Wonderland (Wonderland Series: Book 2)

by Irina Shapiro

  Hugo practically ran down the hill, needing the exertion to purge the anger he was feeling. Some small part of his brain pitied Jane, but there was no room in his heart for forgiveness. Yes, she was going mad, but not mad enough not to know what she was doing or saying. That was still to come. Right now, Jane was using her illness to justify the murder of Neve and his child and the assassination of Hugo’s character, all to satisfy her need for revenge against a brother who’d loved and cherished her and did everything in his power to help her. Hugo stopped, bent over with his hands on his thighs, and breathed deeply until his heart began to slow, and his mind stopped racing like rats in a maze. He’d wanted to know why, and now he did. “Closure,” he thought and let out a bark of laughter at the ridiculousness of the term.

  Hugo finally straightened and strode toward the woods, eager to put the episode at Three Oaks behind him, if such a thing were possible. Archie was still sitting on the ground, his head resting against the tree as he slept soundly, but he jerked awake as soon as he heard Hugo’s stealthy approach. Archie didn’t ask anything, just sprang to his feet and handed Hugo his sword.

  Hugo hastily strapped on his sword and mounted his horse as Archie did the same. It was late, but he couldn’t bear to stay here, so close to Jane. They’d stop off somewhere for the night as long as it was far from Three Oaks.

  “What now, your lordship?” Archie asked as he followed Hugo through the darkened woods toward the road into the village.

  “Now, we go back to fetch Neve and return to London. We need to find Jem.”

  Chapter 28

  Liza stared into the murky contents of the cup and sniffed experimentally. She expected the decoction to smell terrible, but it actually had a pleasant minty smell that reminded her of the country. Mavis had prepared the mixture and left her alone while she went about her work, promising to check on her in a bit. It was just past noon, and Liza had the rest of the afternoon off. She got one afternoon off every fortnight, and it was a time she savored. Normally, she went for a walk by the river or looked at shop windows in Cheapside. She couldn’t afford to buy anything, but it was nice to be able to look and pretend that she was just being choosy.

  Once, she’d even gone to the Tower to see the lions. Liza didn’t have the money to pay the entrance fee, but she’d managed to catch a skinny alley cat that had been too feeble with hunger to put up much of a fight, and used the cat to pay for admission. The lions had been an awesome sight. They seemed oblivious to the crowd gathered on the viewing platform, one just walking around and the other lying on its side and licking its paws. That one was probably a female, Liza thought as she edged closer to get a better view. She’d never seen a wild animal before, and she was shaking with fright as the attendant tossed a few cats into the dry moat.

  The lions fought over the spoils as the cats tried to run away from certain death. Liza nearly bit her tongue as the male lion swiped a cat with its paw, knocking it senseless before tearing it to pieces with its teeth, the blood dripping down its chin as it fed. The other cats were still alive, their desperate screams turning Liza’s insides to water with pity. She’d turned and ran, unable to get the memory of the carnage out of her head.

  Liza had been responsible for the death of a cat, but if she drank the mixture, she’d be responsible for the death of a child; a child conceived in love, at least on her end, and very much wanted. It wasn’t until this moment that Liza realized that what she felt for this baby was love. She’d felt angry, betrayed, and humiliated, but it wasn’t the child’s fault, was it? It was innocent of any wrongdoing on its father’s part, and despite what Mavis said, Liza felt it was a grave sin just to snuff it out. She knew many women did away with unwanted babies, some even after they’d been born. It didn’t take much to smother an infant, but the thought made her sick.

  Liza’s mam always said that God had a plan for all of us; it’s just that sometimes it was hard to see it while events unfolded. Perhaps this baby was part of that plan. Liza had always longed for a family. Of course, that family always contained a husband, not just her and a child born out of wedlock, but families came in different shapes and sizes; she knew that. Her own mother had been wed four times, the house full of children sired by different fathers. Every husband had died after a few years, leaving her poor mother heartbroken and financially strapped. Most of the children had left home by now and were earning their own keep, but there were still three girls at home, helping their mother by taking in washing and sewing.

