by C F Dunn
“But… but then, why wasn’t his death recorded in the parish records, since everything else had been so well documented?”
“But that’s just it!” Mrs Seaton exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight. “He didn’t die. His men carried him into the house with the knife still in his chest, expecting him to take his last breath at any moment. His father sat by him all night and the following day. And the next. And the next. Matthew remained unconscious but alive for weeks and weeks, and then, one day, over a month later, he woke up and spoke. People thought it a miracle, my dear, and he even had a visit from the bishop and a special service of thanksgiving.”
The goose wasn’t looking quite so wild after all.
“He survived?”
“Yes, against all odds, and gradually – as he grew stronger – people began to forget the miracle. But then the rumours began.”
She paused to take a sip of her now cold tea, taking a lace-edged linen hankie from her sleeve and dabbing at the tide-mark around her lips. “That’s better!” she exclaimed.
“Rumours?” I prompted, never for one moment taking my eyes from her face, as if doing so would break the spell she cast over us.
“Ah yes, the rumours, my dear. Matthew grew stronger and stronger and he began to take risks…” She hiccupped delicately. “Oh, I do beg your pardon.” She waited for it to settle, then continued. “It was almost as if he were testing himself to his limits – testing God, some said. It was the height of the witch trials and ugly rumours began to circulate, some saying that it hadn’t been a miracle at all but that he had made a pact with the devil. Well, you can imagine – in a climate of fear like the one that prevailed at the time…”
Imagine? I didn’t need to – it had formed the basis of my research for years. I shivered involuntarily. “What happened?”
She sank back against the upholstery. “Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing. Matthew disappeared, and all the fuss died down. His father died sometime afterwards – in despair, it was said.”
Silence hung like a shroud, the gentle decay of the old building around us mirroring the decline of a once proud house.
She shook her head. “No wonder the tomb was desecrated and his name obliterated; his poor father.”
“Poor Matthew,” I murmured.
My father broke through our reflection for the first time since Mrs Seaton had begun her tale. We both looked up at him in surprise, forgetting he sat there. His thick-set shoulders hunched forward with a challenge in them.
“Who recorded it? How is all this known in such detail?”
That was a very good question and one I might have thought of myself if I hadn’t been so preoccupied.
“There were lots of witnesses, of course, but the estate manager – the steward – oh, what was his name? – your grandfather did tell me…” She flapped an insubstantial hand, trying to conjure the name from the air.
“Richardson,” I supplied.
“That’s the chappie – well, he was the main witness at the trial and he recorded everything.”
“Whose trial?” my father and I both asked simultaneously. Mrs Seaton plainly thought it obvious.
“William’s, of course. He was the ringleader and the attack was unprovoked and the local Royalist families didn’t want their cause tainted by his renegade actions. Even if Henry Lynes was a Parliamentarian, his reputation and standing in the area meant that William’s behaviour caused outrage among Royalist and Parliamentarian factions alike. And as for the way he attacked his nephew – well, my dears, nobody tolerated cowardice on that scale. Richardson had William taken into house arrest, patched up and handed over to the local militia or magistrate or something, and held for trial.”
“You said that Richardson was the main witness and that he made a record of the event; where is it now?” I asked, thinking of the journal.
“Did I say he recorded it? Oh dear, how very imprecise of me. No, it was his evidence that they recorded, along with the other witnesses. I think it must be in the county archives, or it might not have survived the war – I’m not sure. Your dear grandfather would have known, of course. But it is part of our local history, as well as the family’s, and it’s what my husband remembered being told by his granny when he was a little boy, and she by hers. It was just considered a small skirmish at the time – outrageous, of course – but not important in the grand scheme of things.”
No, I could see that it would have faded into obscurity along with the family, both a footnote to the much more significant events of the time.
“So they executed William?” I said.
“Yes, and the male line died out, or at least it supposedly did. But you say you know a descendant? Where – is he local? I don’t believe I’ve heard of anybody of that name around here.”
I felt my father fix his gaze on me, watching for signs that I might be cracking up, no doubt. Perhaps I was.
“No, the Matthew Lynes I know is an American doctor; I must have been mistaken. His name is just a coincidence.”
I saw, out of the corner of my eye, my father look askance at my lack of consistency.
Mrs Seaton’s face took on the aspect of a disappointed child. “What a shame! Wouldn’t it have been thrilling if he had been a descendant of our Matthew Lynes after all.”
“Or William Lynes,” I pointed out. Whatever my thinking, no way would I share those thoughts with anyone else, especially since my sanity was one white coat away from having me committed. “There might have been an illegitimate line through William.” A thought struck me. “Matthew would have been what – thirty-two, thirty-three at the time of the attack; wasn’t he married?”
“No, not married. He had been at Cambridge, you see, studying divinity – or was it medicine? – before he took up arms. Anyway, he hadn’t married…” I drew a silent sigh of relief, “… but he was engaged. To a Harrington heiress, I believe.”
