Wonderland (Wonderland Series: Book 2)

by Irina Shapiro

  “I’ll just look in on Naomi,” Dr. Lomax said as he walked past the housekeeper, “and then we’ll talk.”

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thank you. How about a walk in the garden? It’s a fine day, and you look as if you could do with some fresh air.”

  Stella just nodded. He was right; she’d barely had any time for herself between going to the hospital and trying to keep things functioning at the manor. Stella watched as David disappeared into the room to check on his patient. She’d known David Lomax since she was a child. David had been something of a prankster at school, and had sent her an unsigned valentine when she was twelve, gifting her with several days of delicious anticipation until she found out that her mysterious valentine was none other than the class clown. Stella never did figure out if the valentine had been in earnest, or just a joke meant to humiliate her. She wouldn’t have minded if David had meant it. She’d had a secret crush on him since she was seven, and he generously offered to push her on the swing at the playground. The clown had grown up and left for university, but not before they dated for a few months that summer.

  Stella still remembered the warm kisses, sweet words, and the love they made in the tall grass of the meadow, their bodies coming together as if they were two halves of the same whole, a key fitting perfectly into a lock. Things might have been different had David not left, but by the time he’d returned to Cranleigh, he had a medical degree, a wife, and two children. They remained friends, however, and Stella had grown fond of David’s wife. Clara Lomax was too secure in David’s love and her position to feel threatened by an old flame, and Stella often came by the house for dinner or tea, and spent hours chatting with Clara. She had no resentment or regrets. Life had its own plan, and nothing you did could get in the way of that.

  David finally emerged from the sickroom and motioned for Stella to join him. The day was sunny but cold, so Stella grabbed her coat, and tied a scarf around her neck for good measure. She didn’t need to get sick when she had Naomi to take care of. The garden was still in bloom, several rose bushes boasting fragrant autumn blooms and fall flowers painting the beds in riotous color. In a few weeks, the garden would be nothing but bare sticks and shriveled up grass; but today, it was still a source of pleasure.

  David slid his arm through Stella’s and steered her between the flowerbeds toward an old wrought iron bench beneath an archway smothered with ivy. It was a pleasant spot, sheltered from the cool breeze of the October afternoon.

  “How have you been, Stella? You look all done in,” David said as he studied her pinched face.

  “I am. I don’t know what to do, David,” she confided.

  “Tell me.”

  Stella allowed her shoulders to slump as she stared at the ground. She needed to talk to someone, and David was the only person she trusted; he was the only one who knew the truth. It was time to share the burden.

  “Max has been gone for almost two months now. No one knows where he is. The police have been to the house several times, but there’s no new evidence. He simply vanished. Here one day, gone the next. At first, I thought that he might have just needed a few days away. Naomi had been grating on him, and he’d been generally agitated for months, ever since that woman left — Neve Ashley. I think he might have been in love with her, but the feeling wasn’t mutual. You know how Max got when he couldn’t have something he wanted. He became fixated on her.”

  “But you don’t think he left of his own accord?” David asked, surprised.

  “He had; that’s what troubles me. You see, I was the last person to see Max before he vanished. He seemed very excited about something, hyper almost. He was mumbling to himself as he walked out the door, and his clothes were odd. I watched him from the window, and he practically ran toward the church.”

  “So, what do you think happened?”

  “I haven’t a clue. He simply never came back. At first, I thought it might have been suicide, but he just seemed so pleased with himself that afternoon. I can’t imagine that he would take his own life. Something dreadful has happened to him, David.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid you’re right. I’m sure Max’s disappearance was the cause of Naomi’s stroke,” David said, taking Stella’s hand into his own. “It would almost be easier if his body was found and she could have some closure. I can’t begin to imagine the torment she’s been going through since Max vanished.”

  Stella gazed over the flowerbeds, working up the courage to bring up what had really been on her mind for the past week. It seemed callous to speak of money at a time like this, but there was no choice; it had to be done.

