Sins of Omission (9 page)

March 1686

Paris, France

Hugo pressed his signet ring into the blob of wax on the seam of the letter, marking it with his personal seal.  There, it was done.  He’d thought long and hard about taking this course of action, but there didn’t seem to be much choice.  When he’d originally planned to take refuge in France, Max had been safely going about his business in the twenty-first century, not wreaking havoc in seventeenth-century London.  Now that Max had been tried and sentenced to indentured servitude in the West Indies, everything had changed.  Hugo Everly couldn’t exist in two places, so his tenuous position in France depended entirely on him proving his identity and being publicly accepted.  If he failed to accomplish this feat, he would have virtually no chance of returning to England in 1688 and reclaiming his old life, or a place at the Court of William and Mary.  He had to make a move, and it had to be a bold one. 

Hugo had considered discussing the situation with Neve, but decided not to distress her.  She was preoccupied with the baby, and needed no additional worries.  Neve was just beginning to realize that unlike in the future, where political issues were hotly discussed and played out in the media, seventeenth-century politics happened mostly behind closed doors between a handful of powerful individuals.  In the future, the common person was not as directly affected by what transpired as they were in the present.  A change of policy, a death of a monarch, or an unexpected alliance could alter the course of someone’s life and instantly turn them from a dutiful citizen into an enemy of the state, a heretic, or an exile.  Neve’s realization that their position was almost as precarious as it had been in England would do nothing to make her life with him easier.  He’d promised to take care of her and their child, and he would, even if it meant selling his soul to the devil.  And, there was no guarantee that the devil would even be interested in acquiring his soul, for what he was proposing to offer could only be described as fantastical.

Hugo stowed the letter in his coat pocket and headed downstairs.  He was due to chaperone yet another of Frances and Luke’s outings.  He had better things to do, but there was no one else who could accompany the pair, and ultimately, it served his purpose.  Besides, Frances looked pale and forlorn, and it would do her good to get out of the house and enjoy something of the city.  Thankfully, the snow had melted and the intoxicating smell of spring was in the air, making the prospect somewhat more pleasant.  Frances liked to get out of the carriage and take a walk by the Seine where she could watch the boats crisscrossing the river and admire the forbidding outline of Notre Dame.  Luke, who’d never been a great advocate of walking, was only too happy to squire Frances around town and dazzle her with his knowledge of architecture and French history, all the while gazing at her as if she were the Holy Mother herself, come to life.  It was amusing to see his old friend so utterly bewitched by a mere slip of a girl.

Hugo usually walked discreetly behind the couple, thinking his own thoughts and enjoying the fresh air.  He missed the country and the natural order of things that were to be found in nature.  Paris was a beautiful city, a worthy counterpart to London, but it would never feel like home, nor make him feel as if he were welcome here.  He often dreamed of Everly Manor and the surrounding countryside, his dream-self galloping over the open countryside on Aamir, the wind fragrant with the smell of churned earth and growing things.  How he wished they could go home so that Valentine could grow up in a place that was rightfully hers; a home in which generations of Everlys had lived, loved, and schemed, as she would, if he played his cards right. 

Of course, thoughts of home invariably reminded Hugo of Jane, and his heart constricted painfully at the memory of his last meeting with his sister.  Soon there would be news from home, but he wasn’t sure what he wished to hear.  He supposed he hoped that Jane and Clarence were well, but in his heart, his sister was dead to him.  He’d never see her again, even if he managed to return home and pick up the threads of his former life.  Perhaps in time he might find it in his heart to forgive her for the evil she’d brought into his life, but for now he allowed himself to remain angry, if no longer vengeful.

Hugo obediently accompanied Frances and Luke to a coffeehouse overlooking the banks of the Seine.  Frances looked like a joyful child as Luke ordered her a flaky pastry filled with rose-petal custard and sprinkled with powdered sugar, which looked like freshly fallen snow.  Hugo refused the pastry, but accepted a cup of strong coffee.  He’d normally be hungry at this time, but the letter in his pocket was making him feel a bit queasy.  He could still change his mind, and he happily would if he could only think of another alternative to his present situation. 

Frances delicately licked the sugar from her fingers, leaving Luke staring at her open-mouthed like a smitten youth.  “Would you like another, my sweet?” Luke asked, his eyes glued to Frances’s sugar-dusted lips.

“No, thank you, but it was wonderful,” Frances breathed. “I’d never eaten anything so sinfully delicious back in England.  I do so enjoy these outings, Master Marsden.  Perhaps once the spring is truly here you can take me on a cruise down the river.  I would so enjoy that.”

