“You must remarry, Petra, and soon,” Maude said to her daughter, bringing angry spots to Petra’s pale cheeks.
“Yes, so you keep telling me, Mother,” Petra retorted. “I am well aware of our situation.”
“Don’t think I don’t feel for you,” Maude said, reaching out to cover Petra’s hand with her own. “I know what it’s like to be a woman, my girl. You’re not the first to make sacrifices to feed your family and protect your children.”
“Haven’t I sacrificed enough?” Petra cried, but she knew what her mother was thinking even though she didn’t say it. There was no point; it’d been said often enough. She’d made her bed. She’d lain with a man who wasn’t her husband, got with child, and had to marry the first person who asked, desperate to avoid disgrace and possible banishment. She had no one to blame but herself. She couldn’t even blame the father of her child, since he was a man, and it was practically his responsibility to try to seduce a beautiful young girl, according to her mother. If only Maude knew the truth. Petra had never revealed Edwin’s father’s name. She had to protect him, and she had to protect herself. She hadn’t uttered his name since the day they said goodbye, walking along the beach, seagulls screaming above their heads and the bitter wind drying Petra’s tears.
Her lover was being sent away to a place she couldn’t follow. If he defied his father, he would be cast out, and unable to provide for a wife and child without a useful trade to rely on. He had to go, and she had to remain behind and find a way to survive. Petra had never laid eyes on him again, but he still lived in her heart, the handsome boy with soulful dark eyes whose slow smile pierced her heart and made her reckless. She’d known the risks, but somehow, when looking into his face, they seemed minor compared to not enjoying those moments with him and not knowing what it was like to lie with a man you loved rather than some suitor-turned-husband who was a stranger in every way.
Petra sighed, feeling like an old woman despite the fact that she was barely twenty-seven. She wasn’t old yet, but the flush of youth was long gone. At twenty-seven, she was considered middle-aged, a woman who was no longer expected to bear children for a new husband. Her main purpose would be to look after his comforts and act the parent to the children he already had, especially if they were still young and needed mothering. At this stage, marrying her would be a practical decision for a man, not an emotional one, and for her, marrying again and giving up her hard-won freedom would be a fate worse than death. Would life never give her a break? “I’ll sell Cyril’s tools,” she said.
Maude scoffed. “And how long will the money last? Winter is almost upon us. We’ll need extra wood, and Elia’s shoes are worn through. I’ve darned Edwin’s hose more times that I can count, and he’s outgrown his jerkin.”
“Edwin can wear Cyril’s clothes. I know he’s much thinner and shorter than Cyril was, but you can take in the garments to make them fit. Leave enough room for him to grow into them. And I will go to the cobbler and see if I can trade Cyril’s boots for shoes for Elia and Ora. They won’t be new, but they’ll last through the winter at the very least,” Petra said. The cobbler was a good man, and would trade Cyril’s worn boots for two pairs of used botes for the girls, Petra was sure of it. Perhaps the laces would need to be replaced, but the leather would still be good, and the botes would come up above the ankle, keeping the girls’ feet dry during the winter months. Maude nodded, pleased by her daughter’s pragmatic thinking. She’d taught her well.
“I’m for my bed,” Petra said, desperate to put an end to the unsettling conversation. It was one of many, and her head ached with tension brought on by constant fretting. They’d never been well-to-do, but she supposed they’d been comfortable enough. They dined on beef or pork at least once a week, and Cyril grudgingly allowed Petra to buy cloth once a year to make a new gown for herself. She even had a cloak trimmed with vair, an extravagance she permitted herself on her twenty-fifth birthday, with Cyril’s blessing, of course.
