“Thank you, Archie,” Hugo said emotionally as he clapped Archie on the shoulder.
“It was nothing; just don’t expect me to do it again,” he replied with a smile. “I might never recover.”
Chapter 8
Hugo removed his bloodstained shirt, wadded it into a ball, and threw it into the corner to be rescued by one of the maids tomorrow. Right now, he couldn’t think about practicalities. Elodie had finally gone, taking with her a pile of bloodied linens and rags that she’d used to clean up the afterbirth. Neve was asleep in the big bed, her face flushed and her forehead covered with perspiration. Her hair clung to her face, and there were dark smudges beneath her eyes, but to Hugo she’d never looked as beautiful as she did at that moment. He picked up the candle and walked closer to the bed to make sure she was sleeping peacefully. Hugo touched his hand to her forehead. She was warm, but not too hot, praise God. Frances said that she’d also felt fevered when the milk first began to come in, so this was normal.
Hugo left Neve to sleep and turned to the baby who was lying in a cot they’d found a few weeks ago in one of the attic bedrooms. It was lined with fresh linens, and the little girl who was swaddled tightly in a soft blanket was sleeping soundly. Now that no one was around, Hugo could finally drop the façade of calm and allow himself a moment of pure panic. He’d never expected to find Neve in labor when he came home tonight, and her screams terrified him as he ran up the stairs and into their bedroom. The baby was a few weeks early, but the fact that Doctor Durant was not in attendance was what frightened Hugo more. Doctor Durant was the most respected accoucheur in Paris, but that meant little if he couldn’t attend the birth. Hugo supposed it might have been worse had the doctor managed to attend and brought an infection with him which might have carried off both mother and child. Thank God for Archie and his quick thinking. Hugo had no doubt that had he and Frances not returned home in time, Archie would have managed to deliver the baby in the quiet, competent way he did everything.
Hugo returned to his chair by the fire and rested his head in his hands. He’d heard women in labor, but had never been present during a birth. His mind could hardly accept that a human being went through such unspeakable suffering to bring a child into the world. Neve’s agony had been indescribable, and he’d momentarily frozen, unable to think of what to do. Thank God for Frances, who seemed to know more than him, having given birth only a few months ago. Hugo had a new respect for the girl when he realized that she’d gone through the same torture only to lose her child in less than a day. How painful it must have been for her to see their baby and know that her Gabriel was lost to her forever, his grave miles away at a secret convent in the woods.
Hugo hadn’t realized that he was crying, but hot tears snaked down his cheeks. He wiped them away, angry with himself for being weak, but his heart thumped painfully, reminding him with every thud just how close he’d come to losing both Neve and the baby tonight, just as he nearly lost them less than six months ago when Neve had been carted off to Newgate Prison. He suddenly felt utterly exhausted and emotionally drained. Was there never going to be a time when everyone was just safe? Even now, anything could still happen. Countless babies died every day, as did their mothers who developed fevers and infections after the birth. He had to find a physician come morning and make sure that everything was progressing normally.
The baby began to fuss, making noises of discontent, and turning her head from side to side, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. Her eyes flew open as Hugo bent over the cot, gazing at her father in the dim light of the bedroom. Hugo carefully scooped up the child, remembering to support the head, and held her against him. Father and daughter stared at each other for a moment before Valentine filled her tiny lungs with air and let out a cry of protest. She kicked her legs and managed to work her arms out of the swaddling, shaking her little fists. Hugo held her tighter, suddenly afraid of dropping the infant. Were they all so feisty within hours of being born?
“Give her to me,” Neve called from the bed. “I think she must be hungry.”
Hugo eagerly surrendered the writhing, squirming bundle and watched as Neve put the baby to her breast. Valentine instantly quieted and began to suck, her cheeks puffing out like those of a chipmunk. Her eyes were closed in concentration, but she seemed to be content for the moment. Neve grimaced as the baby latched on, but bit back her gasp of pain.