If Hugo didn’t know better, he’d think that Frances was enjoying her power over Luke.  She was playing him like a particularly fine-tuned instrument, and making beautiful music. Was it possible for a sheltered, frightened girl to change so much in the space of a few months? Hugo wondered.  She seemed more aware somehow, more in control, as if all this was a part of some elaborate plan and not an innocent outing with an admirer.

“I will hire a barge and some players, and we will make a day of it.  Perhaps by that time Lady Everly will be able to join us.  Wouldn’t that be delightful?  I know how you enjoy her company.”

“Yes, I think Neve would enjoy that very much,” Hugo chimed in, thinking of how long it’d been since Neve had a few hours of pleasure.  He suddenly felt like a failure for not being in a position to offer that to her.  Perhaps if his plan succeeded, everything would change, and they would be able to finally have the life they were meant to have, not live like disgraced exiles. 

Hugo was glad when it was time to go back; he’d had enough of chaperoning and longed to spend a little time with Neve between feedings.  He adored the baby, but at times felt left out of the intense mother-child bond that seemed to consume Neve and leave no room for him.  It’d been nearly a month since the birth, but Neve hadn’t so much as allowed him to kiss her.  She seemed frightened almost, as if he would hurt her or force her to do anything she wasn’t ready for.  Surely she knew that he would never force the issue.  Hugo sighed and climbed into the carriage, suddenly no longer as eager to return home, his mood sour.

Hugo waited until Frances entered the house before speaking with Luke.  “I wonder if I might prevail on you to do me a favor,” he said as he invited Luke back into the carriage for more privacy.  Luke was still smiling happily, so this was probably the best time to ask him.

“Of course.  What can I do for you, Hugo?”

Hugo withdrew the letter and passed it to Luke.  “Can you please deliver this in person?”

Luke gazed at the name on the letter in some consternation.  “Hugo, what possible business do you have with the Marquis de Chartres?” he asked, the smile no longer on his face, Frances forgotten.

“The kind of business I’d like to keep private, old friend,” Hugo replied smoothly.  He’d known that Luke would be full of questions, but he was the only person who could get close enough to Marquis de Chartres to deliver the message, so trusting him was a necessary evil.

“I’m sure you know what you are doing, but please be careful, Hugo.  De Chartres is one of the most dangerous men in France.  His word is enough to make someone disappear without a trace, sometimes into the bowels of the Bastille, but often into the murky waters of the Seine or an unmarked grave.”

“Luke, I appreciate your concern, and value your advice; however, there are some things that I would prefer to keep private, if you have no objection,” Hugo replied, hoping Luke would desist and simply deliver his letter.  He had enough reservations about this course of action without Luke carrying on like a nervous old woman.

“As you wish,” Luke replied, tucking the letter away for safekeeping.  “I will be at Versailles at the end of the week, and will make sure to deliver the letter in person.”  He gave Hugo a stiff bow, indicating that the interview was over and he’d like to get on.

“Thank you, Luke.  I appreciate your help and discretion.”  Hugo alighted from the carriage with a heavy heart, aware that he had until Luke left for Versailles to change his mind, and knowing that he wouldn’t.

March 1686

Barbados, West Indies

The merciless sun beat down on the fields of sugar cane, the humidity in the air making the heat that much more unbearable.  Nothing stirred, not even the leafy palm trees at the edge of the field, their shaggy heads bent in submission to the impenetrable stillness in the air.  Johansson ordered several women to walk around with buckets of water to prevent the workers from getting sunstroke.  They ladled out the water carefully, giving each man only a cupful before moving on.  Max straightened laboriously as Dido approached, her ladle already full.  He drank greedily, his eyes never leaving her face.  She looked calm and cool despite the heat, the gay colors of her turban making her appear festive; a striking contrast to the impassive expression on her face.  Their eyes met, and she blessed him with a rare smile, showing even white teeth.  Dido might have gotten in trouble, but she dipped her ladle into the bucket and offered Max a second cup of water, instantly elevating herself to divine status in his books.

“Thank you,” Max breathed, but Dido had already moved on to the next man.  She slowly made her way down the line, her turban just visible above the tall stalks of uncut cane.  Most of the slave women looked fearful, but Dido looked imperious.  It’s as if the events of each day didn’t touch her, but merely swirled around her in a gossamer cloud, leaving her unaffected.  Was it strength of character, or was Dido’s lot easier than that of the other women? Max wondered.  The slave women seemed deferential to her, but perhaps it was just his imagination.