Her old gowns were recut into clothes for the children, but Petra insisted on buying a length of linen to make new undergarments for the family. After a year’s wear, the shifts and braies were worn through, and the children did grow, making new garments necessary. Cyril was less generous when it came to shoes, decreeing that the children wear their shoes until there were holes in the soles. Cyril inserted bits of leather to cover the holes, therefore squeezing a few more months of wear before finally agreeing to new footwear. Petra hated those little economies, but now she realized that they had been necessary, and were nothing compared to what she’d have to give up if she didn’t find a source of income. There would be no new gown or undergarments this year. Cyril’s much-worn and darned hose would have to find new life with Edwin, at least until the winter was over, and the girls would have to make do with their old shifts. They were too short and threadbare, but would have to last a while longer.
Petra climbed wearily to her loft. She would have to find something for Edwin, and soon. He would need a way to support himself once he came of age, and possibly his sisters as well should anything happen to Petra. The girls were still young, but in a few years’ time, they would be of marriageable age and would need to be dowered. Where would she find the money to make them desirable to a prospective husband? They were comely of face and docile of manner, but that wasn’t enough to secure their future. If Petra hoped to marry the girls off to journeymen, she needed to offer something worth having, something that had value. Everyone was poor, and had no desire to be poorer still. Love was a luxury few could afford. Even the wealthy married to further their family’s goals and forge alliances. Children were nothing more than a commodity to be traded for the best price.
Petra removed her headdress and gown and unbraided her hair before climbing into bed in her shift and hose, shivering from the cold. A bitter draft seeped right through the walls, making her blanket feel woefully inadequate. Petra would have been better off sleeping in her woolen gown, but she couldn’t afford to put extra wear on the garment, so she hugged her knees to her chest and shivered pitifully until she finally fell asleep.
Chapter 7
January 2014
London, England
Gabe tossed his mobile onto the desk and buried his head in his hands. He was shaking, his mind momentarily paralyzed by what he’d just learned. How was it possible for a person’s life to change so drastically in a matter of moments? In his line of work, he dealt with the unraveling of people’s lives on a daily basis, but history was academic, not personal. He knew only too well of settlements that had been burned down to the ground, their entire populations slaughtered, but not before the women were raped, the brutality witnessed by their husbands and children who cried in helpless frustration. He’d read of ships sinking, their crews and passengers swallowed by the sea, and, of course, he was well-versed in the casualties of war. But this was his life, and this time the events were happening to him and to Quinn. Gabe growled with despair, startling his PA, who’d just walked in.
“Dr. Russell, are you quite all right? You look a bit peaky,” Sherry Lee said as she deposited more paper into Gabe’s already-overflowing in-tray.
“Ah, yes. Thank you, Sherry,” Gabe muttered as he jumped up and grabbed his coat. “I just need some air.”
He strode out of the office and ran down the stairs, desperate to get outside. The cold, smoggy air assaulted him as he exited the building, but it was a welcome respite from the stuffy, overheated fug of his office. Gabe began to walk. He was almost running, but he had no idea where he was going. He didn’t want to go home. What he needed was a drink and someone to talk to before he went home to break the news to Quinn. Oh God, Gabe thought miserably. What will Quinn make of all this?
Gabe couldn’t recall exactly when he stopped walking, but he found himself sitting on a bench in Hyde Park. He had no recollection of getting there, or of purchasing a bottle of whisky from the off-license. Gabe unscrewed the cap and took a sip, enjoying the feel of the fi
ery liquid as it slid down his throat. It had just gone 10 a.m., but he didn’t care; he was desperate. What he felt was so convoluted that he couldn’t even begin to put it into words. He was shocked, upset, frightened, and very apprehensive, but he was also excited, curious, and filled with a longing that left him nearly breathless.
Gabe lowered the bottle when he saw a young woman with a small girl walking along the path. The woman looked bemused as the little girl bombarded her with questions, not waiting for an answer before moving on to the next topic. The girl had golden hair that escaped from her pink hat and wide blue eyes. She looked like a character from some children’s book that he couldn’t quite recall. Was it The Secret Garden? No, she reminded him of Alice in Wonderland. Well, he’d just tumbled down the rabbit hole, so it made perfect sense. Gabe lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deeply.
