Sins of Omission (31 page)

By the time he finally took her, Juliette was purring with desire.  Max was surprised when she threw her legs over his shoulders and ground her hips against his, pushing him deeper and urging him to go faster.  He tried to think of cutting cane in order to prolong their pleasure, but it was no use.  He exploded into her after only a dozen thrusts, too sated to worry about disappointing her. 

“
Mon Deiu
,” Juliette said as she smiled up at him.  “I like you, but I hope you last longer next time.”

“Are you always this demanding?” Max asked with a smile as he rolled off her, panting.

“I’m not demanding; I’m insatiable,” she said with a little laugh.  “And we still have a half-hour left.  I will give you a few minutes to recover, but then I will expect you to pleasure me again.”

“Your wish is my command, madam,” Max replied as he felt blood flowing to his flaccid penis.  Tonight he was insatiable too.

Wispy clouds raced across the sky, their wooly shapes shining eerily as they passed in front of the moon and then drifted off again into the silvery quilt of the night sky.  The night was warm, with hardly a breeze to stir the trees.  Archie melted into the shadows as the man he’d been following came out of a nearby tavern.  He was inebriated, but not falling-down-drunk.  The man walked along the dark street alone, singing in a rich baritone, completely unaware of danger as he stopped for a piss between two buildings.

As Oyster Nan stood by her Tub,
To shew her vicious Inclination;
She gave her noblest Parts a Scrub,
And sigh'd for want of Copulation...'

                Archie allowed his prey a moment of privacy before resuming his pursuit.  He hadn’t been to this part of town before; it was seedy and reeked of poverty, refuse, and rot.  The houses were small and mean, some of them open to the elements for lack of glazed windows.  It was past 10 p.m., so most residents were already abed, needing sleep for their early-morning wake-up call.  A baby cried somewhere in the distance, and several hungry-looking dogs trotted past in search of food.  Archie had been trailing the man for nearly two hours now, but he was in no hurry.  He would confront him when he was good and ready.

Archie spent the past week in dogged pursuit of the man who shot Hugo, but he hadn’t had any luck until tonight.  He’d questioned Jem repeatedly, trying to extract every last detail, but all the poor boy could recall was that the man was tall, whippet-thin, and had greasy light hair which hung to his shoulders.  Another useful bit of information was that the man cursed at Jem in English.  Archie couldn’t imagine that when taken by surprise while attempting to shoot someone, a person would curse in anything other than their native tongue. 

So, he was looking for a tall, thin, blond Englishman.  Not an easy task, but not impossible either.  An Englishman would stick out like a sore thumb among the French.  Of course, he might speak excellent French, but the French could always spot a foreigner, no matter how well assimilated he might be.  The French were as wary of the English as the English were of the French.

Archie had gone back to the scene of the attack and methodically questioned everyone who worked or lived in the vicinity.  There was a good amount of people who had stalls, shops, boats for hire, and windows facing that part of the Seine, but no one would talk.  Archie was met with either blank stares, hostile words, or Gallic shrugs, but he was sure he was on the right track.  Most people had no idea whom he was looking for, but a few smothered a spark of recognition before telling him to sod off.  The man was known in these parts, but obviously had a reputation for violence which was impressive enough to buy him the silence of those who knew him. 

It was purely by chance that Archie spotted the man himself only that afternoon.  Archie had been coming out of the stables when he saw a man fitting Jem’s description glancing up at the house from across the street.  Perhaps it was a coincidence, or perhaps the man was checking to see if his victim had died as a result of his handiwork.  A house in mourning wasn’t difficult to spot, so all he would have to do is walk past.  Archie raced upstairs, grabbed his dagger, shoved an extra knife in his boot, and took off.  He’d trailed the man for hours, but by now he was sure of two things: the man was English, and he was well known since several people he encountered either averted their eyes or shrank back in fear.  The man must have bathed since Jem saw him, and his clothes, although not new, were relatively clean and not too shabby, but there was something in his eyes that led Archie to believe that he hadn’t been merely strolling by.

Archie slid behind the thick trunk of a tree as the man whirled around, finally aware of being followed.  The street was empty, and very quiet, so Archie couldn’t stay hidden for long.  It was time to strike.  He waited until the man resumed walking before approaching him from behind on silent feet.  Archie twisted his arm savagely and pushed him up against a crumbling stone parapet.

“What ye want?  I ain’t got nothing worth taking,” the man grumbled in French.  He was annoyed, but not afraid, which led Archie to believe that he was armed.  Archie patted him down with one hand and extracted a vicious looking knife with a thin, curved blade. 