Max bent down to cut the next batch when he saw Johansson running away from the field, his hand on his stomach, and his face blanched to the color of flour.  He stopped, doubled over, retched into a bush, and staggered away toward the privy.  Max was surprised to see him walk straight into a tree.  The man could barely see where he was going, he was so ill.  Had he been anyone else, Max might have felt a twinge of pity, but he took grim pleasure in the overseer’s misfortune, as did the men around him.  No one looked up, but he felt a tremor of satisfaction pass down the line, small smiles hidden beneath the brims of wide hats that made the men look like mushrooms.

“Full moon tonight,” John mouthed as he turned to face Max.

And so it was.  Max wiped his perspiring forehead and glanced over to the section of field allocated to the Negro slaves.  They all appeared to be working, but a current passed from man to man as their eyes followed Johansson’s back.  They were up to something.  Max went back to work before he drew unwanted attention, but his mind refused to stay uninvolved.  He’d been numb for months, just managing to survive from day to day, but if he were to survive, he had to be aware of what was happening around him.  What had these people done to Johansson, and to what end?

Max was trembling with exhaustion and thirst by quitting time, his arms burning from the strain of cutting cane.  He was grateful for the long-sleeved cotton tunic, trousers, and hat that he’d been issued by the overseer or he would have third-degree burns by now, his light skin unused to the brutal sun, especially without the benefit of sun cream.  Max ate his meal in silence and stumbled back to his hut, desperate to stretch out on his pallet.  The hut was hot as hell after a day of baking in the sun, but it was still much cooler than the outdoors.  Max fell into a deep sleep, grateful for the oblivion it provided from the soul-crushing reality of his life.

He was nudged awake some hours later.  Moonlight streamed through the window, painting the sleeping men in a silvery glow.  Some faces were lost in shadow, but some looked grim even in sleep, the lines etched deep, mouths slack with discontent.  John crouched next to Max, his eyes wide open, and his teeth pearly in the dark bush of his beard. 

“Listen,” he whispered.  Max strained to listen, but heard only a rustling of palm leaves moving gently in the breeze that had dispelled the oppressive humidity of the afternoon.

“What am I listening for?” he asked, deeply annoyed at being woken out of a deep sleep.

“They are on the move,” John replied. 

Max pushed open the door of the hut and looked out.  All seemed quiet and peaceful.  The tropical night was full of the usual nocturnal sounds: insects chirped, palm trees whispered to each other, and something slithered through the grass a few feet from where Max stood.  Max was just about to go back in when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye.  He peered into the darkness.  Several figures disappeared into the jungle, moving so stealthily as to be almost invisible.  Max gazed after them in surprise.  The slave barracks were locked for the night, unlike the hut of the indentures.  He wasn’t sure why that was, but he’d seen Johansson sliding the bar into its brackets at night and shutting the slaves in.  How had they gotten out? 

Don’t get involved, Max’s mind warned, but he was suddenly wide-awake and curious.  The bar was clearly visible in the moonlight, still firmly in its place.  The building was securely locked, and the windows were not nearly wide enough for a human being to climb through, not even a child.  Max began to walk in the direction the slaves had taken, followed by John, who seemed to be hanging back just in case.  All was quiet, but he was sure something was happening tonight.

“Where are you going?” John hissed behind him. 

“I want to see what they are about,” Max replied without breaking his stride.  “Wasn’t that why you woke me?”

“Don’t be daft.  I only woke you to show you that they were up to something at the full moon.  I never meant for you to follow them.  They’re dangerous; no better than savages.  Ever heard of human sacrifice?  It’s a common enough practice in darkest Africa.”  John grabbed Max’s arm in an effort to prevent him from going into the jungle, but Max was undeterred.

“And what do you know of darkest Africa?” he demanded in a loud whisper, annoyed with the man’s ignorance. 

“Enough to have the good sense not to put myself in danger.  You go on then, but leave me out of it.” 

John fell back, still clicking his tongue in disapproval behind Max.  He was probably bursting with curiosity, but too much of a coward to see what was going on for himself.  John had woken Max up for a reason; Max was sure of that.  John was a lot more cunning than people gave him credit for.  He knew Max well enough by now to know that he would rise to the challenge, and do what John himself would rather not.  No matter; he wasn’t doing this to assuage John’s curiosity, but his own.  As he plunged into the jungle, Max felt more alive than he had since the trial, suddenly keenly aware of his surroundings, and cognizant of the fact that his life might be affected by whatever he saw tonight.

