Betrayal (40 page)

***

              Shaking her head to clear her sad thoughts Lydia unpacked her carry-on bag to find the gifts for her aunt and uncle. She took out the little bear then, smiling, she set him back in his pretty little box.  She paused before the mirror to check her make-up.  Satisfied that her tears hadn’t made a mess, she picked up the presents and made her way back down to the lounge.

             
“Here we are, Uncle Henry,” she said, handing him the box containing the bottle of Napoleon brandy.  “I hope you like this; I didn’t know what to get,” Lydia said shyly.

             
“It’s perfect, my dear. I’ll open it after dinner tonight to celebrate your homecoming,” Henry said, holding the bottle up to the light to admire the brandy’s dark amber color.

             
“And this is for you, Aunt Ella,” Lydia said, handing over the little box. “I do hope you will like it.”

             
“Oh, my dear,” Ella sighed as she opened the silver tinfoil box.  “What a beautiful piece. Oh Henry, look at this!”

             
“Why, it’s a polar bear. They don’t have polar bears where you live do they Lydia?” he teased.

             
“Oh, no, Uncle Henry,” Lydia laughed.  “They live in the arctic. It was made in Labrador, Aunt Ella, by the Inuit. We used to call them Eskimos, but that was a European name and the people rightfully prefer their own.  Do you like it?”

             
“Like it? Oh, my dear, I love it,” Ella gushed as she put down the little bear so she could hug Lydia.  “I shall put him here on the mantle and I shall think of you every time I see him. Thank you so very much, my dear. It was so very kind of you to think of us. We have a little gift for you, too,” Ella continued as she winked at her husband.

             
“That we do,” Henry Hays-Morely said. “Shall I get it?’

             
“If you please, dear. It’s in the ….”

             
“I know where it is, old girl,” he said, walking over to the eighteenth century Georgian corner sideboard.

             
Lydia admired the old cabinet with its tapered legs and beautifully carved drawer fronts and doors.

             
“Here it is,” Henry said as he crossed back across the room.  “We hope you will like it,” he said, presenting Lydia with a small, square velvet box.

             
Lydia found her hands were shaking as she lifted the lid of the box. There inside was a seventeenth century silver locket on a chain.  “Oh, my,” she whispered.

             
“It was your grandmother’s and her mother’s before her, in fact it goes back many generations in this family.  Your mother always wanted you to have it. Open it.”

             
Lydia struggled with the silver clasp as tears blinded her eyes. The locket opened as a triptych, revealing three photographs. Lydia gasped, for the woman in the middle photograph looked exactly like her.  The other photos were of an older woman and a baby. “But how? Who?”

             
“The photographs are of your grandmother, my sister, Olivia, your mother, Elizabeth, and you, dearest. It was the only photograph she ever had of you. My niece wore this locket every day saying that having it close brought you near,” Henry Hays-Morely said, his voice breaking. He turned aside to hide his tears.

             
“Your mother made us promise to give it to you when we found you,” Ella said, wiping a tear from her eye with her lace handkerchief.

             
“There are other things of your mother’s for you and then there is, of course, your inheritance, but those can wait for later,” Henry said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he straightened his back.  “Now I expect you will want to unpack and freshen up before dinner. I have some things to discuss with Willis. Ella, would you please come with me? I want your opinion on where to put the new flower bed by the churchyard gate.”

             
“Yes dear. Do you need anything before I go, Lydia?”

             
“No, Aunt Ella, I’m fine. Do you mind if I wander around a bit?”

             
“Of course not, my dear, if you need anything, Jan is in the kitchen. Do try and have a rest; it has all been very exciting for you.”

             
“Yes, you are quite right. I think I’ll go upstairs. Is it all right if I look around my mother’s room? Would you mind?”

             
“Mind? Why should I mind? It’s your room now. Must go,” Ella said, looking out the window. “If I’m not there, lord knows where they’ll put that flowerbed. Bye for now.”

“Yes, bye for now,” Lydia said, sitting back down on the sofa. She opened the locket again, studying the faces in each of the photographs.  Lydia was surprised to see how much her mother resembled her grandmother. “It is as if we were all made from the same mold,” Lydia whispered, as she leaned forward to kiss her mother’s picture. After a few moments she climbed the stairs to her mother’s room. She wanted to look around, but suddenly felt totally exhausted. She lay down on the bed. Closing her eyes just to rest them, she fell into a deep sleep.

