Betrayal (39 page)

“We shall go to Wolf Hall, just we two. Go, and ready the horses. Tell no-one where we are going. I need the comfort of the country in this, my terrible hour. Go now,” the King said, thrusting his arm out in the direction of the door.

“But the Queen, she will…” Norris began, regretting his words immediately.

“The Queen can go to Hell,” Henry snapped. “Whose friend are you?”

Henry Norris dipped a deep bow from the waist, his eyes staring at the floorboards. “Yours,
Your grace, always.”

“Then get the horses, man, so that we may be gone from this place.”

“Yes, your Majesty, immediately.”  Once outside the chamber door Henry Norris leaned heavily against it, his heart beating a rapid tattoo as he tried to steady his breathing.  He was a member of the Queen’s ‘petite court’ and he hated the thought of leaving her alone in her grief, but he was the King’s liegeman and could do none other than obey. He hurried past George Boleyn who was on his way to the King’s apartments.  “Not now, George,” he called, “he is in an evil state of mind. Go to the Queen, she has need of you.”

Hurrying down the wide sweeping staircase, Norris rushed out into the courtyard yelling for the stable boys to ready the King’s horse and his own.

              When the King came down he was accompanied by Thomas Seymour.

             
“Where shall we ride?” Henry Norris asked as he helped the King to mount his great white stallion.

             
“To Wolf Hall, I think. There pleasant company is at hand and I am in need of pleasant company, am I not, Thomas?”

             
“Yes, my lord,” Seymour answered. Smiling then under his breath he said, “But you will find no featherbed awaiting you, not yet my lord, not yet.” 

The three men rode away, leaving the mourning Court behind.

TWENTY-NINE

DECEMBER 27
TH

             
Lydia woke to find the room darkening. In the half-light she looked around her mother’s room. She shook her head, unable to believe that she was really there. ‘All my life I have wondered about you,’ she thought as she looked at the antique dressing table with its large oval mirror. ‘How many times did you sit there brushing your hair? Did you ever think of me, wonder where I was, how I was doing without you?’ Lydia questioned angrily. She climbed out of the big bed, crossed the large room, turned on the small table lamp and sat down on the upholstered stool in front of the dressing table. She picked up a silver-backed brush. Turning it over in her hands she noticed strands of pale blonde hair knotted in the brush’s bristles. “I have the same color hair as you,” she said softly to the mirror. “Do I look like you?’ she asked in a whisper as she caressed the wormy oak table.  “This mirror must be really old,” she said aloud.  “The silver finish is worn off.” Lydia raised her hand to stroke the mirror, imagining the many women who must have combed their hair and applied their make-up before the antique mirror. She pulled open one of the drawers of the oak table and looking inside she saw a packet of letters. Lydia hesitated then lifted the letters out of the drawer.  They were tied with a frayed, pink ribbon. As Lydia looked closer she realized that the top letter was stamped, ‘return to sender’.  She untied the ribbon and looked through the pile in her hand. All of the letters were addressed to her father in care of Cousin Lucy, in Sussex, and everyone was marked ‘return to sender’. Lydia drew a deep breath at the thought of the pain these returned letters must have caused her mother.  Lydia felt tears fill her eyes as she stared at the letters in her hand.  “Did he really hate you so much that he wouldn’t even read your letters?” she asked aloud.

She hadn’t heard the door open and was startled when a woman’s voice said, “Yes, I am sorry to say he did.”

“Aunt Ella!” Lydia said, surprised to see the old woman standing in the doorway.

“I came to see if you were awake and when I saw the light was on, well…” Ella Hays-Morely paused, chafing her hands nervously, “I just came in. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

Lydia turned to face her aunt.

“Oh,” Ella said sadly. “I see you have found the letters. I wanted to remove them, but Henry thought it was time you knew the truth.”

Lydia looked down at the stack of letters in her hand. “Did she return every one of the letters?” she asked timidly.

“Almost every one,” Ella said, crossing to the dressing table. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this, but perhaps Henry is right, it is time you knew.  Your mother never stopped looking for you.  She hired private investigators after the police refused to look for you. Poor thing, it never occurred to her that Charles would take you out of the country. She was convinced until the day she died that you would come home, and now you have.” Ella paused, suddenly embarrassed. “Come on now, our afternoon tea is ready and you must be hungry,” Ella said straightening her back as she turned to leave the room.

“Why was he so angry?” Lydia asked sadly as she retied the frayed ribbon around the letters and replaced them in the drawer.  Pausing as she closed the drawer she looked at herself in the silver gilt mirror. “Do I look like her?” she asked tentatively.

“You are a perfect copy.  I shall dig out the old albums and we’ll have a look through them together. Would you like that, Lydia?”

“Oh yes, please. One more question.  When I arrived earlier you called me Olivia, why did you do that?”

“That is your name, Olivia Elizabeth Hays-Morely. It has been a tradition in the Hays-Morely family for almost five hundred years to name the first born girl either Olivia Elizabeth or Elizabeth Sarah. Your mother was Elizabeth Sarah and so you were named Olivia Elizabeth.  Your father didn’t approve. He thought the tradition was silly. He wanted you named for his mother.” Ella shook her head sadly. “That was just one of the many arguments he had with my sister-in-law, your grandmother.  Her name was Olivia Elizabeth too, you know.”

“Why do you suppose it is just those three names?” Lydia queried, confused.

