The manor itself sat on a slight incline surrounded by acres of sloping lawns with a gravel path leading away from the house toward a lake stocked with fish. Ernest had been a keen fisherman, and often invited Hugo for an early-morning fishing expedition. Hugo preferred hunting to the endless hours of boredom that fishing demanded, but had indulged his brother-in-law, if only for Jane’s sake. As he waited patiently, his mind turned over various memories of his visits to Three Oaks, trying to pinpoint the beginning of Ernest’s illness. He’d assumed that Ernest’s illness had been the cause of Jane’s bitterness and melancholy, but he now knew better. It had set in long before her husband got ill, long before John Spencer died of syphilis.
If only she’d confided in me, Hugo thought for the hundredth time as he shook his head at his own folly. What would he have done? Would he have challenged Ernest to a duel? Ridiculous. What would have been the point? To punish him? To kill him? And then what? Jane would have been left widowed and disgraced, since the reason for the duel would not remain a secret for long. It was truly amazing that with no media outlets or telephones, the news traveled even faster at Court than in the twenty-first century, if such a thing were possible. The rumor mill never stopped, turning faster or slower, depending on the happenings at Court at any particular time. Ernest might not have been a courtier, but the stain on his reputation would still be of interest to those who lived on spreading scandalous tidbits.
How could he have known that Ernest preferred men when he arranged the marriage between him and Jane? Hugo asked himself yet again. There were no obvious signs or rampant gossip. Of course, there were men at Court who indulged their homosexual tendencies, but although they were discreet, rumors still abounded. There was never a whisper of doubt about Ernest. He rarely came to London, but he was believed to be a good, respectable man; a family man. An image of Ernest with a man penetrated Hugo’s defenses and seared itself on his brain. He still couldn’t accept it, couldn’t believe it to be true, although he knew the facts.
Poor Jane. What had the knowledge done to her? Did she believe Ernest’s proclivities to be somehow her fault? Did she believe she didn’t have the power to attract him? There were those men who went both ways, but Hugo wasn’t sure if Ernest had been one of them. At this point in time, it was irrelevant, but he supposed that Jane would carry the scars of her marriage for the rest of her life. But were they enough to turn her mind, to drive her to kill? She might not have pulled a trigger or added poison to a cup, but what she’d attempted to do to Neve was no less attempted murder. All these questions made Hugo’s head ache and he turned to Archie, who sat on the ground whittling away at a stout stick with his knife while the horses munched on tufts of grass between the thick trunks of the hundred-year-old trees.
“Are you ready to go then?” Archie asked as he looked away from his handiwork.
“Not just yet. A few more minutes,” Hugo replied, wishing it was more like a year. The thought of confronting Jane made him anxious and physically ill, but he had no choice. It had to be done, even if it might be one of the hardest things he ever had to do.
The moon rose in the sky, the thin sliver hanging over the darkened outline of the house. Hugo watched patiently as the shutters were closed, and the tiny flickers of candlelight became extinguished as the servants made their way up to their attic bedrooms for much-deserved rest. Only one room on the ground floor remained occupied, a thin shaft of light just visible between the closed shutters. Both Jane and Ernest used to have their bedchambers on the first floor, but Jane moved to the ground floor next to Ernest’s room once he was no longer able to navigate the stairs. She seemed to have remained there. Clarence’s room faced the back of the house, which was fortuitous since Hugo had no intention of involving his thirteen-year-old nephew in the confrontation with his mother.
Archie cut his eyes at the rising moon, but didn’t say a word. He could understand how Hugo felt. His own meeting with his sister in April had not been easy. He hadn’t seen Julia in over five years; had not had a word from her since she just left one day without so much as a goodbye to him or their parents. She hadn’t tried to hurt anyone, but she’d hurt him by just leaving. They had been very close, despite their age difference, and Archie had felt as if he’d lost a limb once Julia simply wasn’t there anymore. Of course, Julia had her reasons, valid reasons, but it was still painful for all of them. They’d tried to help her, tried to heal the wounds, not that such deep wounds could ever heal. The world was a cruel place, and despite the Church’s insistence that God was all about love and forgiveness, Archie had his doubts. What kind of loving God put his children through such agony? And to what end?
