Betrayal (26 page)

             
Just as Cranmer made to exit the Great Hall a shout was heard from above. “Call the King and his courtiers, call the Bishop and his priests; the Queen begins to birth her prince. The crown of his head, fair with red-gold curls, can be seen. Prepare ye to rejoice in his birth.”

             
Henry pushed his way through the crowd of assembled witnesses to his wife’s side. Seeing his sweat soaked face Anne smiled weakly, reaching a hand to stroke his red-gold beard. “Soon, my lord,” she whispered.

             
“Save your strength for our son, sweet Anne,” he whispered, kissing her damp forehead.

             
She cried out in pain.

             
He comes, he comes,” cried the midwife reaching to catch the child as it was expelled from the womb.

             
No sound broke the awed silence, save Anne’s labored breathing. The King leaned forward to examine the child, turned on his heel and followed by his cortege left the chamber in silence.

             
“My son, let me see my son,” the Queen cried. Elisabeth stepped back into the shadows sobbing.

             
“You have no son, my lady,” one of the physicians said at last.

             
“Are you mad? I have just now birthed my son and heard him take breath and cry. Give him to me,” Anne commanded.

             
“You have birthed a wench,” was the doctor’s cutting reply. “Hearty and well built ‘tis true, but still just a wench.  Here, see for yourself.” The doctor held the squirming babe in such a way that her gender could not be denied.

             
Anne wailed, pushing the child away with her hands. She beat her breasts and tore at her hair.

             
“You have birthed a healthy child, her brother will soon follow. You are a good breeder; God will not deny you sons,” the mid-wife soothed after the others had left, as she gathered the bloody sheets to take them away.

***

              Early the next morning as the sun was rising in the east Elisabeth took her journal to the window seat and sat down heavily.  She unstopped the ink bottle and opened the book to a blank page, then paused; what would she write?  After a few moments thought she dipped the quill pen in the thick black ink and began to write.

             
‘September 8, 1533

             
              The Queen has borne a daughter, before the hour of four yesterday afternoon. They have named her Elizabeth after both her grandmothers.  While there is great sadness that she was not the long awaited son, she is a well built child. Last night the King came for her to show her to the Court. My lady sent me as guardian. He took her to the Great Hall; he stripped her of her swaddling clothes and held her aloft for all to see. Proud though he said he was, his face could not hide his disappointment. Henry Norris, the King’s favorite, assured his Grace that a son will be next. Pray God, he is right.’

              Elisabeth closed her journal, tucking it beneath her skirt. She went to the high bed to check on her mistress.  The Queen slept fitfully as if in a vivid dream and Elisabeth worried for her.  Elisabeth had slept in the Queen’s chamber in case of need. Now she pushed her straw pallet underneath the bed and sat down again on the window seat.

NINETEEN

DECEMBER 18
TH

              Lydia watched the bubbles in the sink burst one by one as the memory of her dream disappeared into the dirty dishwater.  The insistent ringing of the telephone snapped Lydia out of her daydream.  She was so reluctant to lose her memory-induced relaxed mood that she allowed the answering machine to pick up. Through the machine she could hear a man’s voice shouting over the taped announcement message.

             
‘Maybe it’s important,’ Lydia thought.  “I’d better pick it up,” she said to the cat as she softly nudged him aside with her foot.

             
“Lydia. Are you Lydia?”

             
“Yes, I’m Lydia. Who is speaking please?”

             
“I can barely hear you, girl. Speak up. This is Harry, I mean Henry.  Is that Lydia Hammond, I am speaking to?”

             
“I am afraid you have the wrong number.  My name is Lydia Hamilton.”

             
“Yes, but you are the daughter of Charles Hammond of East Anglia, United Kingdom?”

             
“My father was from East Anglia, his name was Hammond but…”

             
“Changed his name as well, did he; it doesn’t matter, I suppose, but it is disheartening that he was so bitter that he felt he had to change his own name. My name is Henry Hays-Morely.”

             
“Hays-Morely,” Lydia repeated. The name seemed familiar but she couldn’t place it.

             
“Yes, Henry Hays-Morely.  You got Christine’s letter and wrote back to her.”

             
“Christine?” Lydia repeated blankly.

             
“Yes, my niece; your cousin.”

             
“Oh yes, I remember now. She mentioned that you wanted to call. I’m afraid I don’t remember you.”