Chapter 8
January 2014
London, England
Quinn looked up from her book on medieval Dunwich when she heard the scrape of the key in the lock, surprised that Gabe was back so early. It was just past noon, and he rarely got home before six. She cast her mind over the contents of the fridge. He’d be hungry. Perhaps she could make him some pasta or a salad. She’d been planning to pick up some chops from the butcher’s down the street, but thought she had a few hours to spend on research before it was time to prepare dinner.
“You’re home early,” she called out. “Would you like…?” The rest of the question died on Quinn’s lips when she noted Gabe’s appearance. He looked strangely pale, despite the biting cold outside, and his gaze wasn’t focused on anything in particular. Quinn went to kiss him, but drew back when she smelled the liquor on his breath.
“Gabe, have you been drinking?”
Gabe enjoyed the occasional pint or a glass of wine, but he wasn’t a serious drinker, not like some who started as soon as the sun was over the yard arm. Gabe was a social drinker who always stopped before he reached his limit. Quinn had seen him tipsy a few times, in his younger days, but never stinking drunk, as he appeared to be at that moment.
“Yes, I have,” Gabe replied as he collapsed into a wing chair. “And I’d like to keep drinking, except that I ran out of whisky.” He pulled an empty bottle out of his pocket and looked at it in confusion, almost as if he expected more whisky to materialize out of thin air. He shrugged in resignation and set the bottle on the floor before leaning against the back of the sofa and closing his eyes against the bright light streaming through the window.
“Gabe, what’s wrong? Is it your parents?” Quinn cried. She couldn’t think of anything else that would send Gabe into such a tailspin. His parents were elderly. Things happened. Gabe shook his head, but didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to look at her.
“Mum and Dad are well, as far as I know,” he finally replied, slurring his words ever so slightly.
“Did you get sacked?” Quinn tried again. Losing his job would upset Gabe terribly, but she knew of absolutely no reason why that should happen. Gabe was good at what he did, and had the respect of colleagues and students alike.
“Not yet,” Gabe muttered, his mouth curling into a mirthless smile. He finally opened his eyes, but refused to make eye contact, staring off into the distance instead.
“Then what is it? What’s happened?” she pleaded, now really worried. Gabe was the calmest, most rational person she knew. Gabe didn’t drink in the morning or stare into space as if he couldn’t quite remember where he was supposed to be. Quinn couldn’t begin to imagine what might have driven him to this type of a breakdown.
“I’m not sure where to start,” Gabe mumbled.
“At the beginning,” Quinn retorted. “But first, you will have some coffee.” She raced into the kitchen and turned on the espresso machine, making Gabe a double espresso. He accepted the cup gratefully, took a sip, and grimaced with distaste.
“You could have added some sugar,” he complained.
“Never mind the sugar. Talk.”
Gabe finally looked at her, his eyes clouded with emotions she couldn’t decipher. He looked devastated, but at the same time there was a light in his gaze, and a faraway dreamy look that wasn’t completely alcohol-infused.
“You know how the Institute hosts guest speakers every year,” he began.
“Yes.” What did guest speakers have to do with this? Quinn wondered, but remained silent as she waited for him to continue.
“Five years ago, we had an expert on carbon-14 dating give several lectures. She was a lovely woman named Jenna McAllister, from St. Andrew’s. Her lectures were very well received.” Gabe paused, his gaze sliding toward the window where a grayish-white London sky was visible through the sheer curtains.
“Go on.”
“Jenna had recently lost her husband of twenty years. Brain tumor. She was so sad, and so desperate to find something to smile about. I offered to show her around London, since she hadn’t been in nearly a decade and wanted to see the sights.”
“Did you sleep with her?” Quinn asked, finally understanding where this was going.
“She invited me back to her hotel room for a glass of wine, and I just couldn’t say no. I liked her, mind, but she was much older than the women I normally found attractive, but I couldn’t bear to reject her.”
