The Uncharted Series Omnibus

by Keely Brooke Keith

  Connor and Levi stopped talking with John and looked at Lydia. She watched their faces for response, but none was given. She turned to the one young man there who seemed to know the most about the situation. “Everett, why is Frank doing this?”

  “He said it’s all for you.”

  Lydia stepped closer to Everett. “What is for me?”

  “The treasure.” Everett drew a breath to relay Frank’s words. “Frank said he could get treasures and fly back here on some magic cloth. Somehow he convinced Luke and Walter to go with him. He just kept saying over and over, ‘This will make Lydia love me.’ I’m sorry, Lydia.”

  Everett’s report raked Lydia’s conscience, leaving deep grooves of guilt. The heels of her dress shoes sank into the sand as she staggered back a step. Frank was doing the very thing she had always feared, though she never imagined he would endanger others in his attempt to get her attention. She covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Everett, no,” Levi groaned.

  Lydia felt the eyes of her father and brother and the man she was beginning to love all looking at her. She could not discern if their expressions held pity or blame, and it left her speechless. Her pulse raced and her ears rang from the increasing pressure.

  She felt desperate to rescue the two young boys being coaxed to their death by a man obsessed with her, but there was nothing she could do. Feeling caged by the crowd, Lydia walked to the water’s edge then stopped on the last inch of hard packed sand. It was still damp from the waves that departed with the tide.

  Backlit by lightning, the faint silhouettes of the boys and Frank and the boat were barely visible on the near horizon. After a moment they were only a blur. Lydia could not stop the boys. There was nothing left for her to do but suffocate in the reeking sludge of humiliation that buried her spirit. Frank had exposed his desire for her in the most public and destructive way he could devise. The young people who had heard his words were relaying the details to the curious crowd that gathered on the beach. Misery hammered in her chest as she heard them recount Frank’s intention. His selfish desire to get her attention would cause the death of two rebellious but naive boys. Frank’s actions would dissolve the reputation she worked hard to build and protect. And Lydia would lose the respect of the only man she had ever considered sharing her life with.

  Lydia heard the voices behind her—her father trying to calm the crowd, Levi consoling Bethany, Everett explaining to Connor he had not meant to blame her—and she ignored them all. A gust of wind came from the sea and blew her ringlets behind her shoulders. She gathered all of her hair and swirled it together then held it bound in one hand over her chest. She felt her heartbeat through the bodice of her dress. Her pulse had settled some, though her nerves had not.

  Another burst of wind whipped Lydia’s skirt behind her with a snap. Shadows marched across the water as freshly formed clouds rolled in from the horizon. The unexpected squall brought neither chill nor rain but threw a salty mist into the air, pelting the onlookers. The gusts grew in intensity and, when lighting cracked, the crowd began retreating from the sandy shore.

  John stepped beside her. “There is nothing to be done for them, Lydia. A storm is coming. We must go home.”

  “No.” Her voice cracked with angst. “If I am here when they are washed ashore, I can try to revive them. It may not be possible, but I will try. I must. I am the cause of this.”

  “Come home, Lydia,” her father commanded.

  “I will take care of her, John. I brought her out tonight and I will take her home.” Connor raised his voice over a clap of thunder and Lydia flinched. She briefly took her eyes off the ocean and then tried to refocus on the horizon, but the spray from the sea forced her to turn her face away. John left them and Lydia watched her father as he corralled Bethany and the others to the path away from the beach.

  “I am not leaving.” Lydia’s protest was muffled by the tempestuous groans of the wind. Her hand clung to the twist of her hair as lightning clawed at the ocean. She could not bear to stand on the shore and watch another moment. Frank may get what he deserved, but she could still rescue the boys. She had watched her mother die and had since vowed to save every person she could for the rest of her life.

