Hannah. (Van Den Bosch #7)

Chapter 1

1

Hannah

I press my forehead against the cool window glass as the car glides effortlessly down the highway, leaving Amsterdam Airport behind. My gaze follows the Dutch countryside unfurling beneath the twilight sky as my thoughts wander back to the past few days spent in England with Johan.

That British man, with his easy smile and his laugh, which seemed to echo the very thrill of the show, has left a vivid imprint on my mind. There’s a flutter in my stomach just remembering the way he explained each horse's lineage, the strategies behind each event, his voice animated with passion. Being with him was like stepping into a world where every moment is brimming with life, and I can't help but be smitten. He's older, yes, but there's a wisdom and a warmth to him that draws me in, despite Oma’s warnings.

Speaking of which, the car turns onto a narrower road, the trees along the lane forming a green tunnel that seems to lead straight to the heart of her estate. The closer we get, the heavier the music box and letter in my bag feel—like they're laden with the weight of untold family stories. It's strange to think that amidst the excitement of the show, these small items were silently carrying the weight of hidden truths.

As we pass through the estate’s ornate iron gates, the car follows a winding drive that snakes through the meticulously kept grounds. Ancient trees stand guard along the path, their branches stretching skyward, casting long shadows that crisscross over the gravel. It feels like traveling through a corridor of time, each meter bringing me closer to the heart of my family’s history.

Finally, the estate itself comes into view, its majestic facade rising grandly at the end of the drive. The car slows to a stop at the roundabout before the main entrance, where the imposing front steps lead up to the towering double doors. Here, Stuart is waiting, as stoic and composed as ever, his figure remaining a familiar beacon in the midst of all the stately grandeur.

The driver smoothly opens the door for me. Stepping out, I'm immediately enveloped by the crisp air, the scent of the old earth and blooming gardens mingling in a welcome that is uniquely that of Oma’s home.

“Miss Hannah, welcome back,” Stuart greets me, his voice carrying a formal warmth as he extends his hand to assist me with my bag. His presence, as always, is both comforting and imposing—an echo of the family legacy I carry with me.

“Thank you, Stuart. It's nice to be here,” I reply, my voice a mixture of genuine relief and a touch of resignation. As much as the estate feels like home, it also feels like stepping back into a world where secrets and duties overshadow simple pleasures.

As we ascend the steps together, the familiar weight of the music box and letter in my bag reminds me of the reason for my visit. These items, tokens of a past I'm only just beginning to uncover, feel like keys waiting to unlock the many doors of unanswered questions about my family's history. And as each step brings me closer to the grand doors and the revelations they promise, I brace myself for what's to come.

Inside, the grand foyer of the estate greets me with its usual imposing elegance. Polished marble floors reflect the gentle evening light filtering through the tall, arched windows, as well as the soft glow of the chandeliers overhead. The air carries a subtle hint of lemon and beeswax, carefully applied to preserve the antique woodwork that adorns the interior. Stuart guides me across the vast space, our footsteps echoing softly beneath the high ceilings adorned with intricate plasterwork. The walls are lined with portraits of ancestors whose stern gazes seem to scrutinize even those who aren’t newcomers. As we navigate through this historical gallery, I can't help but feel the weight of generations watching over us. Stuart, sensing perhaps my heightened awareness, offers a reassuring nod as he guides me toward the petit salon—a smaller, more intimate room where the atmosphere is always slightly less formidable and where Oma awaits.

When Stuart and I reach the petit salon, the door is already slightly ajar, allowing the soft sounds of a classical melody to escape into the foyer. Pushing the door open, the familiar yet always slightly overwhelming sight of the room greets me as we enter. Rich tapestries adorn the walls, deep plush carpets cover the floor, and the gentle light filters through lace curtains.

Oma, sitting in her favorite armchair by the fireplace, looks up from her book as we enter. Her eyes, sharp and discerning even in her later years, light up with a genuine warmth that always seems reserved just for these moments.

“Hannah, my dear,” she begins, her voice smooth and comforting. I walk in her direction while Stuart leaves the room, closing the door as he goes. “How was your time in England?” Though simple, her question is laced with an understanding of the underlying challenges of my journey—her way of easing me into the conversation.

