Forever Hidden (Forever Bluegrass #2) (3 page)

She shook her head. Ruth Wyatt wanted her to do this. Sydney opened the drawer and looked down at the old Bible she’d never been allowed to touch as a child. It was much larger and thicker than the newer versions. The book cover was rich, reddish-brown leather with an intricate design on the front cover. Most of the gold text had been worn off.

Inside were the secrets of the past. Secrets her great-grandmother had kept from her and her family for some reason. Sydney took her time running her fingers over the opulent cover, feeling its history. She took a deep breath and slid her finger under the cover to open it. It was time to learn about the secret treasure.

CHAPTER THREE

The pages were yellowed with age, but the ornate printing was still legible. Sydney turned to the front of the thick tome and read the elegant script filling the page.
A gift for the birth of my granddaughter, Lady Elizabeth Margaret Woodbury, this third day of September in the year of our Lord 1703. Affectionately, Victoria Gander Woodbury, Dowager Countess of Sladen.

Countess? 1703? Sydney let out a long breath. This Bible was hundreds of years old and contained the family history she had no knowledge of. They all knew about the Wyatts settling Keeneston in the 1700s, but seeing her great-grandmother’s Bible was something completely new.

Sydney turned the page.
Family Record
was elegantly scrolled across the top of the next several pages. In the same handwriting that had written the dedication was a record of the family’s births, marriages, and deaths going back five generations and ending with Lady Elizabeth’s birth. After that, different handwritings took over, recording births, marriages, and deaths all the way up to Wyatt Davies written in by her great-grandmother.

Sydney ran her fingers over the pages in wonder.  So many lives were touched by the people listed there. As she skimmed over the page with her and Wyatt’s names on it, she felt something underneath. Sydney turned the pages and found several folded pieces of paper.

“The treasure . . .” Sydney whispered as she took the Bible and the pieces of paper to the seat by the fireplace. Nervously, she opened the first paper with a broken red wax seal on it. The handwriting was old and the date on the top read 1721; it was addressed to Lady Elizabeth.

You will return from finishing school and promptly marry the Duke of Eastmont. I will suffer no more of your delays. It is your duty to me as your father and to your family. If you fail to comply you will suffer at my hand.

Sydney finished the short missive signed by Elizabeth’s father, the Earl of Sladen. She felt terrible for this eighteen-year-old girl from long ago. It was obvious she had no wish to marry this duke. But as her father pointed out, she was his property and had no say in her own life. Sydney set the letter down and reached for the next.

It was addressed to Lady Elizabeth at Sladen House in London, in the familiar elegant hand of Elizabeth’s grandmother. Sydney took care opening it at the crack in the wax and saw it was addressed three weeks after her father’s letter. Sydney’s heart beat hard as the words flowed from the page.

I must beg you to turn your back on your family and do what I was never strong enough to do. Run. The Season was full of talk of Eastmont’s search for his sixth wife. All his previous wives have died suspiciously. Because of his rank in society, he has never been held accountable, nor will he ever be. He’s as rich as Croesus and related to the king. I will not stand by and allow my only granddaughter to be his next victim. Look for me tonight at your engagement ball. If you are agreeable, you will leave tonight and never return to England. We can only pray that you can outrun Eastmont’s reach.

Sydney folded the letter. What did Elizabeth do? She knew what she would have done—run. There were two more packets left. Sydney opened the next and started to read the first page. It was dated 1722 with Albany, New York, inscribed below the date. The handwriting was bolder, yet elegant. After Sydney scanned the first page, she saw that it was a diary of sorts from Elizabeth. It was the letter she wished she could send to her grandmother but knew she never could.

