Sins of Omission

by Irina Shapiro

  “I didn’t take too much, so he’ll hardly notice it,” Sabine said, referring to the brandy. Frances didn’t think Lord Everly kept a watchful eye on the brandy supply, but it wouldn’t do to get caught. Sabine poured a cup for Frances and one for herself and sprawled in the comfortable chair by the fire. She raised her cup in a toast to Frances before tossing back the drink and refilling her cup. Frances took a dainty sip. Brandy was meant to be savored, not gulped down, but Sabine wouldn’t know that; she probably never had it before, judging by the look of appreciation on her elfin face. She was remarkably pretty, with thick chestnut hair and eyes that were almost golden, especially in the firelight. Her features were delicate, and her figure trim despite a voracious appetite.

  “I do wish we had some cake,” Sabine complained, but Frances wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t particularly thirsty either, but she usually enjoyed these late-night visits from the maid. Lord Everly likely wouldn’t approve of their friendship, which is why they kept it secret, but it suited them both. Frances genuinely liked Sabine. She wasn’t sullen like Marthe, or shy like Elodie. Sabine was mischievous, chatty, and very well informed for a girl of seventeen. She’d worked hard to become a lady’s maid, and prided herself on her ingenuity and quick wit. Frances harbored a suspicion that Sabine had done something to “assist” in the dismissal of the lady’s maid whose position she had taken up at her previous employer’s, but Sabine didn’t elaborate and Frances didn’t pry. She kept plenty of secrets herself, so Sabine was entitled to hers.

  At fifteen, Frances had learned that the less she divulged, the better, realizing that once something had been said it could never be unsaid, and she preferred to keep her past to herself. She wasn’t looking for a confessor, just a friend to spend a few hours with when she was feeling lonely. The girls usually stayed up well past midnight, talking, laughing, and drinking until it was time for Sabine to retire. She had to get up early to start her day, and it wouldn’t do to look tired or disheveled.

  “I’m not a lady of leisure who gets to sleep till noon, like some people I know,” she teased Frances good-naturedly. Frances finished her drink and held out her cup for more, laughing as Sabine shook the carafe to get the last drops out.

  “Waste not, want not,” she said as she finished her own drink with a sigh of regret. “Oh, I do like this stuff. I tell you, Frances, I was born into the wrong family. If I weren’t, why would I be able to appreciate all the finer things in life like a true lady?” she mused. “If only I could have a life of comfort like you. Why, I would marry an old, wrinkled man if he’d have me, just to be rich and titled, and I wouldn’t complain once. I would feed him, and dress him, and pleasure him, if required, while secretly waiting for him to die and leave me a rich widow.” Sabine sighed dramatically, making Frances laugh. She had no idea what it was like to be trapped in a loveless marriage, but then again, Frances had no idea what it was like to have to work for a living, and know that the best you could ever hope for was to have enough to live on, and maybe a little money put by for old age.

  “Do you chat much with Elodie?” Frances asked carefully, so as not to give herself away. She’d seen Elodie talking to Archie in the kitchen, the young maid blushing prettily as Archie practiced his French on her. Frances told herself over and over that she didn’t care, and it was no business of hers what Archie did, or with whom, but seeing them laughing together had cut like a knife. Archie was always polite and helpful, but their relationship had changed since the night she went to his room. Gone was the friend, companion, and confidante whom Archie had become over the long winter months. They were awkward with each other, and it was all her fault. She’d gambled and lost, and she hadn’t realized how much until Archie was no longer there.

  “Oh, Elodie is such a mouse,” Sabine said, pouting. “We have nothing in common. All she cares about is going to visit her family on her afternoons off. She’s never even had a lover,” Sabine whispered as if she was sharing a scandalous bit of gossip. “Imagine that. Twenty-three years old, and as innocent as the day she was born.”

  “I think she fancies Archie,” Frances mumbled, praying that Sabine would dispute her assumption.

  “Oh, she does. She thinks the sun rises and sets on him, but Archie is not interested in the likes of her.”

  “How can you tell?” Frances asked, intrigued.

