Sins of Omission (37 page)

“I don’t understand,” I stammered.  “What just happened?  I had my eyes shut; I couldn’t bear to watch.  I thought this was it.”

Hugo shook his head, giving me a look of pure astonishment.  “Did you really think that I would allow myself to be executed?” he asked, pretending to be hurt. “You know me better than that, I think.  I needed an element of surprise, sweetheart.  I know you were frightened, but it’s all over now.”

“What did you do?” I asked again as my mind began to accept the fact that we were now safe. “You were unarmed.”

“I grabbed a piece of a broken bone when I leaned against the wall,” Hugo explained.  “I saw it protruding and needed an excuse to get close to it.  I knocked Max’s arm upward just before he fired and drove the bone fragment into his stomach.”

“Oh, dear God,” I gasped.  “You stabbed him in the gut?”

Hugo smiled guiltily, but I could see that he was quite pleased with himself.  “Hugo, why did you not finish him off?”  I was angry now, the fear having morphed into aggression.  “Why did you let him live after what he was going to do?  This is the second time he’s tried to kill you.”

Hugo shook his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts.  I could see the emotions playing over his lean face, the regret, the sorrow, the loss.  “Neve, I don’t want to be the one to take Max’s life.  He’s the only living descendant of Jane; he’s the only thing left of my sister.  I know that she deserved what happened to her, but I still feel responsible.  Perhaps there’s something I could have done to save her from her fate.  To kill Max in cold blood would be like killing Jane, and I couldn’t do it.  If he dies, let it not be by my hand.  His injury is severe enough; he’s not likely to survive.”

“But if he lives, he’ll find us.  We’ll never be safe,” I wailed, suddenly scared.

“He won’t find us,” Hugo replied.

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because we are leaving.”

“Where are we going?” I asked, shocked.

“I don’t know.  That’s the beauty of my plan.  No one can betray us if they don’t know where we’ve gone.  I will decide once we get there.”

I opened my mouth to ask another question, but shut it again, suddenly overcome by fatigue.  I was emotionally drained, and Hugo would take care of things; he always did.  I felt guilty for doubting him down in the mine, but who could blame me?  I’d been terrified.

Hugo helped me into the house and made sure I had a large brandy before going to lie down for a bit.  I was still shaky, my mind unable to process what had just happened to us.  I’d never wished anyone harm, but at that moment, I hoped Max would bleed to death and vanish from our lives forever.  I needed to know that we were safe.

September 2014

Surrey, England

Simon Harding let out a growl of exasperation as he pushed away a pile of bank statements.  He’d been at it for nearly three hours and had accomplished very little.  Max’s affairs were a mess to say the least.  Simon had always assumed that Max’s fastidiousness extended to his business affairs, but he had been wrong to presume anything.  There was an accountant in the village who saw to the quarterly filings and year-end taxes, but, for the most part, the accounts were appallingly disorganized. 

Simon had put off the task as long as he possibly could, but he’d had some vacation time coming to him, and this was as good a time as any to tackle the business at hand.  Max had been gone for just over a year now, and although it had taken months to get a court order to allow Simon to access Max’s business accounts, Simon was only now getting started.  He’d taken care of paying the employees, making retirement fund contributions, and approving whatever repairs were necessary, but the bulk of the paperwork had been left until a later time.  Truth be told, Simon wouldn’t even be there if he and Heather hadn’t had a blazing row last month and decided (well, actually he decided) to slow things down a bit.  Heather was starting to drop very obvious hints about marriage, and leaving strategically placed adverts for engagement rings and honeymoon destinations.

Simon liked Heather, enjoyed her company, and more often than not shagged her without the benefit of picturing someone else, but the thought of committing to her for a lifetime sent him into a tailspin of pure panic.  Would he still want her five, ten years from now?  Would he still find her attractive, witty, or even bearable?  Was he ready to settle down with one woman and start a family, because that’s exactly what the next step would be?  He was only twenty-seven, for the love of God.  What was the rush?  At twenty-three, Heather was hardly deafened by the tolling of the biological clock.  They had time, why couldn’t they just enjoy it and see where their relationship took them? 

Simon had tried calling her about twenty minutes ago, but the call went straight to voicemail.  She was avoiding him in the hopes of making him wonder what she was up to, and coming to the inevitable conclusion that he would lose her to another man if he didn’t put a ring on her finger with the utmost urgency.  Simon pondered the notion of Heather with another man.  Was he jealous?  Did he care?  He supposed it would hurt to know that she’d moved on so quickly, but he would recover, probably sooner than Heather thought.  How much had they even had in common besides the sex?  Granted, the sex was good, but nowadays, women were as talented as porn stars, having the benefit of years of aimless shagging and online tutorials.  Practice made perfect, or so his mother always said, but of course she wasn’t referring to sex. 

