Wonderland (Wonderland Series: Book 2) Read online

  Wonderland

  Wonderland Series: Book 2

  By Irina Shapiro

  Copyright © 2015 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.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Sins of Omission, Wonderland Series: Book 3

  Notes

  Prologue

  Despite my heartbreaking childhood experiences and years of living with a foster family, I’d always given my trust fairly easily, believing that inherently people were good and worthy of my faith in them. Some of them proved to be, while others lost their place in my affections and eventually disappeared from my life having let me down or betrayed me in some way. As I grew older, I began to comprehend that trust is a precious gift, even more precious than love, since we can still love people we don’t fully trust.

  Just as Alice, who’d been my favorite character growing up, discovered that there was much malice in Wonderland, I’d learned that in the real world, trust is a valuable commodity, one which should never be bestowed lightly or without much consideration, for misplaced trust can carry a heavy price, and at times even cost us our lives.

  As I entered the city of London on that ordinary day in September of 1685, I had no inkling that I was about to tumble down the rabbit hole once more, and this Wonderland I’d found myself in was not a dream I could wake up from, but a vivid nightmare, one that would stay with me for the rest of my days.

  September 1685

  London, England

  Chapter 1

  I shivered with apprehension as the forbidding silhouette of the Tower of London came into view, dwarfing the busy streets beyond the thick outer wall and casting a shadow, physical as well as metaphorical, onto everything beneath. Our progress was slow due to heavy traffic on the narrow street at this time of the morning. It was congested with loaded wagons, closed carriages, and numerous pedestrians all rushing to get somewhere. A briny tang floated off the Thames when the breeze carried between the tightly packed houses, but in more closed spaces the air reeked of dead fish, rotting produce, waste, and at times something I preferred not to name, since it was just too distasteful to contemplate.

  I hastily turned away as I caught a glimpse of something bloated and way too large to be a fish, hauled out of the water by several ferrymen who gathered on the muddy banks of the river, scratching their heads and turning out the pockets of their find. Floaters were not uncommon, nor were they treated with any respect. This one would probably end up in a pauper’s grave once anything of value had been taken off them and divided among the group, if there was anything to be had.

  Hugo seemed oblivious to all the activity around us, having practically grown up in seventeenth-century London. For me, it was all new. I’d been to several villages and the town of Guilford, but the only London I was familiar with was yet to be built. My last glimpse of the great metropolis had been in August of 2013, just before Hugo and I left it to travel to Surrey and disappear through the passage in the crypt of the local church that would take us back to 1685, a year fraught with danger, especially for Hugo who was wanted for attempted murder, abduction, and most notably, high treason for his role in the failed Monmouth Rebellion.

  Most of the perpetrators had been arrested and either executed or transported for their part in the uprising with Hugo being the last, and the most elusive since I’d whisked him off to the twenty-first century to avoid arrest and execution. Generations of Everlys had wondered what happened to the ill-fated lord who just vanished one day in the spring of 1685, but none could have possibly imagined that he didn’t die a brutal and anonymous death, but actually escaped to the future where he faced a death of a different kind; a death of identity and a total lack of any desirable future.

  I sighed with frustration as I realized that we’d have been safely in France by now had it not been for the rather unfortunate timing of the news that Max, Lord Everly circa 2013 had discovered the passage to the past and followed us to the seventeenth century to promptly get arrested in Hugo’s place due to the family resemblance. So, here we were, in London, a place where Hugo’s capture would mean certain death.

  I tried not to think of the Duke of Monmouth who had recently been beheaded, his execution so brutal and incompetent that John Ketch would live on in history as the most famous executioner of his day. Monmouth’s body and his severed head had been laid in a coffin lined with black velvet and interred under the communion table of St. Peter’s Chapel at the Tower, but Hugo wouldn’t be buried next to Monmouth should he be apprehended. Instead, his head would wind up on a spike as a warning to others, and I would be left alone, pregnant, and unmarried, but most of all heartbroken.

  The thought of losing Hugo caused me such acute pain that I did my best not to dwell on it, knowing that there was nothing I could do to deter him from his chosen path. A less honorable man would have happily allowed someone else to take his place and escaped with his life, but Hugo wouldn’t hear of allowing Max to be tried in his place. Hugo and Max had history; a brief, but violent one, but it made no difference to Hugo’s resolve. I have to admit that for one mad moment I’d tried to convince Hugo to leave Max to his fate, but deep down I knew that despite the danger, Hugo was right. He wouldn’t be the man I fell in love with if he allowed an innocent man to take his place and face the consequences. We’d argued all the way from Portsmouth, going over possible solutions and looking for a way to get to Max, but nothing came to mind save Hugo turning himself in, which he would do over my dead body. After forfeiting our passage to France on the Mathilde and traveling several days to London we still had no plan.