  “You can always tell. It’s the way he looks at her, like she’s a piece of furniture. I declare, his eyes have never strayed below her face, and if he desired her they would, and lower. Archie is a dark horse, isn’t he?” Sabine asked, warming up to the subject. “You say you spent a night with him once in England? Did he try anything on? Ooh, I would have let him,” she purred, smiling wickedly. “He does have a certain way about him, even if he is a ginger. Never did care for red-headed men, but I would make an exception for Archie.”

  “No, he didn’t try anything. He was the perfect gentleman,” Frances replied. “And what do you know about having a lover anyway?”

  Sabine smiled like a cat that just got at the cream. “I know plenty. I’m not a baby like you. But you wait and see; getting married will be an eye-opening experience for you, if your husband is a good lover. If not, you’ll spend the rest of your days wondering about what you are missing. Or, you can always take a lover. I would, if I were married to a man who didn’t please me. As a matter of fact, there’s a groom next door who keeps making cow-eyes at me. Perhaps I’ll give him a bit of encouragement, but I would prefer Archie,” Sabine mused, her eyes dreamy as she imagined having a secret love affair. “Wouldn’t it be delicious to have a lover?” she purred.

  “I wouldn’t know; I’ve never had one,” Frances replied, suddenly wishing that Sabine would just leave. She didn’t want to talk about Archie; it upset her. What she wouldn’t give to have Archie’s friendship back. The worst part was that she couldn’t quite understand what had happened between them. He’d rejected her, but then he kissed her so passionately, as if he truly wanted her, and now he treated her as if she were a leper. Had she insulted him somehow? She would ask him, but she couldn’t bear to degrade herself any further. She was lonely without him though. Even Luke hadn’t called on them in nearly two weeks, so she was stuck with Sabine for company.

  “I’m feeling rather tired,” Frances said as she rose from her seat.

  “And what have you done to get tired?” Sabine asked petulantly as she gathered up the carafe and cups and made for the door. “I’ve never known anyone who has it so easy. Well, good night then, your ladyship,” she said, giving Frances an exaggerated bow. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Frances didn’t bother to reply. There was a lump in her throat that prevented her from speaking. She turned away from the closing door, hot tears running down her face. She wasn’t even sure why she was crying, but she felt thoroughly wretched. Archie would have understood, since he knew more about her than anyone besides Lord and Lady Everly, but Archie wasn’t there for her, so she had to deal with her misery alone. Frances climbed into bed, pulled out the book of poems from under her pillow and hugged it to her chest. She knew the poems by heart, so she recited one to herself for comfort. It was On a Certain Lady at Court, by Alexander Pope, the one she thought applied best to herself and Archie.

  I know the thing that's most uncommon;

  (Envy be silent and attend!)

  I know a Reasonable Woman,

  Handsome and witty, yet a Friend.

  Not warp'd by Passion, aw'd by Rumour,

  Not grave thro' Pride, or gay thro' Folly,

  An equal Mixture of good Humour,

  And sensible soft Melancholy.

  `Has she no Faults then (Envy says) Sir?'

  Yes she has one, I must aver:

  When all the World conspires to praise her,

  The Woman's deaf, and does not hear.

  April 1686

  Paris, France

  Chapter 23

  Luke Marsden refolded the letter and tossed it on hi
s desk, then leaned back in his chair and gazed out the window of his study. A gentle April rain was falling from a pewter sky, the air blowing through the open window bringing with it the smell of wet earth and greening grass. The room was chilly and lost in shadow, but Luke didn’t bother to light a candle or poke the fire back into life. Instead, he poured himself a small brandy and resumed his contemplation of the wet garden. Several birds were perched on a still-bare branch and were singing their hearts out despite the miserable weather. Luke supposed that was a fine example of optimism, something he wasn’t feeling at the moment since he had a decision to make; a decision which would change several lives, including that of Hugo Everly. Ordinarily, Luke wouldn’t have been so cautious, but his feelings for Frances complicated matters, since Hugo might not be too pleased with what Luke was about to undertake.

