“Do you have any other children, Jane?”
“No, Clarence is my one and only,” Jane replied sadly. “I would have liked to have more children.”
I couldn’t help wondering if Jane ever shared her husband’s bed. It was clear that she didn’t love or desire him, and since there were never any other children, it was possible that they never shared any intimacy. Why would Ernest agree to such a union? I wished I could ask, but that would have been crossing the line by a mile. Besides, Jane might have never known the details of the arrangement. It seemed, at least based on my dream, that Hugo had kept his promise and made it possible for Jane to keep her baby, but at what cost? Had this poor girl ever known love? Would she have the opportunity to remarry now that her husband was gone, or was this what her life was going to be – a lonely widow whose son would grow and leave her to live his own life and follow his own dreams?
There was so much I wanted to know about Hugo and Jane, but I’d overstayed my welcome and would never find out what happened to these two. The thought of something awful befalling Hugo in the near future nearly made me sick, but I reminded myself that I couldn’t change history, nor did I have any right to get involved. Whatever Hugo was mixed up in, he’d made his own bed, and he would have to lie in it sooner rather than later. My heart twisted as I recalled that his ‘bed’ was actually a grave, an unmarked one.
My thoughts were interrupted by Jane’s soft voice. I could just see her through the partially open door. She’d settled me in the room next to hers and left the adjoining door slightly ajar in case I needed anything during the night. She was wearing a long white nightdress, just like the one she’d lent me, her hair loose around her shoulders as she sank to her knees and folded her hands in supplication, her face turned up to the invisible heavens. The candlelight played softly over her features, and the gray in her hair wasn’t visible at all, making her appear much like the girl I’d seen in my dream. In my own time, Jane would still be a young woman, at the height of her power and sexuality, but in this day and age she was well past her prime, a woman who had few prospects before her.
Jane was quietly praying, and although I felt like a voyeur, I couldn’t help listening to what she said. She commended her husband’s soul to God and asked him to take care of Clarence before turning her attention to Hugo.
“Dear Lord, please help my brother see sense and stop this madness before it’s too late. You know what he’s involved in with His Grace, the Duke of Monmouth, and it can’t possibly end well. He thinks he knows what he’s about, but I fear he’s in mortal danger. Please, spare him; he’s the only family I have, besides Clarence, and I couldn’t bear to lose him.
E nomini patri, et Fili e spiritu sancti. Amen.” Jane crossed herself, kissed her rosary, and rose to her feet with an air of someone who’d just handed off her troubles to someone else.
So, they were secret Catholics, I thought, glad to have at least a piece of the puzzle handed to me. But, my satisfaction was short-lived. I couldn’t remember the intricacies of the political situation in England at this time, but I did know that Monmouth was Protestant, being the eldest illegitimate son of Charles II, and King James was Catholic. Why would Hugo throw in his lot with Protestant Monmouth? Of course, there was much I didn’t know about what they were involved in, but Jane made it sound serious. Mortal danger, she’d said, and she was right. According to family records, something would befall Hugo within two months, possibly much sooner, and Clarence would inherit.
I hadn’t realized I was crying until a tear slid down my temple and into my hair. Hugo was so young and full of life, and Jane was so clearly dependent on him. There was real affection between brother and sister. She’d be heartbroken. I closed my eyes and tried to will myself to get some sleep, but my mind wouldn’t comply, so I spent the rest of the night staring at the darkened canopy above the bed, mourning the loss of people who were still very much alive.