Still, he would hate to lose Heather.  They were a good fit, when all was said and done, and he’d need to smooth Heather’s ruffled feathers before too long.  He wasn’t ready to marry her, but perhaps he could ask her to move in.  His flat was big enough for two, and living together would be a good prelude to marriage.  Maybe Heather would see what a slob he was and change her mind about marrying him.  She wasn’t the type to spend the rest of her life picking up after him and keeping the house tidy.

Simon sighed and dialed Heather again, then disconnected the call when it went to voicemail and threw his phone on top of the pile of statements.  He opened the bottom drawer of the desk to see if there was anything else inside.  A battered-looking notebook came out; the pages yellowed with time and the ink faded to a dull brown.  The date on the first page caught Simon’s eye.  The entry had been made over a century ago.  Well, anything was better than looking at all this boring paperwork.  Simon began to read, quickly getting absorbed into the story. 

**

The church clock struck midnight by the time Simon finally set aside the notebook and stared off into space.  It had been a fascinating account, a work of fiction better than some bestsellers he’d recently read.  He’d heard of the author, of course; heard the story of his disappearance and subsequent “rest” at an asylum for the mentally disturbed.  Simon had never cared much about what happened to Henry Everly, but hearing his voice in the narrative made him real, and surprisingly sane.  Simon replaced the notebook in the drawer, shut off the lights, and went up to bed.  He was bone-tired, and his eyes burned from lack of sleep.  The night before he’d gone to a stag party, one that Heather wouldn’t want to hear about given the “friendly” nature of the Eastern European stripper.  Simon had not partaken, but his friends had and seemed to enjoy the experience.  If anyone ever mentioned anything, Heather would never believe that he was innocent, when, in fact, he was.

Simon undressed, brushed his teeth, and climbed into bed, ready to sleep, but his brain was going full speed despite all his attempts at slumber.  Henry’s voice was still speaking in Simon’s head, his teenage observations surprisingly poignant and honest.  The boy must have had a very active imagination to come up with such a tale, or…

Despite Simon’s love of science fiction and fantasy, the idea of time travel had never entered his mind.  It was the stuff of romance; an entertaining diversion so frequently relied on in films and novels to capture the imagination.  Sure, he’d seen every episode of
Doctor Who
at least half a dozen times, but that was just fun.  Simon flipped onto his back and threw off the covers, suddenly hot.  His thoughts were taking a ridiculous turn, but once he opened that door a crack, it had blown wide open.  Max had gone without a trace.  There was no sign of a struggle, no witnesses, and no body.  His car had been in the drive, his wallet on the bedside table.  There had been no internet, mobile, or banking activity since the day of his disappearance, so where was he?  Surely, if he were dead, his body would have been discovered by now unless he’d been abducted by aliens, which was an interesting theory as well, to be analyzed at a later date.

Of course, no one in their right mind would ever suggest that Max had traveled through time, but there was Henry’s journal, Max’s unexplained absence, and the bizarre disappearance of that woman -– what was her name -– Neve Ashley.  She had vanished under much the same circumstances, and then showed up a few months later in the company of what his mother claimed was the twin of Max’s seventeenth-century counterpart.  So where was Neve Ashley now?  Perhaps he could speak to her, have her tell him that he was barking mad and put an end to this ridiculous speculation. 

Simon suddenly sat up in bed, having been struck by a thought.  If Max had indeed traveled through time, he might have done something to alter the course of history, and in this wonderful day and age of the internet, Simon might even be able to find his footprint.  It was a longshot, but he had to try, or he’d never get any rest.  Simon booted up his laptop and entered a search for Maximillian Everly.

Pages and pages of relevant hits popped up, most of them dealing with Max’s disappearance, and before that, his political aspirations.  Simon scrolled through all of them, his hopes dwindling.  There didn’t seem to be anything of interest.  He was just about to check his Facebook page since he was up anyway, when an entry at the bottom of the umpteenth page caught his eye.  He clicked on the link and was brought to some middling historian’s blog, discussing the aftermath of the Monmouth Rebellion.  The man went on and on.  God, he could have bored for England if there were such a category in the Olympics, but a paragraph at the end was gold.  It read:

“The last conspirator of James Crofts, the Duke of Monmouth, Lord Hugo Everly, was tried in October of 1685, having eluded authorities until then.  The fascinating thing about this particular case was that up until the very end, the accused claimed his arrest to be a case of mistaken identity, swearing on the Bible that he was Maximillian Everly rather than Lord Hugo Everly, for whom the warrant had been issued.  Perhaps it was simply a gambit for freedom, but the accused had legal representation, which was virtually unheard of at the time, and actual physical evidence presented to the court meant to disprove that he was Hugo Everly. 