             
“Shouldn’t expect you would; you were just a baby when he took you away,” Henry said, his voice unable to hide his bitterness. “Broke your mother’s heart, all our hearts,” he said pausing.

             
Lydia could hear the strain in his voice as he continued.  “She died just this year, you know, February 24th.   I wrote, but I don’t know that he got the letter. She never gave up looking for you, you know. It was Christine who thought of writing to that old address in Sussex.  Smart girl, our Christine, you’ll like her.”  He paused to collect his thoughts.

             
“So you are my mother’s brother?” Lydia asked hesitantly.

             
“Me? Oh no, Elizabeth was my niece.”

             
Lydia was so shocked she almost dropped the phone.  ‘Elisabeth!’ she thought and was about to ask about her night specter when she heard a woman’s voice on the other end shouting.

             
“Squadron Leader,” said the sharp female voice.  “Hand that receiver to me. There’s a good lad. His hearing is not the best. This is your Aunt Ella speaking.  We had bats and with the conservationists and all.”

“Did you say bats like in baseball?” Lydia asked incredulously.

“No dear; bats, those wingy things in the loft; that was how we found Elizabeth’s books.”

“Elisabeth!”

“Yes, the books were in a small box under the eave. Nasty things! Bats!”

“Here, woman, what are you going on about?  Ask her if the books have arrived?

Never mind, I’ll ask her myself.”  The old man was angry now.  “Give me that telephone!”

             
Lydia smiled as she tried to imagine the scene taking place so far across the sea.

             
“Here, then, Squadron Leader, is the telephone. He does like to be called by his military title; many men do, you know.”

             
“Hello, hello, Lydia. Are you there? The books are Elizabeth’s; I do hope you will enjoy them,” Henry continued breathlessly.

             
“Elisabeth? Did you say Elisabeth was my mother’s name?”

             
The line went so quiet Lydia worried that they had been disconnected.

             
“Yes dear, that was your mother’s name, didn’t you know?  No, perhaps not. Charles was very angry and would have wanted to forget her and Morely’s Cross. He and  my sister Olivia were at sixes and sevens most of the time. Poor chap never stood a chance against her. Has he ever told you about Morely’s Cross?”

             
“Morely’s Cross, what’s that?”

             
Once again the overseas connection crackled loudly.

             
“Ah, no, I see. Shouldn’t have expected him to; too many bad memories I suppose.”

             
Lydia sobbed softly.

             
“There, there girl, all is not lost. Christine tells me that Charles has passed away. I am sorry, but perhaps now that all the main characters in this tragedy are dead, we can soldier on.”

             
Lydia’s reply was muffled by her tears. “He died in a traffic accident.”

             
“Now, girl, stiff upper lip and all that,” Henry’s soft aristocratic voice cracked.

             
“Henry? Henry, you haven’t told her,” Ella said excitedly.  “You haven’t told her that we enclosed Elizabeth’s diary.”

             
“No, dear, not yet; why don’t you do the honors? It’s a female thing after all, keeping diaries.”

             
“What about Samuel Pepys? He wrote volumes of diaries.” Ella’s excited voice could be heard shouting in the background.

             
“Here you go, old dear, take the telephone.  You mustn’t get so excited, it’s not good for your heart,” he scolded.

             
“Oh, fuss and folderol,” Ella shouted. “Give me that telephone, old man. Hello? Hello?” Ella called into the telephone receiver. “I can’t hear you.”

“There is a storm blowing here. Can you hear me now?” Lydia shouted into the receiver in her hand.

“Yes, dear, very well except for the loud crackles. I wanted to tell you that when I was packing the books I came across an old diary. Elizabeth must have written it when she was a young girl. I thought you might like to read something from your mother’s own hand. I didn’t read it. I only flipped a few pages open to see what it was. She had excellent penmanship as a girl.” Ella’s voice drifted off into the static and Lydia wondered if she had hung up.

It was Henry’s voice that Lydia heard next. “The books will be perhaps an introduction to the Hays-Morely family.  Not much of it left now, just myself, my wife Ella, and you, dear. Have you any daughters perhaps? Ah, no, Christine said you didn’t.”

“What about Christine? She is your brother’s daughter?”

“Can’t inherit, you see,” he said, his voice fading into the static.