His thoughts were interrupted by Hugo, who finally peeled himself away from the tree and nodded to him silently, his profile nothing more than a dark shape in the shadows.
“Shall I come with you?” Archie asked, knowing that Hugo would refuse.
“No, Archie, you stay here and mind the horses. I shan’t be long. I can’t imagine that what my sister and I have to say to each other will take more than a few minutes.”
Hugo unbuckled his sword and tossed it to Archie as he began to silently move through the trees. The house was no more than a half-mile from the tree line, but he had no desire to be spotted by a random passerby or wakeful servant. Hugo skirted around the back and approached the back door leading to the kitchen on silent feet. He’d been to this house many times since Jane’s marriage, but never through the servants’ entrance. The door was locked for the night, so Hugo carefully inserted the blade of his dagger between door and jamb and drew it up until the blade lifted the latch and released the door.
The kitchen was dark, moonlight painting the hanging pots a silvery hue, and casting squares of pearly light onto the flagstones of the floor. Hugo sheathed his dagger and walked across the kitchen and up the stairs to the ground floor. The house was as dark as a tomb, the shutters effectively blocking all light, no matter how feeble. The corridor was lost in shadow, but a glow of light could be seen at the end, Jane’s door slightly ajar. Hugo stopped just outside the door, suddenly unable to go in.
He could see Jane sitting at her dressing table, a brush in her hand as she pulled it through her dark hair. The candlelight softened her features, and the ripples of hair around her face made her look younger and less severe, the faded memory of the young girl suddenly apparent in her aging face. She’d been a pretty little thing, a bit pensive for one so young, but intelligent and inquisitive. There was barely a trace of that Jane in the woman she was today. The once-full lips were now thinner and stretched into a taut line, and the eyes were guarded and speculative, not trusting as they had been when Jane was a girl. Of course, Jane had a right to be bitter and angry, having endured her share of suffering and disappointment.
Jane’s eyes stared at her reflection, a look of consternation on her face as she mouthed something to herself, maybe a prayer or perhaps the words to a song. She used to hum to herself as she brushed her hair at night, Hugo remembered, enjoying the rhythmic strokes of the brush and the nightly ritual that she preferred to carry out on her own, sending her maid away. Hugo stood still watching his sister. He’d burned with anger and a desire for revenge all the way from London, but now that he was here he felt lost and helpless; his heart reaching out to the sister he’d loved since she was a baby, his mind unable to accept that Jane had orchestrated this deadly charade against the woman he loved, the mother of his child.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Jane called out. “Come in and say your piece, brother. I knew you’d come sooner or later.” Jane carefully replaced the brush on the dressing table and turned to face Hugo, her face no longer passive but filled with scorn, her lip curling in a way that made Hugo want to slap her. Hugo pushed open the door and came into the room, but refused to sit. He needed to speak to Jane from a position of strength, but all he felt was a raging confusion as he took in her disdainful look.
“Cat got your tongue?” Jane a
sked playfully as she smiled at him in derision.
A hundred arguments had raced through Hugo’s mind on the way from the convent to Three Oaks, but none of them seemed to fit now, his bravado gone in the face of Jane’s hostility.
“Why, Jane?” was all he could manage. “Why?”
“Do you really wish to know?” she asked conversationally.
“No, but I need to know. I need to understand,” Hugo replied. His head ached, and his heart hammered against his ribs as he looked at Jane, who seemed to be enjoying herself. He’d hoped to see some remorse in her eyes, but there wasn’t a shred of regret about what she’d done, only triumph. Hugo hadn’t even realized that he’d clenched his fists, but Jane noticed and let out a harsh laugh.
“Go ahead, Hugo, kill me. You’d be doing me a favor, you know, but you won’t hurt me because you don’t have it in you. You never did.”