  “David, I can’t look after Naomi and the estate without funds, but I have no access to the accounts. You said yourself that Naomi needs round-the-clock care. I can’t hire a nurse if I can’t pay her. The employees at the museum haven’t been paid, and although I’ve been able to put household supplies on account, eventually the accounts will have to be settled.”

  Stella turned to David, relieved to see understanding in his face. David’s brown eyes looked sympathetic behind his glasses and Stella suddenly crumpled. She’d held it together since Max’s disappearance, but now hot tears ran down her face as she leaned her head against David’s shoulder. He put his arm around her and handed her his handkerchief, allowing her a moment to cry.

  “Stella, you know what must be done,” he said quietly.

  “Oh, David, how can I? Do you know what that would mean?” Stella exclaimed.

  “Yes, I do, but you have no choice. Your secret must come out; you’ve kept it long enough.” David took Stella by the shoulders and turned her toward him, his face stern. “Stella, you have been silent for years, have even lied to your own son, but you can’t do so any longer. Max has been gone for nearly two months, which means that he’s most likely dead. He is the last of the Everlys, and the estate will go to some distant relation. Your son is Max’s half-brother. It’s his birthright to claim the Everly estate and the title. We no longer live in the Middle Ages; illegitimacy can no longer prevent a person from inheriting what’s rightfully theirs. Now is the time to act.”

  Stella shook her head, her eyes downcast. “I’m so ashamed, David. How do I tell Naomi after all these years that I had a relationship with her husband and that Simon is his son? She’d always believed that Simon was the product of a short-lived reconciliation with my husband. She’s trusted me, relied on me, and confided in me. How do I tell her when she’s incapacitated and weak that I’d lied to her all this time?”

  “Stella, Naomi Everly is many things, but stupid isn’t one of them. She’s known that her husband had been unfaithful to her practically from the start. She’d seen him with other women. Roland Everly was not a man who was ever content with only one woman. He’d slowed down in his later years, but, as you know, there was always someone. I wouldn’t be surprised if another child materialized now that Max is missing. You must tell Simon the truth and have him fight for his inheritance. He deserves it. You deserve it. You’d been Roland’s mistress for twenty years, and what had he ever done for you? He used you under his wife’s nose, made promises, all the while treating you like a servant and making no move to acknowledge his son.”

  David Lomax had never liked Roland Everly. Roland had been an entitled, over-privileged prat, much like his son. As the family doctor, David couldn’t allow his feelings to show, but Roland was dead, and Max was most likely as well, so he could permit himself an opinion. Dr. Lomax could honestly say that he loved his wife and enjoyed a happy marriage, but there was just that little part of him which had always carried a torch for Stella and wanted to see her happy. Stella had married in her late twenties and divorced her husband soon after, possibly because of her feelings for Roland, who took her for granted and gave her a lot less than she ever gave him. It was time for Stella to fight for her rights, and those of her son.

  “Roland paid for Simon’s education and bought him his flat in London. Simon always believe
d that the money had come from my ex-husband, who died when Simon was ten. I told him his father had left a trust fund for him. Now he’ll know that I lied to him his whole life.”

  “You still have time to make amends to Simon, and Naomi doesn’t have to know. Simon is an investment banker; he’ll know what to do to access the accounts if he can prove that he’s next of kin. You have his birth certificate, do you not?”

  Stella nodded. She’d entered Roland Everly’s name on the birth certificate just in case she ever needed to prove that Simon was his son. Now the time had come. Simon was nearly twenty-five; he had a right to know the truth.

  “Stella, Naomi needs to go into a nursing home. You can’t care for her yourself; it’s too much. She need never find out that Simon is her husband’s son. To be honest, I don’t think she has long. She might not live to see Christmas.”

  “And what if Max comes back?” Stella asked, still looking for reasons to keep her secret. After all, the body was never found, and according to Detective Inspector Knowles, there was absolutely no evidence of foul play. What would happen if Max returned to find the housekeeper’s son playing the lord of the manor?

