After all these years, the seductive call of the meadow still tried to lure her. Her back ramrod straight, she turned and walked away. But the meadow wasn’t done with her yet. Something brushed against her mind, something warm, comforting, and a new feeling, a tinge of desperation. Her step faltered. She forced herself to keep going, but her feet would not cooperate. It was as if she was mired in molasses, and movement was next to impossible. What little advancement she made was torture. But she was determined. She knew what she would find if she turned. Nothing. The meadow would be gone, he would be gone, and the vision would be gone. There would be nothing there, only a large swirling dark abyss coaxing her to step in. She pressed on.
“To hearth and home.” She heard him call to her in a deep resonant voice. The ancient runes carved on her walking staff flickered, giving off a soft golden glow. Beads of sweat gathered on her lip, and her heart skipped a beat at the familiar phrase. It was something her father used to say—a declaration at the end of every journey.
The comforting words echoed in her mind. She tightened her grasp on her walking staff and fisted her free hand at her side as she tried to fight the uncertainty taking hold. Her resolve weakened. She started to turn thinking maybe this time would be different, maybe she should—
“Morning, Dr. Tyler, mail call.” Steve, one of her graduate students at Kensington University in upstate New York, knocked on the door jamb and walked in. He dropped the mail in her in-box and was gone.
Startled out of her reverie, the vision collapsed. For a heartbeat, a keen sense of loss washed over her. “To hearth and home,” she murmured, coming out of her daze.
Sweating and breathing heavily as if she’d been jogging, she looked at her hand, surprised to find herself gripping the ice-cold water bottle like a vise. She wiped the bottle across her forehead to cool down, shook her head to get rid of the lingering cobwebs and glanced at her walking staff leaning innocently next to the window. She opened the water bottle and took a long drink. Her racing heart finally slowed and she got back to work.
She picked up the contents of her in-box and made quick work of the junk mail and professional magazines. There was a letter from the dean of her department at the university, the final approval for her research project. Dean Marshall and the committee invited her into their meeting yesterday and gave her the good news. Picking up her digital camera, she smiled at the picture of herself and her colleagues celebrating over last night’s dinner then flipped to a picture of her singing at a nearby karaoke bar. She took the take-out menu off the bulletin board next to her desk, replaced it with the official announcement and sat back to admire it.
The last piece of mail caught her eye. The envelope was unusually heavyweight paper, the handwriting was an old style and, if she wasn’t mistaken, written with a fountain pen. Perhaps it was an invitation to one of the medieval or renaissance society events. Beltane was next month and invitations were getting very clever. Last week she had received one written on a parchment scroll. She turned the envelope over finding a red wax seal impressed with a signet of some sort. She opened the letter and read the message.
Dear Dr. Tyler,
I am writing to inform you that, according to research conducted by our firm, you are the only surviving relative of the late Emily Parsons. Please contact my office at your earliest convenience to discuss Lady Parsons’ estate.
Sincerely,
George Hughes, Esq.
Hughes, Swift and Lacey, London
Is this some sort of scam? She put the letter down and reached for her computer while she took another sip of water. Let’s see if there really is a Mr. George Hughes Esquire. It didn’t take long. The firm’s official website popped right up. She followed links to legal briefs and articles quoting Mr. Hughes on large cases. “Well, well, there actually is a Hughes, Swift and Lacey.” Her curiosity piqued. The letter might be real.
Now for Lady Emily Parsons. There was one entry in The Guardian, dated November 14, 2010. “…a fine woman of 92, Lady Emily Parsons died of natural causes. She will be interred in the family mausoleum at Fayne Manor in Wiltshire.”
She called her friend Frank Alexander, a colleague who taught at the university’s law school.
“Hi, Frank, it’s Rebeka.”
“Hey, I hear congratulations are in order. Well done.”
“Well done?” She wondered how he knew about her research project so quickly.
“Yeah, the news is all over campus how you found those two students on a search and rescue in the woods.”
She drummed her fingers on her desk. She was relieved when she found the two boys but was eager to get off this topic. “It wasn’t a big deal. Tim Ryan, the park ranger, had everything under control. The boys got themselves disoriented in the storm. Those micro-bursts came out of nowhere. Anyway, I simply put myself in their place and imagined what they’d do.”
“Right and it was simply luck you got them out before the water was released from the dam. You’re the best search and rescue expert in the area. Is there anything you can’t do? And do well?”
“Grace makes a better apple pie than I do.” She let out an awkward laugh and fidgeted at her desk.
“Grace makes a better apple pie than everybody.”
She smiled hearing the pride in his voice. “Yes, she does. Listen, Frank, I need your help.” She leaned forward in her chair and picked up the letter. “I got a letter from a London attorney, George Hughes.” Her fingers ran over the paper, feeling the fine quality of the parchment as she spoke.
“Not the George Hughes of Hughes, Swift and Lacey?”
“Why, yes.” She straightened in her chair, putting the letter down and hooking her long hair behind her ear. “Do you know him?”
“Yes. I met him in London about two years ago. You remember when I took Grace with me on a research trip and you watched the dog for us? He was one of my resources for the article I wrote for the law review. I requested an interview with him because his family has been the solicitors for prominent British families, including the royal family, dating back hundreds of years.”