George Jeffreys, who presided over the trial, dismissed the evidence out of hand, and sentenced the man to death by beheading, which was commuted to deportation to the West Indies.  Presumably, a sizeable bribe helped him see a way to being merciful, but the unfortunate Maximillian/Hugo Everly died shortly after arriving in Barbados, possibly of yellow fever.”

Simon stared at the paragraph in awe.  Was this a coincidence?  There could have been other Maximillians along the line, but he’d never heard of one.  Was this actual proof that Max had gone back in time and been arrested in lieu of his ancestor?  He did bear a striking resemblance to Hugo Everly.  Did this mean that Max was dead?

Simon felt the hot sting of tears behind his eyelids.  He’d grown up idolizing Max, had worshipped him as an older brother, only to find out that Max
was
his older brother.  If the blog entry was correct, then Max had been dead for centuries, but was there anything Simon could do to help him?  Was there a way to prevent the injustice which had claimed Max’s life?  Simon gave up the idea of sleep and padded downstairs.  He needed a sandwich and a cup of tea before he began to tackle this insane idea.

November 1686

Rouen, France

I snuggled against Hugo, lost in that shadowy world between wakefulness and sleep as a blissful peace settled over me.  Valentine, who was now thankfully sleeping through the night, was warm and snug in her cradle, Hugo was fully recovered and stretched out next to me, and Frances was just down the corridor, still unwed, but secure in Archie’s love and happy for the very first time in her life. 

We’d been living in a sprawling farmhouse a few miles outside of Rouen since we left Paris last June, and I had to admit that I had never been happier.  The constant worry, intrigue, and uncertainty had been replaced by safety, a comforting routine, and the feeling of serenity.  Hugo had chosen Rouen because of its proximity to the port of Le Havre, and we had all the benefits of living close to a large city without actually being a part of it.

There was a moment each morning when we remembered that Jem was gone, and wouldn’t be sitting in the kitchen, swinging his feet to and fro as he stuffed his face with whatever was on offer.  Saying goodbye had been one of the hardest things we had to do, but Hugo had solemnly promised that we would see Jem as soon as we returned to England, and I knew that promise would be kept, no matter the cost.  The knowledge that Jem left willingly went a long way toward making us feel better.  Once he’d gotten over his reservations, Jem had grown fond of his father, and the notion of becoming a gentleman and a landowner didn’t displease him too much either.  He’d gone to a better life and a more promising future, and that was all we needed to know for now to deal with our grief at losing him.

Leaving Paris had helped me find peace and contentment.  For the first time in our married life, Hugo and I weren’t hiding, running, or scheming.  Our life now was simple, and beautiful, but Hugo was restless, and I knew the idyll wouldn’t last.  In exactly two years, the winds of change would sweep through England as the Glorious Revolution dethroned James and put William and Mary on the throne, starting a new dynasty and altering the future of England forever.  Hugo would finally be free to return home, but would have to bend the knee to a Protestant monarch, and live in the knowledge that his dream of religious freedom would not come to fruition during his lifetime.  I hoped that he would be able to adjust to this new reality, but there was a part of me that knew Hugo wouldn’t just roost at his country estate and keep out of politics.

From time to time, I still dreamed of Max, and woke up bathed in cold sweat, crying in terror as I imagined myself in that dark mine, praying for Hugo to come, but knowing that he would be walking into a trap.  It saddened me to think that Max died alone, in the dark, and with no one to bury or mourn him, but it was a fate he’d chosen for himself.  I couldn’t help remembering what he’d said about the sightless eyes of numerous skulls grinning at the tourists, and shuddered at the thought of Max being one of them.  How different his life might have been if he’d never followed me through the passage in the crypt.  He might have won that seat in Parliament, and could even have had a family by now, which is something I thought he longed for. 

Hugo slid his hand over my belly as I began to drift off to sleep.  He’d noticed that I’d missed my period, and was silently asking me if I might be pregnant again.  I wasn’t sure, but I suspected I might be.  The idea no longer frightened me as much as before, and the joy we had from Valentine made up for the pain I had endured.  I covered his hand with my own before my thoughts turned to dreams.