Guest Post: Strange Karma by Willow Healy

Chapter Two

Lake District, England, present day

Odds are, when you receive an inheritance, you know the person you inherit from, but that wasn’t true for Cynthia Graham. Try as she might, she couldn’t come up with any memories of Lydia Dunton. Cynthia had wrongly assumed that her grandmother was long dead. But now, this recently buried stranger filled her thoughts, and left her with the unanswerable question, how could she have not known about Lydia Dunton?

Double–checking the address on the business card, she stood motionless until a fierce blast of wind spurred her to action. Time to put a face to the voice and meet the solicitor, Mr. Jones.

Inside the old Victorian, she was greeted by a motherly woman with a short, gray bob. “Terrible weather we’re having. You must be freezing, you poor lamb. I’ll make tea.” She then pointed to a corner, “Go ahead, miss, leave your suitcase over there by the printer. I’ll tell Mr. Jones you’re here.”

Cynthia smiled ruefully to herself at the term “poor lamb.” At 5’8”, she towered over the motherly woman.

Cynthia then was shown into the solicitor’s office.

After shaking hands, he got down to business. “May I see your documents?” His manner was dry, but not unkind.

Cynthia handed over her U.S. passport, birth certificate, and her mother’s immigration papers and death certificate.

As he read her passport, he glanced up to examine her.

Assumedly he was going over passport details with a lawyer’s thoroughness: hair color red, check; eyes blue, check; twenty-seven years old, check.

The gray-haired woman entered bearing a tray holding a teapot, two cups, and a plate of cookies. Carefully she set the teapot and porcelain cup ringed with a festive holly pattern in front of Cynthia. “This’ll warm you up.”

Cynthia smiled her thanks.

Having found her documents satisfactory, Mr. Jones’ manner warmed. “What do you know about Lydia Dunton?”

“Unfortunately, absolutely nothing. You see, my mother died in a fire when I was eight.” Just uttering those words brought back the horror.

October and November drifted by and, much to Mrs. Laughton’s great displeasure, Sandy continued to call on Emma. Because of Mrs. Laughton’s intense dislike, Sandy tried to meet Emma in alternative locations whenever possible. Christina Broom’s photography studio and house on Munster Road became a favorite rendezvous point.

When he first met Mrs. Broom, Britain’s first woman press photographer, he guessed she was in her sixties, and to Sandy’s mind, her face held tremendous strength and appeal. It was a face which tragedy had visited, yet where humor lurked. Emma had told him that in addition to freelancing, she had a stall at the Royal Mews,where she sold her postcards.

“So this is the young man you’ve been telling me so much about. Feel free to wander and look about. I have to mix chemicals in the darkroom.” Mrs. Broom told him.

While Emma cropped a picture, Sandy admired the photos on the walls and was pleasantly surprised to find Emma’s photos included in the display. Her Thames series captured the river’s moodiness with mists rising from the river and men hard at work on the boats. Two fishermen pulling up a net full of swirling silver fish caught his eye, and he felt inordinately proud of her.

“Nice. I like them.”

“Tomorrow, I go on a shoot. Would you like to come?”

“Absolutely!” Sandy tried not to think of the chemistry class he’d once again be missing, but well, what else could a chap do?

They met early at the St Paul’s station, and for a change, the weather was sunny.

“Where to now?” he asked after kissing her on the cheek. “Or are you going to blindfold me and keep me in suspense?”

She laughed. “St. Brides. Mrs. Broom has an assignment to photograph Christopher Wren designed churches. I’m assisting her with the smaller ones. Did you know that the first printing press was housed at St. Brides?”

“I didn’t,” he replied as he helped carry her supplies. And for the rest of the morning, he watched her take photos of the church from various angles, focusing mainly on the arched windows and the famous wedding cake steeple.

“Done,” she said, as she packed up her camera.

Sandy was reluctant to let her go. “Lunch? Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese is nearby.”

She nodded.

They walked off Fleet Street and down a narrow alley to the pub constructed around the same time as St. Brides. Once inside, they maneuvered a tiny passageway to a private nook upstairs. The room was so dark that the elderly waiter seemed to materialize out of nowhere to take their order. After finishing the meat pies, Sandy took Emma’s hands into his and took a deep breath. What if she says no, he thought, then what would he do? “I appreciate this is sudden. But I have to tell you how I feel. I love you. I need to know how you feel about me.”

She offered him a smile. “I care. Very much. But there’s mother. She suspects I’m fond of you and wants you justto go away. She’s accused me of being too independent, bohemian, and influenced by modern thinking. I told her I’d see who I want to see.”

“I’ll be up again next weekend,” he said, kissing her hand.

***

“Up to London again? After all the lectures you’ve missed? Rather risky, old chap, the tutor won’t be happy,” Dick remarked, his tone worried, as he and Sandy prepared for crew practice.

“Dick, I’m pulled in all directions. With my studies, keeping fit, and Emma. And, well, between you and me, I’m proposing soon.”

Dick let out a long, low whistle. “She’s a lovely girl, but you’re not even done with school yet.”

“I’ve cadged an invitation to the Lovelet’s party through Tommy Barnes. Emma said she’d be there.”

“Does Emma know you’ve lobbied for a good part of the year to be part of the Mount Everest expedition?”

“Not yet. I’ll tell her once the committee informs me if it’s a yes or no.”

Dick waved an envelope his way. “Marjory writes that she’s back at Cornist Hall and invites

us for a visit this weekend. She insists that I bring you along.”

A blush spread over Sandy’s cheeks. Marjory! He’d meant to contact her to tell her that their affair was over. Tomorrow, he’d call; it had to be done. “I’m afraid I can’t go, old man.”