I took the cup and held it to Frances’s mouth as she drank and made a face. “What is that?” she gasped in disgust.
“Just something to help you relax. Now lie back and count with me.” I began to count very slowly until Frances stopped gulping air and began to calm down. She was still jittery, but the worst of it was gone now, leaving her exhausted and languid.
“Time her contractions, Mistress Ashley,” the nun instructed as she threw another log on the fire and pulled the cauldron out of the flames to keep the water from boiling out.
“I don’t have a watch,” I replied, puzzled by the request.
“Just start counting as soon as one ends and continue until the next one begins. A watch!” Sister Angela exclaimed as if I said that I didn’t have a spaceship. “Whoever’s heard of such a thing?
I began counting and got to three hundred by the time the next contraction took hold of Frances. “They seem to be about five minutes apart,” I replied, wondering if that was good or bad. Sister Angela nodded and sat down by Frances to examine her again.
“She hasn’t dilated any further,” she said softly, so as not to alarm the girl. “It’s the same as before, about two centimeters. There’s nothing to do but wait.”
And, wait we did. By the time the milky light began to dispel the gloom of the night, and the first rays of sunshine burned through the mist, Frances was still laboring. I couldn’t say how many hours it’d been, but she’d dilated only about a centimeter more, and the contractions were four minutes apart. Frances was tired and cranky, her normally porcelain skin covered with a sheen of sweat and flushed from the heat of the fire.
“Is there anything you can do help her?” I asked the nun as we stepped outside for a breath of air.
“No. She’s very frightened and that sometimes impedes labor. She needs to relax and allow nature to take its course, but she’s holding on, striving for control.”
“Perhaps another dose of valerian will help,” I suggested. “Surely, it’s worth a try.”
“I don’t want to give her too much,” Sister Angela replied thoughtfully.
“Is it harmful?”
“No, but it might have the opposite effect and slow down the labor. We just have to wait. I’ve had cases where women were in labor for as long as a week,” Sister Angela said with a frown of remembrance. “First-time mothers, most of them.”
“Does that happen frequently?” Being in labor for so long was a terrifying thought. In my day, if a woman didn’t deliver after a certain amount of time, the doctors suggested a C-section, which by that point, the mother agreed to happily. The objective was to save the mother and child, but in this era, a cesarean was not an option unless the mother was willing to die to save the child. There was no way both would survive.
“No, but it does happen. Nature can’t be rushed,” Sister Angela said with a note of finality. “As a midwife, you learn that nature is in control, and your job is to assist rather than to take charge.”
**
A few of the sisters, including Sister Julia, came by after Matins to see how Frances was getting on. Sister Julia sat with Frances for a while, talking to her softly, and telling her tales of Archie when he was a little boy and got into all kinds of scrapes. Sister Julia was normally so remote that I tended to forget she’d had a life before she joined the order and that the mischievous, red-haired Archie was her little brother.
I wondered if Sister Julia had red hair as well, but I’d never seen her without her wimple. She had a beautiful face, with wide blue eyes and a pert nose sprinkled with freckles, just like Archie. I couldn’t help being curious about her. She had to be only a few years older than me. What had driven her to a life of seclusion? I suppose it was none of my business, but I didn’t have much to occupy my mind, save fear for Frances, and by extension, myself.
I couldn’t help but think about my own impending labor and where it might take place. Hugo had promised to find an experienced accoucheur in France, but we were a long way from France, and there was no guarantee that we would be able to leave England before the ships stopped sailing for the winter. It occurred to me that I might even have to give birth here at the convent, with the assistance of Sister Angela. Hugo would want me in a safe place, and this was the safest place we knew.
Thoughts of Hugo increased my anxiety. He’d been gone for nearly two weeks now. Of course, I had to take into account the time it would take to travel to Kent and back, but I was beginning to worry. I felt so listless without him, and so isolated. I had no way of knowing what was happening in London either. What if the trial date had been set for Max while we were away? I had to admit that Max was on my mind more than I cared to admit. After my own incarceration, I felt more of a kinship with him, although he wasn’t forced to endure such vile and inhumane conditions as I had been. Gideon Warburton had made sure that Max had sufficient food, drink, and supplies, but I couldn’t imagine that having wine and candles made imprisonment any easier.
