Sins of Omission

by Irina Shapiro

  **

  The church clock struck midnight by the time Simon finally set aside the notebook and stared off into space. It had been a fascinating account, a work of fiction better than some bestsellers he’d recently read. He’d heard of the author, of course; heard the story of his disappearance and subsequent “rest” at an asylum for the mentally disturbed. Simon had never cared much about what happened to Henry Everly, but hearing his voice in the narrative made him real, and surprisingly sane. Simon replaced the notebook in the drawer, shut off the lights, and went up to bed. He was bone-tired, and his eyes burned from lack of sleep. The night before he’d gone to a stag party, one that Heather wouldn’t want to hear about given the “friendly” nature of the Eastern European stripper. Simon had not partaken, but his friends had and seemed to enjoy the experience. If anyone ever mentioned anything, Heather would never believe that he was innocent, when, in fact, he was.

  Simon undressed, brushed his teeth, and climbed into bed, ready to sleep, but his brain was going full speed despite all his attempts at slumber. Henry’s voice was still speaking in Simon’s head, his teenage observations surprisingly poignant and honest. The boy must have had a very active imagination to come up with such a tale, or…

  Despite Simon’s love of science fiction and fantasy, the idea of time travel had never entered his mind. It was the stuff of romance; an entertaining diversion so frequently relied on in films and novels to capture the imagination. Sure, he’d seen every episode of Doctor Who at least half a dozen times, but that was just fun. Simon flipped onto his back and threw off the covers, suddenly hot. His thoughts were taking a ridiculous turn, but once he opened that door a crack, it had blown wide open. Max had gone without a trace. There was no sign of a struggle, no witnesses, and no body. His car had been in the drive, his wallet on the bedside table. There had been no internet, mobile, or banking activity since the day of his disappearance, so where was he? Surely, if he were dead, his body would have been discovered by now unless he’d been abducted by aliens, which was an interesting theory as well, to be analyzed at a later date.

  Of course, no one in their right mind would ever suggest that Max had traveled through time, but there was Henry’s journal, Max’s unexplained absence, and the bizarre disappearance of that woman -– what was her name -– Neve Ashley. She had vanished under much the same circumstances, and then showed up a few months later in the company of what his mother claimed was the twin of Max’s seventeenth-century counterpart. So where was Neve Ashley now? Perhaps he could speak to her, have her tell him that he was barking mad and put an end to this ridiculous speculation.

  Simon suddenly sat up in bed, having been struck by a thought. If Max had indeed traveled through time, he might have done something to alter the course of history, and in this wonderful day and age of the internet, Simon might even be able to find his footprint. It was a longshot, but he had to try, or he’d never get any rest. Simon booted up his laptop and entered a search for Maximillian Everly.

  Pages and pages of relevant hits popped up, most of them dealing with Max’s disappearance, and before that, his political aspirations. Simon scrolled through all of them, his hopes dwindling. There didn’t seem to be anything of interest. He was just about to check his Facebook page since he was up anyway, when an entry at the bottom of the umpteenth page caught his eye. He clicked on the link and was brought to some middling historian’s blog, discussing the aftermath of the Monmouth Rebellion. The man went on and on. God, he could have bored for England if there were such a category in the Olympics, but a paragraph at the end was gold. It read:

  “The last conspirator of James Crofts, the Duke of Monmouth, Lord Hugo Everly, was tried in October of 1685, having eluded authorities until then. The fascinating thing about this particular case was that up until the very end, the accused claimed his arrest to be a case of mistaken identity, swearing on the Bible that he was Maximillian Everly rather than Lord Hugo Everly, for whom the warrant had been issued. Perhaps it was simply a gambit for freedom, but the accused had legal representation, which was virtually unheard of at the time, and actual physical evidence presented to the court meant to disprove that he was Hugo Everly.