“It hurts?” Hugo asked, surprised. Nursing was so natural, yet Neve seemed to be squirming as well.
“My nipples are tender,” she replied, “and she’s gumming them very hard. It’s painful.”
“I’m sorry you suffered so,” Hugo said as he brushed back a curl of Neve’s golden hair. “I would have gladly taken your pain if I could.”
“And I would have gladly given it to you,” Neve replied with a chuckle. “I don’t know how some women do this again and again. I felt as if I were being torn apart. Don’t ever touch me again,” Neve said with mock seriousness. “Well, at least not for a year or so.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to without remembering what I’d put you through,” Hugo replied.
“How is Frances? Is she all right?” Neve asked as she shifted the baby to the other breast.
“Frances was wonderful, actually. She made quite an impression at Luke’s soiree. There wasn’t a man there who was immune to her charms. Luke got quite territorial; he hardly left her side.”
“And what did Frances think of that?”
“She was gracious, but I think she was glad to leave. She’d never attended this kind of gathering before and felt quite overwhelmed by all the attention.”
“I hope you didn’t hover over her shoulder the entire evening, scaring away eager young men,” Neve said with a raised eyebrow. She knew him too well.
“No, I spent the evening indulging in mindless chatter, false flattery, and vicious gossip. I was on my best behavior,” Hugo replied with an impish grin. “But when it’s time for Valentine to be introduced into society, I will be armed to the teeth and ready to challenge any man who so much as looks at her.”
“Oh, God,” Neve moaned, “don’t even talk to me about marrying her off. She’s two hours old; let me enjoy her before you start playing the overprotective papa who’s plotting an advantageous match.”
Hugo just laughed joyfully. He was suddenly unbearably happy. Neve seemed to be feeling much stronger, and the baby was sucking vigorously, ravenous after her ordeal. She seemed robust, which was all he could ask for at this moment.
Chapter 9
The church clock chimed two a.m., but Frances couldn’t get to sleep. She pushed aside the bed hangings and threw open the shutters, watching as thick flakes of snow fell from a strangely colorless sky onto the rooftops just visible from her window. The night was eerily quiet, only the chimes of the clock disturbing the deep peace that had settled onto the city as it often did when it snowed. Tonight had been a surprise on many counts, and she’d experienced feelings that were foreign to her, having spent most of her young life shut away from society.
Normally, she felt sorrow and pain, but never joy. The gathering at Luke Marsden’s house had been a glittering affair with beautifully attired guests, delicious tidbits passed around by liveried servants, and a singer whose sublime voice transported Frances to an unfamiliar emotional plane. She had no idea what the woman was singing about, but her throaty voice carried Frances off to another place, a place where anything was possible, and a heart could soar to the heavens, freed of its constraints. She hadn’t realized that she was crying until Luke gently wiped her tears away with his handkerchief. He reached out and took her gloved hand, planting a feather-light kiss on the inch of exposed wrist as his eyes caressed hers. Frances smiled at the memory of Hugo’s indignant scowl, but he hadn’t said a word and allowed Luke to woo her, which was surprising.
Frances supposed that it was natural for Lord Everly to wish her to wed. After all, she wasn’t his kin, and he had no obli
gation to her past whatever he chose to accept. He wouldn’t force her, she was sure of that, but he wanted her future assured. So did she. Of course, marriage was the only way forward for someone like her, but she wouldn’t enter into anything without being sure of her intended’s character; not after Lionel. Was Hugo steering her toward Luke Marsden? she wondered. His endorsement would mean the world to her since Hugo Everly was the one man she trusted implicitly; him and Archie.
Frances closed her eyes and pictured Luke’s face. He’d been elaborately coifed and attired for his soiree, but no amount of rice powder or rouge could disguise his masculinity. Luke was an impressive man, with eyes that were like bits of melted chocolate, warm and inviting. Beneath his wig, he wore his hair cut short, and it was a dark blond, streaked with gold from time spent outdoors. His touch had been gentle, as if she were a porcelain doll that he was afraid to break. Luke was wealthy and well-connected due to his position. Did he really wish to court her, or were his overtures just the opening act in a game of seduction intended to make her his mistress?