“Yes, you did tell me about his practice. Small world.” Her heart skipped a beat. For a brief moment, the excitement of finding a family connection dulled with the renewed emptiness of losing her dad. Fifteen years. Would the pain ever go away? She gave up the hunt to find any family years ago.
“Well, what did he say?”
She shoved the grief aside and gave Frank her full attention. “He says I’m the only surviving heir to an inheritance. I was concerned it might be a scam and wanted your opinion.”
“Rebeka, believe me, you can trust George Hughes. The royal family certainly does. If he says you’re the only surviving relative you can be sure you’re the only surviving relative.” He paused. “You know, you may need to go to London to settle the estate.”
“Not too difficult. The committee approved my research project yesterday. I’ll be in England for the next eighteen months anyway. I’m surprised you didn’t hear us celebrating.”
“Was that you at the karaoke bar? I thought I heard you singing.”
“Yeah, we had a great time. I haven’t had that much fun in a long time. Anyway, you think this letter is on the up and up?” With the phone cradled on her shoulder, she toyed with the envelope, standing it on its end, spinning it around.
“I do. You can bring it over if you want, but really if the letter is from George, you can trust it.”
“Thanks for the help, Frank.”
“No problem. When you speak to him, send my regards. And let me know what your long-lost relative left you. If you think you might need my assistance, call.”
“Sure. Thanks again for the help and send my regards to Grace.” She ended the call, got up and paced her office like a caged animal, her stomach in a knot. Dad never mentioned any family, his or Mother’s. She bit her lower lip and picked up the new edition of The Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies, flipping through the magazin
e without seeing a word. Perhaps the relationship is through Mother’s family and he didn’t know. Surely, he would’ve told me. She abandoned the magazine, walked to the window and stared at nothing in particular. Maybe it’s a remote line he knew nothing about. She knew nothing about her mother, not one memory. But he would’ve known. She stiffened at the thought. She ran her fingers through her hair and rubbed the back of her neck trying to relax. What was he hiding?
Without thinking, she picked up her walking staff, closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out in a long slow stream. Little by little the anxiety faded, her mind quieted and the rushing thoughts settled into place. She turned and leaned against the wide window ledge. A deep sigh escaped her lips as she lifted her chin. She opened her eyes and saw the phone on her desk. There was nothing to lose and everything to gain. She laid the staff on the desk and picked up the water bottle, draining it of its last drop as if it were liquid courage. With more resolve than she felt, she picked up the phone and dialed the London offices of Hughes, Swift and Lacey.
The secretary put her right through.
“Ah, Dr. Tyler, thank you for calling so quickly.”
“Hello, Mr. Hughes. I received your letter today. I have to tell you I don’t know any Emily Parsons. I think you may have the wrong person.” She was certain he would agree. She toyed with the letter on her desk.
“Indeed, but I can assure you we are very thorough in our research and you are in fact the only surviving relative. Locating you took our firm some time and I didn’t expect you would know her directly.” His voice was deep and reassuring, his accent decidedly British.
“We’ve been the Parsons’ family solicitors for, well, for many, many years. Lady Emily left you a comfortable estate that includes the family holding, Fayne Manor. The inheritance tax will be paid out of the proceeds of the estate once the will has been filed and executed. I would be happy to forward the documents to your solicitor for review. You will, however, have to come to London to sign the papers and take possession of your inheritance.”
She sat down hard on her chair, the wind knocked out of her. “This is all very overwhelming, Mr. Hughes.”
“Yes, I dare say it would be. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. In a separate matter, I understand, Dr. Tyler, you’re an expert in Medieval and Renaissance Studies. Your inheritance gives you access to some documents I imagine very few, if any, have ever seen.”
She refocused in an instant, glad for the distraction, and dug deep in her memory. There was an awkward silence as Rebeka quickly reviewed her mental inventory of libraries. She didn’t know of any library associated with Fayne Manor. As a matter of fact, she’d never heard of Fayne Manor.
“Dr. Tyler, have I lost you?”
“Oh, sorry, Mr. Hughes, but you caught me off guard. What types of documents are involved?”
“I wish I could be more precise. I know there are many accounts about the family, some of them conflicting. Lady Emily worked with the National Trust trying to sort out the true family history. It appears there are several documents dating back to the 16th and 17th centuries which tell the same family saga but with very different results.
“It was through her research she found your family line. Isn’t it curious? With your expertise in renaissance history, the National Trust hoped you might want to pick up the family torch, so to speak, where Lady Emily left off. I do hope you would consider the challenge. You can kill the proverbial two birds with one stone if you come to London. If you don’t want to take on the Trust work, nothing changes with your inheritance, I assure you.”
“Yes, it is very curious, but I…” Her research project required her to go to England. Settling this question about her ancestors was…She didn’t know what it was. Fidgeting, she picked up her staff, her hand firm on the familiar subtle leather grip. What did she have to lose? “I’ll come to London,” she said, surprising herself at her quick decision. “I’ll let you know when to expect me.”
