and let out a sigh of pleasure. She leaned back and closed her eyes, too worn out to do anything. I lathered a washcloth and began to wash her as I did the children when I gave them a bath. Frances barely moved. I longed to ask her what happened but now wasn’t the time. She was too exhausted and distraught. Frances obediently bent her head as I used the detachable shower to rinse off her hair. She stepped out of the tub and just stood there like a child waiting to be dried off, her eyes huge in her face. I toweled her dry and helped her into my softest dressing gown.
“When was the last time you’ve eaten?” I asked as I took a hairbrush and began to brush her hair.
“Yesterday morning,” she mumbled, the steady rhythm of the brush making her drowsy.
“I’ll have Mrs. Harding bring up a tray, and then it’s off to bed with you. You need to rest.”
“I must go to Archie,” she protested, but I could see that she was barely functioning. Her speech was slurred, and her hands shook.
“Archie is in good hands with Hugo. He will see to everything.” I hoped that were true, but I needed to keep Frances calm. She seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown. God only knew what they’d been through since we left.
Stella was ahead of me, as usual, and appeared only a moment later with a pot of tea and a plate of ham sandwiches; a smart choice, since introducing Frances to new foods at this moment wouldn’t bode well. Frances inhaled two sandwiches and drank a cup of tea before finally succumbing to exhaustion. I tucked her into our bed
before going to check on the children, who were already up and jumping up and down on their beds.
“Come, time for breakfast,” Mrs. Harding said brusquely, instantly putting a damper on the festivities. “Let’s brush your teeth, get dressed, make the beds, and go downstairs.” She scooped Michael up while he was in midair and carried him toward the bathroom.
“Go,” Mrs. Harding said to me, not unkindly. “I’ll see to the children, and your guest. I think she’ll be out for a long while.”
“We have a guest?” Valentine instantly asked, picking up on the one thing that interested her. “Is it someone I like? Can I have Lucy over to play? I met her at the playground with her papa. He’s gruff,” she added.
“Ah, perhaps another day,” I answered vaguely. I wasn’t ready to tell her about Frances since Valentine would demand to see her immediately. Frances needed to be left alone for a while, and Mrs. Harding would see to that. She was amazing with the children, able to make them behave with just a stern look.
“Thank you,” I mouthed to Mrs. Harding. “Be good,” I said to the children. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Can we go back to the playground?” Valentine wailed.
“I’ll take you after breakfast,” I heard Mrs. Harding saying as I left the nursery.
I raced down the stairs, grabbed my handbag and car keys and ran outside. Hugo might need my help in dealing with Doctor Lomax. The two men had not come face to face since our return, and the doctor, who’d been Max’s physician since his birth might be suspicious when faced with this new version of Lord Everly. If anyone could spot that Hugo wasn’t Max, it’d be Doctor Lomax.
Chapter 54
Hugo met Doctor Lomax, who arrived on the scene in record time, outside the church. The two men sized each other up, shook hands, and proceeded into the church where Reverend Lambert was just coming out of the vestry, humming a hymn. Hugo led the doctor down to the crypt without offering any explanation. Reverend Lambert followed the two men down the stairs, babbling anxiously.
Comes The Dawn (The Wonderland Series: Book 5) Page 29