“After more than five hundred years it’s just tradition now. Come along, our tea will be getting cold and our Jan sets out a lovely cream tea.”

Lydia was absentmindedly brushing her hair with her mother’s brush, mingling her pale golden strands with those already tangled in the brush. ‘I wonder,’ Lydia thought ‘do the names have anything to do with my dreams?  The names Elisabeth and Sarah are the same, but Olivia?’  Lydia wondered as she straightened her skirt, preparing to follow Ella downstairs.

             
“You must have so many questions,” Ella said as she started down the wide curving staircase.  “And frankly, so do we. Still, we shall have plenty of time to try and answer them. “Come through,” she said, indicating a doorway. “Jan serves afternoon tea in the lounge.”

“The lounge?” Lydia questioned. “Oh, you mean the living room.”

“Yes, the lounge, the sitting room, or as you say, the living room. Odd term that, but it seems most appropriate as we do seem to live in this room.”

As the two women entered the softly-lit room, Lydia’s eyes were drawn to the blazing fire in the hearth. The room was cool, bordering on cold, and Lydia was glad of the fire. She crossed the room to stand before the glowing coals rubbing her hands for warmth.

“I’m afraid we don’t have central heating. The house is too old. The layout of the house has changed little from its fifteenth-century beginnings,” Ella said as she pointed Lydia to the low Knowles sofa facing the hearth. On the eighteenth century oak drum- style table sat a silver tea set gleaming in the fire’s glow. On the silver tray was a plate of sandwiches and individual plates that held a single scone, a dollop of whipped cream, and some strawberry jam. “Have you ever had a cream tea before?” Ella asked, pouring rich black tea into the fragile china teacups.

Lydia started to say she didn’t take milk in her tea when she noticed that the milk was already in her cup. Smiling, she took a sip. It was Earl Grey tea, but it tasted different with the milk. After a moment Lydia decided she liked it that way. She looked hesitantly at the scone, unsure how to tackle it.

Ella smiled, seeing Lydia’s hesitation. “The proper way to have a Devon Cream Tea is to spoon some clotted cream onto the scone and then cover it with the jam, like this,” she said as she prepared her own.

Lydia followed suit watching to see how her aunt would eat the delicious-looking dessert, then, taking her spoon, she dipped in. “What did you call the cream?” she asked with her mouth full.

“Clotted. It’s a Devonshire specialty. Do you like it?”

“Very much,” Lydia replied, looking around the room. “You said the house was built in the fifteenth century; is any of the furniture from that time?”

“The house is a muddle of time periods; the linen-fold wall carvings date from when the house was built, sometime in the late fifteenth century and that oak coffer over there was probably built at the same time. The other furniture is a mixture of several different time periods and the paintings, well, you can see for yourself,” Ella said, waving her hands helplessly, “no rhyme or reason, and some of the rooms have been changed, different purposes, you know. There is not much need for a Great Hall today, is there? It was divided into several rooms, the library being one, last century, I think. But I will give you a tour of the house after our tea, if you like?”

             
“I would like that very much, thank you,” Lydia replied through sips of hot tea. “The scone was delicious; I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

             
“Consider it your first taste of Devon,” Ella said her hand shaking as she set her rattling teacup back on the silver tray.

             
“Here you are!” Henry Hays-Morely said as he entered the sitting room. “And you have started tea without me!” he pouted.

             
“Here’s your tea, Squadron Leader. We were going to wait for you, but you were nowhere to be found,” Ella said, winking at Lydia.

             
“I was very hungry when I woke up, Uncle Henry. I hope you don’t mind that we started before you,” Lydia said shyly.

             
“But, of course no, I’ve been out in the garden with Willis.  Soon be time to start planting,” he said, taking the fragile teacup in his out-sized hand.

             
Lydia studied her great-uncle; he was a tall, portly man with a shiny pate showing above his graying hair.  He was dressed in hunting tweeds, a tweed jacket with matching pants cut off just below his knees. His legs were covered in long dark socks, but he wore slippers on his feet, obviously having left his boots outside.  He stood with his feet splayed before the hearth, completely at home with the tiny teacup in his hand. With his large right hand he reached for a cucumber and watercress sandwich.  He was the picture of an English country gentleman.  Lydia smiled at the thought that he was just as she had imagined him.

“I have a gift for you, Uncle Henry, and one for you too, Aunt Ella. Stay where you are and I’ll go get them.”

              Lydia could hear her Aunt tell her Uncle that she had found the letters.  “It is all right, old dear,” he said. “She had to know sometime. Best if she finds out right away what kind of man her father was.”

             
“Henry!” Ella scolded.

             
Lydia paused on the stair to listen to their conversation, aware that she was eavesdropping.

             
“You know it yourself, old girl. He hurt Elizabeth terribly. She mourned the loss of her child until the day she died. Bastard! If I had him here…” Henry Hays-Morely cursed.

             
“Henry, it’s over, let it go. Our little girl has come home. It’s no use raking up the past; we can’t change it.”

             
“True enough, but she should know.”

             
“I think she does. Now have another cup of tea and a sandwich.  Jan says dinner will be at eight.”

             
Lydia wiped the tears from her eyes as she climbed the wide oak staircase to her mother’s room.  She wondered if she could ever heal the past. Then realizing she had been but a pawn in the game, she sat down heavily on the stool by the cooling hearth and stirred the coals to life.  The room grew darker although the little lamp on the table was still lit as Lydia sat by the fire, thinking.