Max must have walked for about a mile, but there was no sign of the slaves.  He had no idea how large the plantation actually was since he’d never been allowed to go anywhere but to the fields, but Jessop Greene likely owned all the land hereabouts.  The jungle was alive around him, menacing in the darkness.  Max tried not to think of all the lethal creatures that could feast on him as he ambled into their sanctuary, but he continued to walk, careful not to step on anything sharp with his bare feet, too determined to stop and turn back now.  Could the slaves be escaping? he wondered, but John had implied that something sinister happened at every full moon, so an organized escape was unlikely.

Just as Max thought he’d imagined the whole thing and no one actually left the camp, he noticed a flicker of firelight in the darkness up ahead.  He got a little closer and crouched down behind a leafy bush.  He had a good view from his vantage point, but was well hidden should anyone become wise to his presence.  There was a small clearing in the jungle with a fire burning in the center.  Dark shadows surrounded the flames, but light flickered over their faces and Max recognized a few of the slaves.  What shocked him was their demeanor.  Gone was the subservience and fear they displayed in front of Johansson, replaced by fervor and purpose.  The same men who cowered in front of the overseer now stood tall, their shoulders back, and their heads held high.  Their eyes were no longer downcast, but staring into the flames, their expressions exultant and full of expectation.  There were women too.  They appeared relaxed and unafraid, their lips stretched into mysterious half-smiles that held a world of meaning as they took their places in the circle.

The slaves seemed to be preparing for some sort of ceremony.  They began stomping their feet, clapping, and chanting softly, their voices rising in unison.  Both Dido and the man she resembled were inside the circle, close to the flames.  The man had a rattle in his hands and was intoning a chant while Dido appeared to be in a trance, her eyes open and staring at everything and nothing.  The chanting got louder and more frenzied, and Max watched in astonishment as Dido’s body suddenly went rigid as a wooden plank, then began to convulse as she uttered something in her own language.  He had no idea what she was saying, but the voice that came out of the woman sounded like one of those recordings people played backward to hear the voice of Satan.  She was writhing like a snake, waving her arms above her head and bellowing something, which set the rest of the slaves into spasms of frenzied excitement. 

Dido eventually exhausted herself and collapsed onto the ground where she remained for a tense moment before coming back to her senses.  She sat up and looked around, her face full of confusion until she felt the adulation of her people and smiled serenely. Max thought the ritual to be over, but the man in the center looked around the group, said something that seemed to rouse them from their trance, and held up a chicken.  The chicken was clucking and squirming desperately, instinctively aware that it wasn’t getting away alive.  The man held it by its neck and threw some herbs into the outer rim of the fire.  A pungent, medicinal odor rose from the flames as the priest thrust the chicken’s head into the rising smoke.  The chicken struggled for a few more moments but eventually grew quiet, as if it were drugged.  Its body went limp, but its eyes were still swiveling in their sockets, the bird clearly alive.  The priest held up the chicken, then withdrew a long blade and cut its neck, allowing the blood to drip into the fire.  The blood made a hissing sound as it met with flame, and the priest intoned a prayer or blessing before tossing the chicken into the fire.  Max smelled singed feathers before the odor of roasting meat filled the clearing. 

The slaves seemed to be spent, their shoulders slumped and faces relaxed into an expression of contentment.  Whatever this was had to be coming to an end, and it was time for Max to make himself scarce.  He returned the way he had come, pondering what he had seen.  Of course, it had been Voodoo, and the chicken had been a blood sacrifice.  What it was meant to achieve, he had no idea, but he was certain that Johansson’s illness wasn’t random.  Had they cursed him in some way, or was there a simpler explanation for his gastric attacks, which according to John happened about once a month? 

Max returned to the hut undetected, lowered himself to his pallet, and closed his eyes.  Suddenly, he felt a poignant wave of envy toward the slaves.  They were in captivity, at the mercy of their masters, and without any control over their lives, but at least they had each other.  They had the sense of belonging and family, as well as their religion for comfort.  Max had felt a sense of belonging when he’d been at school, but he’d never had a close family or any connection to the religion he’d been brought up in.  He’d gone through the motions, just like his parents, showing his face at St. Nicolas’s Church on holidays, and for funerals and weddings.  He’d never felt the slightest connection to God or the teachings of the Bible, and now he was completely alone, a man without anything to tether him to this world save his desire to stay alive.

Max wiped away a bitter tear as it slid down his stubbly cheek.  He longed to go back to feeling numb, but he couldn’t find a way to return to that mindless state of being.  He was feeling so much yearning, loneliness, hopelessness, and regret, but most of all, he felt a desire for revenge against the only person he could think to blame
—
Hugo Bloody Everly.