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

  “I think Buttercup is feeling a little hungry,” Archie said as he stopped in the doorway and glanced away in embarrassment when he saw the babies at my breasts. “I have an apple for her, but if you’re not interested, I’ll give it to her myself. I was on my way to the stables anyhow.”

  Archie shrugged his shoulders as if it were all the same to him, but Valentine went rigid in Hugo’s arms, her attention suddenly focused on Archie. Buttercup was Valentine’s pony, a sweet-tempered, cream-colored creature whose large brown eyes practically lit up when the pony beheld an apple.

  “Down,” Valentine ordered. Hugo put her down and she grabbed Archie’s hand as if it were a life preserver. “Want to feed Buttercup.”

  “All right, if you insist. Perhaps we should stop by the kitchen and get an extra apple, just in case.”

  “Can I ride?” Valentine asked as she gazed into Archie’s eyes imploringly.

  “If you are good,” Archie replied noncommittally as he led Valentine away.

  “How does he always do that?” Hugo asked with a grin as he watched the two of them make their way down the stairs and out the door. Valentine was as docile as a lamb with Archie, knowing that he wouldn’t take any lip from her. And the promise of feeding the pony or riding for a few minutes was like catnip. Hugo was concerned that Valentine was too young to ride, but Archie just harrumphed in that way he did, dismissing the idea. He was probably born in the saddle and thought a child could be put astride before they even learned to walk. His theory seemed to apply to Valentine, who had no fear of riding and sat with her back straight and her feet planted in the stirrups as she rode around the small area Archie designated for a paddock.

  Hugo sat down next to me and watched, enraptured, as I finished feeding the babies and pulled up my shift. The babies seemed to be asleep, breathing evenly as their sparse eyelashes fanned out against their still-puffy faces. I passed the boy to Hugo and held on to the girl, studying her with interest. They looked very much alike when wrapped up, their faces almost a mirror image of each other, but the girl’s hair was darker, and her lips a little plumper while the boy had a slightly higher forehead and rounder cheeks. I suppose a stranger would think them identical, but I could already tell the difference, highly aware of each child’s individuality.

  Had I been pregnant in the twenty-first century, Hugo and I would have had names already picked out, but few people chose names in this time before a child was born — for fear of tempting fate. So many children died in utero and during the birth that the parents did as little as possible to forge a bond with the baby until they were sure it had a chance of survival.

  “What shall we name them?” Hugo asked, as if reading my mind.

  Naming children in the seventeenth century was vastly different than in the future. Only a handful of names were popular, and they were either the names of saints or monarchs. People often named their children after whoever sat the throne, so once Mary and William were crowned, those would be the top names in the realm. Giving a child a name that was unique or cutesy was bound to cause suspicion and set the child apart. I had never been partial to Mary, and although I liked James, given what was about to happen, James wasn’t a wise choice for a boy. William didn’t seem to fit either.

  Hugo glanced over at my bundle. “What about Elena?” he asked. “I quite like that. We can give Mary as a second name,” he added, knowing that naming after a queen might help the child should she ever come to Court or become a lady-in-waiting.

  “Elena Mary,” I mused. “What do you think?” I asked the baby, but she was sound asleep, her lips pursed as if she were displeased with the idea.

  “Would you like to name him?” I asked, knowing how happy Hugo was to finally have a son. I was sure that he already had a name secretly written on his heart.

  “Michael,” Hugo responded immediately. “I’d like to call him Michael. Michael Joseph.”

  “Any special reason?”

  “I was always fond of St. Michael,” Hugo replied. “He was a natural leader, a warrior of God, and a symbol of courage. And Joseph after my father. He was called Joss by those who knew him, but Joseph was his full name.”

  “I thought you didn’t get on with your father,” I remarked carefully, surprised that Hugo would wish to name his son after the man who’d been so harsh and unfeeling toward him, especially when he was a small child who’d recently lost his mother.