  Lydia bent one knee and, raising her ankle to her hand, untied her shoe’s ribbon. Then—after a glance in Connor’s direction to confirm he had not noticed her action—she furtively did the same to the other shoe. Beneath the secret cover of her long dress, Lydia stepped out of her shoes. She sucked in a breath and dashed into the surf, holding her dress high as she ran through the shallows. The stinging saltwater quickly deepened as she rushed into the ocean. She paused briefly when she reached the first break of a wave and braced for the new experience. The mild crest spat brine and foam across her body, soaking her from navel to neck. A voice came from behind her. It dissipated on the wind before she could understand the words. Knowing Connor would probably follow her into the sea, she decided not to look back until she reached the boys.

  Lydia let go of her dress and pushed farther into the ocean; its depth covered her chest. As the next wave approached, the sand withdrew beneath her feet, and a malicious current gripped her body and pulled her into the deep. Arms flailing, she held her breath, helpless in the cumbersomeness of the drenched dress. Wrapped in the surge of a violent wave, Lydia felt her body rise with its crest. She gasped the moment her face was exposed to the air, only to be pulled powerfully under the water again. Her hands frantically tugged at the dress as she tried to rip the fabric apart. The weight of the dress held her in the water, but her fingers found the seam between the skirt and the bodice. She felt the threads snap as she blindly yanked her fingertips along the stitches. Her lungs began to burn from the breath she held. The surge of the water returned to toss her body upon another wave. Determined to save herself so that she could save the boys, Lydia willed her hands to work. She tore the seam and ripped the skirt away from the bodice while the ocean drew her to its churning surface. Lydia raked in a breath and coughed. She held her chin above the water while she kicked free from the skirt’s heavy fabric, then she arched her back and attempted to float on the water’s tumultuous surface.

  Lydia treaded the water with her splayed arms and tried to get her bearings. When she heard a voice, she bent her body and craned her head. While she strained to see where the voice came from, a swell drew her body up and she spotted the boat some twenty feet away. With sudden visual acuity, Lydia focused through the darkness and saw Luke’s face.

  “Luke!” she screamed.

  He was clinging to the edge of the makeshift boat, now overturned in the swells. With each bob of the waves between them, Luke moved in and out of her line of vision. She paddled through the breakers and was almost close enough to reach him.

  “Luke! Hang on—” Lydia tried to yell reassurance to the boy, but she choked on the saltwater that lapped into her mouth. The wind whipped over the sea and cracks of thunder shook through the undulating water. She anticipated the rhythm of the swells as they passed beneath her. Expecting to rise with the waves again, she prepared to clutch the boat. As the swell lifted her, the rhythm broke and the undercurrent sucked her bare legs into the spiral of a churning wave. Lydia kicked violently against the water as the ocean’s fury whipped her body and swept her along the swell. She tightened her arms against her chest as the current’s force spiraled her with the wave until the crest carried her back into the shallows. Lydia felt shifting sand beneath her hands and crawled through the seaweed with all of her strength to save herself from the next wave. Finally clear of the ocean’s grip, she collapsed on the foamy beach, coughing.

  Thunder cracked in the clouds rolling overhead as Lydia curled her naked legs beneath her body. Thin dregs of seawater lapped around her and drew sand from under her limbs. Opening her stinging eyes, she tried to focus her vision. Lydia panted for breath as she lifted her head. Scanning the beach around her, she realized the sea had hurled her back to the shore but not th
e boys. The image of Luke’s frightened face was burned inside her mind. She was not able to save him. There was nothing she could do, just like there had been nothing she could do to save her mother.

  Overcome by her abject failure, Lydia rose to her knees and looked back at the ocean. She heard the voice of someone approaching behind her, but she did not look away from the roaring waves. “I could not save them. I could not save them.” The words fell from her lips between jagged breaths. Disoriented with ignominious disappointment, Lydia began to shake. Hands moved around her, wrapping her in a coat; its woolen lapel felt scratchy against her damp skin. Scooped from the sand, Lydia fell limp in Connor’s arms as he carried her away from the shore.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lydia borrowed a dress from Bethany and cuffed its long sleeves as she descended the stairs of her family’s home. She willed her aching legs to walk across the parlor floor. Though aware that her father and Connor were outside closing all the shutters, she jumped when the wooden planks banged across the window beside her. A draft came down the chimney and caused the slow-burning gray leaf tree log to spark. It reminded her of the lights in the sky that had commenced Frank’s horrid plan.

