The Lost Ancestor (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 2)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Edie’s eyes met Mary’s. ‘Rebecca looks the spitting image of you. So does George—your son.’

  Mary shuddered inside. Her children were suddenly coming to life and becoming real people. The boy had a name. George. She hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on them as children turning into young adults. And now she knew that they looked like her. ‘Are they well and happy?’

  Edie nodded. ‘Yes, but they’d be happier with you. You can come back and live with me for as long as you need.’

  The very idea went against everything that Mary had worked towards since leaving England. She knew that she didn’t have the inner strength to re-open that closed chapter of her life. With a trembling voice, she said, ‘Edie, listen to me carefully. I can never go back to England until…the past is gone. Every day my heart has ached for those children and what might have been. The life I might have had with Edward. But I shut it out, close down those feelings because it can never be. I’ve got a life here now, far away from all those people. I’m a teacher. I’ve got friends. In my own way, I’m happy.’

  Edith sniffed and sobbed at the news she feared she might have come all this way to hear. ‘Please, Mary. We can move away from Winchelsea and leave the past behind.’

  ‘Edie, don’t you get it? You’re part of it. You had a child with that horrible man and then married the doctor who pinned me down and snatched away my children the very moment they first drew breath. No matter where I could be in England, I’ll always be reminded of Mary Mercer and her past.’

  ‘But you are Mary Mercer,’ Edie said.

  ‘No, not anymore. I’m Martha Stone.’

  Edith looked exasperated. ‘Martha was a good friend of ours who died, Mary—don’t you see? You’re just hiding from the past by pretending to be a dead girl.’

  ‘Stop! Please!’ Mary begged. ‘Listen to me.’ She paused and took Edie’s hand in hers. ‘You’re my sister and the only thing outside of Canada that I care about—’

  ‘But your children?’ Edie interrupted.

  ‘They’re not my children anymore—they were stolen from me and they’ve lived for fourteen years believing that they are who they are. Do you honestly think they’d thank me for trying to take them away? That we could suddenly play happy families after all these years? That Caroline and the Mansfields would just sit back and let me take them with no evidence whatsoever that they’re mine? Edie, not a single day has passed when I haven’t imagined taking them back and us building a life together, but it cannot happen. Think. Who would benefit? Not me, not them, not their parents.’

  A long protracted silence clung to Mary’s words as the two sisters looked at each other and sobbed.

  Mary broke the silence. ‘You’re welcome to stay here for a few days but then you must go back to England, back to your life and forget all about me. If I ever return to England it will be when all traces of the past have disappeared.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Monday 8th October 1962

  The funeral was over. Mary had watched the mourners leave the church and file in a long black procession to Edith’s house, where refreshments were being provided. Returning to Winchelsea for the first time in more than fifty years was unbearably difficult and had really taken its toll on her health. She was sixty-nine years old now and, for the first time in her life, was beginning to feel her age. But today it would all be over: the past would finally be put to rest.

  She was sitting on a wooden bench just beyond the low stone wall of the church on Friar’s Road, as conflicting memories—sad and happy, past and present—flashed into her mind. An elevated discussion from within the churchyard made her turn. With surprisingly dry eyes, she watched as the church sexton and another helper prepared to shovel the mound of clay-brown soil into the void above Edith’s coffin. Mary watched as they began to attack the pile, their shovels scooping up clods alternately. There was almost a musical rhythm to their work.

  In just forty minutes, Edith’s coffin was interred and the gravediggers had gone, leaving a plethora of bouquets and wreaths on the grave.

  Mary stood and quietly entered the deserted churchyard. She wove her way slowly across the grass, around headstones and footstones until she reached the grave.

  ‘In loving memory of Katherine Mercer, born 2nd March 1870, died 8th December 1932. A wonderful mother and wife. Also, Thomas Mercer, husband of the above, born 21st April 1870, died 1st November 1938.’

  Her parents’ grave, and now her sister’s grave.

  Mary stifled her tears with a handkerchief as she leant a single white rose against the grey stone. Wrapped around the rose was her silver locket containing Edith’s photo. Images of the pair of them receiving them for their birthday filled her head. How happy we once were, Mary thought.

  ‘Hello,’ a male voice said softly, startling Mary.

  She turned to see a young man—she guessed in his twenties—with a handsome face and a neat dark quiff. He was dressed in black and his red swollen eyes told Mary that he was here to mourn her twin. ‘Hello,’ she replied stiltedly. She had no wish to speak to anyone, lest they discover her identity.

  ‘You knew her, then?’ he said, indicating the grave.

  Mary nodded. ‘From a very long time ago, yes.’

  ‘She was my granny,’ the man said, with a slight whimper at the end of his sentence.

  Now that he had said it, Mary could see some of Edie’s angular features in his face. ‘Charles’s son?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s right—did you know him?’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t ever meet him, no.’

  The man looked disappointed. ‘I barely knew him. He was killed in the war when I was only nine years old.’

  ‘That must have been awful for you,’ Mary said.

  ‘It wasn’t the best time of my life,’ he muttered. He looked at Mary with a quizzical look. ‘You seem familiar. Have we met?’

  Mary’s stomach suddenly lurched. She could tell Edie’s grandson everything but that wasn’t what she had come to do. That was never the plan. She laughed. ‘No, definitely not. I must have one of those faces.’

  The man seemed satisfied. He smiled and offered his hand. ‘My name’s Ray—Ray Mercer.’

  Mary shook his hand. ‘Martha.’ She took a breath and, with one last look at the grave, began to turn. ‘It was nice to meet you, Ray.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  Mary ambled through the churchyard and had almost reached the gate when she spotted something from the corner of her eye. It was a large stone tomb with a life-size angel perched on the top. It hadn’t been there when she was a child, so she was intrigued to take a look.