“I ask you again, Jane. Why? Have I not been a good brother to you? Have I not looked out for your welfare and bowed to your wishes when you needed me to, despite my better judgment?”
Hugo was growing angrier, but he forced himself to be calm, to uncurl his fists and lay them flat against his taut thighs. He needed to hear what she had to say, even if it tore his heart out. Neve called it “closure,” but Hugo couldn’t imagine that any outcome of this interview could possibly close anything. It would open an even deeper wound, one that would bleed for decades, if he lived that long, and never ever heal.
Jane watched Hugo; her head cocked to the side and a slight smile playing about her lips. She wanted to talk; he knew that. She needed to say her piece, and she would, in her own time. Hugo realized that Jane had been waiting for this moment, waiting to explain, to torment him. She needed to; just as sometimes murderers needed to brag about their crimes and did so from the scaffold. What was the fun in planning something diabolical if you couldn’t tell anyone about it?
Jane had been clever, and she wanted that fact known. She wanted him to admire her cunning, to get angry enough to make her feel victorious. Hugo remained silent, waiting for her to speak. He wouldn’t beg for an explanation. She’d disclose everything sooner or later; he could see it in her. Finally, Jane leaned back against the hard back of the chair and folded her hands in her lap. She was ready. She looked calm, but her voice was tight with tension; her words rehearsed. Hugo was sure that she’d made this speech many times in her mind, preparing herself for the confrontation that was sure to come.
“I made one mistake, Hugo. I gambled and lost, and it ruined my entire life. You, being a man, can never understand what it is to have your virtue compromised or to bring a bastard into this world. Had you had a child out of wedlock, you’d simply throw some money at the problem and accept the pats on the back from your cronies, who’d make bawdy jokes about the woman whose life you’d ruined and make you feel virile and powerful. For such is the fate of women, that one mistake can send us straight to Hell.”
“I did what you asked of me, Jane. I found you a suitable husband and a willing father to your child. I saved you from disgrace and heartache. Clarence could have been taken away from you and raised in some peasant’s cottage, but he sleeps upstairs, loved and assured of his place in the world,” Hugo replied quietly in an effort to contain his anger.
“Yes, you did, and I was grateful to you for that, until reality set in. You see, Hugo, I spent thirteen years married to a man who never so much as put his arm around me. He married me and forgot about me, treating me as one would a piece of furniture or a servant. Ernest not only didn’t love me, but he didn’t need me, not even for the conception of an heir. I was his façade of decency, his greatest sleight of hand. So, lonely and desperate, I turned to the only man who was available to me, his secretary John Spencer. You remember him, don’t you, brother?” Jane asked with a sneer. She looked old and ugly when she sneered like that.
“He was handsome, charming, and only too happy to service a lonely girl who was desperate for affection. I gave myself to him wholeheartedly, thinking that I could perhaps salvage some shred of a life for myself from the ashes of my marriage. But no, that was not to be. “I am a vengeful God,” is that not what it says in the Bible? Oh, he is vengeful, indeed. I’d found out that my lover was also the lover of my husband; a man so depraved that he couldn’t be contented with only one sex. He went from my bed to that of Ernest and allowed himself to be buggered, and buggered him in turn.”
Hugo felt himself grow cold at the harsh sound of Jane’s cackle. He’d known about Ernest, but not about John Spencer’s part in Ernest’s, or Jane’s, life. He’d liked the man, had spent time talking and drinking with him. John had been cultured, attractive, and an amusing companion; a younger son of a noble family that had fallen on hard times, a situation which forced John Spencer to accept the position of secretary. How smug John must have felt, knowing that Hugo was utterly ignorant of his role in the household, of his tastes.
“Oh yes, Hugo,” Jane continued, her voice rising. “I saw them together, and it was a sight that still burns on my eyelids every time I close my eyes. Ernest was crouched between John’s legs, sucking his cock with a look of such ecstasy that it nearly made me sick. John saw me, you know. He winked at me as he spilled his seed into my husband’s mouth, just as he had into my womb. And then he turned around, and Ernest took him from the rear while John stroked himself, moaning with pleasure, his eyes locked with mine all the while. He was enjoying himself, and enjoying my humiliation,” Jane recounted, her voice full of feeling as she remembered the moment that changed her life once again.