  Levi was upstairs in Bethany’s bedroom trying to console their younger sister. Lydia heard them still discussing what happened, but she doubted Bethany would be calm anytime soon. Though not close friends with Luke or Walter, the boys were Bethany’s classmates and Lydia worried their deaths would traumatize her sensitive, young sister.

  Lydia wondered if this folly could have been prevented and remembered when Luke’s mother visited them just days before. Ruth Owens had warned them that Frank was planning something, and John had gone to Mr. Owens about it, but their efforts changed nothing. Luke and Walter had been determined to continue their association with Frank. Maybe if Lydia had treated Frank differently the boys would not be drowning. Maybe she had driven Frank to lunacy—he had said this was all for her. The gravity of each anxious speculation flushed the guilt further through her system.

  A crack of thunder rumbled the floor beneath her feet and the wind’s groan increased outside. Between the storm’s violent sounds, Isabella’s door creaked open.

  “Lydia, come here, child,” her great-aunt summoned.

  “Coming.” Lydia picked up a ceramic oil lamp from the mantle. She lit its flame and inched her weary legs down the corridor and into Isabella’s bedroom. It was pitch black in the room, as Lydia expected.

  “Yes, Aunt Isabella? Are you all right?”

  “Of course, dear.” Isabella used her cane as she shuffled back to her armchair. She wore a long, cotton nightgown and her silver hair coiled stiffly behind her back. “I overheard your brother and sister. It seems there has been an incident.”

  “Yes, there was.”

  “Are you all right, child?”

  “I am,” Lydia lied as she set the lamp on the dresser near the door. It cast a faint light across the room. She walked toward her aunt’s chair. “Has the storm frightened you?” Lydia knelt on the floor beside Isabella’s chair. She realized it was the first time she had rested since she sat with Connor at the festival. Though only hours before, that felt like a lifetime ago.

  “No, dear. I have heard many storms in my lifetime. However, this storm is full of wind and fury but lacks rain. It is different.” Isabella silently moved her lips between sentences. “It is not a natural storm, you see. It is an act of God.”

  Lydia thought of the gullibility of the two young men and the guile of Frank and decided to refrain from considering the storm divine wrath. She did not have the strength to dispute her aunt’s theory.

  Isabella cleared her throat. “Go to my wardrobe, dear. Open the bottom drawer. At the back, beneath the scarves, you will find a book wrapped in a pillowcase.” The elderly woman’s voice was weakened by the evening of socializing in the cold air. Lydia obeyed, and as she returned to her aunt, she pulled the ancient journal out of the embroidered pillowcase. She recognized the journal’s binding as being that of the old printer’s method and knew the book was from the generation who founded the Land.

  “Here it is.” Lydia touched the book to her aunt’s hand.

  Isabella did not take the book. She folded her thins hands in her lap. “It is for you, child. Open it.”

  Lydia knelt on the floor again. She looked at the old journal and lifted the cover. The first page was spotted with age and in pencil was inscribed: Lillian Colburn, 1899. The people in the Land shared their books of history and wisdom, and copies of each of the founders’ works were printed and distributed among the villages. “Why is this not in the library?”

  “It is the private journal of our ancestor, Lillian Colburn. She wrote it during a shameful time in our history. After the trouble passed, the elders of that time agreed never to speak of it again. They wanted to record only the pleasant and noble portions of their experience. Lillian secretively disagreed and recorded the details of the disgraceful event. She hid the journal, but when she was near death she gave it to her great-grandson. He promised to keep the contents confidential and only bring it to light if the same type of situation ever loomed again. He was my Grandfather Colburn. Before he died, he read the journal to me and placed it in my keeping.” Though her eyes roamed, Isabella turned her head in Lydia’s direction. “God commands the wind and the waves, Lydia. He controls entrance to the Land and refuses departure. The storm is God’s voice reminding us He judges rebellion.”