  The letter was from Nicholas Marsden, Luke’s cousin and lifelong best friend. At one time, Hugo and Nicholas had been great friends as well, but Margaret had come between them, as she had between most men. By the time Nicholas had met Margaret in Cranley, her relationship with Hugo was long over, but Hugo was still fond of her since she’d been his first adolescent love. Hugo never spoke of it, but Luke suspected that Margaret had seduced a teenage Hugo and stole his heart for her growing collection. Hugo’s father had threatened Hugo with the whip if he so much as looked at Margaret again, but they’d remained friends, even after she left the manor to go work in the village.

  By the time Nicholas met Margaret, she was nearly eighteen and in full bloom. Luke had to admit that the two of them were better suited than any couple he’d seen before or since, but not for the long term. Nicholas was a man who loved life. Despite the repressive teachings of the Church, he embraced his desires and acted on them whenever possible. Nicholas was the wildest, wittiest, and most adventurous of them all. He and Margaret collided like two celestial beings, ripping each other to shreds emotionally, but making the type of love that few people ever experienced in their lifetime. Their relationship was torrid and volatile, and left them both scarred for life. It would never have lasted had they stayed together, and would have left them bitter and disillusioned once the passion wore off, but their love wasn’t blessed (or cursed) with longevity. It had been like a comet in the sky: unexpected, beautiful, and fleeting.

  Hugo had disapproved when Nicholas took Margaret back to London with him and set her up as his mistress; he knew how it would end, and wanted to protect two people that he cared about, but Nicholas and Margaret just laughed off his concerns and went off into the sunset together, that is until Nicholas’s father chose a bride for him. Tess was a sweet, innocent girl of eighteen, a girl who would make a dutiful wife and a loving mother, but would never be able to give Nicholas what he needed, especially in the bedroom. She would be compliant and obliging, but she would never set him on fire the way Margaret did. Nicholas had confided to Luke once that Margaret liked to play games, games which heightened their sexual pleasure. Margaret often provoked Nicholas into a burning rage, and taunted him until he took a strap to her, which seemed only to inflame her desire, and his. She liked to be tied up as well, and blindfolded, totally surrendering control and allowing Nicholas free rein over her body. No prim maiden would ever let him do that, but Nicholas had to do his duty, and it’s not as if he could ever marry his lover.

  Nicholas swore to Margaret that he didn’t care for Tess, but Margaret flew into a rage and left in the middle of the night, sending Nicholas on a month-long search for her, which ended with him finding her in a brothel purely by accident. Seeing her with other men had cooled his ardor, but Nicholas never quite got over Margaret. He married Tess and resigned himself to being a good husband, and might have succeeded, had the poor girl not died in childbirth less than a year after the marriage, the baby with her.

  Nicholas grieved for his wife and son longer than anyone might have expected, and then eventually married Anne. Anne was better suited to Nicholas in temperament and strength of character. They actually got on well together, finding things in common and slowly building on fondness and mutual respect until something resembling true love began to grow out of mere affection. For the first time in years, Nicholas was content. He’d cut down on his drinking and carousing, gave up gambling, and settled down to making a family and running his estate. Luke was a frequent guest at The Towers in Devon, and had been there when tragedy struck.

  Luke wouldn’t admit this to too many people, but he’d always believed God to be jealous of people’s happiness; probably because joy rarely led people down the path of righteousness. Nothing brought people to church like misery and suffering, but happiness reduced God to a quaint notion that they remembered at Sunday service. It seemed that Nicholas had committed that unforgivable sin of finally finding peace and purpose in his life. It had been a drizzly April morning just like today when Anne had insisted on going out for her morning ride. Nicholas had asked her to reconsider, but she was feeling restless after days of driving rain and needed a bit of air and exercise. The drizzle had finally let up, and the sun was peeking through the clouds, making every raindrop sparkle, and turning the world into a kaleidoscope of light. Luke had offered to accompany Anne, and she gladly accepted, glad of the company. Nicholas had stayed behind to meet with his estate manager regarding some minutiae concerning the tenants.