  Liza swirled the liquid and looked into its depths as if all the mysteries of the universe would now be revealed. It was now or never. If she waited any longer the babe would start to move, and she would never be able to do it, nor would the mixture be as effective. It might not work at all. Liza raised the cup to her lips, intending to take the first sip, but her hand shook, and she spilled some liquid onto her skirt. She lowered her hand and closed her eyes as tears of frustration slid down her cheeks. She couldn’t do it. She didn’t want to do it. She wanted this child; wanted someone to love and care for her, who would love her back in return and not just leave her. Perhaps it would be a son who would look after her in her old age.

  Liza set the cup down on the three-legged stool by her bed and leaned back against the cold wall. The tears had stopped, but the feeling of overwhelming misery stayed with her. Liza didn’t often give in to self-pity, but she felt she’d earned a few minutes of feeling sorry for herself. She knew that the decision had been made, but that didn’t mean she knew how she would manage. If only she could find a way to earn some extra money; just something to put by for when the baby was born. Then she would go back to the country and try to make do. Of course, she’d call herself Mistress Norrington, and tell everyone that she was a widow. No need to subject her child to the stigma of being born a bastard. Perhaps she’d even go back to her mother, but she needed coin, and she wouldn’t earn it by scrubbing floors and washing soiled shifts.

  Mavis had said that the world was full of opportunities. Perhaps she was right, Liza mused as she poured the contents of the cup into the chamber pot. She still had at least five months until the baby came; something might turn up.

  Chapter 29

  I found going from the teeming streets of London to life in a religious community to be harder than I expected. The whole compound consisted of a few buildings clustered around the yard with its well as the focal point. There was a vegetable and herb garden, but those weren’t meant for walks, only work. The nuns kept to a grueling schedule that began with Matins before dawn and ended with Vespers before the nuns finally went to bed. The hours in between were filled with several daytime prayers, meals, and work. Each nun was assigned several tasks which she performed mostly in silence. The order was not a silent one, but excessive chatter was frowned upon and viewed as a sign of idleness. I could see why Frances was so lonely. Being only fourteen and not one of the order, she needed someone to talk to and spend time with, especially since her dilemma was always on her mind.

  I’d been assigned to the kitchen since I had no experience of livestock or the physical strength to do the weekly laundry. The work was easy enough, but monotonous and repetitive, as was the diet of the nuns. There was porridge with bread for breakfast, some kind of stew or pottage for the main meal at noon, and bread with cheese and boiled eggs in the evening. I spent hours chopping carrots, turnips, and wild garlic after breakfast, and then several hours washing up after the midday meal and helping Frances knead dough for fresh loaves of bread needed for supper and breakfast. My arms ached from the strain, and my mind chafed at the boredom. I asked Mother Superior if she might lend me something to read, but all she had were religious texts, and frankly, I would have rather read the most boring of computer manuals than someone pontificating on various verses in the Bible and their possible interpretation.

  Since candles needed to be conserved, we were expected to retire shortly after supper which was around 7 p.m., unless we were attending Vespers. Than
kfully, I’d been allowed to share a room with Frances, so we huddled in our thin blankets against the cold and chatted for hours in the darkness; both desperate for the comfort of the other’s voice. I didn’t think I could bear to speak of it, but I told Frances of my experience at Newgate. It was easier to share in the dark somehow, the words melting into nothingness as the night settled all around us. Talking of it helped, especially since being in the dark monastic cell brought back the memories of that time. I had terrible nightmares, my ankles stinging when I awoke as if I’d been bitten by rats. I’d dream that I had awoken only to find that I was still in prison, and my escape had been nothing but a dream.