Chapter Two
London
May 1, 2011
Rebeka tossed off the sheet and plush blanket wrapped around her as she uncoiled in a long, lazy stretch that would have been the envy of any feline. She breathed deeply in contentment, enjoying the fragrance of the lavender-and-rose bouquet on the dresser, compliments of the hotel. She hadn’t slept this soundly in weeks and was glad she had stayed in the firm’s suite at the Savoy Hotel at Mr. Hughes’ insistence.
For the last several weeks, she’d been busy getting things in order for her extended stay in England. She reached out to colleagues and gathered what meager information they had on Fayne Manor. She went through her apartment and sorted out the papers and books she thought she would need. The last chore, and the most painful, was going through her father’s personal effects.
When she held his journal, the familiar embossed leather brought back memories of treks in the forest, nights around the campfire and working together on research projects. His command of Celtic history and the druid influence was phenomenal. She used his research papers and resource books often. Fifteen years he’d been gone and she still hadn’t tackled his personal journal and papers. Something had always stopped her. She had the box of his papers forwarded along with her research books to the address Mr. Hughes gave her. Perhaps she would have time in England.
For a few moments, she stared at nothing in particular and let the excitement wash over her. Wide awake, she was showered and dressed by the time breakfast arrived at eight.
Rebeka looked at her carefully written notes, checked the charges on her phone, digital camera and MP3 player. She directed her attention to the day’s agenda while she enjoyed a simple breakfast of orange juice, toast and tea. Nine o’clock was a suitable time to call. She looked up Mr. Hughes’ private number.
“Good morning, Mr. Hughes. Rebeka Tyler. Thank you for making all the arrangements here in London. The suite is magnificent.”
“Ah, Dr. Tyler, you are most welcome, it was my pleasure. I’m glad you like the accommodations. I hope your trip from America was an enjoyable one.”
Rebeka looked out the window and glimpsed the Thames. The morning traffic was building on the Victoria Embankment and people were beginning to fill the streets. London was waking to a clear and sunny day.
“I did, thank you.” She sipped her tea.
“Did you receive the envelope I left for you at the front desk? It’s only a short personal note in case you get to the Manor before I do. Should you want to look through the library, the letter will gain you access. The area is restricted.”
“Yes, I read it last night when I checked in.” She picked up the envelope. There was something very old world and substantial about it. The parchment envelope looked so official with the red wax seal. She tucked it, along with Hughes’ original letter, in her leather pouch. “I haven’t been able to find any information about the library in any of the usual sources.”
“It’s a private library. I understand no one has cataloged it. I suspect the library’s a gem of a find for a researcher. The family records go back centuries and could be priceless.”
Exactly as she suspected. A private library. It may not contain any significant historical papers but it could be a gold mine for confirming other documents and family information. She was eager to continue Emily’s research. Mr. Hughes brokered the agreement with the National Trust.
“I’ve put a car at your disposal while you’re with us. I had the route to Fayne Manor programmed in the car’s navigation system which I expect will make your drive easier and more enjoyable.”
“Perfect.”
“I’ve noted some family places you may find interesting. I’ve provided some notes on them as well. You’ll find them in the car. You can always bypass them on the navigation,” he said.
“There are some places I’d like to see along the way. Would you mind meeting a little later, say around three-thirty?”
“Not at all, Dr. Tyler, three-thirty is fine. I hav
e some things that need my attention. Enjoy your ride. I look forward to meeting you.”
Ending the call, she got ready to leave. She swept her long hair up in a smooth vertical roll, fastening it with pins. A soft wave fell over her left eye. She dressed in her favorite dark green tank top and flared skirt with zippered pockets. The matching unstructured jacket completed the ensemble. For a touch of color, she accessorized with her favorite muted floral silk scarf and finished it all with stylish black pumps.
Making a final pass of the room, she put the last straggling items into her large leather pouch which doubled as a backpack. The contents could see her through a week if need be. She learned to carry the pouch with her after her first disastrous business trip when her luggage took six days to catch up with her.
She stepped out into the Savoy’s art deco courtyard fashioned in silver, onyx and emerald-green to find a sensuously shaped platinum BMW Z4 with a black leather interior waiting for her. The car attendant looked over the machine, an admiring look on his face. It was a beautiful car. The gentle sweep of its lines and the delicate-looking kidney-shaped grille on the front of the neatly creased hood, suggested high performance, and her pulse raced. She looked forward to taming the beast.
The bell man packed the car with her single suitcase, her staff and her leather pouch. Everything stowed, she slid easily behind the wheel and started the engine. The car attendant nodded with appreciation as he listened to the quiet purr as if it were fine music. She started the navigation and hooked up her MP3 player.
She scanned the playlist looking for inspiration. Her eclectic musical tastes ran the gambit from chants and classical to rap. She thumbed past Max’s Mix, a copy of the CD she and her dad made of the chants and songs they sang on their hiking and camping trips. Hearing his rich baritone voice always made her smile. Now she had the odd feeling she was taking him with her. She brushed the thought away as being too sentimental and moved on to pick traveling music. Light jazz fit her mood today. She liked the melody-driven instrumentals.
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