  George Jeffreys, who presided over the trial, dismissed the evidence out of hand, and sentenced the man to death by beheading, which was commuted to deportation to the West Indies. Presumably, a sizeable bribe helped him see a way to being merciful, but the unfortunate Maximillian/Hugo Everly died shortly after arriving in Barbados, possibly of yellow fever.”

  Simon stared at the paragraph in awe. Was this a coincidence? There could have been other Maximillians along the line, but he’d never heard of one. Was this actual proof that Max had gone back in time and been arrested in lieu of his ancestor? He did bear a striking resemblance to Hugo Everly. Did this mean that Max was dead?

  Simon felt the hot sting of tears behind his eyelids. He’d grown up idolizing Max, had worshipped him as an older brother, only to find out that Max was his older brother. If the blog entry was correct, then Max had been dead for centuries, but was there anything Simon could do to help him? Was there a way to prevent the injustice which had claimed Max’s life? Simon gave up the idea of sleep and padded downstairs. He needed a sandwich and a cup of tea before he began to tackle this insane idea.

  November 1686

  Rouen, France

  Chapter 63

  I snuggled against Hugo, lost in that shadowy world between wakefulness and sleep as a blissful peace settled over me. Valentine, who was now thankfully sleeping through the night, was warm and snug in her cradle, Hugo was fully recovered and stretched out next to me, and Frances was just down the corridor, still unwed, but secure in Archie’s love and happy for the very first time in her life.

  We’d been living in a sprawling farmhouse a few miles outside of Rouen since we left Paris last June, and I had to admit that I had never been happier. The constant worry, intrigue, and uncertainty had been replaced by safety, a comforting routine, and the feeling of serenity. Hugo had chosen Rouen because of its proximity to the port of Le Havre, and we had all the benefits of living close to a large city without actually being a part of it.

  There was a moment each morning when we remembered that Jem was gone, and wouldn’t be sitting in the kitchen, swinging his feet to and fro as he stuffed his face with whatever was on offer. Saying goodbye had been one of the hardest things we had to do, but Hugo had solemnly promised that we would see Jem as soon as we returned to England, and I knew that promise would be kept, no matter the cost. The knowledge that Jem left willingly went a long way toward making us feel better. Once he’d gotten over his reservations, Jem had grown fond of his father, and the notion of becoming a gentleman and a landowner didn’t displease him too much either. He’d gone to a better life and a more promising future, and that was all we needed to know for now to deal with our grief at losing him.

  Leaving Paris had helped me find peace and contentment. For the first time in our married life, Hugo and I weren’t hiding, running, or scheming. Our life now was simple, and beautiful, but Hugo was restless, and I knew the idyll wouldn’t last. In exactly two years, the winds of change would sweep through England as the Glorious Revolution dethroned James and put William and Mary on the throne, starting a new dynasty and altering the future of England forever. Hugo would finally be free to return home, but would have to bend the knee to a Protestant monarch, and live in the knowledge that his dream of religious freedom would not come to fruition during his lifetime. I hoped that he would be able to adjust to this new reality, but there was a part of me that knew Hugo wouldn’t just roost at his country estate and keep out of politics.

  From time to time, I still dreamed of Max, and woke up bathed in cold sweat, crying in terror as I imagined myself in that dark mine, praying for Hugo to come, but knowing that he would be walking into a trap. It saddened me to think that Max died alone, in the dark, and with no one to bury or mourn him, but it was a fate he’d chosen fo
r himself. I couldn’t help remembering what he’d said about the sightless eyes of numerous skulls grinning at the tourists, and shuddered at the thought of Max being one of them. How different his life might have been if he’d never followed me through the passage in the crypt. He might have won that seat in Parliament, and could even have had a family by now, which is something I thought he longed for.

  Hugo slid his hand over my belly as I began to drift off to sleep. He’d noticed that I’d missed my period, and was silently asking me if I might be pregnant again. I wasn’t sure, but I suspected I might be. The idea no longer frightened me as much as before, and the joy we had from Valentine made up for the pain I had endured. I covered his hand with my own before my thoughts turned to dreams.