  I looked with interest at the narrow streets of Blackfriars, lined with half-timbered houses whose upper floors extended so far over the street as to almost block out the light and appear to be on the verge of tumbling. The diamond-paned windows faced each other; the glass glinting in the morning light as we
passed. Hugo tossed the reins of his horse to a young lad and escorted me into a small, but clean inn. I don’t know if the street even had a name, but it was within walking distance of the Tower, which made me even more anxious. Hugo looked nonchalant as he asked for accommodation and brought our few possessions to the room at the top of the stairs. Being on the top floor had its advantages, since the open window caught a fresh breeze off the river and dispelled some of the other odors coming from downstairs, and it gave us a view of the street and the dreaded Tower.

  I couldn’t see much beyond the wall, but I thought I could just glimpse a portion of the viewing platform situated just behind it. The Tower still housed the Royal Menagerie which consisted of many exotic animals, including lions, which were occasionally exercised in a section of the moat by the western entrance. The menagerie had been used exclusively by the monarchs and their few favorite courtiers since its establishment during the reign of King John in the twelfth century, but Queen Elizabeth had decided to open it up to the public, charging three half-pence, or a cat or a dog to be fed to the lions, which also provided entertainment for the masses. The menagerie had been long closed in my day, but it was strange to know that there were wild animals only a few streets away that devoured live animals for the pleasure of the visitors. I suppose in a time when people went to public executions in droves that was to be expected, but it still made me uneasy.

  Hugo set down the bags and came up behind me, putting his arms around me and pulling me against his chest. He didn’t say anything, just held me, letting me know in his own quiet way that he knew what I was feeling. He had to be scared, although he’d never admit it having been raised by a stern father in the seventeenth century where men didn’t vocalize their feelings, especially when those feelings had anything to do with fear, and he wasn’t fool enough not to understand the risk he was taking.

  I wrapped my arms around his, wishing that I could hold him forever and keep him safe. Hugo moved our joined hands downward to let them rest against my stomach, which was just beginning to swell. I was in my second trimester, and Hugo and I had hoped to marry as soon as we got to France, but now we’d have to wait. Hugo couldn’t marry me using an alias, but to use his real name and reveal his presence in England would be the equivalent of signing his own death warrant. Being a woman of the twenty-first century, I wasn’t terribly bothered by being pregnant and unwed, but I knew that Hugo was deeply distressed by his inability to legalize our union and it gnawed at his conscience, making him feel as if he were somehow letting me down.

  “Why don’t you lie down for a while and rest?” Hugo suggested as I leaned wearily against him. “You must be bone-tired. I’ll be back in an hour. Promise,” he added hastily as he felt me stiffen.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have to purchase some writing implements. I have letters to write,” he explained patiently, not wishing to upset me further.

  “To whom?” I asked. No one knew we were in England besides Hugo’s sister Jane, and even Jane would think that we were in France by now, safe and sound.

  “Neve, please don’t worry. I have a tentative plan, and you have my word that I will not do anything to put us in danger.” Famous last words, I thought pessimistically.

  “What plan?” I demanded, but Hugo just smiled, turned me around, and walked me toward the bed where he gently pushed me down, gave me a sound kiss, and headed for the door. Of course, he could hardly stay cooped up in this room, hiding. We came back to London for a reason, and he had to put his idea into action if anything was to be done for Max. As far as we knew, Max Everly was still alive and being held at the Tower, the trial date not yet set since the prisoner kept insisting that he was arrested by mistake and was actually one Maximillian Everly and not Hugo Everly whose name was on the warrant.

  We had no idea if anyone believed him, or if he had any chance of release, but it didn’t seem likely. Max’s captors would see it as a ruse to avoid execution by trying to plead insanity, which would never deter anyone in this century anyway. The Crown had no qualms about putting to death a person who was not mentally capable of standing trial if he were believed to be guilty. If a five-year-old child could be hanged for theft, a man of thirty-five could most definitely be executed for treason, even if he were raving mad.

  “All right,” I finally relented. “Be careful.”

  “Always.” Hugo put on his hat, pulled it down low, and disappeared through the door, locking it behind him. I knew he’d be doing more than just buying paper and ink. He’d stop into a tavern or two to glean as much information as he could. London was buzzing with the news of Lord Hugo Everly’s arrest, and whereas there were those who felt that Monmouth had been a martyr to the Protestant cause, the majority felt that the only good traitor was a dead traitor. No one enjoyed a public execution more than Londoners, and the prospect of having another culprit put to death was something worth speculating about.

  Currently, the only thing that stood between Hugo and certain capture was his flimsy disguise, which wouldn’t hold out more than another few weeks. We’d colored his hair blond and changed the color of his eyes with lenses, but the hair would quickly grow out and reveal the black roots beneath. The disguise was only meant to last until we’d sailed for France, but who could have anticipated Max’s arrest? I still couldn’t fathom what possessed Max to walk into the village of Cranley when he knew full well that Hugo was a wanted man, but I suppose he’d assumed that things had quieted down by September, and in his excitement at being able to time-travel forgot all about the uncanny resemblance between himself and his ancestor.