“It was quite the experience,” I reply, feeling the tension in my shoulders loosen under her attentive gaze. I lean down to greet her with a cheek kiss, her elegant fragrance filling my nostrils. “The horse show was fascinating, and Johan was a wonderful guide through it all.”

Oma nods, pleased yet contemplative, as if filing away every piece of information for future reference. Then, sensing the moment to delve deeper, she gestures to the seat next to her. I settle down, the weight of the music box and letter in my bag suddenly more prominent.

“As you know, Amelia wasn't at the address you gave me,” I continue, reaching into my bag, “but she left behind this music box and note for you.” I hand over the items, watching closely for her reaction.

Oma’s expression shifts as she takes the music box, her fingers tracing the delicate carvings with a touch that speaks volumes of sudden nostalgia and hidden stories. She carefully opens the letter, her eyes scanning the contents quickly before she looks back up at me, a myriad of emotions crossing her features.

“Thank you, Hannah,” she says softly, the significance of these items hanging heavily in the air between us.

“What happened to your sister?” I ask, my curiosity tinged with a hint of accusation. “Why the random quote from Shakespeare?”

Oma sighs, and I can see sorrow in her eyes. “Darling, those things belong to the past….”

Shaking my head, I refuse to give in. “Oma, please.”

She heaves a long sigh in resignation, knowing she’ll have to tell me the truth. “Fine….” She shuts her book and puts it aside on the low table in front of her. Then, she takes a few deep breaths as if preparing herself for a painful retelling. “My sister disappeared twenty years ago. On the evening of August 16, 2003.” The atmosphere in the room instantly shifts at the gravity of her words. “We were out in London at a play of Twelfth Night. Malvolio was on stage, reading Olivia’s letter out loud, when my sister received a text message from a man she was very much in love with, asking her to go outside as he had something important to talk to her about. Just like with the letter Malvolio was reading, it was all a trap. Against my advice, she left me and the play behind and went outside…” Oma stops herself for a moment, her gaze drifting down to her lap, and she breathes in and out in a clear attempt to keep her emotions at bay. “And she never came back.” Her gaze meets mine again, and it’s painful to watch. I’ve never seen Oma struggle to keep her composure like this. “I called every day, but she never answered.” Her eyes are misty, on the verge of tears, and while I’d love to lay a hand on hers to comfort her, I’m not sure if it’s an appropriate gesture right now. “I went to the police and hired private investigators, but she was gone without leaving a trace.”

While I knew Oma had always been formidable, now it’s clear her sternness didn’t come from nowhere. Grieving the loss of her sister must have been one of the hardest things she’d ever done.

“It was painful, and for the longest time, I thought she was gone forever. Only recently, I discovered she was still alive, but she remains as elusive as ever.”

“But why keep it from me? Does anyone else know about her? Does Mom know her aunt might still be alive?” My voice is firmer now, needing transparency.

“There’s no point in talking further about someone who I thought was dead. I’m done waiting.” Oma’s tone is firm but final, and she marks the end of the subject by taking her cup from the table and sipping her tea. “Tell me more about the horse show. Did you enjoy it?” She’s always been adept at steering conversations away from uncomfortable territory, and while I’d love to keep talking about my great-aunt, I must respect her boundaries.

“It was great. Johan knows so much about horses, and being with him, learning from him—it was exhilarating.” I can't help the warmth that spreads through me as I speak of him despite knowing Oma’s likely disapproval.

Oma’s expression tightens just slightly. “That man might be charming, but remember, he’s quite a bit older than you. I trust you are being cautious,” she says, her tone laced with a mix of concern and warning.

“Yes, Oma.” I blush, embarrassed by her implication, and quickly change the subject. “By the way, can I ask you an unrelated favor?”

Oma looks intrigued, a spark of interest lighting her eyes. “Of course, dear.”

“Can you help me get into Cambridge? It’s always been my dream, and I’d love to graduate from their History of Art course,” I say, the request feeling small against the backdrop of our family's complicated history.

Oma’s face softens, and her eyes reflect pride. “We’ll see what can be done. You know how much I value education. But in exchange, I hope you won’t say a word about Amelia to your friend Johan or anyone else for that matter. Your mother and siblings included. This little chat stays strictly between us.”