I have never been so frightened or so sure when I accepted the duke’s ring that I would never marry him. I had thought my only recourse would be to kill myself, then I received your missive before the ball. It gave me strength to go through the whole charade of an evening. It gave me the strength to ignore Eastmont’s vile threats of what he was going to do, to quote him, "to my young nimble body" once we were married as we danced our engagement waltz.  I needed strength to ignore the pain in his grip and the violence in his eyes. Your note gave me the courage to tear my hem and politely kiss my mother and my brothers goodbye as I went to fix it. Such relief could never be described at finding you in the retiring room with my valise. You handed me five hundred pounds and passage under a pseudonym on a ship to America leaving that night. That generous gift was enough to last me a lifetime in a quaint cottage in America. But as I write this letter that I know I can never send, it is the second gift that is even more valuable to me: the diamond heart ring your true love gave you that you wore in defiance of the husband forced upon you. Your parting words encouraging me to find my true love gave me courage and hope that all men are not like Eastmont. I am now writing to tell you they are not.

I found him,
Grandmère. We are to be married tomorrow in the small chapel in Albany, New York. John Abbott is a farmer and business owner. He owns a warehouse and a barge to transport goods between Albany and New York City. And he has no idea who I am.

After a harrowing journey across the Atlantic, I arrived in New York. I checked into an inn under the name Mrs. Winfield, a newly widowed woman from Inverness, Scotland. It’s quite a shock to hear these Americans speak. But the openness of my new country was refreshing. I knew that Eastmont would be looking for me and after a few days recovering from the journey and exploring this fascinating city, I sold my engagement ring. I then inquired about smaller villages out in the wild from a hackney driver and the owner of a tavern I enjoyed. I learned that Albany, a town north of New York, was primarily a trading post, but was quickly growing. It sounded like a perfect place to start a new life.

I was shopping at a dressmaker’s to gather necessities for my new life in the wild when I overheard the owner of the shop talking with a man. He mentioned working with the local natives in Albany to acquire more fur for her customers. I desired to learn more about my future home so, not so politely, I interrupted. To my surprise, the man was young, not more than eight years older than my nineteen years. Grandmère, he was so handsome, brave, and intelligent! He introduced himself and answered all my questions about Albany. He instructed me on what materials I should buy in New York and asked when my husband and I would be moving. When I informed him I was not married, he insisted on escorting me to Albany himself. He said it was his gentlemanly duty. He assumed I was a widow, and I did not correct him on that misguided thought. However, I do believe he will figure it out on our wedding night.

We took his boat up the Hudson River to Albany. By that time, I was already madly in love with John and he with Mrs. Elizabeth Honeywell from New York, the false name I used when we met. After we marry, I plan to tell him the truth. We arrived in Albany, and John took me by carriage to a boarding house for women. He asked if he could call on me the next day to show me around town. I said yes and every day for two weeks he drove his carriage into Albany and escorted me around the town and the countryside. He showed me his farm and told me how he supplies all the food for the traders in the area and how he rents out his warehouse and transports good for local suppliers.

After two weeks, he took me to a nearby waterfall and asked me to be his wife. I happily consented and now will only wear the small band he gives me during the marriage ceremony instead of the large emerald of Eastmont’s I had sold. My heart has never been so full. I will give the ring you gave me to my own granddaughter and tell her of my brave Grandmère who rescued me and gave me the gift of opportunity, love, and freedom.

Sydney reverently refolded the letter and took a deep breath. She looked down at her ring and now understood what her great-grandmother had meant by her family history really starting with Elizabeth Woodbury. How brave she had been. Sydney picked up the Bible and looked at the marriages. There, recorded in 1722, was Elizabeth Woodbury to John Abbott. A year later, the first of seven births were recorded.

Sydney hugged the letter to her chest. How alone Elizabeth must have felt. She’d left her family and everything she knew behind her but had found the kind of love that Ruth and Beauford had shared. With a smile, Sydney picked up the other letter and opened it.

An Evelyn Elizabeth Curtis had dated this letter over a hundred years later, in 1864. The smile Sydney had on her face vanished as she read the quickly scribbled note.

Sherman is on his way. The family treasure dating back to Elizabeth Woodbury has been buried in order to save it, as I fear the house will be burned and all our possessions stolen. As much as I want to pick up arms and shoot the soldiers for burning Atlanta, destroying the crops, and stealing what little food we have, I cannot. Instead, I will smile and offer them the use of our home in order to save it and us. I am hiding this note and the ring my grandmother Sarah Elizabeth Majory gave me on my person. I will sew it into my corset in hopes that I survive. The treasure is buried five paces from the old oak tree and ten paces from the well. If I do not make it, keep it safe for the daughters of Elizabeth yet to come, for it is our legacy.

