Wonderland (Wonderland Series: Book 2)

by Irina Shapiro

  “So, have you learned anything?” I asked as I tucked into the roast beef with relish.

  “Nothing that we don’t already know. Max is being held in the Tower under heavy guard. He’s been questioned,” Hugo added carefully.

  “Is that a euphemism for tortured?” I stopped chewing and gazed up at Hugo, needing to know the truth. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that Max might have been hurt. I simply assumed that he was incarcerated, but now that Hugo mentioned it, I realized that Max’s denials might have prompted a more “persuasive” type of questioning and shuddered. I couldn’t help remembering the torture devices on display in the Tower of London’s museum, the sheer barbarism of the objects enough to make one break out in a cold sweat. People in the future certainly hadn’t invented torture; it had been around for a long time, the methods so uniquely grotesque that even to the modern person who’d seen it all on television, the cruelty of contraptions like the rack and the Iron Maiden were beyond comprehension.

  “Most likely, but I don’t know for sure. In any case, he has nothing to tell them other than what he’s already confessed to. He can hardly tell his torturers the truth. Max said that he’s a distant relative who’d come visiting and stopped off at the inn before making his presence known at Everly Manor,” Hugo said as he reached for my hand. “I hope he’s not seriously injured.”

  “Perhaps he assumed that by September things had died down and he was in no danger. He couldn’t have known that there were soldiers stationed in the village with the express orders of arresting you should you return home. God, Hugo, I do feel sorry for him despite what he’d done in the past. I know I probably shouldn’t, but I do. I can’t even begin to imagine being in his situation. He’s got no one to turn to, no one to ask for help. As far as he knows he’s all alone.”

  “Yes, it must be bewildering, to say the least. Had I found myself alone in 2013, I would have been at my wit’s end, and there they don’t execute people, or even convict them without a fair trial. Max must be terrified. Is he a religious person at all?” Hugo suddenly asked.

  “Not that I know of. I think Christmas and Easter are the extent of his churchgoing activities. Why do you ask?”

  “Dying is easier when you have faith. You convince yourself that there’s a greater purpose to your death rather than it being just a random act, which in the great scheme of things means absolutely nothing, and your passing is forgotten as soon as the funeral is over. Max was at the wrong place, at the wrong time.”

  “To say the least,” I agreed. “But what now?”

  “Now,” Hugo said as he pushed away his clean plate, “I get to work.”

  “Doing what exactly?” We’d discussed several avenues of inquiry, but nothing definite had been decided.

  “Bradford Nash keeps a London house. He’s rarely there, but there’s an elderly couple who are in residence, acting as caretakers and keeping the place safe from burglars. I will write a letter to Brad and insert letters for my sister and Archie, which I will then have delivered to Brad’s house. The servant will send a messenger to Surrey. Until the letters are delivered, there’s nothing to do but wait.”

  Hugo’s strong profile was illuminated by a single candle, the quill suspended in his hand as he mentally composed letter after letter. I wasn’t sure what he expected in terms of help from Bradford, Jane, or Archie, but I’d known Hugo long enough to realize that he had a keen mind and a strategic way of thinking situations through, which I’d never needed in my own twenty-first century world. If Hugo had some sort of plan, then I had to just trust him. He was still scratching away as I drifted off to sleep, tired out by travel and worry.

  Chapter 2

  The reply from Bradford came in the form of the man himself, who sent word that he’d wait in Westminster Abbey at noon on Wednesday; a place so central and crowded that no one would pay any mind to two men talking in a back pew. Coming to the inn was too risky since the association between Hugo and his closest friend was well known to the authorities. Hugo made a circle around the abbey to make sure that nothing seemed out of place, besides the dozens of people milling around, vendors selling goods outside the church, and a service in progress which no one seemed to actually be listening to. He’d left Neve at the inn, having bought her a book of sonnets to keep her mind from running away with her. Hugo knew she’d worry the whole time anyway, but there wasn’t much choice.

