“Is Beth unwell?” Hugo asked, referring to Bradford’s wife who was conspicuously absent from the table.
“She’s started her confinement,” Bradford answered with a frown. “I’m not allowed anywhere near her bedchamber until well after the babe is born. Praise God, may all go well,” he muttered as he poured the wine. “She won’t admit it, but she’s very frightened. Both her mother and sister died in childbirth, so Beth secretly thinks she might be next. I keep telling her that all will be well, but it’s in God’s hands. Spending a month in complete isolation can only make her more fearful. The midwife came yesterday and gave me my orders. Beth is to be on bed rest until the birth, with the curtains drawn to keep out evil spirits, candles lit from morning till night, and no emotional upheaval of any kind. Only Beth’s servant and the midwife are allowed to enter. I can’t even imagine how Beth will cope,” Bradford said, rolling his eyes.
Both Hugo and Brad had known Beth since she was a child, and she was never known to sit still for longer than a few minutes. She was a spritely presence, always on the go, whether it was to help the aged and infirm in the village, visit the new mothers, or cut up fruit to make preserves in the kitchen. The thought of her being locked in a dark room for a month at the very least was hard to imagine.
“Beth is strong; she will get through it, Brad,” Hugo said, knowing that his words were hollow. Women died in childbirth every day, and no amount of faith or hope could keep them alive. Brad would be devastated if he lost his Beth. He’d loved her since they were children; she was his reason for living and breathing –- his better half, but he needed an heir and there was no other way to provide one.
“To an easy birth and a healthy baby,” Hugo said, raising his glass in a toast.
“Please God,” Bradford breathed and drained his glass.
After that they changed the subject by unspoken consent. What more was there to say? What happened to women behind closed doors was a mystery which neither of them cared to explore; that’s what midwives were for. All they could hope for was a favorable outcome and a male child to carry on the family name.
“Brad, I’m in something of a quandary,” Hugo said as he helped himself to some roast beef. He was hungry, but he couldn’t eat until he discussed the situation with Brad. Brad tore off a chunk of bread and mopped up some gravy before popping it in his mouth and chewing slowly. “Is it a woman?” he asked with a grin, leaning in to hear the tantalizing details.
Hugo chuckled at Brad’s eagerness. A romantic dalliance would be the least of his problems, but for all intents and purposes, his problem was a woman.
“As a matter of fact, it is. I nearly killed a woman today.”
“You did what? Why?” Brad exclaimed, his food forgotten.
“It was an accident. She was walking down the lane, and I didn’t notice her until I was almost upon her. I didn’t expect her to be there any more than she expected me to come charging at breakneck speed. She’s had a nasty fall, but she will recover.”
“So, what’s the quandary?” Brad asked as he resumed eating. “Is she comely? Married? Has dedicated her life and virtue to God?”
“What do you know of Nell Ashley, the niece of Anthony Ashley Cooper?” Hugo asked, finally taking a bite of his own meal. Now that he was talking to Brad, he felt better. They would sort it all out; they always did. Beneath Brad’s cavalier attitude toward life and love was a keen mind that always got to the crux of the problem in record time.
“Not a great deal. I believe she died in the Great Plague of London, around 1665. She was seventeen or eighteen at the time. Her mother and younger sister died as well, but I might be mistaken. Why do you ask?” Brad looked intrigued as he took a sip of wine and continued to watch Hugo. This promised to be interesting.
“The woman I nearly ran down introduced herself as Mistress Ashley. She led me to believe that she’s the earl’s niece,” Hugo supplied.
“Did you ask her if she was his niece or did she tell you?”
“I asked her, but she didn’t deny it. She said he was her uncle. What do you make of that? Why would she lie?” Hugo took a deep swallow of wine to calm his nerves. He knew in his bones that something wasn’t right, but was it what he thought?
“Hugo, are you suggesting that Monmouth sent this woman to spy on you? To test your loyalty? We both know how mistrustful he can be, especially since his last attempt failed miserably, but why would he send some strange girl? Is she his mistress, do you think? A whore? What?”