I can see the sincerity in her gaze, and I nod firmly, clasping my hands together to steady myself as I look into her eyes. “You have my word.”

She offers a curt nod, her smile deepening with satisfaction. Her arms crossed lightly over her chest, her chin held high. “Good. Then we have a deal.”

Relief washes over me, and for a moment, the complexities of the family secrets seem to fade into the background. Yet, as I leave the salon, the melody from the music box lingers in my ears—a haunting reminder that some mysteries remain unresolved, waiting in the shadows of our past to be uncovered.

I close the door to my bedroom, the soft click echoing in the quiet house. My talk with Oma was intense as always, her revelation lingering in my mind, but the nagging questions about her sister persist. I set my bag on the chair and sit on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to breathe in the familiar scent of lavender that always lingers in this room. A mix of frustration and curiosity churns within me, making it hard to relax.

Finally, I can’t ignore my curiosity any longer, pulling open my laptop and typing “Amelia van Lynden” into the search bar. I scan the results, but nothing relevant comes up. There are no social media profiles, no news articles, not even a mention in an obscure blog. It's like she doesn't exist. Frustrated, I pick up my phone and dial Johan's number. After all, he had offered to do a little investigation involving her. To my surprise, he answers on the second ring, his voice a comforting balm.

“Hey! Did you get home safely?” he asks before I can even speak.

“Now, that was quick. Missing me already?”

I can hear him chuckling. “Sorry to burst your bubble, princess, but I just picked up your call that quick because I was holding my phone.”

“Of course, of course…” A smile spreads at the corner of my lips, quite surprised that he called me princess. He’s never done that before. “And yes, I’m back home and spending the night at Oma’s.” Before he can even place another word, I add, “Listen, I tried looking up Amelia van Lynden, and nothing came up. It’s like she doesn’t exist. Is there any other way we can find something about her?”

There’s a pause on the other end, and I imagine Johan running a hand through his hair, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Give me a minute,” he says finally. “I have a friend who might be able to check a national database for us.”

“Oh, so you really do have spy friends?” I tease, needing a bit of levity to break the tension in my chest.

“Maybe,” he replies with a soft chuckle, the sound easing some of my anxiety. “Call you back in a few.”

I lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling as I wait. The silence in the room feels heavy, and I can’t shake the feeling that something important is just out of reach. The ticking of the old clock on the wall seems louder, each second stretching into an eternity. I close my eyes, letting my thoughts drift back to the weekend we just spent together.

A few minutes pass, and my phone rings again. I answer quickly, my heart pounding in anticipation.

“I spoke to my friend,” Johan announces, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of concern. “There’s no Amelia van Lynden showing up in the national database either.”

My jaw drops at his words. “What? That’s impossible.”

“That’s what he told me. Are you sure her last name is Van Lynden?” Johan asks, the question hanging heavy between us.

“Well, that’s the name Oma gave me,” I respond, the doubt creeping into my mind.

“Then there are only two options: either Amelia changed her surname, or your grandma gave you the wrong one,” he suggests, his tone gentle but firm.

I frown, the implications swirling in my mind. “Why would she lie to me?”

“I don’t know, maybe to protect her sister’s identity and avoid you finding out more about her.” His speculation actually makes sense, and I find myself nodding in agreement.

“You know what? Maybe you’re right. Oma has been particularly secretive about this.”

His voice softens, a note of empathy threading through. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of better help, Hannah. I know this is frustrating.”

“That’s okay, thanks for checking.”

“So, what should we do now?” His voice is a soothing presence in the growing confusion.

“I guess only time will tell,” I reply, feeling a mix of frustration and resolve. “We’ll have to wait and see if Oma decides to tell me more.”

“Alright. Keep me posted, okay?”

“I will. Thanks, Johan.” My tone is softer than I anticipated, my words slower. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Hannah. Sweet dreams.” His tone matches mine, bringing much comfort amid this unfolding mystery.

I set my phone down and look around my mom’s childhood room, the walls still adorned with posters and photos from years gone by. The familiar surroundings offer little comfort as my thoughts churn. I feel a renewed sense of determination. Whatever my grandmother is hiding, I will find out. But for now, all I can do is wait.