  Hugo didn’t consider himself to be an indecisive man, but the decision to come back had not been an easy one despite what Neve thought. Having thrown in his lot with Monmouth for his own religious and political reasons, Hugo had committed to his cause, knowing full well what the consequences would be. He’d named his nephew as his beneficiary and put his affairs in order should anything happen to him, but what happened to him was Neve, and now he had that much more to lose. Hugo had been truly torn between doing the right thing and just turning his back on Max and sailing for France as planned. He had a baby on the way, a baby who would be born illegitimate if he didn’t marry Neve soon. He had a responsibility to his lady and to his unborn child, but how could he allow Max to be condemned?

  Max was a selfish, conniving bastard, to say the least, but he was innocent of treason, if not of attempted murder. If condemned, Max would most certainly die, and Hugo couldn’t look away, couldn’t turn his back on the man. He was putting himself, Neve, and their future child in great danger, but he had to answer to his conscience, and his conscience was a cruel mistress. So, Hugo made a pact with himself; he’d give it a month and do everything in his power to help Max. After that, he’d see to his family and live with the consequences, whatever they were.

  Hugo slipped into the abbey and looked around. It didn’t have the aura of solemnity that churches normally had, forcing people to speak in hushed tones and look around as if being watched by God himself. Westminster Abbey was spread out and crowded on a Wednesday afternoon, people coming and going and creating a somewhat chaotic atmosphere, which was just what Hugo needed. Brad was already there, seated in the center of the back pew, hat in hand, his shaggy blond head unmistakable among the parishioners who’d come for the service and were scattered around the half-empty pews closer to the pulpit. Hugo walked past him twice, but Brad never even noticed the plainly dressed, blond, blue-eyed man who finally slid in next to him.

  “This seat is taken,” Brad said not unkindly, wishing to get rid of the man. His look was one of annoyance, since there were plenty of other places to sit.

  “It’s me, Brad,” Hugo chuckled. Brad just stared, open-mouthed, taking in the light hair, sky-blue eyes, and the homespun of a simple merchant. Hugo just sat silently, giving Brad a few moments to take in his altered appearance.

  “H-h-how is this possible?” Brad stammered. He knew the voice, and he knew the man once he looked closer, but he couldn’t accept the transformation. “Have you been bewitched?”

  “No, Brad, I’m still the same man underneath. This is just a clever disguise.”

  “How could you change your eye color?” Brad whispered, outraged. “Is that a periwig?” He reached up and pulled a lock of hair.

  “The hair is real and the eyes are the same as always. It’s just bits of colored glass.” He couldn’t say that the lenses were made of soft plastic since Brad wouldn’t understand, but he needed an explanation that made sense. Brad was an educated, reasonable man, but even he could be persuaded that Hugo was under some kind of enchantment, and the last thing Hugo needed was any more questions about Neve and her origins or supposed powers.

  “You put colored glass in your eyes?” Brad was scandalized, but impressed. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not at all. It’s specially made. How are Beth and the baby?” Hugo asked, eager to change the subject.

  “Oh, very well. Robert is nearly five months old. He smiles and even has one tooth. It’s charming. The nurse brings him once a day for me to play with.” Brad beamed with pride.

  Hugo just smiled, remembering
what Neve said about fathers in the twenty-first century who took care of their children without the benefit of nurses or servants. He’d seen plenty of dads in Hyde Park, walking around with prams, teaching their children to ride bikes, and pushing them on the swings as they squealed with delight. His own father hadn’t taken much interest in him until he got older and could be introduced at Court, but the mere idea of the elder Everly playing with Hugo nearly made him laugh out loud.

  “I’m glad to hear it. I wish I could see him. And Jane?”

  “Jane is Jane,” Brad replied somewhat cryptically. “I delivered your letter in person,and she seemed— what is the right word— perplexed. She said she would reply, but when I offered to take the letter with me she changed the subject.”

  “That’s odd. Is she in good health?”

  “She appears to be,” Brad replied, shrugging his shoulders.

  “And how’s Jemmy?” Hugo asked.