  David gave her a searching look, his answer clear. “Call Simon, Stella. It’s time.”

  October 1685

  London, England

  Chapter 37

  We arrived back in London a few days later to find the city abuzz with the news that the date for the trial had been set. Judging from the snatches of conversation and comments in the taproom of the inn, public opinion was wholeheartedly against the accused. No one truly believed that the man held in the Tower was anyone other than Hugo Everly, the common folk having already cast themselves in the role of judge and jury.

  “’Tis no use pretending to be mad, is there?” one particularly loud patron exclaimed, holding his audience rapt with attention. “Not like it will save you from the gallows. He was mad, if you ask me, to side with that traitorous cur Monmouth, but he got his just desserts, as will this over-privileged lordling. And they should go for the ultimate penalty, shouldn’t they?” he demanded of his audience. “No beheading like they did for Monmouth, gruesome as it might have been. I actually did feel a twinge of pity for him for a brief moment there, but he’d asked for it, hadn’t he, that upstart bastard? No, I say, give him the highest punishment in all the land— drawing and quartering for the traitor Everly. And publicly, too. We, the people of London, deserve to see justice done.” The crowd roared in approval as Hugo calmly drained his tankard.

  “We the people of London are bloodthirsty and short of entertainment,” Hugo intoned, “and we won’t be denied a nice, bloody execution, not if we can help it.”

  Hugo was going for humor, but I could hear the bitterness in his voice. No human being could remain aloof when total strangers were crying for his blood. After his encounter with Jane, Hugo was close to the breaking point, and although he put on a brave face for my sake, I knew that he was just barely holding it together.

  “Shh, they’ll hear you,” Archie hissed at Hugo, suddenly afraid for him.

  “No, they won’t. They are so in thrall of their own sense of judicious righteousness that they wouldn’t hear a volcanic eruption, much less one man mouthing off at the next table.”

  Hugo was livid, his color high as he rose from the table and pulled me to my feet. “Time to retire, I think. I’ve heard quite enough.” I meekly followed him to our room. I got undressed and climbed into bed, but Hugo made no move to take off his boots or coat. He just stood with his hands behind his back, staring out the window at the darkened silhouette of the Tower where Max was awaiting his fate.

  “Aren’t you coming to bed?” I asked.

  “Not just yet. I couldn’t possibly sleep,” he replied without turning around. A soft knock on the door finally forced him to stir. Archie didn’t bother to come in, but handed Hugo a bottle of brandy and left to find his own bed. I sighed and turned away, leaving Hugo to find oblivion in the only way he knew how. He needed something to numb him in order to allow him to get some rest. Ordinarily, I would have objected, but tonight I could understand. Hugo wasn’t just upset for himself; he was thinking about Max. The more people believed that he was truly Hugo, the more dire things looked.

  I had to admit that I hadn’t given Max all that much thought this past week. Hugo and I had been back in the seventeenth-century for only six weeks, but it felt more like six months. So much had happened in such a short time that I was on sensory overload, unable to process all the feelings that were threatening to engulf me. At the moment, I was still consumed with thoughts of Frances. I knew I hadn’t had much of a choice given our circumstances, but still felt awful for leaving her the way I had. She needed me, and I left her, alone and bereft to cope with her loss. I knew the sisters would be kind to her, but she didn’t need religious dogma; she needed a friend.

  And, of course, there was Hugo. Hugo, being a man of his time, was not someone who liked to burden me with his fears; he believed it his duty to protect me and keep me from the worst of it, but I knew that his meeting with Jane had virtually destroyed him. He didn’t speak of it, but he didn’t need to. The pain in his eyes was so raw that it broke my heart. Whatever Jane had said to him had been bad enough, but selling Jemmy to a brothel was monstrous.