  Epilogue

  December 25th, 1686

  Paris, France

  The aroma of roast goose filled the house, mingling with the smell of pine and the pleasant scent of burning wood coming from the roaring fireplace. The table was set for Christmas dinner, but the house was silent except for the sounds of activity coming from the kitchen where the cook and the skivvy were putting the finishing touches on the meal. The Benoits would be home from church any minute, their cheeks rosy from the cold and their stomachs growling after the lengthy sermon.

  Max carefully made his way down the stairs, wishing that he could have just remained in his room during the festivities, but Vivienne wouldn’t hear of it. He wasn’t partaking in the spirit of love and forgiveness, although he had every reason to be thankful. Not a night went by that he didn’t revisit that morning in the mine, when Hugo had outsmarted him once again, and left him for dead. Max lay sprawled on the cold, dirt floor of the mine, his blood seeping into the ground as he grew colder and more disoriented. The candles in the lanterns were burning low, and soon they would gutter and die, leaving Max in complete darkness and buried alive. He still wasn’t sure where the last reserve of strength had come from, or how he managed to drag himself up that ladder, but he’d made it back to the road and managed to call for help. The last thing he recalled was giving some farmer the Benoit’s address before passing out from loss of blood.

  Max needed a hospital, but what he got was Vivienne Benoit. She nursed him back to health despite the odds. Max drifted in and out of consciousness for days, but once he finally came around, what he learned was that the bone Hugo used to attack him had perforated his intestine, creating a puncture which refused to heal properly, and leaked gastric fluids into his abdominal cavity. Even now, six months later, he could barely keep down solid foods, and suffered from acute pain any time he ate anything that was difficult to digest, such as meat.

  Max put on a brave face as the Benoits exploded through the door: happy, spiritually uplifted, and ready to eat. He joined them at the table, drooling at the sight of the goose he couldn’t eat, and the wine he couldn’t drink. The cook put a plate of mashed turnips in front of him and a cup of milk to wash them down with. Max lifted his cup in a silent toast as Captain Benoit wished them all a Joyeux Noel. It was Christmas after all, and it was almost the New Year, a year in which Max would heal, and start planning his return to England.

  The End

  Please turn the page for an excerpt from The Queen’s Gambit, Wonderland Series Book 4

  Coming Summer 2016

  Excerpt from The Queen’s Gambit

  December 1688

  Surrey, England

  Chapter 1

  I tried to ignore the manic racing of my heart as the hired carriage drew closer to Cranley. The sky was the deep lilac of a winter twilight, tinged in places with streaks of fuchsia and gold. It must have snowed a few days ago because the countryside was blanketed in a thin layer of white which shimmered in the remaining light and glittered on trees and bushes. A few shy stars and a pale moon had already appeared in the sky, ready to take up reign from the sun that had abdicated for the night. I could see the outline of Everly Manor rising in the distance, its bulk a shadowy blight on the countryside. I stared more intently, willing light to appear in the windows. Hugo had written to Brad advising him of our arrival, and asking him to see to some basic domestic arrangements which would make it easier for us to settle in once we returned, but I saw no evidence of life in the darkened windows or smokeless chimneys.

  When we docked in Portsmouth that morning, we’d decided to go directly to Everly Manor without stopping for the night en route. It would be a long ride for the children, but we were so eager to come home at last that delaying our arrival by even a day seemed like an eternity. We’d been traveling for weeks, and my secret little fantasy had been to have a good meal which wasn’t tack and stringy stew, and then soak in a hot bath before going to sleep in a real bed that wasn’t a hard wooden berth on a boat rolling from side to side as it crossed the heaving Channel in late autumn. I’d have to settle for the no rolling part since there would obviously be no home-cooked meal or a hot bath. Perhaps Brad never got the letter. Hugo sent more than one, knowing that mail was unreliable and letters often went astray, but judging by the dark, silent house, none of them had reached their destination. Another day or two of discomfort wouldn’t kill us, and life at the manor would be humming in no time, but although I was slightly disappointed, nothing could mar the happiness of this day.

