The Queen's Gambit (The Wonderland Series: Book 4) Read online

  The Queen’s Gambit

  Wonderland Series: Book 4

  By Irina Shapiro

  Copyright © 2016 by Irina Shapiro

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the author.

  All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people (except those who are actual historical figures) are purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  November 1687

  Rouen, France

  Chapter 1

  “I want Mama,” came the desperate wail from downstairs. “I want Mama now!”

  It was well past midnight, but Valentine was wide awake, sensing, as children often do, that something wasn’t quite right. Her piercing voice shook with desperation and fear, a sure sign that tears weren’t far behind. I couldn’t hear what Hugo said to her, but the sound of his baritone carried up the stairs and gave me momentary comfort before another contraction rolled over me and I forgot about everything by the pain that had me in its grip. Despite the cold temperature outside, the room was stifling, with a fire burning high and all the windows tightly shut and shuttered against the night. My forehead was beaded with sweat, and my shift stuck to my overheated skin, the thin fabric damp and clingy. I tried to breathe through the contraction, but the air in the room was stale and overly warm.

  “Open the window,” I panted. “I can’t breathe.”

  “The night air is bad for your health,” Madame Duvall answered patiently. The local midwife was in her sixties, like Sister Angela who’d delivered Frances’s baby, but the similarities ended there. She was rail thin, with wide gray eyes, and dark-brown hair which was scraped off her face and covered by a plain linen cap. She still had most of her teeth, and her face was surprisingly unlined for a woman of her years, possibly from lack of smiling. She was utterly devoid of the motherly touch that Sister Angela exuded, but, she was competent. Village lore had it that most women survived childbirth under Madame Duvall’s care, unlike the staggering fifty percent who died, which was the statistic of the day.

  “You are almost there, milady,” Madame Duvall informed me coolly. Her stern presence was balanced out by Frances, who insisted on staying with me despite the objections of Madame Duvall, who felt that there should be no distractions during the birth. Frances talked to me softly and reassured me when I needed it, and just sat quietly and held my hand when I couldn’t summon the strength to utter another word. She wrung out a cloth and wiped my face, making me feel momentarily cooler.

  “You heard Madame Duvall; you are almost there,” Frances said soothingly as she held the damp cloth to my forehead. She was wearing an old smock, and her hair was tied back with a kerchief, but she still looked as angelic as ever, her eyes full of warmth and compassion.

  But almost there wasn’t good enough. I was so tired, so very tired. I’d been in labor for more than twenty-four hours now, and had used up my last reserve of energy a few hours ago, but the baby still hadn’t come. I hadn’t eaten anything, and had been given very little to drink, since Madame Duvall felt that digestion would interfere with birth and require the use of the chamber pot, which was unseemly during labor. She allowed me half a cup of water every hour, just enough to keep me hydrated. My body felt depleted and battered from pain and lack of nourishment.

  According to the midwife, who used her fingers to check for dilation, I was progressing very slowly, about a centimeter every few hours. This labor was vastly different from the first one. Valentine had been born within a few hours, and slid out with the minimum of fuss. I thought I was dying at the time, and only had Archie for a midwife, but compared to what I had endured since the previous evening, it had been a walk in the park.

  My body seemed to have changed since Valentine was born, and whereas my cycle used to be like clockwork, it was now erratic, and there had been a few false alarms before I finally became pregnant. I thought I’d been prepared for it, physically and mentally, but I was wrong. I am not sure why, but I thought that the second pregnancy was meant to be easier, but it had been quite the reverse. I’d suffered from severe morning sickness, which lasted well into my second trimester, and could barely keep anything down other than broth, bread, and the occasional cup of milk. I no longer had any prenatal vitamins, or was consuming enough of a variety of foods to guarantee that my baby was getting proper nutrition, which was something that worried me constantly. I was always tired, the fatigue sometimes so crippling that I needed to stay in bed for days at a time. When out of bed, my back ached, my ankles were swollen, and I waddled breathlessly around the house since the baby seemed to be pushing against my diaphragm and preventing me from taking deep breaths. I was suffering, but the baby seemed to be thriving. My belly was much larger than it had been with Valentine. It was always heaving, as if the child within was frustrated by the confines of my womb and wanted go get out before its time. And now that it was time, it refused to leave.

  I briefly worried that the child was too large because I might be suffering from gestational diabetes, but there was no way to know, and anyway, a modern doctor would have most likely told me to augment my diet. I was barely eating anything as it was, so there wasn’t too much I could do.

  “It’s time to push, milady,” the midwife said as she positioned herself between my legs ready to receive the baby. She gave Frances a dirty look as the girl got into position behind me to offer support, but Frances completely ignored her and wrapped her arms around me. I took a deep breath and gathered whatever shreds of strength I had left and bore down. Nothing happened.