***

             
Lydia woke up to find Ella sitting on the bed and Uncle Henry standing beside her. “What’s going on?” she asked sleepily.

             
“You were screaming in your sleep. I came upstairs to dress for dinner and I heard you screaming. Were you having the dream?” Ella asked, smoothing the bedclothes anxiously with her hands.  Henry laid his hand on Ella’s shoulder to silence her.

             
“The dream?” Lydia asked. “You know about my dream?”

             
Henry Hays-Morely cleared his throat. “Perhaps,” he said, “you should describe your dream for us.”

             
“The dreams always start the same way,” Lydia paused, hesitantly.

             
“And how is that?” Henry asked.

             
“I am locked in a large, cold room. It’s dark in the room. I’m anxious and very afraid. But I don’t know what I’m afraid of, then suddenly out of the darkness a bright light begins spinning and spinning, brighter with each turn until I can barely stand it.” Lydia paused again, unwilling to face her nightmare.

             
“And?” Henry prodded.

             
“It sounds silly when I talk about it.”

             
“I’m sure,” Henry said, “but it will make you feel better to share it.”

             
Lydia doubted it, but she continued. “Out of the darkness the light takes on the shape of…” her words trailed off.

             
“It has the shape of a woman’s head, doesn’t it, Lydia?” Ella asked tentatively.

             
“Yes! Have you had the dream too?” Lydia cried, reaching for Ella’s hand.

             
“No, dear, but your mother did.”

             
“My mother? Why would my mother have the same nightmare?” Lydia asked incredulously. She sat up in the bed, shaking her head.

             
“I don’t know, but she complained of it for several years,” Ella said as she rubbed Lydia’s hand.  “Didn’t your sister and mother have the dream too?” She asked Henry.

             
He cleared his throat, swallowing hard. Henry walked away from the bed to the high double-paned window. He remained silent as he looked out into the small garden and on into the churchyard.

             
“Henry,” Ella called, “Didn’t you say that Olivia had the dream too?”

             
Henry nodded. “Yes, my sister had a similar dream. We boys, James and myself, teased her mercilessly over it until she stopped talking about it. But I think she may have had them for a while. I seem to remember my mother mentioning having it once to my father, but he was unsympathetic and I don’t remember her ever mentioning it again.”

             
“My mother, grandmother and great-grandmother have had the same dream?” Lydia shook her head. How could this be? What did it all mean?

             
“Do you want to talk about it, dear?” Ella asked. “If you do I can ask Jan to hold dinner,” she continued as she began to stand up.

“No, I think not, I would like some time to think about what you have just told me. It was most unexpected.” Then, pausing, she turned to her uncle and asked, “Do you think they ever figured out why they were having the dream?”

Henry Hays-Morely shook his head. “If they did, they never told me.”

“Nor me,” Ella said, standing up. “We must get ready for dinner. Jan has cooked a lovely spring lamb. You like lamb, don’t you, Lydia?” Ella said, fussing at the bedclothes again.

“Yes, Aunt Ella, I do. Shall I get ready now?”

“Of course, dear, we’ll leave you to dress. We’ll be downstairs. Come along Henry.”

“Yes, old dear, here we go. See you in a bit,” he said, closing the door behind him.

Lydia still sat on the bed, her head spinning. ‘My mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother, and me, we all have had the same dream…why?’ She raised her hands to her head to stop the spinning. Her stomach cramped and she vomited all over the blankets. She was still sitting there covered in her vomit when Ella came back into the room.

“Oh, dear,” she said, rushing to the bed. “Are you ill? Shall I call a doctor?”

“No, Aunt Ella, I think I am just overtired and all the excitement of the day has gotten to me.”

“I shall have Jan come up and remake the bed. You run along and have a nice long bath. That will relax you. I shall make your apologies to Henry. You’ll feel better in the morning. Have you a robe? Oh, good. You know where the bath is? Good. Jan will be up shortly to change the bed. It will be all ready for you when you are out of the bath. Shall I check in on you later?”

Lydia nodded numbly.

“Good,” Ella said, closing the door behind her.

Lydia undressed, put on her robe and went down the hall to
the bathroom. While the water was filling the tub she heard Jan moving about in her bedroom. What a homecoming this had been. She tried not to think about the dream, or her mother, as she slipped into the warm, sudsy water.  After half an hour she returned to her room to find the bed freshly made and a fire burning in the hearth. She climbed into bed. Pulling the blankets close, Lydia fell asleep.