“Can’t inherit what?” Lydia cried as the transatlantic connection broke and she found herself staring helplessly at the telephone receiver in her hand. Replacing it in its cradle Lydia whispered, “inherit what?” as she stared blankly at the wall.

                                                               ***

              Lydia was startled to hear the front door open. “Dan?” she called.

             
“Yes.”

             
“Where were you?”

             
“Out for a walk,” he replied as he passed down the hallway to the kitchen.

             
Lydia followed him.  “How long have you been gone?”

             
“Didn’t miss me, eh?”

             
“You left so quietly I didn’t hear you go,” Lydia said timidly. She didn’t want to start an argument.  She wanted to tell him about the telephone call from England, but his coolness stopped her. Silently, she watched as Dan methodically made himself a cup of coffee. Desperately, Lydia tried to recapture the relaxed state of mind that the overseas call had shattered. ‘Why was it,’ she wondered, ‘that Elisabeth’s life seemed more comfortable than her own?’

             
Lydia wandered sightlessly out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the living room. She was confused, terribly confused, and the bewildering telephone call had left her drained. Sitting down before the hearth she heard the bedroom door close. Lydia sighed heavily as hot tears spilled down her cheeks, staining the shell pink of her silk blouse.

             
She wanted to call Alan but she hesitated. Settling deeper into the soft leather of the sofa Lydia pulled the old quilt over her shoulders. Her right hand rubbed her forehead as her eyes bore into the oak floor. Softly, she sobbed, “Daddy”. She had so many questions and too few answers.

             
“My mother’s name was Elisabeth?” Lydia said softly to the floor.  “I’m so confused. Is that why the girl in my dreams is named Elisabeth?  Have I just transferred my need for my mother to the girl who haunts my dreams?”  Lydia shook her head in frustration; the struggle to understand was too much for her.  Lydia soon found her eyes closing in exhaustion.  She slept dreamlessly, waking several times during the night. Once, when she woke up, Lydia thought of going to bed, but the hurt of Dan’s coldness kept her on the sofa.

             
Lydia vowed to call Alan in the morning before she fell into a deep sleep just before dawn. But in the morning, with Christmas only days away, neither Lydia nor Dan thought to call Alan Stokes. 

In rushed tones, Lydia told Dan about the telephone call from England as they hurried up King Street in the freezing cold of the late December morning.  

***

              The parcel from England arrived Christmas Eve day.  Dan, having closed the office early, met the postman at the door.  He struggled with his desire to have Lydia’s undivided attention and the knowledge of the joy Lydia would experience when she held her mother’s old diary in her hands. He mulled over his plans for Christmas Eve, knowing full well that if Lydia knew the parcel had arrived, there would be no peace until she had ripped into it.  Dan had visions of her sitting up all night reading the diary and perhaps even one of the novels, not at all how he wanted to spend Christmas Eve. So he decided to hide the parcel beneath the gaily decorated Christmas tree in the living room.

             
“There,” he whispered to himself, “in the back underneath that large parcel from Marjorie.  There now, she won’t spot that,” he said proudly as he unfolded his 6’2” frame, stretching his arms over his head to work a knot out of his back.

             
He turned around to find Lydia standing in the doorway. He could feel the heat race to his cheeks as he flushed in embarrassment.  “Caught me!” he said impishly shrugging his broad shoulders. “I was peeking.”

             
“Caught you red-handed,” Lydia cried in mock disgust. “And which one was it that you couldn’t resist?”

             
“I’m not telling. Surest way to make a gift disappear is to show too much interest in it.  Besides, it’s Christmas Eve; a fellow should be able to shake a few presents on Christmas Eve, at least that’s how it was done in my house, growing up.”

             
“Well, not in mine,” Lydia laughed.  “Presents were strictly off limits until Christmas morning, after church.”

             
“After church!” Dan cried. “Good lord, however did you wait so long? My presents were all unwrapped by six a.m.”

             
“Oh, goodness no!  My father was very strict about it. Christmas presents were to be opened Christmas morning, but only after sunrise church service and breakfast.”

             
“I guess I never really realized what a deprived childhood you had,” Dan teased.

             
“Dan!” Lydia sputtered.

             
“Well, be honest now, didn’t you ever have a present you just couldn’t resist? You know, picking it up, shaking it ever so gently while trying to guess what’s inside; just once?”

             
“Well…”