Max, who was used to an easy, comfortable life, would be going mad with worry, especially knowing that he was all alone and that the odds were stacked against him. I’d never forgive him for his attempt on Hugo’s life, but I did feel sorry for him — and for his mother. Lady Everly would never find out what happened to her son if Max was unable to get back, and for her, that would be a fate worse than death. I’d seen the tenderness in her eyes when she looked at Max, and couldn’t begin to imagine the magnitude of her heartbreak. Had Max told her about the passage or what he was planning to do? Most likely not. Lady Everly was a no-nonsense type of woman, who’d probably just ridicule the idea. No, Max would slip away unnoticed, eager to explore the past on his own and return when he was good and ready.
I sighed heavily as I considered the trial. Bradford had great faith in Gideon Warburton, but I had to admit that I did not. Hindsight is twenty/twenty, so I probably had a clearer perspective on the British justice system of the seventeenth century. Unless it could be proven without a doubt that Max was most definitely not Hugo, the outcome would be a foregone conclusion. Would Max really lose his life here? If only there was some way to get him home, I thought as I turned to go back into the hut.
Chapter 30
By midday, Frances fell into a fitful doze, waking up with a start with every contraction. They were still no closer together which worried Sister Angela considerably. I dashed over to the kitchen and brought some food for myself and the old nun as well as some bread and cheese for Frances. She needed to eat something to keep up her strength, but a stew with rabbit meat and vegetables was probably not the best meal for a woman in labor. Frances took a few bites, but couldn’t eat any more.
“Perhaps she should walk around a bit,” I suggested. My knowledge of birth was all theoretical, but just lying around for hours couldn’t be helping. Sister Angela seemed to consider this, and then allowed me to walk Frances around the well. Our progress was very slow, but the fresh air and the distractions of the outside seemed to help. The day outside was perfect. Blazing colors of fall burned just above the wall of the convent, and a fresh breeze moved silently through the trees, bringing with it the intoxicating smell of pine and wood fires from the closest village. The sky was cloudless, a vast expanse of blue that reminded me of a tranquil Caribbean sea. For all the rain in England, days like this were like precious jewels, there to be savored. Frances stopped every time a contraction gripped her, but wanted to go on as soon as the pain passed, enjoying her escape from the stifling hut.
“Let’s walk to the herb garden,” she pleaded, pulling me along. “It smells so lovely in there.” I didn’t see any harm in the suggestion, so followed Frances to the garden. Frances sank down on the wooden bench, leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, turning her face up to the weak sunshine. She looked heartbreakingly young, and I felt suddenly angry that life should have been so cruel to her. She’d had her share of suffering, but I knew that no matter what happened in the future — it was far from over.
“I’m not scared anymore,” she suddenly said. “Whatever is meant to happen will happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you see, Neve; I have no say in anything that happens to me — never have. I didn’t want to marry Lionel, but my father made me. Nor was I meant to come away with you and Lord Everly. I was meant to stay and face my fate. I managed to get away, but found myself with child despite Lionel’s beatings. I wanted to join the order, but was prevented by my pregnancy. And now, whatever is meant to happen to my baby and me will just happen. I have no choice as I so foolishly believed I did. It’s all been decided, hasn’t it?”
“I don’t believe that to be true. You can change your fate.” I realized how patronizing I sounded the moment the words passed my lips. Perhaps in the twenty-first century, Frances might have been able to change her fate, but not now. She was a victim of circumstance, and her choices were practically non-existent.
“Can you?” Frances asked absentmindedly. That was a very good question. I had tried to change Hugo’s fate and ended up creating a myriad of new problems that threatened to overwhelm us. Perhaps history was fighting back; trying to right the wrongs we’d done and steering us toward the conclusion that had been in place all along. Would Hugo end up dead while I was forced back into my own time without the child who was a bridge between the present and the future? The thought terrified me, but I resolved not to allow my doubts to overwhelm me.