  Luke could still see Anne galloping in front of him, her unbound dark hair streaming behind her as the sunlight dappled her face and drops of moisture rained from the branches overhead. Anne laughed as she spurred her horse on to go faster. She wanted to jump a hedge up ahead. Luke could still see it all in his mind. It happened in slow motion again and again; the accident that he might have prevented had he insisted that she slow down. Although, knowing Anne, she probably wouldn’t have listened to him anyway.

  Anne had approached the hedge at great speed, and her horse jumped, the hooves flying over the top of the branches and landing gracefully on the other side. Luke was just about to call out his praise when he saw the horse falter and heard Anne scream as the horse’s hooves slipped in the mud on the other side of the hedge, and the horse fell hard, coming down on top of Anne, who’d been riding side-saddle. It had taken Luke nearly an hour to get back with help since Anne couldn’t possibly ride back with him. Nicholas and the estate agent had come back with a wagon and gently lifted Anne onto the bed. Luke could still hear her desperate screams. She survived, but her pelvic bone had been broken when the horse’s weight came down on her. Anne eventually learned how to walk again with the aid of two walking sticks, but she could never bear children, something that ate at her every single day until the spirited, lively woman became nothing more than a mere shell of her former self. Now, twelve years later, she was still an invalid, and a constant reminder to her husband of what could never be.

  It wasn’t until Luke saw Jem in December that the idea took root, but he needed to make sure he wasn’t seeing something that wasn’t really there. He’d written to his cousin, asking as tactfully as he could if Nicholas had ever taken a mistress since Anne’s accident, and if there might have been an encounter with Margaret. In his youth, Nicholas might have boasted of his conquests, but not today. He’d become reticent and more religious; a sure sign that he was in pain.

  Luke reached for the letter again and re-read the two sentences which made all the difference.

  “I don’t know what possible difference it can make now, since Margaret is long gone, but yes, I did see her in November of 1676. I thought that finding Margaret again might relieve some of the pain, but this wasn’t the same girl whom I’d fallen in love with, nor was I the same man.”

  November 1676. Nine months before Jem was born. Luke had seen traces of his cousin in the boy’s face long before he knew that Margaret had been his mother, but now he was sure. Jem wasn’t Hugo’s son as everyone mistakenly assumed, he was Nick’s; the only son he was ever likely to have unless Anne died and Nicholas married again, which was unlikely.

 
; So, now he had two choices. He could keep silent and let sleeping dogs lie, or he could reunite the boy with his father and transform him from a bastard into an heir to a profitable estate, and in the process tear Jem from a family he loved, separate Hugo from his foster son, and most of all, break Anne’s heart all over again. Of course, in due time Jem would adjust, and Hugo would surely want what’s best for the boy, but would Anne ever forgive him for foisting another woman’s bastard on her and watch as her husband fell in love, for anyone who met Jem was bound to love him, Luke thought.

  Luke ran his hand through his hair and finished his brandy. He’d have to talk to Hugo before replying to Nick, but his mind was made up. Nicholas had a right to know about his son, especially since he’d truly loved Margaret and would have married her had she not been a penniless washerwoman. Thinking of marrying for love brought him back to thoughts of Frances. She was sweet and charming toward him, but he’d seen very little change in her attitude since he’d spoken to Hugo of marriage. Perhaps it was time he went directly to the source.

  April 1686

  Barbados, West Indies

  Chapter 24

  Max turned over irritably in an effort to get more comfortable, but couldn’t get back to sleep. He was tired, and his back throbbed painfully, but the stifling, stale air in the hut and the snoring of twenty sleeping men were enough to raise the dead. He gave up on sleep for the time being, and ventured outside where he sat down on the stoop and gazed up at the star-strewn sky. The air was balmy and warm, the tang of the sea just discernable if one breathed deeply. What he wouldn’t give for a swim. It hadn’t rained since that last storm, and Max felt dirty, smelly, and hot. He’d broken out in some sort of rash all over his body, likely caused by lack of hygiene, and his beard and hair were crawling with lice. He scratched absentmindedly as he leaned against the doorframe of the hut.