  “Again.”

  I pushed for what seemed like hours before the baby finally slithered out of my body, its furious cry filling the house. I slumped back against the pil
lows as soon as Frances carefully got off the bed, unable to keep my eyes open a moment longer. It was alive; that was all I needed to know. I only needed a few moments to rest, I told myself as I drifted off. I vaguely heard the pounding of boots on the stairs, Valentine’s shrill voice, and the opening of a door, but I couldn’t force myself to open my eyes.

  “Is Mama sick?” Valentine asked, her voice shaking with fear.

  “No, darling; Mama is just tired,” Frances replied soothingly. “Come with me and let your Papa visit Mama. It will make her feel better.”

  “Noooo, I want to stay here,” Valentine wailed, but I heard her giggle a moment later as Archie scooped her up and twirled her around. She loved that. I heard his deep voice singing to her as he carried her away. The bed sagged as Hugo sat down next to me, his cool hand on my cheek.

  “Is my wife all right?” he asked the midwife. He sounded frightened, poor man. I wanted to tell him that all was well, but couldn’t bring myself out of my stupor. I seemed to be floating somewhere above the bed, completely disconnected from my body, which felt as heavy and unwieldy as a sack of potatoes.

  “She’s fine, milord, just very tired. It was a difficult labor, and a long one.” Madame Duvall’s voice sounded deferential as she addressed Hugo. He was nobility; someone Madame Duvall considered to be one of her betters. She didn’t seem to feel the same way about me since she’d learned through local gossip that I was only a noblewoman by marriage and not through distinguished lineage. “Would you like to see your daughter?”

  The word brought me to my senses. I pried open my eyes to see Hugo opening his arms to receive the squirming bundle from the midwife. A tiny hand freed itself from the blanket and grabbed his finger.

  “I’m sorry, Hugo,” I mumbled. “I know how much you wanted a boy.”

  “I couldn’t be happier,” he replied as he bent down to kiss the baby’s fuzzy head. “She’s perfect.”

  I smiled inwardly. A little girl. A healthy little girl. I began to shake violently, my body suddenly releasing the tension of the past hours. I hadn’t realized how scared I was, thinking that the baby had died inside me. She was alive and healthy; that was all that mattered. We both survived, which in this day and age was a miracle in itself.

  Hugo handed the baby back to Madame Duvall and pulled me to him very carefully. “You did so well,” he whispered as he kissed the top of my head. “You’ve earned your rest. Go to sleep and don’t worry about a thing.”

  “It hurts,” I moaned, suddenly aware of the pain building in my belly and spreading to my back.

  “Is something wrong?” Hugo asked Madame Duvall as she rushed over to the bed.

  “No, milord, it’s only the afterbirth. Quite normal.”

  “Ooooh,” I moaned as the pain grew stronger. “It really hurts.”

  I could hear Hugo’s sharp intake of breath as he wiped my brow with a cool towel.

  “I think you should leave now, milord,” the midwife advised respectfully as she deposited the baby into a waiting cradle and turned to examine me. “A gentleman shouldn’t have to see this.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. Do what you must.”

  I gasped as Madame Duvall slid her fingers inside me, the battered flesh screaming in protest at this unwelcome intrusion. Madame Duvall sucked in her breath as my body clamped down around her hand, an unbearable pain gripping me once again. What was happening? Why was my body still contracting? I was so exhausted I couldn’t take any more.

  “Mon Dieu, there’s one more,” Madame Duvall exclaimed, her stern face transformed by surprise.

  “What?” Hugo and I asked in unison.

  “And it’s coming fast. Push, milady.”

  I grabbed Hugo’s hand and squeezed until he gasped with pain. I was crushing his fingers as I bore down, desperate for something to hold on to. My complacency of only a moment ago was replaced with a determination born out of fear. I had to get this baby out. An irrational fear gripped me, whispering into my ear that the baby was dead, and that was the reason no one realized I’d been carrying twins. Of course, without a sonogram, no one would have been able to tell for sure, but an experienced midwife would have heard the second heartbeat through her wooden stethoscope and would have felt the additional limbs when palpating my stomach.

  “Sorry,” I grunted as I slumped back against the pillows for a moment’s respite.

  “Squeeze as hard as you need to,” Hugo replied as he gripped my hand and put his other arm around my shoulders for support.

  “Push, milady,” the midwife insisted, having regained her composure. She didn’t seem like the type of woman who was often caught off guard. “Now!”

  I gathered what was left of my strength and gave one final push as the baby slid out right into the waiting hands of Madame Duvall. My lips were dry, and sweat stung my eyes. I tried to speak, but my throat was raw from hours of screaming, and my voice seemed to have deserted me.