“Give that back, ye jackal.  That’s a family heirloom,” the man hissed, really angry now.  He struggled against Archie, but only succeeded in twisting his arm further and grimacing in pain.

“I have a few questions for you,” Archie said in English as he pressed the knife against the man’s Adam’s apple and caressed it lovingly with the blade.

“Piss off, ye red-headed sack of shit,” the man hissed in his native tongue, but now he was scared.

“Ah, so you know who I am.  Good, we are getting somewhere.  Who are you?”

“Jack.”

“Jack what?”

“Jack yerself off,” the man replied, chuckling at his own joke.

Archie gave him a vicious punch in the kidney with his left fist which silenced him momentarily.  “Let’s try again.  Who are you?”

“Jack Duffy.  Does that elucidate ye,
ye lordship
?” Jack asked sarcastically.

“Not yet, but I’ll get there.  Why did you leave England?” Archie asked.  The man was clearly surprised by the question, but answered nonetheless.

“It was bad for me health, if ye know what I mean.  Decided to start a new life, turn over a new leaf.”

“So, what is it that you do, Duffy?” Archie asked patiently.

“A little o’ this and a little o’ that.  What’s it to ye?”

“Who hired you to kill Hugo Everly?” Archie asked, knowing he wasn’t going to get an answer.

“No one.  I don’t know what yer talking ‘bout.”

Archie pressed the blade harder against the man’s neck.  “Why did you shoot Hugo Everly last week?”

“I didn’t like the look of ‘im.”  The man tried to cackle, but it came out more like a pitiful cough.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” Archie used the point of the dagger to cut a thin line in Jack Duffy’s cheek.  Blood oozed from the cut, but it wasn’t deep enough to do any actual damage.

“Who hired you?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I?” Duffy growled.  “I spoke to a servant, not the master.”

“Whose servant?”

“Do ye think he’s daft enough to give me his master’s name?  All’s I know is that he said I must do it after his master left the country.”

“And where was he going?” Archie asked patiently.

“How should I know?  All's I know is that’s it’s far, like Africa or something.”

“Constantinople, perhaps?” Archie supplied helpfully.

“I don’t know.  Maybe.”

“Did the servant go too?”

“Yeh, he was to follow with some other cove.  He had to pay me the balance first, but I didn’t finish the job, did I, so I only got half me money.”

“Was the servant English, like you?”

“Aye.  Can I go?  I’ve no reason to kill ‘im now.  The client’s gone, so I won’t get paid anyhow.”  Jack Duffy seemed indignant, but honestly believed that their business was concluded.

“Of course you will,” Archie replied soothingly.  “I was sent to pay you if you finish the job.”

“Ye want yer master dead too?” Jack asked with interest, licking his dry lips.  He suddenly seemed more animated, eager to hear what was being offered.

“Can you do it?” Archie asked as he lowered the knife from Duffy’s throat.

“’course I can do it.  I’d ‘ave done it the first time if not for that meddling kid.  Knocked me hand upward, so the shot went astray.  How much ye willing to pay?  I ‘spose I should do it fer half price, given he’s half dead already.  Like shooting a sitting duck, tis.”

“I’ll pay you in full right now.  Goodnight, Jack,” Archie whispered tenderly in the man’s ear as he slid his dagger beneath the ribs and straight into the heart.  He felt the warm blood flow over his fingers as he pulled out the blade and wiped it on Jack’s coat.  The man dropped like a rock, his lifeblood oozing out of him and forming a black puddle which began to soak into the thirsty ground.  Jack’s eyes stared at the dark sky, the moon reflected in them, a look of surprise forever frozen on his features. 

Archie dropped Jack’s knife next to the body and gave Jack Duffy one last kick before swiftly walking away.  He’d got what he came for.  The murder had been commissioned by William Trumbull, arranged by his servant who followed his master with Luke Marsden.  Archie doubted that Luke knew anything about it, but he was glad Luke was gone all the same. 

Frances rose unsteadily to her feet as Sabine slipped into the room.  All was quiet except for the whisper of trees outside her open window and the barely audible cry of Valentine, who seemed to be fussing instead of going to sleep.  The room was bathed in silvery moonlight one moment, pitch dark the next, as clouds scuttled across the shining orb of the moon, blocking out the light almost completely.  Somewhere in the distance a horse neighed, and the wheels of a carriage rattled down the silent street.