  He’d never said goodbye to his eight-year-old page who was more adopted son than servant. Hugo genuinely missed the boy and hoped that Jane was looking after him. She’d never warmed up to the boy, but had promised to take care of him until Hugo was able to return to Everly Manor.

  “I haven’t seen him, but I’m sure he’s well,” Brad answered impatiently. “Hugo, what are you doing here? Where have you been? When I heard you’d been arrested I came up to London to see you, but was denied entry. They said you’d gone mad and were claiming to be Maximillian Everly. If you are here with me, then who on earth is the man in the Tower?”

  “He’s a distant relative who bears an uncanny resemblance to me,” Hugo explained, sticking to the truth as much as possible. “It seems that he came to Cranley and was arrested in my stead. Brad, I need to get him out.”

  “And how do you propose to do that? Everyone believes him to be you, so the only way to get him out is to present the real Hugo Everly, which I will not allow you to do,” Brad said hotly.

  “Neve expressed much the same sentiment. But, Brad, I can’t allow him to be tried and executed. You know he has no chance whatsoever of proving his innocence. He’ll be lucky if he’s sentenced to beheading. It can be so much worse.”

  “I know, old friend, I know.” Brad looked crestfallen for a moment. The penalty for high treason was drawing and quartering, a fate worse than death, which made beheading look like the most humane of sentences. Brad nodded in agreement as he turned to Hugo.

  “Do you remember Gideon Warburton? Beth and I had him to stay the Christmas before last after his mother passed. He’s Beth’s cousin by marriage,” Brad asked, giving Hugo a searching look.

  “Can’t say that I do. I was at Court the Christmas before last, so I never had the pleasure of meeting him. Do you think he can help somehow?”

  “I’m not certain. Gideon is a man of law, but his experience lies mostly in drawing up wills and marriage contracts. He has, however, a very keen mind and likes a challenge. I can consult with him and see what he might suggest,” Brad offered.

  “Do you trust him?”

  “He’s a bit odd, to tell you the truth, but I believe him to be a man of integrity. Can you meet me here tomorrow? I’ll consult him tonight and see what he proposes,” Brad suggested.

  “What will you tell him?” Hugo asked, considering the consequences of bringing another person in on their secret.

  “I won’t give anything away. I’ll just ask a theoretical question and see what he suggests.”

  “Very well. I’ll see you here tomorrow at noon. I hope your man has something to contribute because I’m at a loss,” Hugo confessed as he smiled ruefully at his friend. “I must return to Neve. Did Jane tell you she’s with child?”

  “No, she hadn’t,” Brad replied, gaping at Hugo. “When is it due? Are you married then?”

  “It’s due in March, and no, we’re not married yet, but will be as soon as possible.”

  “And what of her Protestantism?” Brad asked, still baffled by Hugo’s news. He never imagined that Hugo would compromise when it came to the religious views of his wife. He routinely pretended to be a Protestant in order to divert attention from his more colorful activities; had many Protestant friends and associates, but had never been flexible when it came to marriage.

  Hugo’s first wife had been from one of the most prominent Catholic families in the country. The marriage lasted all of two weeks before it was annulled by the bride’s father who didn’t approve of the match and found a physician to swear to non-consummation, despite the fact that Catherine was already pregnant with Hugo’s child. Hugo still considered himself married long after his skittish bride married someone else and passed off Hugo’s daughter as her husband’s. The child died in infancy, but the whole experience left Hugo heartbroken and remote, with no desire to ever marry again despite the need to produce an heir to keep the Everly line going. It took the appearance of Neve Ashley for him to finally allow love back into his life and finally accept the annulment, which had set him free to marry again. Perhaps his love for Neve is stronger than his faith, Brad thought, or knowing Hugo, he’d simply found an acceptable solution.

  “Neve will remain a Protestant, but she has agreed to raise the child in the Catholic Church. I think it’s a fair compromise,” Hugo added a trifle defensively.