“So, you had pity sex with a woman old enough to be your mother?” Quinn asked. She tried not to sound judgmental, but didn’t do a very good job of disguising the irritation in her voice.
“Hardly old enough to be my mother. She was forty-six.”
Quinn took a deep breath to calm her rising annoyance. Why was he telling her this? He’d had several relationships over the past eight years while she’d been involved with Luke, who’d also been involved in several relationships behind her back. It was all ancient history as far as she was concerned. Quinn never expected Gabe not to have a past, so why this sudden confession? Quinn bolted out of her chair as understanding dawned.
“Oh my God. She’s back in town, and you slept with her!” she cried, rounding on him. “That’s it, isn’t it?” Even as the words left her mouth she was sorry. Gabe would never do such a thing. He was loyal and honest, not a complete wanker like Luke.
Gabe shook his head, his expression one of utter astonishment. Quinn’s accusation had done what the espresso failed to do, and he was now fully alert. “You really think I’d do that?”
“No. I’m sorry, Gabe. I just don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”
“The attorney from Scotland who represents Dr. McAllister called. Jenna and her mother died in a car crash on New Year’s Eve.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Quinn mumbled, stunned by the news. She certainly hadn’t expected that. But why would this woman’s attorney be ringing Gabe?
“Did she leave you something in her will?”
“You could say that,” Gabe muttered. He looked like he was going to be sick.
“Out with it!” Quinn cried, unable to bear the suspense any longer.
“Quinn, Jenna had a four-year-old daughter. She named me as the father and stipulated that the child should live with me should anything happen to her. She had no other family besides her mother. Quinn, I never knew,” Gabe exclaimed. “I never saw her after that weekend. She sent me a holiday card every year, but she never mentioned a child. The lawyer said that she was afraid I might sue her for custody or visitation rights, and with her being in Scotland, she preferred to retain full control. She never had any children with her husband, which was something she regretted bitterly. This child was a gift she never expected.”
Quinn sank back into her chair, the meaning of Gabe’s words finally sinking in. “You have a daughter.”
“Yes, I do. Quinn, I’m so angry with Jenna for keeping the child a secret, and heartbroken that she is dead. And so overwhelmed with the desire to see my baby that I can barely think straight. I’m leaving for Scotland in the morning. I completely understand if you wish to call off our engagement,” he
added miserably.
“You are leaving for Scotland?” Quinn echoed. “No, my darling; we are leaving for Scotland. Do you really think that I would not support you in this and that I would see a child as an impediment to our marriage? Seriously, Gabe!”
Gabe walked over and put his arms around Quinn, burying his face in her neck. “I didn’t dare hope that you’d forgive me. I know it’s a lot to ask, but now that I know, I want to be her father more than anything in the world.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Quinn replied, kissing Gabe’s temple and trying not to breathe in the alcoholic fumes that came off him in waves. “We will go to Scotland and fetch this little girl, and then we will get married and be a proper family. Got it?” she asked with mock severity.
“Yes,” Gabe mumbled into her hair.
“Right. Now, go lie down for a bit; you look like you need it.”
“Won’t you lie down with me?” Gabe asked, smiling sheepishly. He looked so relieved that Quinn instantly regretted her earlier reaction. Poor man, she thought, he must have been really worried about telling me.
“Well, if I must, I must,” Quinn replied with a smile, “but don’t expect me to kiss you. You reek of booze.”
“Sorry,” Gabe mumbled. “I sort of came apart at the seams for a moment there.”
“Pull yourself together. You are about to take on a four-year-old. This was the first meltdown of many, and she might have some as well.”
Gabe took Quinn by the hand and pulled her toward the bedroom, but Quinn stopped, realizing that she had yet to ask a vital question.
“Gabe, what’s her name?”
“Emma,” he said, savoring the name on his tongue.
“Emma. Emma Jane McAllister Russell. It has a nice ring to it.”
The Forgotten (Echoes from the Past Book 2) Page 4