“I ran back to my room, believing myself to be cursed and now sufficiently punished. However, that wasn’t enough for our Lord God. He wasn’t done with me yet. I spent months on my knees praying for forgiveness, doing penance, hoping that I might find some solace in devotion, but that was not to be. John began to display symptoms of syphilis shortly after. I didn’t even know what it was. I overheard the physician telling Ernest what would happen; I was aghast. And even more so when I realized that this was an infectious disease. John had infected Ernest, or perhaps it was the other way around, and then myself. We were caught in a triumvirate of sin, punished most severely, for the only future I see in front of me is an eternity in a graveyard.”
“Are you certain?” Hugo asked, dread flowing through his veins at Jane’s implication. “Have you consulted a physician?”
“Yes, I am certain. I’m losing my sight, my coordination, and I’m plagued by evil thoughts brought on by impending madness. So, to answer your question, brother dear. Why? Because the only thing in my life that’s worth anything is my son; my son who’s innocent of all sin and deserves the best chance he can get — a chance that you threw away again and again. You could have made a suitable marriage, had a place at Court, perhaps even on the Privy Council. You could have expanded our wealth and influence, but instead you chose to marry that brainless twit and then spent a decade mourning her.” Jane was panting now, her cheeks a mottled red in the candlelight.
“You turned your back on your sovereign and involved yourself in this sordid plot to back Monmouth, and when you should have been safely dead, you got some rootless trollop with child and decided to marry her, disgracing our family even further. You don’t deserve any of the wealth and freedom that you’ve taken so for granted as a man. You deserve to spend the rest of your worthless life repenting and drowning in guilt for what your carelessness has caused. I heard your witch is dead and buried in a pauper’s grave together with your unborn bastard. Well, serves you right, brother. Now you know what it feels like to have the ashes of your life scattered all around you,” Jane spat out. Her face was contorted with rage and her eyes blazed with hatred, forcing Hugo to take a step back for fear of throttling her.
“And Jem? What have you done to Jem?” Hugo demanded.
“You mean your secret bastard?” Jane barked with disgust. “Oh, I took care of him. He’ll never stand any chance of inheriting anything. He’ll
be lucky to live to see ten, much less adulthood. No one, you hear; no one will stand in the way of Clarence’s inheritance.”
Hugo lunged at Jane and pinned her against the wall, his hand around her throat. “What have you done with him? Tell me, or as God is my witness I will kill you.”
“And condemn your precious soul to the fires of Hell?” She was mocking him now, and Hugo pressed harder, watching Jane’s eyes bulge.
“I sold him,” she croaked.
“To whom?” Hugo roared.
“To a brothel. Some men have a proclivity for young boys, did you know that? Perhaps Ernest was one of them. I know your sworn enemy Lionel Finch certainly does. Maybe he’ll be Jem’s first customer.”
Hugo slapped Jane so hard that a trickle of blood ran from the side of her mouth, staining her teeth and giving her a demonic appearance as she smiled at him, her eyes dancing with crazed glee.
“Go ahead, do it again,” she taunted him. “Save me from a lingering death, brother. It’s the last service you can provide for me,” she hissed.
Hugo let go of her as if she were suddenly too hot to handle, recoiling from her in disgust.
“I came here seeking retribution, but I see that I’m too late. You are condemned already, Jane, and nothing I can do is worse than what you’ve done to yourself. Yes, our God is a vengeful God, and he’s not through with you yet. Rot in Hell, sister.” Hugo turned on his heel and stormed from the room, his blood boiling with rage and remorse. There was some part of him that hoped to find the woman he knew and loved, but all ties were severed now. Jane would die a lonely, horrible death, befitting an adulteress, would-be murderess, and despicable shrew.
Wonderland (Wonderland Series: Book 2) Page 16