Lord Everly would never approve of that, Frances thought. If Luke was paying court to her, it had to be with honorable intentions. The thought of marrying again made good sense, but the reality of what it entailed made Frances shake with nerves. The memory of Lionel was still fresh, her skin recoiling from any contact that hinted at pain. How could she possibly consent to be any man’s wife when she couldn’t bear the thought of being touched? What if a man who appeared to be gentle dropped the mask as soon as they were wed and subjected her to the same humiliation and brutality that Lionel had?
Frances had been pondering all these things when they arrived at home only to hear the heartrending screams coming from upstairs. She had been galvanized into action, desperate to help Neve, but seeing that sweet baby nearly tore her heart to pieces. She wanted to hold it and pretend for just a moment that it was her Gabriel, but instead she turned away and allowed Neve and Hugo their moment of parental joy. They deserve this baby a lot more than I deserved Gabriel, she thought bitterly. Valentine had been created in love and joy, while Gabriel had been a product of violence and fear, a child of hatred, not meant to thrive. But he had been so beautiful, so innocent, and so vulnerable. Surely there had been some measure of redemption in his birth, which had ended in further heartbreak. No physical pain that Lionel had inflicted on Frances hurt as much as holding her lifeless son in her arms, knowing that he was gone from her forever, and that in time, she would forget his face and the way he smelled, the weight of him in her arms, and the joy she felt for one fleeting moment in time.
She would like another baby eventually, but getting with child involved bedding, the thought of which made her heart skip a beat with anxiety. Frances flopped onto her stomach and hugged the pillow. What was it like to feel desire and freely give yourself to a man? She’d noticed the glances exchanged between Hugo and Neve, had seen him kiss her, and her melt into him as he pulled her closer. She trusted him completely, and he accepted her trust and made himself worthy of it. Neve wanted Hugo’s baby, and had not felt the soul-crushing resentment that Frances had endured while carrying a child of the man she’d despised. She thought she’d despise the baby as well, but oh, what a surprise he had been. When she got with child again, she wanted it to be with a man she loved and trusted, a man who cherished her the way Hugo cherished Neve.
Of course, there was one man Frances trusted, and that was Archie. Frances rolled onto her back and threw off the covers, suddenly hot. Archie. He was her friend, her protector, and her guard, per Hugo’s instructions. An idea began to form in Frances’s mind as she considered her future. It was several hours before she was finally able to sleep, but the terrible restlessness had subsided, and by the time her eyes finally closed there was a secret little smile on her face.
February 1686
Barbados, West Indies
Chapter 10
The sound of dirt hitting the plain wooden coffin echoed in Max’s memory as he mindlessly cut the cane. His back burned with tension, and the cotton shirt he’d been issued was plastered to his back with sweat, but it was still hours until quitting time. They’d started an hour later this morning, having been herded to the low building that served as a chapel. Djimon, the boy who’d been flogged last week, had died the day before and a brief funeral was held, followed by burial in the adjacent graveyard. Djimon’s relations stood together, hands held, as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Johansson stated that Djimon died of an illness, but everyone knew the truth. He’d died of infection following the flogging. Max thought it might have been sepsis, but he was no doctor. The boy’s mother had applied some kind of salve to the wounds, but Lord only knew what it contained.