“She’s not a whore. She’s cultured, well-spoken, and modestly attired,” Hugo replied, sounding ridiculous even to himself. There were plenty of expensive whores who were all those things.
“Is she beautiful?” Brad asked as he reached for another helping of beef.
“Yes, but not as young as you might expect. Mid-twenties at the very least.”
“Hmm, why don’t you just bed her and make her reveal all her secrets?”
“Bradford, be serious. You know what’s at stake. If Monmouth learns the truth, I’m as good as dead. He’ll run a sword through my heart first and ask questions later. I must walk a very delicate line to maintain his trust and still be loyal to our cause. We have much to gain if we succeed, and everything to lose if we fail.”
“Hugo, I wish you hadn’t involved yourself in this. You know what can happen. I hope you’ve made a last will and testament should anything befall you. At least make sure Clarence is provided for or that sniveling cousin of yours will get the lot.”
“Clarence will inherit the lands and the title, assuming they won’t be stripped if I get discovered. In the meantime, what should I do with Mistress Ashley?” Hugo refilled his wine glass and gazed at his friend. Brad always thought strategically, even when it wasn’t necessary.
“You can either send her on her way or keep her close and learn what she’s about. I suggest the latter. If she was sent by Monmouth, you’ll discover her purpose sooner or later. If she wants to leave, let her go and follow at a discreet distance. See where she goes and whom she meets. You know what they say, “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.” Sooner or later, she’ll betray herself; they always do.” Brad nodded sagely, which almost made Hugo laugh.
“Why, have you had many women worming their way into your good graces, aside from Beth I mean?”
“No, but I’ll be ready when they come.” Hugo burst out laughing. Brad always knew how to put matters in perspective.
**
By the time Hugo returned home, he was pleasantly drunk and glad to see that the women had retired. According to the housekeeper, Jane installed Mistress Ashley in a bedchamber adjoining her own and made sure that the lady was comfortable and well looked after. At least Hugo didn’t have to face her again tonight. He’d see what tomorrow brought. He was tired, but not ready to retire, so he took a bottle of wine from the cellar and poked life back into the dying embers of the drawing room fire. The night was cool and dark, the stars bright as shards of broken glass spread across the heavens. A crescent moon hung high in the sky, casting a sliver of light onto the inky landscape outside the window.
Hugo poured himself a generous measure of wine and took a sip as he stretched his legs before the fire. The talk with Bradford had been helpful; Hugo was just being overly suspicious. James Scott, the Duke of Monmouth, was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. If he chose to send someone to spy on Hugo, it certainly wouldn’t be some insipid woman who was foolish enough to allow herself to be run down by a charging horse. And it’s not as if Hugo would conduct any discussion in front of her which would help her learn anything of his plans.
Currently, Monmouth was still in self-imposed exile in the Dutch Republic, but he would sail for England soon and likely land in the southwest. The West Country would be the best place for raising an army of farmers, artisans, and various non-conformists. Most likely, they wouldn’t stand a chance against the King’s army, but it was wise never to underestimate the common man. Mo
nmouth had tasked Hugo with gauging the loyalties of the nobles in his area and recruiting sympathizers to Monmouth’s cause, particularly ones who could provide ample financial support, but Hugo’s real purpose had nothing to do with Monmouth’s ambition to sit the throne and dispose of his uncle, King James II. It was imperative that Monmouth never learn the truth.
Hugo knew that James wasn’t an overly popular king or a very good one, but he had been next in the line of succession, which no one could deny, regardless of their religious and political views. However, support for Monmouth had been growing, and as things stood now, Monmouth actually stood a fair chance of pulling off a rebellion. After the failed attempt at assassinating his father and uncle at Rye House, he was treading more carefully, and amassing his followers before challenging the king. In truth, there were many who supported him, despite his bastard status, believing him to be the true heir to the throne and desiring to see a Protestant monarchy restored.