  Mary gasped and clutched at her chest. It was the grave of Lady Rothborne, Cecil and Philadelphia Mansfield. The very people who had blighted her whole life. The initial revulsion that she had experienced quickly turned into relief. They were gone and had no hold over her.

  Mary left the churchyard without looking back. It would be her one and only visit. She walked down Friar’s Road, absorbing every detail of the passing houses. Very little had changed in the fifty-one years that had elapsed. She stopped outside her former home and stared up at her bedroom window. Memories of that fateful day in 1911 when she had accompanied Edith to her job interview returned. It was the one day in history that, if she could, she would go back and change. She would have stayed at home, curled up in front of the fire with a good book and never set foot in Blackfriars.

  Mary continued her journey down the road until she reached the back entrance of Blackfriars. The large black gates were now rusted and set permanently open. Apprehensively, she walked in and began her journey down that familiar path, as if only a few months had passed since the last time. The orchard came into view and Mary stopped in her tracks. She had to visit the abbey ruins one last time.

  Crossing through the orchard, Mary reached the ruins. She entered them, half expecting to see Edward’s beaming smile appear from behind the archway. But it was deserted. She noticed t
he slab of sandstone where she and Edward had often sat was still in roughly the same position. She crouched down and carefully ran her fingers over its surface. Fifty years had weathered away the carved initials, leaving only an indistinct indentation where they had once been. She smiled as more memories poured into her mind. The mental wall that she had raised against her past was beginning to crack. Time was running out. She bent down and gathered up a handful of large pieces of sandstone and began filling her pockets until they bulged, like ripe fruit about to burst open.

  Heading back to the main path, Mary saw Blackfriars for the first time. She shuddered and stared. Somehow it seemed larger and more terrifying than it had once appeared.

  With the building in front of her, she turned and could see the lake. In the centre was the folly that had held her captive for so many months. As if being operated like a puppet, Mary walked towards the water in a trance.

  The past was returning.

  She reached the water’s edge and, oblivious to the members of the public milling around her, placed a foot in the water. Spikes of freezing pain bit at her ankle, but she did not feel them. Putting her other foot in, she began to wade into the lake. The water rose, quickly climbing over her stone-filled pockets up to her chest.

  ‘Hey! What are you doing?’ a shocked voice called from the bank. ‘Someone get help!’

  ‘What’s she doing? She’s going to drown!’ another voice cried.

  Mary didn’t hear the voices; the cold water had risen over her ears. Yet she kept moving on, stumbling over debris on the lake bed, onwards. She opened her mouth and allowed the water to rush inside her, expelling the last remnants of air from her lungs.

  The wall in her mind cracked and she was back in the harrowing dark days of 1911.

  She had packed up her suitcase and left her room empty, her employment at Blackfriars over. She had no idea why Lady Rothborne had encouraged her to try on Philadelphia’s dresses only to deny all knowledge. Of course, she knew now. As she had left the building and made her way back home, Bastion and Risler had gagged her then dragged her into a boat where they had incarcerated her in the folly, locked away like some helpless princess. The folly. It had been her prison for so many months. Nobody had visited her, only Risler had brought her food and drink and Dr Leyden had come to check on her pregnancy. One night she thought she had heard Edward calling her name. She was sure it had been him. Then Risler had said that Edward was dead. When the day came, she had been carried into the main house to give birth. It was only then that she had heard the word ‘babies’ used for the first time. She had been carrying twins. Edward’s twins. Just when she had given up any hope of being able to keep her children, Caroline had arrived and held her hand throughout the birth. She had just caught a glimpse of a shock of red hair on her boy’s head as he was handed over to Philadelphia Mansfield. The second baby, a girl, had been handed to her elder sister. She had lost her Edward and now she had lost her children. She had no fight in her and the thought of the workhouse was always at the forefront of her mind. She would rather die than end up there. She got herself a passport in Martha Stone’s name, packed her suitcase and left Bristol on a ship bound for Halifax, Nova Scotia. A new life beckoned.

  Mary Mercer heard the words this time.

  ‘Somebody get an ambulance!’ the man’s voice shouted.

  She opened her eyes and saw a blurred image of Edward. She smiled. Then her vision cleared and she could see that it wasn’t him. She was in the arms of a man on the river bank.

  ‘Hello, are you okay?’ the voice asked. ‘Thank God, I got you out in time. You were about to drown.’

  Mary knew. ‘My son,’ she said softly and then closed her eyes.

  The man—George Mansfield—watched as the woman in his arms quietly faded away. ‘Will somebody get an ambulance!’ he shouted.

  But he knew it was all too late.

  He cradled the woman’s head in his lap and gently stroked her red hair.

  Biography:

  Nathan Dylan Goodwin was born and raised in Hastings, East Sussex. Schooled in the town, he then completed a Bachelor of Arts degree in Radio, Film and Television, followed by a Master of Arts Degree in Creative Writing at Canterbury Christ Church University. He has completed a number of successful local history books about Hastings; other interests include skiing, reading, writing, photography, genealogy and travelling.

  Books by Nathan Dylan Goodwin:

  Non-fiction:

  Hastings at War 1939-1945 (2005)

  Hastings Wartime Memories and Photographs (2008)

  Hastings & St Leonards Through Time (2010)

  Around Battle Through Time (2012)

  Fiction (The Forensic Genealogist series):

  Hiding the Past (2013)

  The Lost Ancestor (2014)

  The Orange Lilies (2014) – A Morton Farrier novella

  Further information:

  www.nathandylangoodwin.com

  Follow me on Twitter: @nathangoodwin76

  Like me on Facebook: www.facebook.com/nathandylangoodwin