  It took me some time to regain my composure when I woke, tears streaming down my face, my hands groping for the bedding and cot to make sure I was actually not on the floor of the cell. Frances would quietly talk to me to calm me down and reassure me that I was safe. The cell was so dark at night that it felt like a coffin, forcing me to throw on a shawl and grope my way outside for a breath of fresh air. Eventually, the feeling of being entombed would recede, leaving me freezing in my nightdress, my bare feet numb with cold. I desperately wished that Hugo would return for me, but days stretched into a week, and then nearly two with no sign of the men.

  It was on one particularly dark night that I awoke, my forehead beaded with sweat as I dreamed once again that I was back at Newgate. My heart was hammering with terror, and my hands shook as I bunched up the coarse blanket and breathed deeply in order to calm myself. I thought that I’d screamed in my sleep, but the whimpering continued long after I awoke. I turned in the dark toward Frances. Her breathing was normally shallow as she slept, but still audible in the silence of our cell. Frances let out a low moan as her cot creaked in protest under her bulk.

  “Frances, are you awake?” I whispered as I peered into the darkness.

  “Yes. My belly hurts,” she replied. Frances’s breathing was labored. “I feel sick and my back is quivering.”

  I got out of bed and felt my way toward Frances, settling on the side of her narrow cot, my face inches away from hers. I still couldn’t see her, but I could feel the tension in her body as she convulsed and wrapped her arms around her stomach in an effort to contain the pain. I laid my hands on Frances’s belly and felt the tightening of the skin as her womb contracted. These could be nothing more than Braxton Hicks contractions, since Frances was only about seven months along, but I couldn’t be sure. In my time, we would just go to the hospital, but all we had at the Convent of the Sacred Heart was an elderly nun with some homeopathic knowledge.

  “I’m going for Sister Angela,” I said as I groped for my shoes.

  “I’ll be all right. Don’t leave me,” Frances wailed, but I was already halfway to the door.

  “I’ll be right back. Just keep taking deep breaths.” Much good it would do her, I thought as I threw a shawl over my shoulders and pulled it tight to keep out the chill, but perhaps deep breathing would at least calm her. I found the door and stepped outside into the misty night. The moon was obscured by thick clouds, and a fine drizzle settled on my face and hair as soon as I stepped out into the open. The yard was slippery with wet mud, and I nearly lost my balance as I made my way to the other side where Sister Angela’s hut stood. Unlike the other sisters, she slept in her workshop for fear of someone helping themselves to the medicines.

  A person unskilled in healing with plants might take the wrong dose or just use the wrong remedy altogether. Sister Angela kept the poisonous compounds on a separate shelf, but she still felt more comfortable in being on hand should anything happen. I briefly wondered if there had been a previous incident that prompted this, but put the thought out of my mind.

  I knocked on the door and made my way inside, greeted as usual by the herbal smell of the hut. Dried plants hanging from the rafters caressed my face as I padded into the inner room where Sister Angela’s snores could be heard emanating from the blanket. The fire had gone out some time ago, and the acrid smell of ashes mixed with the pleasant smell of greenery inside the small chamber. I gently touched her shoulder, but the sister didn’t budge. It took several tries to finally wake her, during which time I could have poisoned myself and the whole compound had I really wanted to. Perhaps a lock on the door would be wise.

  Sister Angela finally awoke and sat up looking confused, and more than a bit annoyed. Her gray hair was cropped short, and she looked older without her wimple. Being in her sixties, she was considered to be a woman of very advanced years, and she suddenly looked every one of them.

  “Frances has a bellyache, Sister. I think she might be in labor.”

  “Or, she might have indigestion. It’s common during pregnancy,” Sister Angela grumbled as she got up laboriously from her cot and groped for her habit. “She’s not due for two months yet.”

  The sister tied a kerchief about her head and followed me out into the night.

  “I’m sure you’re right, but she seems to be in terrible pain. Perhaps you can give her something.”

  “Hmm,” Sister Angela huffed as she walked carefully through the mud. “Perhaps a decoction of mint might ease her. I need to make sure first. Light the candle,” she ordered as she peered into the gaping black hole of the door to our cell.