  “My father and I had a difficult relationship, but he is responsible for the man I am today, and although some lessons were harsh ones, they were necessary. I can’t say that I loved the man, but I did respect him,” Hugo explained. “I think it’s only right that Michael bear his name since Valentine bears my mother’s name, Elise.” Hugo suddenly looked contrite. “Did you perhaps wish to name the children after your own parents?”

  That question gave me pause. Did I? I suppose I had finally forgiven my mother for her neglect of me after my father left, but I didn’t feel magnanimous enough to name my daughter after the woman who caused me so much pain. My father had turned his back on me, never so much as bothering to see me or even ring after he’d left. No, he didn’t deserve the honor either. I’d never met Hugo’s parents, but his mother had been a kind, gentle woman, and his father, although stern and at times unforgiving, had taught Hugo how to take responsibility for his actions and to do his duty by those who depended on him — not something I could ever say of my own father who wouldn’t know responsibility and duty if he tripped over them on the way to the nearest pub.

  “All right then, Elena Mary and Michael Joseph,” I agreed, gazing down at the sleeping children. I rested my head against Hugo’s shoulder, and we just sat peacefully for a few moments, enjoying a moment of quiet bliss before Valentine’s voice shattered the silence.

  “I want Mama,” she roared as her little feet pounded up the stairs. My first responsibility as a mother of three was to make sure that Valentine didn’t feel neglected.

  “Come here,” I whispered to her as I held my finger to my lips. “Be very quiet and you can take a look at the babies.”

  Valentine didn’t seem impressed by this promise, but she obediently quieted down and allowed Hugo to help her onto the high bed. She squeezed between the two of us and gazed from one baby to another.

  “What do you think?” Hugo asked her as he held up Michael for her inspection.

  Valentine didn’t answer. She just huddled between us as silent tears of hurt slid down her cheeks. Being a mother of three was going to be a challenge.

  December 1688

  Surrey, England

  Chapter 3

  I tried to ignore the manic racing of my heart as the hired carriage drew closer to Cranley. The sky was the deep lilac of a winter twilight, tinged in places with streaks of fuchsia and gold. It must have snowed a few days ago, because the countryside was blanketed in a thin layer of white which shimmered in the remaining light and glittered on trees and bushes. A few shy stars and a pale moon had already appeared in the sky, ready to take up reign from the sun that had abdicated for the night. I could see the outline of Everly Manor rising in the distance, its bulk a shadowy blight on the countryside. I stared more intently, willing light to appear in the windows. Hugo had written to Brad, advising him of our arrival, and asking him to see to some basic domestic arrangements that would make it easier for us to settle in once we returned, but I saw no evidence of life in the darkened windows or smokeless chimneys.

  When we docked in Portsmouth that morning, we’d decided to go directly to Everly Manor without stopping for the night en route. It would be a long ride for the children, but we were so eager to come home at last that delaying our arrival by even a day seemed like an eternity. We’d been traveling for weeks, and my secret little fantasy had been to have a good meal that wasn’t tack and stringy stew, and then soak in a hot bath before going to sleep in a real bed that wasn’t a hard wooden berth on a boat rolling from side to side as it crossed the heaving Channel in late autu
mn. I’d have to settle for the no-rolling part since there would obviously be no home-cooked meal or a hot bath. Perhaps Brad never got the letter. Hugo sent more than one, knowing that mail was unreliable and letters often went astray, but judging by the dark, silent house, none of them had reached their destination. Another day or two of discomfort wouldn’t kill us, and life at the manor would be humming in no time, but although I was slightly disappointed, nothing could mar the happiness of this day.

  I’d envisioned this moment a thousand times over the past few years, but now that it was finally here, I felt like I would burst with impatience. It had been a difficult journey, partially because we made it so late in the year, and partially because of the children. I’d never imagined how trying it would be to travel with three children under the age of three without the benefit of running water, electricity, disposable nappies, and, most importantly, television and video games to keep them occupied during the long hours of the voyage. Modern-day mothers thought they had it hard, but they’d never traveled by carriage or had been confined to a tiny windowless cabin on a ship in the seventeenth century.

