A Lady in Name (31 page)

‘I cannot help wondering how Alice survived.’

Stefan was gathering up the reins.
‘I imagine my uncle paid her off. Clearly she had found the means to live until the very end. Let ’em go, Cobbold.’

The curricle started off, the groom swinging up behind as it passed him.
Lucy contemplated her mother’s plight with growing distress.

‘I have been so wrapped up in my own concerns in the case, I have not previously thought of her sufferings.
She must have run out of money. Why did she not send to him for more?’

Stefan’s response was curt and forthright.
‘I doubt she knew where to send. Did she not rely upon your adoptive father to make the application on your behalf?’

‘Yes, but she did not tell him they had been married.
Or perhaps she tried to and was too ill to make herself understood.’ Lucy clenched her fists and shook her head vehemently. ‘I cannot but dread we are come upon a wild goose chase. Why should we suppose a man as unprincipled as your uncle would have troubled himself to make an honest woman of poor Alice?’

‘You have me there,’ Stefan conceded.
‘Had it not come from Aunt Dorothea, I should have been inclined to dismiss the whole tale as a fantasy.’

Lucy continued to brood, not noticing much of the way and oblivious to the increasing chill and the gradually fading light, until Cobbold announ
ced there was a spire up ahead.

‘That’ll be Much Marcle, my lord.’

Within a few moments, the village hove into sight. It was a pretty place, with evidence of more dwellings in the chimneys behind the ones within the immediate environs. The church was set off to one side of the green, and the curricle passed the Rose and Crown as Stefan looked for the lane that would lead them to it.

He found it and the carriage turned in.
Lucy stared at the squat shape ahead of her, prey to an inexplicable presentiment of discovery.

St Bride’s Church, as the little building was designated, proved to be an ancient edifice in the Norman style.
The door was open, and Lucy instinctively moved a little closer to Stefan as they crossed the threshold to enter the dark interior.

‘Nervous?’

Lucy shivered uncontrollably. ‘A trifle. I don’t know why. The place is not much different from the others.’

‘Older, perhaps.’

‘Ghostlier, I think.’

He put an arm about her and drew her against him for a moment.
‘No ghost will harm you while I am by.’

Lucy gave a gurgle.
‘I thank you, my brave champion.’

He laughed. ‘That’s better.’

‘May I help you?’

Lucy started and Stefan almost jumped himself.
The feathery voice came from the other end of the aisle, where a semi-white shape could be discerned in the dimness.

‘Yes, you can,’ Stefan called out, ‘if you are the priest in charge of this church.’

The figure moved in their direction. As it shifted into the light, it materialised into the form of a frail-looking cleric of advanced years, dressed in a cassock with a surplice over all which had given him his ghostly air. Stefan found himself being inspected through a pair of thick spectacles.

‘Whom have I the honour of addressing?’
The voice was as gentle and airy as the man.

Stefan made the introductions, and the cleric presented a dry lined hand to be shaken.

‘I am the Reverend Poslingford and very pleased to welcome you to our humble church. How may I help you?’ His eye went from one to the other, and he emitted a kindly smile. ‘Is it a matter of banns perhaps?’

‘Not on this occasion,’ Stefan said, ‘though our business is delicate.’
He embarked upon his now practised explanation.

The Reverend Poslingford tutted in an ineffectual way.

‘A marriage, you say. Of course, I have performed a goodly number over the years. Do you know the year in question?’

‘1781,’ Stefan supplied.
Then, reflecting the marriage might have taken place any time in the previous nine months, added, ‘Or it might be 1780.’

‘Dear me, it is a long way back.’

‘But you have the registers, have you not?’

‘Yes, yes.
They have been kept religiously, if you will pardon the pun.’ A dry little cackle accompanied this mild joke. ‘We have a little time before the evening service. Let us repair to the vestry, and we will essay.’

Not much to Stefan’s surprise, it took a deal of tutting and puffing before the elderly cleric managed to locate the register they needed.
Stefan could feel Lucy’s growing impatience beside him, but since Mr Poslingford had refused all offers of assistance, there was little to be done.

Stefan found her hand and squeezed it, by way of encouragement.
He noted its coldness, and looked more closely at her face.

Lucy’s eyes were wide and dark, as if some unfathomable fear cut at her heart.
Stefan could not help but wonder if she was driven by a sixth sense. No, absurd. If St Bride’s turned out to be the place, how could she possibly discern it?

‘Aha, I think I have it.’

The cleric rose from his knees where he had been systematically turning over as many tomes as had been discovered in Mr Graydene’s vestry. Except that all appeared to be devoted to marriages. Stefan reminded himself this was a very old church.

Lucy’s eyes were glued to the faded leather of the book in the cleric’s hands.
Why, she could not have said, but she was filled with a resurgence of the hollow sensation which had attacked her at sight of the entry of her birth. She was not faint, but gripped by an intense conviction of an unseen presence beside her. The wild notion entered her mind that her mother’s spirit had crossed from beyond the grave to invade this place. Or guided her steps to this very spot.

The book was laid upon a table, its pages spread open.
Lucy watched the leaves turn over as the cleric searched carefully through the dates.

‘This is the year.’

His voice seemed sepulchral in Lucy’s ears, as if she was hearing him through a veil of cloud. She saw Stefan move to a position beside him, leaning down to read the entries. When he paused, and put his finger out, Lucy felt she had known an instant before that he would do it.

‘You have found it.’

Both Stefan and the Reverend Poslingford looked up. As if from a distance Lucy noted Stefan’s concerned frown. She made an effort.