  Lydia heard the muffled sounds of her father and Connor in the kitchen, and she felt relief knowing they were inside the house, though she wondered if either would disparage her for her attempt to save the boys. She glanced over her shoulder. Though she knew her aunt wanted her to focus on the journal and some potential lesson therein, Lydia’s attention was preoccupied with the unfolding crisis. Footsteps ascended the stairs—probably her father. She also heard someone pass Isabella’s door and walk briskly through the hallway toward the guestroom. It was Connor.

  Lydia closed the cover of the ancient journal. “Thank you, Aunt Isabella. I will cherish this heirloom.”

  “And read it.”

  “Yes, of course.” She stood and stroked her aunt’s folded hands. “I cannot now—please understand—but I will read it.” Lydia tucked the old journal under her arm and collected the oil lamp from the top of Isabella’s dresser. “Good night, Aunt Isabella.” The closed shutters on the outside of the window rattled in the wind that beat against the sturdy old house. “I will stay in the parlor tonight in case you need me.”

  Lydia carried the lamp as she walked down the hallway and into the parlor. She set the lamp on the mantel, then she lowered her tired body to the divan. The loose sand that chafed her toes sprinkled onto the rug. She curled herself into the seat and blanketed her feet under the borrowed dress. Her heart ached for the young boys and for their families and for her reputation. She reclined into the corner of the divan and used her arm for a pillow.

  Moments later, Connor came from the hallway wearing the only shirt he had from his land. It was thin and white with short sleeves and no collar. It reminded Lydia of the first few days he was in her life. He had been her patient—at first unconscious and inexplicable. Then he wanted to court her. He could not possibly find her desirable after what was transpiring now. She would not blame him if he had lost interest in her—she certainly would have.

  Connor walked to the armchair across from Lydia. He sat down and sighed heavily. He leaned his head against the high back of the chair and stretched his hands along its arms, wrapping his fingers around its wooden ends. His hair was clean and damp; it fringed loosely across his forehead. Lydia knew if she looked at him for long she might cry, so she commanded her eyes to stare at the fire and hoped he did not consider her rude.

  He did not ask her how she was, and for that she was grateful. He simply afforded her the silence she needed—if only the wind would be as merciful. She told herself to rest until the storm blew over. At its
first sign of passing she would return to the shore. Maybe the boys had been ejected from the sea on the crest of a wave like she was. That was unlikely. Lydia listened to the wind and waited for it to cease.

  The light coming from upstairs grew dim, and she wondered if Bethany had finally cried herself to sleep. The gears clicked inside the clock on the wall behind the chair where Connor sat. Lydia looked at it even though the old clock only made that particular sound when it struck midnight and noon. When she looked away from the clock, Connor caught her eye.

  “What time is it?” His voice was quiet and gruff.

  “Midnight,” Lydia replied as she shifted her body on the lumpy divan.

  “You shouldn’t go out to your cottage yet. The wind is full of sand and sea foam.”

  “I did not intend to. I told Aunt Isabella I would stay here until the storm is over.”

  “You can take my bed. I’ll sleep out here.”

  “I am only waiting until the storm passes. Then I am going back.”

  “To the beach?”

  “Of course.”

  “No, you’re not.” Though his body was relaxed, Connor’s gaze was intense. “Not tonight.”

  At present, Lydia desired neither his attention nor his concern. She looked back at the log in the fireplace and returned to her cognitive dissection of the problem at hand. She would go back to the shore as soon as the storm settled. It was her duty. Connor himself had promised to never interfere with her work, and she expected him to keep his word.

  As she watched the fire for what seemed like an eternity, Lydia became lost in her thoughts. The flame dimmed and she blinked. Her thoughts were simply a dream, and for an instant she wondered if the whole evening had been a dream also. She looked at Connor. He had changed positions in the chair but was still awake. And the wind still lashed against the shutters.