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” Sabine asked as she went about lighting the candle. A soft glow dispelled the gloom, bringing Frances’s worried face into stark relief.  Sabine ignored her friend’s expression and handed her the cup she’d brought upstairs with her.  Frances sank into a chair in front of the cold hearth, peered into the cup, then sniffed experimentally.  The mixture smelled bitter and unpleasant; its muddy brown color reminiscent of the contents of a privy.  The cup was only half full, so whatever was in it must be potent.  Frances’s gaze slid to Sabine, who was watching her with narrowed eyes, waiting.

“Are you sure about this?” Frances asked. 

“I’ve used it twice, and it worked a treat,” Sabine replied patiently.

“What will happen?”

“You will start to feel cramping an hour or more after you drink it, then you will start to bleed.  It’ll be like your monthly, no worse.  Then you will miscarry.  By tomorrow morning, you will be free of this baby, and free of Luke Marsden forever.”

“What’s in it?” Frances asked.  She felt a hollowness somewhere in the pit of her stomach, and her heart began to hammer uncomfortably as her body sensed her fear; the primal instinct that warned human beings of danger since the dawn of time kicking in.  But, she was determined to be rid of this child.  No matter what happened with Archie, she would not put herself in this position.  This was her chance for happiness, and she would not ruin it by having Luke’s bastard. 

“It’s an infusion of rue.  Quite safe,” Sabine replied testily.

Frances had hoped that Sabine would stay with her through the night, but she suddenly wished that the maid would just leave.  Sabine was growing impatient, but she wasn’t the one who would be drinking this witches’ brew tonight, so she had no reason to be cross.  She was treating Frances as if she were a bothersome child rather than a young woman about to make a life-altering decision.  Perhaps she’d gone through this twice, but that didn’t give her the right to belittle Frances’s fear or sense of guilt.

“I’d like to be alone for a little while, Sabine,” Frances said as she set down the cup.  She would drink the infusion when she was ready, and not a moment before.

“As you wish,” Sabine replied, clearly offended by the dismissal.  “I’ve prepared some rags for you, a few towels, a pitcher of water, and a hip bath.  Just don’t bleed all over the bed.”

“Won’t you check on me?” Frances asked, her panic rising.  She wanted Sabine to leave, but she assumed that the girl would at least make sure she was all right and check on her throughout the night.

“It’ll look suspicious if I keep coming to your room in the middle of the night.  We don’t know how long this will take, do we?  Abortion is a sin for us Catholics, so I don’t want anyone accusing me of anything.  I will check on you in the morning.  You’ll be sleeping like a baby.  Now stop fussing and drink so that I can take the cup away and clean it.”

Frances supposed Sabine was right.  She was only postponing the inevitable.  The sooner she drank the mixture, the sooner it would all be over.  Frances obediently drank.  It tasted horrible: bitter and thick.  She felt a wave of nausea, but it passed after she took a drink of water.  Sabine gave her a pat on the shoulder and an encouraging smile.  “
Bon chance, ma chere
,” she said as she took the empty cup and left the room, closing the door softly behind her and leaving Frances alone. 

Frances folded a few rags and inserted them between her legs before getting into bed.  It might take an hour or more for something to happen, so she might as well try to rest.  She closed her eyes and tried to focus on tomorrow morning.  It would be all over; she would be free.  She would go down and have a good breakfast, maybe even allow herself a second cup of chocolate as a treat, then go break the news to Archie.  He would no longer have to marry her out of a false sense of obligation or a desire to rescue her.  She wasn’t a damsel in distress; she was a grown woman who could make her own decisions.  Granted, the decision to allow Luke to make love to her hadn’t been a prudent one, but she was taking steps to fix things, and to ensure that the rest of her life was hers for the taking.  Of course, she wouldn’t tell anyone that she’d induced a miscarriage.  Lord Everly would not look kindly on such a thing, so she would just say that it happened on its own.  No one could fault her for that. 

Frances burrowed deeper under the covers and tried to relax, but suddenly felt a wave of overwhelming anxiety.  It seemed to be washing over her, making her heart beat faster and her limbs move with uncontrollable restlessness.  She wasn’t in any pain, nor did she feel sick, but she felt an almost uncontrollable need for movement.  Frances got out of bed and began to pace the room.  Being in motion made her feel better, but she felt an irrational sense of panic.  She wasn’t regretting her decision, but the panic mounted until she felt like she would scream just to release the tension building within her.

“Calm down, Frances,” she mumbled to herself as she continued to circumnavigate the room.  “Everything will be all right.  It will all be over in a few hours.” 