Hugo took a gulp of wine and stared into the leaping flames, his thoughts turning dour. Monmouth was arrogant, self-indulgent, over-confident, and ridiculously mistrustful. If even a whiff of speculation regarding Hugo’s loyalty reached his ears, Hugo would find himself in mortal danger. A man who was willing to kill his own father and uncle didn’t get overly sentimental about his friends, not even those he’d known since adolescence. The years they’d spent together at Court would count for nothing if Monmouth found reason to mistrust Hugo, their shared history wiped clean in a moment of suspected treachery. This time Monmouth would tolerate no mistakes, brook no arguments. He was a man willing to gamble all on the ultimate prize. It was kill or be killed.
Hugo refilled his glass and savagely poked the dying embers of the fire, willing them to last until he was ready to retire. He suddenly wondered if Mistress Ashley was asleep. She was lovely, he’d give her that. Perhaps she had no ties to Monmouth at all, but it would be best for all involved if she took her leave come morning. He would follow her, of course, to see where she went, but in truth, Hugo would be glad to see the back of her, no matter how enticing the view of that backside might be. Tomorrow, he would offer to take her wherever she needed to go, which would in all probability make her take flight.
Having reached this satisfying conclusion, Hugo finished his wine, heaved himself to his feet, smoored the fire, and made his way upstairs, his gait shaky at best.
Chapter 9
I stared up at the high tester of my four-poster bed unable to sleep. Jane had offered to close the curtains, but I asked her to leave them open, as well as the shutters, which she found to be strange, but complied with my request without a word. I couldn’t bear the thought of being entombed in complete darkness, surrounded by heavy embroidered drapes that kept out most of the air, as well as the moonlight, feeble though it might be and distorted by the mullions of the casement window.
I had been in this very room not two days ago, but then it had been just a part of the exhibit, the doorway bisected by a thick rope which allowed the visitors to look into the room, but not enter. The furniture shone with polish, the hearth had been cold and gleaming clean, unlit for decades. The whole house smelled of old wood paneling and carved ceilings, woolen rugs, and just a hint of dust trapped in the tapestries and the still-tight weave of the curtains and cushions. It was quiet now, but earlier the house had been alive with the sounds of footsteps, aromas of cooking drifting from the kitchen, and the pleasant smell of burning wood, the crackling of flames soothing and mesmerizing as I stared into the fire. This wasn’t just a house; this was a home where real people lived and worked, a home where they loved, suffered, and in Hugo’s case, plotted. No amount of period detail or meticulous preservation could capture the spirit of the individuals who’d lived here so long ago, and died almost without a trace; their lives deemed irrelevant and quickly forgotten.
It must have been close to midnight when I heard Hugo come up the stairs and close the door of his room, but still I couldn’t sleep. I was achy and tired, my head pounding from the blow I’d received earlier, but I couldn’t rest. I was terrified of what I’d gotten myself into. What if I got trapped here and had no way of getting back to my own time? What would I do? How long could I pull off this charade? Hugo didn’t strike me as being particularly gullible. He’d make inquiries and find out that I had no ties of kinship to the earl. What would he do with me? I had to get away from here as soon as I could. At this moment, all I wanted was to go back to my messy twenty-first century life. I would stop looking back and devote myself to the future, a future where I would find a new love and have the family I’d always dreamed of. No more going back and forth with Evan, no more agonizing over the miscarriage. It was no one’s fault. My child was gone, and no amount of self-flagellation or blaming Evan would ever bring it back. It was time to move forward, and I would do that as soon as I went home and forgot this insane scheme.
I had to admit though that I had enjoyed meeting Hugo and Jane. I’d assumed that Hugo was a hard, callous man, but I saw the kindness in his eyes and the way he looked at his sister. He was capable of great love, of that I was sure. Was there a woman he cared for? He was in his mid-thirties, surely there was someone? I was fairly certain that Clarence wasn’t Hugo’s son, despite what Max had implied. Clarence bore no physical resemblance to Hugo, or even to Jane, and the relationship between brother and sister appeared to be one of affection and nothing more. One always picked up on sexual undercurrents, especially when looking for them, but I saw nothing untoward in the way the two interacted. My dream must have had some basis of truth, fantastical though it might be.