“I’d like to think that we have free will,” I said with more force than I intended. Frances turned to me, her face scrunched in pain as a contraction seized her.
“I’ve never known what it’s like to have free will, and likely never will,” she panted as she rose to her feet and began to walk slowly along the wall, holding on for support. “What happens today will change the course of my life, assuming I live through the birth,” Frances said matter-of-factly. “Where’s the free will in that? I’d like to leave here, but I’m in no position to support myself or my child. I want to go to France with you, but you’re in no position to take me on given your own set of circumstances, so I will probably remain here for the time being. So, you see, Neve, nothing I do is up to me.”
My twenty-first century brain wanted to search for platitudes and assure Frances that all would be well and everything would work out, but I knew that my words would be hollow. Frances was absolutely right, and by default, she was right about me as well. At this point, I had very little choice about what happened to me. I had no power to act, only to react, and the thought shocked me. I was as powerless as Frances, only I’d just realized it.
“I’d best get you back,” I said as I steered Frances out of the garden. She didn’t object, but there was a new look of determination on her face, which did nothing to reassure me.
Chapter 31
Hugo stared pensively into the flames of the fire, watching as two rabbit carcasses sizzled over the flames, drops of fat dripping into the pyre and causing momentary explosions of burning fuel. The meat smelled good, and he was hungry, having had almost nothing all day, but his stomach felt as clenched as his fists. Hugo made a conscious effort to open his hands and lay them flat on his thighs in an effort to let go of some of the anger. They might have stopped at an inn tonight, but he simply couldn’t bear to be around people or hear the laughter and bawdy songs erupting in the taproom. He wanted to be alone, in the middle of nowhere, with only Archie for company. The young man always knew when to keep his own counsel and left Hugo to stew ever since they left Three Oaks; understanding in an instinctual way that his master needed to work things out for himself.
Archie turned the spit and threw a few more twigs on the fire, before pouring Hugo a cup of ale from a stone bottle he brought from his saddle and taking one for himself. Hugo raised the cup in silent salute and drained it, enjoying the cool, sour ale as it slid down his dry throat. He’d spent the past twenty-four hours trying to reason out the events of the previous night, questioning his every act and decision since his father died and left him guardian to his sister. Try as he might, Hugo couldn’t think of anything he’d done to wrong Jane. He’d done his best for her, and although perhaps he might have made wiser choices in his own life, he’d always tried to take Jane’s happiness into account.
Hugo momentarily considered the parentage of Ernest’s daughter. If Ernest never consummated his marriage with Jane, the same could likely be said of his first marriage. Or had he discovered his orientation after he’d married his first wife? Was it possible that Ernest had been in the dark until he married? Hugo doubted it. As a young man, Hugo had burned with desire. The swell of breasts above a bodice, a bare ankle, a sweet smile, were all it took to take his breath away. He’d been smitten with Margaret when he was fourteen, his mind tormenting him with images of her naked body until he could stand it no longer and would stroke himself until he found physical release from the torment. Surely Ernest had desires as a young man, but were they for men? Did Ernest get aroused by the sight of a groom with his shirt off or by a pair of strong thighs? He must have known, so Magdalen was most likely not his child. Thankfully, she was well married, so he need not concern himself with her.
Hugo shifted uncomfortably; suddenly aware of how much he missed Neve. He couldn’t wait to hold her in his arms and bury his face in her hair, inhaling the scent that was so uniquely hers. He’d been worried about making love to a pregnant woman, but he liked the feel of her. Her breasts were bigger than before, filling his hands and spilling over in their abundance. And her body was like a ripe fruit, bursting with life. She was more sensitive to his touch, which made her like an explosive device with a lit fuse, ready to blow as soon as he entered her. We will stay at an inn tomorrow, and I’ll make love to her until she orders me to stop, he thought with an inward smile. Suddenly, he was ravenous.