Frances took a drink of water and resumed her pacing.  The house beyond her door was quiet; everyone was asleep, even Valentine.  Normally, Hugo liked to stay up and read or play a game of dice with Archie, but he’d been abed for the past week recovering from his wound, and even if he weren’t, relations between Archie and him were strained these days.  Frances stopped pacing for a moment.  She hadn’t seen Archie since early afternoon, and he hadn’t come down for supper either, now that she thought of it.  Archie liked to eat in the kitchen, but Neve insisted that they all dine together like a family.  Archie found that to be unorthodox, but complied, secretly enjoying the feeling of belonging. 

Tonight there were only three of them at supper: Frances, Jem, and Neve, since Archie was out, and Hugo had a tray in bed.  He complained bitterly about being treated like an invalid, but Neve gave him one of her basilisk stares and ordered him to follow doctor’s orders if he didn’t wish to be bled.  That seemed to have the desired effect and he surrendered with good grace.  Frances barely ate anything at supper, and Neve had only picked at her food.  She looked tired and worried, despite the fact that Hugo seemed to be recovering.  Only Jem had been his usual self, tucking into his meal with relish. 

Frances had decided before supper that today would be the day.  Hugo was resting; Neve was too busy taking care of him and the baby, and Archie was out somewhere.  No one would be the wiser, and she would be free to start her new life with Archie.  It had taken them a long time to get to this point, but now their feelings were out in the open, and they could finally speak of the future.  And tomorrow, that future would be assured.

Frances sat down for a moment, tired of pacing.  She still felt panicky, but the feeling receded somewhat, allowing her to feel more peaceful.  She climbed back into bed.  Perhaps she might sleep a little before the pains came.  Maybe she would miscarry while asleep and wake up to find it all behind her.  Sabine said it was like menstruation, and she slept through that all the time.  Frances began to drift off when she felt a tensing of her womb.  It wasn’t painful, just uncomfortable.  Was it starting? she wondered. 

The tightness went away, but came back again a few minutes later.  It came and went for about half an hour before the tensing of the womb turned into cramping. 
Not too bad
, Frances thought as she adjusted the rags just in case.  There was no bleeding yet.  Frances sat down by the empty hearth and waited, moaning quietly and bending over as each new contraction took her breath away.  The pain intensified with every passing minute, reminding her of the labor pains she suffered when Gabriel was born.  Frances suddenly wished that someone was with her; she was terribly afraid.  She wanted Neve, but couldn’t find the strength to go down the hall.  Besides, Neve would be upset with her if she realized that this wasn’t a random act of nature, but a deliberate attempt to snuff out a life that bore no responsibility for the foolish actions of its mother or the carelessness of its father.  A disturbing thought flashed through Frances’s mind as she stifled a scream; Hugo would see this as murder. 

Frances wasn’t sure how much time had passed; it might have been ten minutes or an hour.  The pain was becoming unbearable, and she felt nauseous and disoriented.  Objects in the room began to move of their own accord, and seemed to be surrounded by an iridescent haze as if they were glowing.  Frances shrieked with terror when she thought she saw Lionel lurking behind the heavy wardrobe in the corner.  She drew her knees up and hugged them to her chest as wave after wave of terrible pain kept her prisoner. 
It has to be soon
, she thought frantically.  Her hands were shaking, and her vision became blurred by disorientation and tears.  Frances was crying hard now, and whispering jumbled prayers as she rocked back and forth in a futile attempt to ease her suffering.   

At last, she felt a gush of blood between her legs.  The rags were soaked in moments, forcing her to reach for the towels and stuff them between her thighs.  The blood was hot and thick, coming out in clumps as her body expelled the child.  Frances cried with relief, hoping it would all be over soon, but the pain continued to escalate, and the bleeding became more profuse, the towels doing little to contain the flow.  Frances’s lower back was aching unbearably, and her womb was contracting, one contraction blending into another.  Frances was panting, but felt as if she weren’t getting enough air in her lungs.  She needed help; something was wrong. 

Frances shuffled to the door, careful not to dislodge the towels between her legs.  Blood streaked down her thighs, and she left bloody footprints as she walked.  Frances pulled open the door, but couldn’t go any further.  “Help,” she called, but her voice sounded weak and frightened and came out more like a squeak.  “Help me, please,” she tried again.  The world seemed to tilt as Frances grabbed on to the doorjamb for support, but black spots danced before her eyes and strange lights exploded just beyond her line of vision.  She slid to the floor. 
It’s nice and cool
, was her last thought before she lost consciousness. 

Crimson blood pooled beneath her hips, seeping into the cracks of the parquet and congealing as it cooled.  The house was quiet, the night silent, as Frances remained unconscious, life bleeding out of her.