‘Read it, if you please.’

He did not look down immediately, his eyes searching her face. Lucy gestured to the page. His eyes dropped to the entry.

‘It says Alice Oade of the parish of Chaseley was married on the twentieth day of November to Beves Ankerville of the
county of Hereford.’

‘Thank you.’

Lucy felt the strange intensity begin to leave her, and a feeling of calm descended into her bosom. She had expected elation. Instead, she was possessed of a sensation of deep satisfaction, as if a wrong had been righted. Whether hers or her mother’s, Lucy did not know—perhaps both.

She came around the table, and the cleric gave place.
Stefan hovered, his hand laid over the entry as if he would conceal it. Lucy touched the hand and gave him a tiny smile.

‘I am not going to swoon this time.’

He returned the smile. ‘I will be within reach if you do.’

His hand shifted and Lucy looked at the entry, reading the vital words.
In themselves unremarkable, but their message dictated the tenor of her whole future life. Lucy wanted to pick up the book and hold the words to her chest, as if to imprint them forever in her bosom. She could not drag her eyes from the writing, although she heard Stefan speaking in the background of her mind.

‘I cannot suppose you will allow me to remove this book?
For a brief period only.’

‘Remove it?’
The cleric was quavering a little. ‘Oh, dear me. I do not think… Though I dare say it might be safe enough.’

‘No matter.’
Stefan again. ‘I will instruct my lawyer to come here and witness the entry. His affidavit will suffice, I think.’

‘Well, yes, if you think it sufficient.’

‘Until then, I beg you will keep it safe, sir.’

Reverend Poslingford’s fluttery tones were reassuring.
‘I shall secrete it away, my dear sir. Under lock and key, have no fear.’

The words blurred as Stefan responded.
Something odd was happening. As Lucy stared closely at the entry, the words appeared startlingly familiar. Strange. She had not read them before. Unless it was her need to hold them close to her heart.

Something clicked in her brain.
‘It is not the words.’

She had not realised she had spoken aloud, but the voices ceased and Stefan and the Reverend Poslingford looked round from where they had moved aside to converse.

‘What was that, Lucy?’

She looked up, straight into Stefan’s face.
‘I know this hand.’

He came to stand beside her, looking with puzzled eyes at the entry.
‘What do you mean?’

‘The handwriting.
I know it.’

Stefan’s frown deepened.
‘You can’t know it. You have never seen it before.’

‘Not this, no,’ Lucy said, insistent now.
‘But the handwriting. I have seen that before.’ She looked sharply up at the cleric. ‘Were you serving this parish when this was written?’

The cleric came to the other side of the table, his head poking forward like a tortoise as he met her steady gaze through the spectacles.
‘Yes, yes. I have been here these thirty years.’

‘But you did not write this, I think.’

Stefan’s hand was on her arm. ‘Lucy, what is the matter?’

She turned on him, prey to a horrid expectation.
‘I keep telling you. I know this hand.’

‘The lady is perfectly correct.’
The cleric held up his right hand, and for the first time Lucy noticed how the fingers curled into the palm. ‘I cannot write with this hand, for I have a palsy. I have learned to use my left, but not well enough, I fear, to make a legible entry. No, no. I rely upon my curate to keep the registers.’

Stefan’s head jerked up.
‘Your curate?’ He looked at Lucy. ‘But it can’t be. The fellow is miles from here.’

Lucy slammed her hand down on the open volume.
‘But was he then?’ She eyed the curate, an unpleasant coil of suspicion in her breast. ‘Do you remember who was your curate at this time? In 1780?’

The cleric tutted in his gentle way.
‘Now let me see. There have been a few in my time. Ambleside has been here several years. Before him? Who was it now?’

Lucy curbed her impatience with difficulty.
‘Please try to remember. It is important.’

‘Yes, yes, I see.’
He put his palsied hand to his brow, scratching absent-mindedly. ‘No, not Stisted, for he left me in the autumn of ’86. Who was it before him? Ah, yes, I have it.’

‘His name?’ rapped Stefan.

‘Waley, it was. Yes, how could I forget? The dear boy came back to visit me only a short time since. The Reverend John Waley.’

* * *

Lucy was spitting fury. ‘How could he do that? How could he leave me in ignorance?’

They were seated in the only private parlour afforded by the Rose and Crown, which Cobbold had bespoken along with the bedchambers, of which there were but two, which had fortunately been unoccupied.
The groom must make do with a room above the stables. Stefan had ordered dinner from the unsophisticated fare, and had acquired a bottle of wine while they awaited its arrival.

He poured a measure into a glass and handed it to Lucy.

‘Drink this. It may serve to settle your temper.’

Lucy took the glass.
‘Nothing will settle my temper until I confront Mr Waley in person.’ She sipped at the liquid and made a face at the rough flavour.

‘I apologise for the poor quality, but there was little choice.’

Lucy dismissed this with a gesture. ‘It does not matter in the least.’

Stefan set his own glass down.
‘Lucy, there is nothing to be gained by speculating. I am inclined to be as infuriated as you, but until we can ask Waley to explain himself, there is no purchase in discussing the matter.’

‘Except it allows me to vent my spleen,’ said Lucy crossly.

Stefan’s eye gleamed. ‘It had not escaped my notice.’

Lucy was obliged to laugh.
Stefan reached across the table and took hold of her unquiet hand.

‘Don’t waste any more time on it.
We have far more important matters to discuss.’

His thumb caressed the flesh of her hand as he spoke, and a rosy glow settled in Lucy’s bosom.
She tried to speak and found her throat dry. She swallowed.