  I tried to rest, but kept tossing and turning until I gave up altogether and went about unpacking our few belongings and having a quick wash before Hugo came back. Now that the morning sickness had passed, I was always hungry, and the smells emanating from downstairs were becoming more and more appetizing by the minute. It smelled like roast beef, boiled turnips, and freshly baked bread. My mouth watered as I thought of the beef. I had an overwhelming craving for meat these past few days. Perhaps I wasn’t getting enough iron in my diet and my body was sending me a message.

  I opened a little pouch and popped a prenatal vitamin into my mouth. I’d been given a prescription for three months and had about two months’ supply left, so I took one every other day rather than every day to make them last longer. I wanted to give our baby the best chance at health possible, so I tried avoiding all alcohol, which was nearly impossible given that there wasn’t much else to drink, and eating as many nutritious things as could be found; a difficult task when people’s diet consisted mostly of bread, meat, and the occasional vegetable, which had been cooked to such an extent that it was barely even recognizable.

  Since it was fall, I had been able to get some fresh apples and pears, as well as the occasional handful of berries which were a good source of vitamins, as well as apple cider. The cider still had some alcohol, but was much safer than drinking water that was unfiltered and could carry any number of germs and diseases. I tried to drink milk whenever I could; purposely forgetting that it wasn’t pasteurized. The cows in this century were grass-fed, unlike the livestock in my own time, so I hoped that the milk was safe.

  I tried to ignore my growling stomach as I looked out the window in the hopes of seeing Hugo. The activity on the viewing platform caught my eye, and I hastily turned away as I heard a mighty growl, followed by a roar of approval from the onlookers as the lion devoured its prey. The people milled around for a few more minutes and then began to disperse, the show clearly over as the lion was maneuvered back into its cage. I wondered what part of the Tower Max was held in and if he could see what I’d just witnessed. I hoped not. My heart lifted as I saw Hugo weaving between the carts and passersby as he dashed toward the inn, a small parcel beneath his arm.

  “An hour as promised, and judging by the look in your eye, you’re starving,” Hugo guessed as he set down his purchases and smiled at my relief at seeing him unharmed. �
�I’ve asked the publican to send up our dinner, so you don’t have long to wait. Roast beef,” he added unnecessarily since the smell of roasting meat filled every nook and cranny of the inn with its appetizing aroma. But, beneath the wonderful smell of dinner I smelled something else, something that drew me to the table and Hugo’s parcel. I put aside the quills, pot of ink, stick of black wax for sealing letters, and paper, and focused on a little paper packet which nearly brought me to tears because it smelled of home.

  “Is this what I think it is?” I asked as I sniffed experimentally.

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” Hugo replied, confused by my reaction.

  “Oh, I am. I just felt homesick for a moment. Thank you, Hugo. Wherever did you find it?”

  I opened the packet and stuck my nose inside, inhaling the wonderful smell of tea leaves. The fragrance reminded me not only of endless cups of tea, drunk for pleasure, thirst, as part of any crisis management, and in various places, but also of my foster mother, whose hobbies included reading tea leaves. I was instantly transported to the front room of the little house in St. John’s Wood, the memory of Linda, as she had me call her, poignantly fresh in my mind. I could see her hunched over the table in absolute concentration as she studied the remnants of my tea, her face displaying a dizzying range of emotions as she oohed and aahed, awed by what she saw. Linda came up with all kinds of fantastic stories about my future, making me laugh with wonder at all the adventures that I would have, then she would pour me more tea and give me that extra slice of cake, which always came with a warm kiss planted on top of my head.

  Did you foresee any of this, Linda? I thought with an inward sigh as Hugo gently took the packet from my hands and folded it closed. “We’ll save this for later, shall we?”

  “I didn’t realize tea was readily available in the seventeenth century. I thought it came to England later on,” I mused as I tried to overcome my sudden melancholy.

  “It’s not a popular drink with the common people, not like ale or wine, but there are several coffee-houses in London that offer it. Catherine of Braganza introduced it to the Court after she arrived from Portugal and married Charles II, and it became something of a fad among the nobility. It was deemed as being exotic and new, a taste of China. I tried it once or twice at Court, but never developed a taste for it until you made me drink it by the bucket,” Hugo joked as he put the fragrant packet into a drawer. I was about to ask him to go get a cup of boiling water from the kitchen when a young girl appeared with a loaded tray, balancing it precariously on one hand as she swiftly moved Hugo’s parcel off the table and set down the food. She executed a brief curtsey and disappeared without a word, leaving us to our meal.