  “Is it alive?” I whispered. The baby wasn’t crying, confirming my worst suspicions. A jolt of adrenaline shot through me, giving me the strength to sit up. “Is it alive?” I cried hoarsely.

  I could only see Madame Duvall’s narrow back as she bent over the child. Hugo sat frozen beside me, his eyes fixed on the midwife, his hand still gripping mine. It seemed like an eternity, but it must have been less than a minute before the baby let out a squeal.

  “Very much alive,” the midwife said as she cleaned the baby and wrapped it in a towel, since there’d only been one blanket ready. “And very much a boy.”

  “A boy,” Hugo whispered, his voice full of awe. “A son.”

  Madame Duvall didn’t even bother to spare me a glance as she handed Hugo the child. Her face beamed with pride, as if she were the one who had just given birth to a son and heir, but I wasn’t bothered by her attitude. Silent tears of relief and joy coursed down my face. He was alive; that was all I cared about. And a boy. Hugo gazed in wonder at the little face which looked red and furious among the folds of the towel. The baby scrunched up his face, but seemed to change his mind about crying and opened his eyes instead. Father and son stared at each other silently as they sowed the seeds of their bond. I slumped against the pillows and closed my eyes. I was still exhausted, and very thirsty, but a warm glow seemed to spread through me, making me feel almost euphoric. I had delivered two healthy children this night, and lived. No woman felt more blessed.

  Chapter 2

  By the time I finally woke up, the sun was streaming through the leaded windows, casting a golden haze onto the polished surfaces of the furniture and dispelling the gloom of the long night. My limbs felt heavy, and there was a painful soreness between my legs, rivaled only by the ache in my swollen breasts. Blue veins showed under the skin like rivers on a map, and damp patches appeared on the front of my not-so-fresh shift. I wanted to wash, but Madame Duvall shook her head in disapproval as she pulled aside the bed hangings. The stern look of last night was gone, replaced by one of relief. Perhaps she wasn’t as unfeeling as I first thought, her demeanor caused by anxiety for the mother in her charge and her child. “It’s time to feed your babies, milady,” she said. “But first, you must eat something.”

  I wolfed down several slices of buttered bread with cheese and drank a large cup of milky tea. I could have eaten more, but sounds of discontent were coming from the cradle, so I’d have to wait. The midwife lifted a baby from the cradle and gave it to me as she returned for the second one. Feeding them both at the same time would take some getting used to, and I hoped that I would have enough milk for them to thrive, otherwise we would have to find a wet nurse, and I hoped to avoid that at all cost. The idea of some woman, who was probably none too clean and consumed alcohol on a daily basis, feeding my babies, gave me a momentary feeling of panic, but I pushed it aside. I pulled down my shift and put both babies to my breasts. I looked like some strange Renaissance painting with two infants at my bare breasts, but they were gumming my nipples happily; their eyes closed in co
ntentment. My breasts were tender and swollen, the milk still in the process of coming in, and I winced with discomfort as the babies sucked harder.

  “What if I don’t have enough milk for them both?” I asked Madame Duvall, who was looking on with approval.

  “Don’t worry, milady. The more they suckle, the more milk you will produce. Nature has a way of providing. If it gave you twins, it will give you the nourishment they need.”

  I had my doubts about this theory, but I knew that the milk usually took at least twenty-four hours to come in. Hopefully, by tomorrow, I would be lactating like a cow.

  “May we come in?” Hugo asked as he poked his head through the door. He was holding Valentine whose eyes grew as round as saucers when she saw the babies at my breast. The look of astonishment was instantly replaced by an outburst of jealousy. Her lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears as she realized that she would now have to share me with other children. She was fairly independent for her age and hated to be mollycoddled, but she’d never been anything but the center of attention in our household. We made a valiant effort not to spoil her, but it was hard to resist an adorable toddler, especially one with golden curls and big brown eyes fringed by thick lashes. She was the carbon copy of me at that age if old photographs I’d seen were anything to go by.

  “Come now, darling,” Hugo said, “don’t you want to meet your brother and sister?”

  “No,” Valentine wailed. “Make them go away. My Mama.”

  “You will now be a big sister, and you can order them about,” Hugo suggested with a sly smile. Valentine gave this some thought as she looked speculatively at the babies. The thought of bossing them about clearly appealed.

  “I can?”

  “As soon as they are a little older.” Valentine glared at Hugo as if he’d just tricked her. At almost two, she was already showing us what it meant to have a toddler. I had no idea that a child that small could be so opinionated, but Valentine reminded me every day that she had her own ideas and wouldn’t be easily tricked. Surprisingly, only one person had the magic touch, and it wasn’t either myself or Hugo.