**
As soon as the pearlescent light of impending dawn penetrated the darkness of the room, I got up, dressed, and with my shoes in hand tip-toed to the stairs. My ankle still pained me, but I couldn’t afford to dawdle. I heard movement and the unmistakable sounds of servants about their business in the kitchen, but there was no one on the ground floor. I eased the heavy bolt out of the lock and slipped out the door, closing it softly behind me. I put on my shoes and ran hell for leather toward the church. My ankle throbbed, but I tried to ignore the pain, knowing I had limited time to escape. It was Sunday morning, and I had no idea at what time the church would start to fill up for the service. My head still ached, I was exhausted from my sleepless night and bruised from my fall, but I put discomfort out of my mind, as well as terrible guilt at just running out without saying goodbye or thanking Hugo and Jane for looking after me. I hoped they wouldn’t think too badly of me, but I had no choice. Had I told Hugo I wanted to go to church, he might have insisted on accompanying me and would see me disappear from the crypt. I couldn’t let that happen.
Chapter 10
Hugo woke up with a dull headache. He needed a piss, but his cock was stiff as a board, the remnants of his rather pleasant dream still swirling in his head. He’d dreamed of Neve Ashley. It wasn’t an illicit dream, but rather one of longing and desire, Neve always just out of reach as he tried to take her in his arms. Her eyes were pleading with him to come to her, but she continued to run away, laughing softly and making him burn with a passion he hadn’t felt in some time. He’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be in love, or even in lust. It’d been too long since he’d been with a woman, especially one he actually desired.
Liza shared his bed from time to time, but not since Jane arrived; she wouldn’t approve of him bedding a maid, even a willing one. He wasn’t in the habit of taking servants to his bed, unlike some men he knew whose female servants lived in terror of being molested, but Liza was different. She made no secret of her intentions, and where some masters would have dismissed a servant for such ill-concealed attempts at seduction, Hugo felt that it absolved him of any responsibility toward the girl. If Liza desired him, he’d oblige most willingly, but since the initiative had been hers, he felt no obligation beyond satisfying her and himself. He liked Liza, made sure she was well provided for, and gave her the occasional ribbon and trinket to make her feel appreciated, but no words of affection ever passed his lips. He’d been blind not to realize that the girl was in love with him, but by that point it was too late to turn back. All he could do was be kind to her and make sure she never got with child. He didn’t want to cause her any more suffering than he already had.
Hugo glanced out the window as he got out of bed and promptly swore. “Damn it all to hell,” he muttered as he pulled on his breeches and boots, grabbed his coat and bolted from the room. Neve Ashley had a healthy head start, but she was obviously headed for the church, and he knew a shortcut through the woods. He wouldn’t stop her leaving, but he had to see whom she was meeting, for he was sure she had an assignation. Why else would she go to church at dawn?
Hugo never let Neve out of his sight as he trotted down the overgrown track, cursing himself the whole time for being a trusting fool. He’d managed to arrange his clothing so that he didn’t look as if he’d just come from some woman’s bed, but had forgotten his hat in his haste. No matter, he’d have had to remove it in church in any case, out of respect.
Neve looked back just before she disappeared through the thick stone wall surrounding the churchyard, but Hugo wasn’t far behind. He gave her a few minutes before slipping through the door and looking around the empty church, his head swiveling from side to side. The church was empty. Not even Reverend Snow was about; the man was likely still abed at this hour. Hugo walked around the church, peering into every corner and behind the altar to make sure Neve wasn’t hiding, but there was no one there. He even went down to the crypt, but it was dark and silent. Hugo exited by the side door and spent the next quarter of an hour wandering between the headstones, his
mind refusing to accept that the woman just simply vanished, before heading back home to break his fast.
March 2013
Chapter 11
I burst through the door to the crypt and ran down the steps, making for the passage and closing it behind me just as the wooden door above creaked open, and I heard footsteps on the stair. I had the feeling I was being followed as I ran to the church, but when I looked back I saw nothing but greening fields, whispering woods, and Everly Manor, standing solid and forbidding; its stone walls bathed in the rosy glow of a spring sunrise. I dove behind the knight’s tomb and breathed a sigh of relief to find my bag, clear evidence that I was back in my own time. I took off the gown, pulled on my jeans, sweater and coat, and switched on my phone. Nothing reassured me as much as the electronic ping that informed me of several missed calls, nine text messages, and seventeen notifications from my Facebook page.