My relief was instantly replaced by a warm flood of unprovoked, indefensible jealousy that rose to burn in my cheeks. I looked down and pretended to fiddle with my shoe. Mrs Seaton went on, oblivious.
“By the time Matthew – I am so glad you’ve reminded me of his name after all these years – by the time he recovered, the girl’s family had broken off the engagement and she married someone else.”
I couldn’t help the trickle of satisfaction I felt, and silently admonished myself for my selfishness.
“If no male heir survived, what happened to the lands?” asked my father, ever practical in these matters, since he found himself in the same position. Last of the D’Eresby male line, our family name would die with him unless I married a man willing to adopt my name. I chewed my lip, thinking the likelihood of that looked distinctly remote.
“… And the lands were bestowed on the older sister and her heirs, but not the Lynes name, of course,” Mrs Seaton was saying. “But the house wasn’t lived in again, and it fell into disrepair, with much of the stone robbed. I believe this building has a fair amount in the new wing. I like to think it lives on in this old pile, although for how much longer I really couldn’t say. Once I’m dead, I doubt that my son will want the bother of the old place.”
She appeared quite matter-of-fact about the matter but, as she sat there all vital and sprightly, I couldn’t imagine her not being part of the building, a living embodiment of its history and nearly a sixth of its age. Perhaps she would imbue it with some of her spirit, as some of my forebears resonated in the walls of my own home.
“Well, well, so there you are, my dear. I do love a good story.”
Dad stood up, pulling his still-buttoned tweed jacket down at the back, ready to go. Mrs Seaton seemed reluctant to let us leave. She put her bird-like hand on my arm and leaned conspiratorially close to me while looking sideways up at my father.
“My dear, did I mention that your father was a bit of a rascal in his day?”
I shook my head automatically, still embroiled in th
e story just recounted.
My father blustered. “I really don’t think Emma needs to hear about that…” but Mrs Seaton cheeped on.
“Don’t be taken in by his veneer of respectability,” she twinkled at me. “He cut quite a dashing figure, you know, quite the ladies’ man. Before he met your mother at one of our tennis parties – did you know we had the most splendid grass courts back then? Tennis and Pimms… I swear the summers were longer then… Anyway, before he met your mother, there was Susan Forde…”
“Aunt Susan?” I turned to stare at him. It was one of those strange facts that comes as a shock when you realize that your parents had a life – a sex life – before you were born. “You said that Grandma and Nanna used to come here, Dad; you didn’t say you did.”
“Good heavens, your father was a frequent visitor and Susan was definitely not your aunt, my dear. She thought – and we all had the same impression – that there would be an engagement before the year was out, but then we had that fabulous tennis party – you remember, Hugh, don’t you? The one where Teddy broke his elbow…”
“… And Penny had to take his place in the doubles. Yes, of course I remember; how could I forget? She had a magnificent backhand.” His face softened.
“You jilted Aunt Susan? How could you, Dad? That was a rotten thing to do!”
He missed the intended jibe and grumped, but Mrs Seaton caught it and we both burst out laughing at the look on his face.
“I think it’s probably time we were making a move, Joan; we’ve imposed on you quite long enough.” He tried to maintain his dignity but failed miserably, succeeding in looking awkward instead.
“Never mind, Hugh,” Mrs Seaton said, chortling at his discomfort. “Your secret’s safe with me. Don’t take yourself so seriously. Ah, but I haven’t had a good laugh like that for a long while; you’ve been quite a tonic – the pair of you. And as for you…” she said, taking me by the arm and looking directly at me, “… there’s nothing wrong with you that a good doctor can’t fix.”
It was my turn to colour horribly, and I didn’t know where to look – certainly not at my father, who made his displeasure perfectly clear.
She walked us slowly, reluctantly, to the gnarled front door, which had seen so much history that I wanted to absorb it through my living skin; instead, I let my fingers trail along its surface as the cold air greeted us.
“I do hope that we will meet again, but at my age, my dear, that might be asking too much. Life is always too short for all the things we hoped to do but never quite got around to doing. Well, there you are; do remember me to your grandmother and mother, won’t you?”
I assured her that I would, and we left her looking suddenly frail and shrunken on the doorstep of her world.
CHAPTER
6
Ghosts
The tension in the car on the way back home became palpable as my father sank into a brooding, tight-lipped silence. I ignored it for as long as I could, but my hopes were futile, and the simmering suspense boiled into a familiar rant, starting with an accusation.
“I thought you said you were researching for your college work – not anything to do with that… doctor.”
I stared out of the windscreen, watching the white lines in the centre of the road whip before me, waiting for the rest of it.
“You lied to me, Emma. Don’t think that I’m taken in by what you told Joan Seaton. I know you think there’s some connection between him and this Lynes family Joan spoke about. What I want to know is why you find it necessary to lie about it – why you have to deceive us.”
That hurt and I bit my lip, fighting the urge to snap back. He was right, of course; I had lied about why I wanted to go to Oakham and Martinsthorpe, but the obfuscation went far further than that, far back into my childhood, and I didn’t want to get drawn into a fight with him. He continued talking, using that “I’m being the responsible parent” tone he always adopted when he lectured me.