  We had to remain vigilant every moment of the day, making sure that the children never went near the steep steps down to the hold; stayed out of the way of the sailors who weren’t accustomed to having small children underfoot, and never climbed on anything that might elevate them high enough to allow them to tumble over the side. By the time the children were finally rocked to sleep at night by the movement of the ship, we were all exhausted and fell asleep within moments, ready to wake up and do it all again the next day.

  The children in question were now sound asleep, lulled by the motion of the carriage. Valentine was curled up in Archie’s lap; Michael was wedged between myself and Hugo, a little wooden horse that Archie had carved for him still in his hand, and Elena was snoring softly in Hugo’s lap, sleeping deeply at last. She was easily overexcited and slept fitfully ever since we left our house outside Rouen, which often left her cranky and tired. The twins had turned one the day before we left Rouen, but although they had been born less than half an hour apart, couldn’t be more different in personality or development. Michael was a serious child who enjoyed playing quietly and being read to. He was slightly taller than Elena, but weaker of constitution and more easily upset and frightened. Elena, on the other hand, was a little daredevil who had no fear of anything, and never cried even when she fell and hurt herself. She was a natural leader, and held her own when Valentine tried to boss her around.

  Elena was currently going through a “daddy phase”, and wanted little to do with me. She hardly gave poor Hugo a moment of peace on the voyage, climbing him the way the sailors climbed the rigging. Michael was more content to stay with me where it was safe, and chose Frances as a substitute if I weren’t available. He seemed to be intimidated by Archie, who was a favorite with the girls.

  Valentine, being nearly three, was still nursing her infatuation for Archie. He seemed to be the only one who could talk her ‘round, and despite his often taciturn exterior, he seemed to enjoy the attention. The two of them were practically inseparable, which left Frances feeling a bit left out. She willingly helped out with the children, but they tired her, and she often sought a quiet corner in which to read or just sit and think. She’d been unusually quiet since leaving France, the memories of her life in England weighing her down, as was her fear of some sort of retaliation from her father-in-law.

  Frances had complied with Hugo’s request and waited to marry Archie, but I could understand her fear. As Archie’s wife, she would be his by law to support and protect. As the widow of Lionel Finch, she was still vulnerable and beholden to his family. Gideon Warburton had assured Hugo that he would pursue all legal avenues regarding Frances’s share of the estate, but there had been no word from him in over a year, and Hugo was beginning to question the wisdom of leaving Frances so exposed.

  I was in favor of having Frances and Archie wait, but for reasons of my own. Frances had been severely emotionally and physically traumatized, which, in my opinion, led her straight into the arms of the first man who showed her any affection and kindness. Had Archie responded to her advances, perhaps things would have been different, but Frances nearly died as a result of her vulnerability and misplaced trust, and she needed time to heal. Now, nearly three years after her near-fatal abortion attempt, Frances was finally in a good place. She had matured, gained confidence, and lost some of the fear that shaped her decisions in the past. Receiving financial compensation from the Finches might benefit her in some ways, but it would also complicate her relationship with Archie, which was something Hugo chose not to acknowledge from his practical, masculine perspective. I knew that Frances was anxious about our homecoming, and would have happily remained in France as long as the rest of us remained there with her.

  I felt a jolt of tension roll over Hugo as he spotted the manor house in the distance. He’d dreamed of this moment, had longed for home, and had taken the risk of sailing to England at the end of November when events leading up to the fall of James II were about to unfold. The prudent thing would have been to wait until spring and allow the political dust to settle, if such a thing were possible in England, but Hugo simply couldn’t wait any longer. He was desperate to go home and reclaim his life. I put my hand in his as an array of emotions raced across Hugo’s features. This was uncharted territory, and neither one of us had any inkling of what this homecoming would bring.