***

              Alan looked at his watch, seven-thirty. Boxing Day was nearly over. ‘Lydia must be on her way to the airport,’ he thought as he poured another tumbler of Glenfiddich single malt whiskey.

             
He had drunk too much and his head hurt. One more glass and the bottle would be empty.

             
His mind kept going over the afternoon’s regression session with Lydia. He tried to remember the exact words she had spoken when the girl Elisabeth recognized his voice, but his thoughts were blurring into a drunken haze. He cursed himself loudly for not remembering to turn on the tape recorder.

             
“I have to go to England,” he said aloud. “I have to find out how she knows me! I have to be with Lydia.” He swallowed the two fingers of whiskey and poured the remaining whiskey into the glass, tossing the empty bottle into the wastebasket. “Where did Lydia say she was going?” he said as he rifled through the papers on his desk. “What was that name? I’m sure it ended in cross. Damn it! Why can’t I ever find anything in this mess?” he continued as he pushed papers hither and thither on his large oak desk. Finding Lydia’s file folder he sat back heavily in his chair, almost toppling it over backwards. He recovered his balance quickly, gulping the whiskey down before he opened the folder.

             
He turned the pages quickly, too quickly, as he missed the reference the first time through.

             
“Morely’s Cross, I knew it ended in cross,” he said, congratulating himself. “Yes, it’s in Devon. Devon should be quite nice this time of year,” he said, pausing as he shuffled the pages of the file slowly. “Here it is,” he said lifting a sheet of paper. “Morely’s Cross, near Totnes. Yes, that’s right, I remember it now. And the family name, what was the family name?” he queried as he ran his forefinger down the typed transcript of his first session with Lydia. “Name, name, where is the name?” he mumbled, turning pages. “Here it is, Hammond, no, that was her father’s name before he changed their names to Hamilton. Sneaky old bastard, didn’t want the wife to find you, eh? They have her now, old Charlie boy, and there is nothing you can do about it. Lydia has gone home to Morely’s Cross. Ah, here it is, Hays-Morely, named after the town. No, it wouldn’t be a town, must be a village or perhaps an old estate,” Alan pondered.  “Lydia’s supposed to inherit,” he paused, flipping through the file. “Oh yes, Old Beretun, whatever that is? But it’s enough to help me find her.”

             
Alan leaned forward on his desk, his elbows resting on Lydia’s file, his head in his hands. His mind was racing as he formed his plan.

             
Picking up the telephone directory he looked up the telephone number for Air Canada; dialing it quickly before he could lose his nerve.

             
“What’s the earliest flight I can get to Heathrow?” he asked the agent.

             
“London, England?”

             
“Of course, London England,” Alan snapped. “What’s the soonest flight I can get?”

             
“Would that be business class or economy?”

             
“Whatever,” Alan sighed, “just the soonest flight.”

             
“Well,” the Air Canada agent paused, “today is a holiday.”

             
“I know that,” Alan retorted.

             
“Let me look,” the agent said, “the earliest economy seat I have is … Is this a return ticket?”

             
“One way, return, it doesn’t matter. This is an emergency!” Alan yelled.

             
“Why didn’t you tell me that before, Sir?  Let me look again. Yes, I have a business class seat out of Montreal Saturday night.”

             
“Yes, but I am in Saint John, New Brunswick.”

             
“Oh, sorry, I should have asked where you were calling from. Let me see…” the line went quiet.  “Okay, how about this. Just a minute.” The line went dead quiet. “I’m afraid to make that flight you’d have to fly out of Saint John via Halifax to Montreal early Saturday morning. But the overseas flight doesn’t leave until five thirty p.m. Is that okay?”

             
“Aren’t there any flights out of Halifax?” Alan demanded. He was becoming infuriated.

             
“Sir, it is the holiday season, after all,” the Air Canada agent scolded.

             
“Yes, yes of course. If Saturday is the best you can do, then Saturday it is. What are the flight times?”

             
“When will you be returning?”

             
“I have no idea.”

             
“Then I will make it an open-ended ticket. You will have to call the Air Canada office in London to book your return flight. Is that all right?”

             
“Yes, whatever. What are the flight times?”

             
Alan surrendered to the delay as he scribbled down the details, gave his credit card information, and hung up the phone.