  I’d envisioned this moment a thousand times over the past few years, but now that it was finally here, I felt like I would burst with impatience. It had been a difficult journey, partially because we made it so late in the year, and partially because of the children. I’d never imagined how trying it would be to travel with three children under the age of three without the benefit of running water, electricity, disposable nappies, and, most importantly, television and video games to keep them occupied during the long hours of the voyage. Modern-day mothers thought they had it hard, but they’d never traveled by carriage or had been confined to a tiny windowless cabin on a ship in the seventeenth century.

  We had to remain vigilant every moment of the day, making sure that the children never went near the steep steps down to the hold, stayed out of the way of the sailors who weren’t accustomed to having small children underfoot, and never climbed on anything which might elevate them high enough to allow them to tumble over the side. By the time the children were finally rocked to sleep at night by the movement of the ship, we were all exhausted and fell asleep within moments, ready to wake up and do it all again the next day.

  The children in question were now sound asleep, lulled by the motion of the carriage. Valentine was curled up in Archie’s lap; Michael was wedged between myself and Hugo, a little wooden horse that Archie had carved for him still in his hand, and Elena was snoring softly in Hugo’s lap, sleeping deeply at last. She was easily overexcited and slept fitfully ever since we left our house outside Rouen, which often left her cranky and tired. The twins had turned one the day before we left Rouen, but although they had been born less than half an hour apart, couldn’t be more different in personality or development. Michael was a serious child who enjoyed playing quietly and being read to. He was slightly taller than Elena, but weaker of constitution and more easily upset and frightened. Elena, on the other hand, was a little daredevil, who had no fear of anything, and never cried even when she fell and hurt herself. She was a natural leader, and held her own when Valentine tried to boss her around.

  Elena was currently going through a “daddy phase”, and wanted little to do with me. She hardly gave poor Hugo a moment of peace on the voyage, climbing him the way the sailors climbed the rigging. Michael was more content to stay with me where it was safe, and chose Frances as a substitute if I weren’t available. He seemed to be intimidated by Archie, who was a favorite with the girls.

  Valentine, being nearly three, was still nursing her infatuation for Archie. He seemed to be the only one who could talk her ‘round, and despite his often taciturn exterior, he seemed to enjoy the attention. The two of them were practically inseparable, which left Frances feeling a bit left out. She wil
lingly helped out with the children, but they tired her, and she often sought a quiet corner in which to read or just sit and think. She’d been unusually quiet since leaving France, the memories of her life in England weighing her down, as was her fear of some sort of retaliation from her father-in-law.

  Frances had complied with Hugo’s request and waited to marry Archie, but I could understand her fear. As Archie’s wife, she would be his by law to support and protect. As the widow of Lionel Finch, she was still vulnerable and beholden to his family. Gideon Warburton had assured Hugo that he would pursue all legal avenues regarding Frances’s share of the estate, but there had been no word from him in over a year, and Hugo was beginning to question the wisdom of leaving Frances so exposed.

  I was in favor of having Frances and Archie wait, but for reasons of my own. Frances had been severely emotionally and physically traumatized, which, in my opinion, led her straight into the arms of the first man who showed her any affection and kindness. Had Archie responded to her advances, perhaps things would have been different, but Frances nearly died as a result of her vulnerability and misplaced trust, and she needed time to heal. Now, nearly three years after her near-fatal abortion attempt, Frances was finally in a good place. She had matured, gained confidence, and lost some of the fear which shaped her decisions in the past. Receiving financial compensation from the Finches might benefit her in some ways, but it would also complicate her relationship with Archie, which was something Hugo chose not to acknowledge from his practical, masculine perspective. I knew that Frances was anxious about our homecoming, and would have happily remained in France as long as the rest of us remained there with her.