  “It is, and I wish you both happiness.” Brad patted Hugo on the shoulder. “It is good to see you, old man, even if you hardly resemble yourself. I’d given you up for dead, and believe me; I’ve mourned you every day. I’m glad to see you have arisen.”

  “Don’t start comparing me to Christ just yet. I might have risen, but I’m far from alive; not until I’m free to reclaim my identity and my estate, and marry the mother of my child in the sight of God.”

  Hugo shook Brad’s hand and slipped out of the pew and into the golden September afternoon. He trusted Brad with his life, but wasn’t sure how a man of law could help without being told the truth of the situation. He needed an alternate plan, since time was of the essence. Sooner or later, a trial date would be set and things would move very quickly once that happened.

  Chapter 3

  “I’m coming with you,” I insisted as Hugo prepared to go meet Brad. “I can’t stand being cooped up in this room a moment longer. I need air and exercise,” I added, as if I needed a reason to want to escape the tiny room. I could take three steps from the bed to the window and back, or just remain horizontal for the duration of Hugo’s absence.

  “All right,” Hugo conceded. “I can’t imagine that anyone would recognize you since the only people who’ve seen you were Captain Humphries and his men when they came to arrest me. Of course, Lionel Finch knows what you look like as well, but I highly doubt he’s in London since the date for the trial hasn’t been set yet. I’m sure he’ll be the star witness though. Should have killed him when I had the chance,” Hugo grumbled warily.

  “You don’t mean that, Hugo, I know you don’t.”

  Hugo just shrugged; no longer sure he’d done the right thing when he spared Lionel. Lionel Finch had the power to bury Hugo, and we both knew it. His testimony was paramount to the case, and he would relish the opportunity to see his enemy die. Hugo had caused Lionel Finch bodily harm while trying to protect me, and humiliated him by taking his savagely beaten fourteen-year-old wife. Finch would have no reason to believe that the man on trial wasn’t actually Hugo Everly, and would not pass up a chance to get revenge. I firmly put the thought out of my head and followed Hugo down the street.

  Despite my misgivings, I was excited to be out and about. London was a beehive of activity; a place I knew well in the twenty-first century, but felt like a tourist in now. It was truly amazing to see the magnificent façade of Whitehall Palace in the distance, and hard to believe that in a not so distant future it would burn to the ground, with nothing remaining but a few drawings and paintings to remind future generations of this gargantuan palace that housed thousands of people, ranging from the king himself to the lowliest servants toiling in
the kitchens and stables.

  I gaped at the giant construction site that was to become St. Paul’s Cathedral. Nearly two decades after the Great Fire, it was still under construction, and wouldn’t be consecrated for over thirty years yet. It was strange to see London without the familiar cupola rising over the rooftops, the landmark that screamed “London” to the modern world nearly as much as the sight of Buckingham Palace or Tower Bridge, or the famed Eiffel Tower as the symbol of Paris. Of course, most of London was not made up of famous buildings, but narrow, muck-strewn streets, flanked by houses that overhung the muddy pavements and blocked out nearly all sunlight in some of the more congested areas.

  The population of London had grown so quickly over the past few hundred years that the metropolis had spread way beyond the original city wall, claiming the farmland beyond and transforming it into a warren of narrow streets and thriving local businesses. Commerce was taking place all around us, and I was surprised to see that stalls had been set up amid the construction to sell everything from books to hot pies and herbal remedies for every conceivable illness.

  The streets became wider and slightly cleaner as we approached Westminster Abbey. I gazed at the spot where the houses of Parliament would be, but saw another building, not the world-famous Gothic structure with its clock tower piercing the London sky. There was no bridge and no busy intersection, just a muddy crossroads with the abbey rising majestically on the other side. As by the future St. Paul’s, there were throngs of people outside, hawking their wares, shopping, haggling over the price of something they wished to buy, or generally just loitering. Several boys were visible in the crowd, their eyes darting around in search of a suitable victim. Anyone who’d been to London before knew to hold on to their purse for fear of being relieved of it before they knew what hit them.