  Then again, compared to the fate she had in store for me, I should probably think her generous of spirit, especially if she believed Jem to be Hugo’s son. I suppose Hugo could accept Jane’s ire against himself, but her vicious treatment of me and Jemmy left him shattered. The search for Jem would commence tomorrow with Hugo and Archie visiting brothels and asking for information. I hoped that they could at least pick up a trail.

  I tried to sleep, but couldn’t seem to settle down, even after Hugo finally came to bed and drifted off, his arm protectively around my middle, his breath saturated with alcohol. My whole body vibrated with terrible anxiety, and I lay awake until the small hours, trying in vain to convince myself that somehow this would all work out.

  Chapter 38

  Max stared with dismay at the hunk of boiled beef and turnips on his plate, feeling his stomach clench in protest. He was grateful for the better fare, to be sure, but his guts were in an uproar from the harsh food and lack of exercise. He hadn’t been outside in nearly six weeks, the only fresh air coming in through the leaky windows. It was getting cold at night. He probably wouldn’t have noticed had he been able to sleep. The past week brought news of the trial, which was to take place on October 30th. At first, Max felt a twinge of relief at finally being able to state his case. He felt confident of the outcome. Gideon Warburton had worked hard on his behalf, rounding up reliable witnesses, procuring evidence, and researching cases which might have a bearing on Max’s situation.

  But, in the dead of night when the prison was quiet, and Max fancied he heard the cries of other inmates, he wasn’t so sure. He tried to tell himself that since the trial hadn’t been rushed, and the lawyer had been given ample time to find evidence was a good sign; a sign of the judge’s willingness to entertain the notion that he really was who he said he was, but fear niggled at him in the dark. He had no home, no family, and no identity in this time, so no one could verify his claims. Whoever his mysterious benefactor was probably had his own agenda, an agenda that could only involve the apprehension of the real Hugo Everly. For what would be the point of proving Max’s innocence if not to see the real traitor brought to justice?

  Max had never been a particularly religious man. He’d attended services with his mother, whom he tried not to think of for fear of completely breaking down and flubbing like a child, but he’d begun to pray during the last weeks. In a place like this, in a position of complete helplessness, there was nothing but God, nothing but faith — something that had eluded him all his life. He prayed every night as he lay awake, straining to hear some phantom response from the Lord, hoping that his fervent begging didn’t go completely ignored. He’d been taught to believe that G
od was loving and forgiving, an omnipotent being who saw into men’s hearts and offered no judgment to those willing to repent. And Max had repented. He’d prayed for forgiveness of his sins, his vanity, his ambition, but most of all, his attempt on Hugo’s life. It had been a moment of insanity, an isolated incident of a man driven to protect what was his. Perhaps he’d overreacted, but surely God would know that. He was so sorry, so very sorry for the lapse in judgment.

  But tonight, Max intoned a different prayer. Over the past week, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had happened to his mother. He had no way of knowing that what he was imagining was grounded in reality, but he’d learned not to ignore his instincts. His mother needed him, and he wasn’t there. Max sank to his knees and began to pray, as a brazen mouse scurried to his forgotten dinner plate and began to nibble on the meat, thankful for the bounty.

  Chapter 39

  Liza made her way from room to room, emptying chamber pots into a large bucket. This was the absolute worst part of her job; worse even than washing the rags that the girls used during their monthly flow and to clean themselves between clients. She’d emptied plenty of chamber pots in her day, but not after twenty whores and their customers. The stink was unbearable as the bucket slowly filled up.

  Most of the girls were still abed, but they were so exhausted by the night’s work that they barely noticed Liza’s presence. They were sprawled on their beds, their faces puffy from drink and smeared with traces of rouge. In the garish light of day, they looked blowsy and grubby, their faces appearing much older than their true age. Liza couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. Most of them would be replaced by younger girls within a few years, and forced to move on to seedier establishments where the clientele was of lower class and the fee they’d command be halved, their earnings meager.