Sydney stared dumbfounded at the letter. There was the location of the treasure. This is what she had sworn to find and bring home. This week Sydney had learned something else about her great-grandmother. At the reading of the will, Sydney discovered that she had been left a piece of property outside of Atlanta. The lawyer had handed her the deed with the instruction to remember her promise.

Her family wanted to know what that promise was, but she had been sworn not to divulge it until all the treasure was together. So she had told them she had promised to visit the old family home, even though none of them knew it even existed. The deed had gifted the property from the Evelyn Elizabeth Seeley Trust by Georgia Elizabeth Ellery as Trustee to Ruth Elizabeth Ellery in 1937. Evelyn Curtis must have married to become Evelyn Seeley. She looked at the Bible and saw that Georgia Ellery was Ruth’s mother. And there in the Bible was great-grandmother’s real age. Sydney smiled as she closed the book. Ruth Wyatt was good at keeping secrets and so was Sydney.

Now that Syd knew exactly where the property was and exactly where the treasure was, all that was left was to drive to Atlanta, retrieve the treasure, and fulfill her promise. She’d leave tomorrow and be home a day later. Then she would fly to one of the private islands off the Bahamas and decompress before going back to work. With a game plan in place, Sydney Elizabeth stood up and closed the door to Wyatt Estate.

*     *     *

Sydney grumbled as she sat in the Atlanta rush hour traffic on I-75. She should have left sooner, but her mother had grilled her as to why she was leaving now and wanted to know where she was going and when she was coming home. Some things never changed. It didn’t matter she was almost twenty-nine; when it came to travel, her mom still insisted she check in to make sure she arrived safely.

It had taken a while to convince her mom that she didn’t need to accompany her and to finally get out of Keeneston. Sydney promised she would call when she checked into her hotel, and she would if she ever got there. With each mile Sydney inched toward downtown, the idea of going on a treasure hunt became less and less appealing while the thought of lying on a beach became more and more enticing.

Finally, the Ritz-Carlton came into view, and Sydney pulled into the hotel entryway. With a smile to the valet, she handed him the keys, grabbed her small bag, and checked in.

Sydney slid her keycard into the door and walked into her suite. She tossed her bag on the floor and fell back onto the bed. Maybe a beach house with a hammock between two palm trees as opposed to a resort. She knew just the person to call to borrow a private island. She didn’t like to flaunt her money—if she ever did in Keeneston, they’d call her out for a disgusting lack of manners. Then they’d tell her parents, and she’d get in trouble.

“I can’t believe I’m still scared of my mom,” Sydney groaned as she picked up her phone and texted her friend with his own private island to find out if she could borrow it for a couple days. He and his family were rarely there, and when he texted back that it was all hers, it gave her motivation to get this treasure hunt over with.

Sydney texted her mom to let her know she’d arrived and then ordered room service before getting into the shower. The hot water rained over her, and she felt her muscles relax. She washed her long hair and wondered once again what this treasure could be that mattered so much. And why was it a secret?

She got out of the shower, toweled off, then pulled on an oversized sweatshirt and flannel pajama bottoms. Sydney was brushing her hair when her dinner arrived. She tipped the server and flipped on the television while she ate. And that was her mistake. She was warm, full, and her eyes began to close as she watched the movie. When the music of the credits woke her up, she groaned. It was almost midnight.

Sydney wrinkled her nose in distaste as she exchanged her flannel pajama bottoms for black jeans. She pulled out her black down jacket. It was the South, but it was also February. Atlanta had been plagued with barely-above-freezing temperatures and very damp air. This made her plans seem daunting, but she was determined to find this treasure and be on the beach by dinner.

The shovel was in the backseat of her SUV. She put the address into her GPS and left for her treasure hunt. Her mind wondered at all the possibilities of the treasure, but nothing prepared her for the vision of Twin Oaks. The manicured drive was lined with overarching oaks, which formed a tunnel that blocked out the dim rays of moonlight. Then suddenly out of the darkness, the house appeared.