Several women had begun to sing in their native tongue, the tune mournful and eerie in the silence of the morning. Johansson ordered them all to work as soon as the first shovelful of dirt hit the coffin, but the pall remained as the crowd dispersed. Dido had stood next to the boy’s mother, her green eyes narrowed in anger and grief; the color accentuated by the green streaks in her yellow and orange turban. She’d stared at him again, one eyebrow raised in an unspoken challenge. What was it she’d been thinking as her eyes met his? She was a beautiful, proud woman, not meek and frightened like the rest of the female slaves. The one word that Max would use to describe Dido was “defiant.” He liked that about her, although her demeanor might be the result of certain knowledge that Johansson would protect her. Rumor had it that she was his creature, but somehow Max doubted that; she didn’t seem the type to prostitute herself, at least not willingly. He’d seen Johansson eyeing her speculatively, but it wasn’t a look of possession or even desire, more fear, if Max had to put a name to it. Truth be told, there was something about the woman that inspired trepidation, but unlike most men, Max found that attractive, or at least he would have had he been free to feel.
Max hadn’t felt anything resembling sexual desire since he’d been arrested in Cranley, but when he looked at Dido, he felt faint stirrings of arousal. It felt so odd after all this time that he was almost frightened by the feelings. He preferred to remain numb; that was the only way to survive. He was too exhausted to masturbate, much less actually expend energy on sex, not that it was on offer. He supposed some of the slaves copulated, but there were no white women among the indentures, and the Negro women never interacted with white men.
Max stopped cutting cane for a minute, but remained bent for fear that Johansson would notice that he wasn’t working. He would give his right arm for a pint of cold beer right now, or even a cup of iced water, but the best he could hope for was warm water with dead insects swimming in it. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his hands slick with sweat on his machete as he raised his arm and cut a few more stalks. The machete felt heavy in his hand, the blade glinting in the sunlight as it came down.
There were nearly two hundred workers in the field, all wielding sharp weapons. Strange that no one ever thought to use them to regain their freedom. How easy it would be to butcher the few men who were in charge, Max mused, but the problem wasn’t overpowering the men. The problem was the next step. Killing Johansson and his minions would be easy enough, but the Negro slaves had nowhere to go and would be recaptured by the authorities as soon as they tried to flee, and the indentures had no means of getting back home to Europe unless they burglarized the plantation house and took care of Greene and his family in the process. Still, even with money enough to buy passage home, they’d be executed if caught, so the risk was not worth it. They were trapped here, and so was he. The only way out was to turn the weapon on himself, but Max pushed the idea out of his mind. He wasn’t a coward, nor was he a quitter. He would survive, he swore to himself as he hacked at the cane viciously. He would survive.
February 1686
Paris
Chapter 11
I polished off a plate of eggs, accompanied by fresh bread liberally spread with butter, and a tankard of ale. I’d bee
n starving since giving birth four days ago. It was as if my body turned on itself, devouring every bit of nutrition I was giving it. The doctor Hugo had found assured me that it was normal for a nursing mother to be hungry, and advised me to drink ale since it aided the production of milk. He was a very young man, one who considered himself to be on the cutting edge of medicine. I couldn’t help smiling at his self-assurance and pomp. He carefully examined me and pronounced me to be recovering from the birth admirably. I held my breath as he bent over Valentine.
“I don’t see anything wrong with her,” he proclaimed as he handed the baby back to me with a mild look of revulsion. “You must keep her completely isolated until the baptism to avoid evil spirits,” he advised Hugo, who stood off to the side now that he was allowed back into the room.
“Of course, your wife must lie-in for a minimum of thirty days, and then be churched before re-entering society. She’s considered unclean until then. I’ve no doubt you’ll see to that, milord. It’s regrettable that Doctor Durant could not attend the birth; he’s gravely ill I hear, poor man. I’ve no doubt it’s the result of a curse invoked by one of the witches he’d evicted from assisting during a birth. Your wife and child are that much safer having been delivered from being attended by a midwife. They deal in evil and superstition.”
I nearly gagged at that, considering what the young fool had just said, but rearranged my face into an expression of utmost respect. “These women try to reduce the pain and ease the birth,” he went on, “when it is the Lord’s will that a woman should suffer in childbirth to atone for the sins of Eve.”
“Isn’t it true, Doctor, that one in two women die in childbirth?” I asked, wondering if he believed that to be God’s will.
Sins of Omission Page 6