  I hadn’t quite mastered the art of using tinder and flint, usually just lighting my candle on another flame or getting someone else to do it. After several failed attempts, Sister Angela pushed me out of the way and lit the candle in one go before turning her attention to Frances, who was writhing in pain on her cot. Her face was a ghostly pale in the dim corner until Sister Angela moved the candle. Frances looked terrified; her pupils dilated just as they had been when I first met her and learned of her husband’s wish that she use belladonna drops in her eyes. There was no belladonna now— just fear.

  “There now, ducky,” the nun said softly as she put her hands on Frances’s belly. “It will all be all right. Let’s have a look at you.” She palpated the girl’s stomach, then ordered her to lie on her back as she pushed a meaty hand between her legs. “Lie still for me now.”

  Frances let out a pitiful squeak as Sister Angela pushed her fingers inside while probing the heaving belly with one hand. She looked thoughtful until her facial expression changed to one of concern. “Oh, Lord Jesus preserve us,” she said as she extracted her hand and pulled down the shift.

  “What is it?” Frances whispered. I took her hand and sat next to her on the floor, there not being enough room for both Sister Angela and myself on the cot.

  “Your pains have started, my girl; you’re dilating. Best if we get you back to my hut, away from the rest of the sisters. Get yourself dressed and help me, Mistress Ashley. I’ll need you, if you are not squeamish.”

  “Don’t leave me,” Frances begged as I got up off the floor.

  “I’ll be with you till the bitter end,” I promised as I kissed her clammy forehead. “Let me just get some clothes on. I’m freezing.”

  Together we walked Frances to Sister Angela’s hut where we prepared for the hard work of bringing a new life into the world. Sister Angela got a roaring fire going while I went to the well for a bucket of water. I put the water to heat while Sister Angela extracted some clean rags and a blanket from a wooden chest in the corner.

  “Try to keep her calm,” the nun said to me quietly. “She’s too agitated and that might slow the labor down.”

  To say that Frances was agitated was the understatement of the century. She was in a panic — partly because the child was early, and partly because she was scared. Giving birth is frightening enough for grown women who are going into a hospital equipped with the latest equipment, experienced doctors, and handy drugs, but for a fourteen-year-old girl in labor in the middle of nowhere with only a nun to attend her — it’s terrifying. The pain didn’t seem to be too bad yet, but the terror had Frances in its grip, making her hyperventilate and shake like a leaf, which was making matters that much worse.

  I left Fran
ces for a moment and followed Sister Angela into the outer room for a quiet word. “Sister, have you ever delivered a child before?” I asked, wondering exactly what we were dealing with here. Giving out concoctions to relieve occasional constipation, diarrhea, or headache was not quite the same as delivering the child of a girl whose hips were no wider than those of a teenage boy.

  “I have,” Sister Angela answered a trifle defensively. “I’ve delivered more children than you might imagine, having been a midwife in my day, but I suppose you have every right to question me. I won’t lie to you, Mistress Ashley; things don’t look good for the girl. She’s too young, too frightened, and too physically unsuited to the task at hand, not to mention the simple fact that the babe is two months early. I also don’t have a birthing chair, which might have been helpful to her. It doesn’t make the pushing easier, but it does offer some back support and something to hold on to, which helps when bearing down.”

  “Does the child have a chance?” I asked, already knowing the answer. A preemie might need an incubator to survive, not a drafty hut in the woods.

  “I have seen premature children survive, but their chances are not good. It all depends on the child itself and how long it takes to bring it into the world. A long labor might rob it of its strength and make it more vulnerable than it already is. It’s in God’s hands now.”

  The old nun rummaged along a shelf, searching for something. “Aha!” she exclaimed as she pulled a bottle labeled “Valerian” and uncorked it. A strong medicinal smell filled the air as Sister Angela measured out several drops of the evil-smelling brown liquid into a cup of cider. “Here, have Frances drink this. Valerian root has calming properties and will help her overcome her panic. She’ll accept it easier from you than from me.”