“Thank God, thank God, thank God,” I muttered as I made my way up the steps and into the modern church. That’s about the most pious I’d even gotten in a church, but my heart was overflowing with joy, my blood singing with hope for the future. I got back, and I would never, ever, go back again. I’d been foolish in the extreme, but I’d learned my lesson. I stepped into the gentle spring sunshine and inhaled deeply, glad to be alive and exhilarated by my escape. I wasn’t ready to return to the manor, so I went back to retrieve my car, bought a breakfast sandwich and the largest cup of coffee they had to offer and went for a drive through the countryside, blasting the radio and feeling gloriously alive. I wished I could tell Max of my adventure, but he’d simply think I’d lost the plot and call the nearest psychiatric facility.
As I licked the last crumbs from my fingers and finished my coffee, my euphoria began to wear off, my logical mind returning to the passage. Was someone from the seventeenth century able to go through or was I the only one? Since the church hadn’t been modernized yet in their lifetime, was the other exit from the passage even there when someone came down to the crypt? Was it possible that because both exits existed in my own time, I was able to go between the two, but if so, would this apply to any modern person, and has anyone else gone before me? Could it be that both doors lay on a ley line, if there really was one, that passed beneath the church and therefore opened up some wormhole into the past? And why 1685? Of course, there were no answers to any of these questions, so I had to eventually put them aside and turn back toward the manor. It was time to return to real life, answer my calls and emails, and take a much-needed bath. The thought of modern plumbing made me practically giddy.
Tilly the Labrador came bounding up the drive as I got out of my car, her tail wagging in greeting. Her owner was only a few steps behind, not wagging his tail, but smiling from ear to ear as he called out to me.
“How was London?”
“Oh, you know…” I replied with a grin, happy to see a friendly face. It struck me anew how much Max resembled Hugo, but the resemblance ended with facial features. Max looked relaxed and casual in his tweeds, his wellies crunching on the gravel of the driveway as he walked toward me. I tried to picture Hugo Everly dressed in modern togs and failed, allowing him to remain in his courtly dress in realm of recent memory.
“It was awfully quiet without you, even Mummy remarked on it. We’ve gotten used to your endless phone calls, arguments with the director, and tirades from your boss. Don’t ever leave again.” Max said this jokingly, but I saw something in his eyes which made me realize that behind the flirtatious manner was a man who was desperate to be told that he’d been missed as well.
“It’s good to see you, Max -– very good. Were you going for a walk?”
“Care to join us?” he asked as he scratched Tilly behind the ears. I could see that she was getting impatient, her body practically vibrating with the need for exercise.
“I’d love to, but I have some work to do, and I’m desperate for a bath. I’ll meet you for lunch at the pub if you like though, say noon?”
“The pub gets crowded on Sunday afternoons. Everyone has to wet their whistle after church. How about somewhere a little more private? I know a lovely bistro that does an onion soup and foie gras to die for. Interested?”
“Very.” And I was.
“Be ready by noon,” Max called out as he set off at a trot after Tilly.
**
Max never mentioned that the bistro was nearly an hour away, nor that the drive through the countryside would be so scenic. I pushed away my plate, pleasantly sated with good food and fine wine, and smiled at Max.
“Thank you, Max. This was lovely; best Sunday I’ve had in some time.” And it was true. I’d spent the past few months in a fugue of misery, and this outing reminded me of how much I’d missed.
“So, have I won your heart yet?” Max asked conversationally, making me laugh. He was such a flirt.
“You think that all it takes is foie gras and some wine? My heart is worth a little more than that.”
“You’d be surprised what some women will do for foie gras,” Max replied with a raised eyebrow, making me snort with laughter. “I just wine and dine them until they are putty in my hands.”
“And does this technique work?” I asked, thinking that it probably did.
“Oh, every time. They can’t keep their hands off me.”
“Max, are you ever serious?” I asked, smiling at him. He was so easy to be with.