Jane had fetched her sewing basket and sat by my side all afternoon, keeping me company in her quiet way. She was no more than thirty, but her demeanor was that of a much older woman, a woman who’d known great sorrow. The pretty, passionate girl I had glimpsed in my dream was no more, the fire extinguished and replaced by gentle warmth that radiated from her kind eyes.
“You must miss your husband very much,” I ventured, hoping she’d tell me something of the man she’d married. There was a momentary wariness in her eyes before she readjusted her expression to one of bereavement.
“Yes, Ernest was a good man and a loving father to my son.” The use of ‘my’ instead of ‘ours’ made me prick my ears, so I remained quiet, letting her talk. It always amazed me how much people would reveal about themselves just to fill an uncomfortable silence, and Jane didn’t disappoint. Being in mourning, she probably felt isolated and lonely, so a few hours in the company of a similarly aged female were probably a gift rather than a burden.
“He was much older than I and not in good health,” she said, stabbing the needle into her work as if it had just given great offense. “In the last two years of his life, he suffered partial paralysis; his eyesight deteriorated, and he often ranted and raved, making no sense at all. The physick initially said that Ernest had an excess of black bile, which would cause melancholy, but he later changed his opinion. There were too many other physical symptoms by that stage. He bled Ernest repeatedly, but his condition only worsened. I would be telling an untruth if I said it wasn’t a relief when he finally passed. I couldn’t bear to see him suffer, and his illness was hard on Clarence as well.”
“Was it a love match?” I asked innocently, wanting to hear more.
“Oh, no. I’d known Ernest most of my life, but never regarded him as anything more than a kindly uncle rather than a romantic prospect. He spent much less time with us after he married his first wife. She was a calculating woman, interested only in bettering her position in life, and Ernest gave her that, to be sure. She died not long before Ernest and I married, and left an eight-year-old daughter. Hugo arranged the marriage,” Jane added by way of explanation as to how she came to marry a man she didn’t love. Another stab at the fabric and Jane pricked her finger and sucked off the blood, suddenly smiling like a child. “Hugo always tells me not to do that.”
“Did you not mind that your brother arranged
a match with someone so much older?” And someone you didn’t love, I mentally added. No one could accuse me of tact, but I was burning with curiosity. Would Jane tell me the truth?
“No. Hugo’s always had my best interests at heart. Ernest was a good, kind man who would take care of me. I’d suffered a terrible blow, you see. The man I loved had deceived me; he’d promised me a future when he was already betrothed to someone else. My heart was broken, and I never wanted to feel that kind of pain again. I knew that Ernest would cherish me all his days,” she replied absentmindedly as she went back to her sewing. “He spent much of his time out on the estate, so it was just Clarence and I, and Magdalene, of course,” she added, suddenly remembering her stepdaughter. “Clarence was such a beautiful baby, always hungry.” Jane smiled in that quiet way, remembering Clarence as he had been as a child. “We used to spend hours together playing games and walking in the gardens when he got older. By the time he turned six, Ernest arranged for him to have a tutor, so I didn’t seem him nearly as much. I was lonely without him.”
“Did you not get on with Magdalene?” I asked, wondering what life must have been like for this child whom Jane clearly hadn’t loved.
“I tried, I really did, but Magdalene was a willful child, one prone to fits of temper and hysterics. She felt a terrible jealousy toward Clarence, so I tried to keep them apart. I did spend at least an hour a day with her, just the two of us, reading to her from the Bible or teaching her to sew. She enjoyed the stories, but sewing frustrated her. She lacked the patience, you see.”
“Where is she now?”
“In London. She married a few years ago, a fine match; Ernest was very pleased. I must say that marriage has changed her. She truly loves her husband, and he seems to return her affection,” Jane remarked, sounding amazed that anyone could love the wayward child she had so much trouble with.
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