“There’s a lack of trust here, Emma – a fundamental lack of trust. If your mother and I can’t believe you over something as simple as this…”
I tried not to let my voice wobble. “Don’t bring Mum into it; this is between you and me.”
“Trust,” he continued regardless. “A question of duty and trust. You were not completely honest about this boy, were you?”
Anger, uncontrollable and hot, welled up in me and I clutched at the edge of the car seat, on the brink of combustion. My broken arm ached from the pressure.
“Matthew – his name’s Matthew – not him, not that doctor, not boy. Matthew – use his name.”
He grunted. “Matthew – if you insist.” He twisted his name into something ugly. That did it.
“Yes, I bloody well do insist!”
“There’s no need to swear…” He swerved to miss a rabbit at the edge of the road. I ground my teeth together, feeling the edges grate painfully.
“This Matthew – you lied to us about him.”
“No – I didn’t tell you the whole truth – there’s a difference.”
“Not in my books…”
“Always your books, your rules. Have you never asked yourself why I find it necessary not to tell you everything that goes on in my life? Have you? I’ll tell you, shall I? Do you remember what happened when I was stupid enough to tell you about Guy? I thought that I could trust you when I needed your help. I came to you and you let me down. You went behind my back and…”
“It was my duty as your father to protect you; the man took advantage of you.”
“But you didn’t have to hit him – what century are you living in, for goodness’ sake!”
“Being a father means making some difficult decisions on your behalf.”
“How could you make any decisions for me when you don’t even know me? How dare you make assumptions about me based on… based on your antiquated notion of duty.”
My voice had risen until it filled the claustrophobic interior of the car.
“I’m driving, Emma.”
“Well, bloody well stop driving and listen.”
He didn’t correct me this time and instead glared ahead at the road, taking a sharp right turn, crossing the trickle of oncoming traffic. He drew into a parking area above the reservoir, where a few other cars slumbered with their windows misted with condensation. He switched off the engine and released the catch on his seatbelt, pivoting cumbersomely in his seat.
“Now, what is all this about?”
I saw his closed expression, his mind made up before I could explain mine.
“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? Or don’t you want to listen? I don’t tell you about my life because you have never – been – part – of – it.”
I emphasized each word, driving it home with all the venom of years of hurt that I could muster. His heavy face blanched, then flushed, then lost all colour again. I had hit home and I was merciless.
“When were you ever there for me when I needed you? When… when were you there to help me with my homework or to watch the Christmas play at school? I don’t ever remember you just being there at all. My friends had fathers who were at least visible. But you – the only times I saw you were when you had my school report in your hand. ‘Why did you only get a B, Emma?’ ‘I expected you to do better than that, Emma.’ ‘History isn’t a proper career, Emma.’ I was never good enough, Dad; I was always a disappointment.”
He didn’t say anything, but I could tell that at last he was taking in everything I could fling at him.
“Do you know what Beth said to me the other day? She said she’s jealous of me because she thinks you love me more than her because you paid me more attention; and all the while I was jealous of her, because at least she got to see you when she was young. Hah!” I spat. “We’ve wasted years being jealous of each other, and for what? The only time I felt truly loved – other than by Mum and Nanna – was by Grandpa…”
I remembered what Matthew had said about my father’
s perception of my grandfather’s role in my life, but I strode roughshod and callous on ground brittle with years of battle, beyond caring.
“He loved me for who I am, not for what he could make me. He spent time with me, he taught me things – he talked to me. And he listened. Even when it must have been as boring as hell for him, he still listened. And he didn’t judge me, or criticize me. He let me breathe, he let me grow. Do you understand?”
My father’s voice came rough and low.
“I had to be a father to you; your grandfather didn’t have that responsibility – he didn’t have to discipline you. I didn’t like it, but that’s what a father has to do.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Dad, listen to yourself – while you pontificate about the duties of fatherhood, did you not think that one of them might be loving your children?”
Hurt flashed in his eyes. “I do love you, Emma – and your sister – of course I do…”
“When did you last tell us that you love us?” I challenged, not wanting to soften the attack, but sensing creeping compassion for a wounded animal nonetheless. I steeled myself, but he made it easy to resist giving in.
“Tell you? I shouldn’t have to tell you, you should know.”
“How? By telepathy?” I shot at him. “When did you – do you – ever show us you love us? You haven’t and you don’t. I’ll tell you why I don’t tell you everything about my life – it’s because I can’t trust you to support me in the decisions I make, and part of loving me as a father is to trust me.”
“I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“You see? That’s just my point; you don’t trust me even to make my own mistakes. You smother me, Dad, you always have. You smother me with your expectations and your criticism and you just won’t let me go.”
“But you can trust this… Matthew – is that it, Emma? You can trust this stranger whom you’ve known for a matter of weeks, more than your own family – than your own father.”