“Not if I can help it. By the way, do you like opera?”
“I do. Is there much opera performed in the village?” I quipped.
“Yes, we do have an annual performance staged by our very own company and I avoid it at all cost, but Tosca is being performed next weekend at the London Coliseum, and I just happen to have two tickets. Would you like to join me?”
“Will more wining and dining be involved?” I asked, patting my stomach meaningfully. “I quite like duck confit as well.”
“Naturally.”
“Then I’m all yours,” I replied, hanging my head in surrender.
“See? Told you it works.”
Max and I left the restaurant in companionable silence, happy to be in each other’s company and acutely aware of the possibilities open to us. I wasn’t ready for a new relationship, but I was ready to start thinking of the future, and I genuinely liked Max. He was so different from Evan, who was always brooding, lamenting, and looking for signs of subterfuge from his colleagues. For all his ambition, Evan was a pessimist, whereas Max seemed to see life through rose-colored glasses, and I liked the view from his end. I certainly didn’t want to lead him up the garden path, so I interjected several comments into the conversation, letting him know that if anything were to develop between us, it would take time and patience on his part. We didn’t discuss it outright, but I felt Max understood and that was enough for now.
Chapter 12
I was still grinning from ear to ear when I finally sat down at my laptop that night. I needed to prepare for tomorrow, and there was a long list of questions and comments from Lawrence Spellman. I made a few notes for myself and was about to log off when thoughts of Hugo overtook my mind. I’d managed to stay distracted for most of the day, but now that I was alone, I couldn’t help but wonder how Hugo and Jane reacted when they found me gone. I still felt awful for deceiving them, and I needed to know more about what the Duke of Monmouth was up to in the spring of 1685. The answer wasn’t difficult to find. Numerous entries for the Monmouth Rebellion popped up in response to my search, and after reading through a few of them, I felt sick to my stomach, my earlier happiness forgotten.
“Oh, Hugo,” I moaned, “what have you done?” The Duke of Monmouth had virtually signed his own death warrant when he took up arms against the king, but I didn’t care about him. He was an ambitious young man who saw his chance and took it. There were many like him throughout history, those whose gambles paid off, and those whose hadn’t. But Hugo was a different story. I don’t know why I felt such sorrow at the thought of his fate, but I knew he
was on the verge of something catastrophic. Maybe I was subconsciously confusing my feelings for Hugo with those for Max, because they were so alike, but I didn’t think that was the case. I closed my laptop and just sat staring at the lid, brooding. There was nothing I could do. Hugo had made his choice, and it had nothing to do with me. Nothing at all.
**
All throughout the following week, I told myself that Hugo’s collision course with destiny wasn’t of any interest to me, but every time I walked through the gallery and saw his dark eyes follow me from the portrait I wanted to run and hide. Had his gaze become more guarded and full of accusation, or was I simply being more fanciful since I’d met the man? He didn’t know his future, but I did. Maybe Hugo truly believed that Monmouth stood a chance of taking the crown from his uncle and supported his cause, but I knew that he was walking – no, running -— toward disaster. Monmouth would pay with his life, but so would Hugo, his body never recovered or given a proper burial, his name all but forgotten by history. Only his sister would keep his memory alive and eventually pass everything to her son, who would be the patriarch of Max’s ancestral line.
“You could warn him,” a little voice said inside my head. It came unbidden but wouldn’t leave, arguing with me for days on end. “All you have to do is go back one more time and tell him what you know. He might not listen to you, but at least your conscience will be clear. You’d have tried to save his life.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I hissed at the insistent voice. “What am I to do, just waltz in there once again and announce that I can foretell the future? That would go over well. I’d be lucky if they didn’t accuse me of witchcraft and burn me on the village green. Forget Hugo.”
I tried, I really tried, but thoughts of Hugo were constantly with me, even when Max and I drove to London the following weekend. I had no idea why I felt so responsible, but the weight of knowledge lay heavy on my mind.
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