Archie took the rabbits off the spit, tasted a piece to make sure it was well cooked and handed Hugo his share, along with a half a loaf of bread they’d purchased in the last village. Archie had barely said a word all day, and the silence was beginning to weigh heavily on Hugo.
“Thank you, Archie,” Hugo said as he accepted the food and tore off a chunk of meat. He dispatched the little rabbit in record time. Archie finished his meal and stared into the fire, his red hair a halo of copper in the glow from the flames.
“We should make the convent by tomorrow night,” Hugo said, tossing the bones into the fire and holding out his cup for more ale.
“Aye,” was all that Archie said.
“Archie, we need a plan. I’ve been turning the problem over in my mind, but I can’t think of an efficient way to locate one eight-year-old boy in a city the size of London. What do you propose?”
Archie shrugged and set the empty bottle aside before answering.
“I can’t imagine that I have any better idea than you, your lordship. What have you been thinking?”
“The way I see it, we’ve got only the one choice. We visit every brothel in the city and ask for Jem. No one will be too eager to talk, but a purse full of coin has a miraculous way of loosening tongues. I suppose we should start with the finer establishments, since I can’t see some rat-hole of a whorehouse paying much for the boy. Nor can I see my sister conducting a transaction in such a place,” Hugo suggested.
“That’s a sound plan, except for one minor detail. Going to the finer places might bring you face to face with gentlemen of your acquaintance. It’s too dangerous by far.”
“I have thought of that,” Hugo replied with a frown, “however, I don’t think many gentlemen visit brothels in the morning. Our best option is to pay them a visit just as they are waking up and are at a disadvantage. I can’t bear to think of Jem in one of those places,” Hugo sighed, his gut burning again. “He’s so small and innocent. I can’t begin to imagine the shock and pain…” His voice trailed off, but Archie took his meaning.
“He’s a tough little blighter, and he’s clever too. Let’s hope for the best, shall we?
”
Hugo just nodded, staring into the flames as if he saw the fires of Hell. Archie shifted uncomfortably in his seat across the fire, his eyes asking the question that had been on his mind for some time.
“No, Archie; he isn’t,” Hugo replied firmly.
“I’m sorry, your lordship, but you can see how people might assume…”
“Yes, I can, but Jem isn’t my son. I made love to his mother when I was fourteen, or rather she made love to me since I had no inkling of what I was about, but that association came to an end very quickly, once my father found out and threatened me with the strap.”
“And never since?” Archie persisted.
“Never. There is absolutely no possible way that Jem can be my son. None. Can we move on now?”
“Ah, yes, as you wish,” Archie stammered, chastened, but he wasn’t convinced.
Margaret had been a beautiful woman, with raven-black hair and eyes the color of the summer sky. She wasn’t shy with her affections either. Archie had been only a child when Hugo was fourteen, but he’dknown Margaret as a grown man— had known her better than he’d ever admit to Hugo. Archie had enjoyed his share of willing women, but few had been like Margaret. She didn’t take men to her bed because she was lonely and needed a bit of affection; Margaret enjoyed her power to seduce. She was like a lioness that lived for the thrill of the chase and then played with her food before she devoured it. Archie imagined that a fourteen-year-old Hugo was probably enraptured with her, and Margaret would have played him like she played most men. She would have surrendered eventually and made him believe that he’d conquered her, when all the while she’d be the one doing the conquering.
There had been much speculation in the village once Margaret’s pregnancy began to show, but everyone said that her brat was the son of a groom who’d taken off as soon as he found out that Margaret was carrying his child. He had a wife somewhere, and wasn’t interested in taking any responsibility for the child he’d so carelessly created. Archie had his doubts though. Margaret had occasionally confided in him, mostly in bed when she was languid and sated, and she’d let it slip that Jem’s father was a nobleman; a man of wealth and position. Of course, Archie assumed that she was referring to Hugo Everly, but perhaps she meant someone else, or simply wanted to adhere to the story that she was desired by men of power and influence. Margaret was too proud to admit that she had been ill-used by a mere groom.
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