  Chapter 4

  The house was as cold as a tomb and just as dark when everyone finally trooped into the foyer. Archie had to break one of the high windows in the cellar kitchen and come around to open the front door since there was no other way in. Hugo had never needed a key to his own house; there had always been servants to let him in. He stood in the darkened foyer, listening to the deafening silence of the empty house. All he heard was the howling of the wind outside and the creaking of the wood as the house settled for the night. Archie grabbed a few candles on the way from the kitchen and now lit one, casting the travelers into a golden pool of light. The light reflected off the breastplate of Bruce’s armor which had guarded the foyer since the house had been built during the reign of Henry VIII.

  “Mama, I’m hungry,” Valentine whined as the younger children rubbed their eyes. It was nearly their bedtime, and after a day of traveling, they were ready for bed despite having slept in the coach. Neve looked bemused, the fatigue clearly showing on her face. She needed to warm up, have something to eat, and rest. The past weeks had been hard on her, and although one more night wouldn’t make all that much of a difference, Hugo felt as if he’d let everyone down. They all huddled together, like a band of refugees, and it was time to get matters under control. Tomorrow, he would figure out what went wrong, but for tonight, he had to get everyone fed and settled.

  Hugo herded everyone into the front parlor and lit a few candles, dispelling the gloom of the winter evening. Opening the shutters was pointless since it was already pitch dark outside. The furniture was covered in dust sheets, and according to Archie there wasn’t a scrap of food in the larder, nor was there much firewood. The house had been deserted for years.

  “Archie,” Hugo began, “go to the tavern and get some food, enough to last through tomorrow. Don’t forget milk for the children.”

  He then turned to the coachman who came with the rented coach. The man would wish to return to Portsmouth come morning, but for tonight he was Hugo’s responsibility.

  “Master Harvey, please see to the coach and horses and fetch some water from the well,” Hugo requested of the man, who looked none too pleased at arriving at a house that hadn’t been inhabited in years. After a day of driving through the cold, barren countryside, he’d no doubt been looking forward to a hot meal and a comfortable bed.

  “I’ll stay at the inn tonight, if it’s all the same to you, your lordship,” he replied, jamming the hat back on his head. He’d already been paid for his services, so there was nothing
to keep him from leaving.

  “As you wish, Master Harvey. Perhaps you can give Archie a ride then since we have no horses of our own,” Hugo replied without missing a beat.

  “It would be my pleasure,” the coachman replied sarcastically, clearly annoyed at having to spend his hard-earned money on lodging and food. Hugo reached into his purse and passed the man several coins, having correctly deduced the reason for his surliness.

  “Thank you kindly, sir, and a good night to you all.” Hugo waited for the man to leave before continuing with his instructions.

  “Neve, please prepare two bedchambers for tonight. The children can go in with us, and Archie and Frances can share for one night. I doubt anyone will be particularly shocked,” he added, seeing the look of astonishment on Frances’s face.

  “Frances, mind the children while Neve is upstairs. I will lay the fires in the rooms and kitchen and put on some water to heat. There’ll be no hot baths tonight, but at least we’ll have some hot water for washing.”

  Hugo left the women to it and went out to get firewood. He hoped it was dry, or it would be a very cold night indeed. His mind buzzed with questions as he chose the driest logs from the sorry pile behind the house. Why was the house empty? Where the devil was everyone, and where were the horses? The stable was dark and empty, as was the kennel which normally housed a few dogs. Where was Brad? Bradford Nash was not the type of person to just ignore a request, or to forget. Hugo felt a twinge of unease as he thought of his friend, but there was nothing he could do until tomorrow.

  Hugo gathered as much firewood as he could and went back into the kitchen. It took him some time to get the fire going, but the damp wood finally caught, illuminating the large room which seemingly hadn’t been used in years. There was no water, so he found a bucket and went to the well. The water was frozen solid, and throwing the bucket against the ice did little to crack the crust of ice. Hugo went out to the shed where he found a long stick resembling a pike. That would do it, or so he hoped.