Page 25 of A Hint of Scandal (The Mismatched Lovers #2)

“T here’s nothing much to tell about me,” Serafina said, dropping her eyes from Max’s piercing gaze. He almost looked as though he wanted to dig into her soul and set free her deepest secrets. Not that she had many. Well, apart from that one she never wanted him to find out about. Too embarrassing.

“I would disagree. You may think you’ve led a reclusive life, but you still have much to share. One of things that makes me curious is why you’re still with your brother’s family when you’re past your majority. You could have left them more than two years ago, could you not?”

A question she’d asked herself on more than one occasion, but what was the answer? She gave a shrug. “I couldn’t leave the children. They needed me.” And besides which, he’d refused to hand over her inheritance. With no one to turn to for help, and no money to sustain her while she tried, she’d been unable to either leave or obtain her rightful dues. She’d begun to think that Ogden never intended to let her have the money.

“Yet you can leave those children now. Do they no longer need you?”

An excellent point. “I suppose they do… but one can only go on so long before having to change, be it for the better or the worse.” He was prodding her where it hurt. She didn’t want to tell him about her withheld inheritance. And thinking of Letty left to the avaricious clutches of her mama was like a nugget of anxiety in her heart. And as for the other children, at home with their governess… “I never for a moment imagined I should be able to leave Milford and get married.”

He smiled, that heart-wrenchingly charming smile. Was he aware of how he looked when he smiled? “I should admit that I too had never thought to find someone to marry, even though Julian had instructed me that I had to. Our meeting in the summerhouse was a fortuitous occasion.”

She nodded. “I suppose it was, for we could have happily attended ball after ball with our families and never would our paths have crossed. With both you and I waiting in the shadows as we were, we might never have even seen one another from afar.” Best to keep their conversation to his aforementioned business-like mode. She must give no hint of how much she found him attractive. It was plain he could never reciprocate.

“Tell me about your life before your father died. He can’t have been all that old, can he?”

In her mind’s eye, her father’s face smiled down at her as he kissed her goodnight, having read her a story from one of his books of mythology. Greek, or her favorite tales of Egyptian gods, nurturing in her the longing to visit that distant land. Ogden, thank goodness, had inherited nothing physical from their father and looked nothing like him. “My father was the kindest man I know. The sweetest, and the most just. My brother was much older than me, and already married to Araminta, but they kept away from me, so much so that I hardly noticed their existence until my father died.” The truth was they’d looked down their noses at her, the “governess’s brat.”

The sudden lump in her throat forced her to halt. “It was very sudden. We were outside in the gardens, and he was playing with me. Chasing me between the flower beds and making me squeal with laughter. He staggered, I remember, with his hand to his heart, and as I turned to look, he buckled at the knees.” This image was more indelibly printed on her brain than his laughing face had ever been, but it had been an image she’d not wanted to revisit. Suddenly, for Max, she felt she could. “He fell forward onto the gravel path, for a moment his breathing was loud in the suddenly silent garden, and then it was gone.” She swallowed, hearing it anew. “The servants found me there, crying across his body, trying to get him to wake up and play with me again.”

He reached out with his left hand and covered hers where they lay clasped in her lap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to have to tell me how he died.” He sounded awkward. “It must be difficult for you…”

She looked up. “It’s all right. I want to share this with you. I’ve not been able to do so with anyone before.” She hesitated, frowning again. “Ogden told me it was all my fault. If he hadn’t been playing with me, running at his age, which wasn’t old, I see now, but to me then it was, he wouldn’t have died. They said it was his heart—like your brother but a different type of heart ailment. A quick one.” How warm and comforting his touch was.

“He had no right to do that. It was a cruel thing to say to anyone.”

“I know that now. But then, as a frightened child, I believed him. My papa had been playing with me when it happened, so it must have been my fault. The guilt I felt was crippling.”

“You know now that it wasn’t your fault? No more than it’s anyone’s fault Julian is so sick. There was nothing you could have done to change it. He would have died anyway.”

Words as comforting as his touch. “I do know that now, but at the back of my mind there’s always that nagging doubt that if he hadn’t been playing chase with me he might have lived just a little longer.”

Max bowed his head, but he didn’t remove his hand. The carriage rumbled on, now on a wider road, although its state was little better than the lane they’d been traveling. Serafina leaned back against the soft upholstery and closed her eyes, conjuring up her father once again, unseen this time, but his warm body there behind her as he held her on the pommel of his saddle to canter across the wide Milford parklands. A tear slid unbidden down her cheek. Hopefully Max wouldn’t notice.

Max watched her as she leaned back in apparent repose. An effective way of ending their conversation which must be about matters that still hurt. He’d been wary about asking her about her father, but now, the feeling that she’d confided in him warmed his heart. To his surprise, an overwhelming feeling of protectiveness filtered through him, and a strong desire to hurt the people who’d told a tiny, grieving child that it was her fault her father had died.

She’d closed her eyes, but he was sure she wasn’t asleep. A tear trickled down her cheek and she made no move to wipe it away. The urge to do so for her was strong, quickly followed by the urge to take her into his arms and hold her tight against his chest and allow her to cry her sadness away. If that were possible.

How strange was that? What had prompted such a feeling? He frowned. Most unlike him to respond to someone, anyone, like that. Particularly not a woman. He’d been so sure his heart was unbreachable, and yet, watching Serafina’s feigned sleep, he began to question how he felt about her. Might it not, after all, be a more productive match than he’d at first foreseen? He shook his head. She didn’t feel like that about him. How could she, when he was so incapacitated?

Annoyed with himself for his momentary sliver of hope of a normal life, he too settled back into his corner of the carriage and closed his eyes. But sleep did not come.

The rattle of wheels on a cobbled road roused Serafina from a restless sleep. She opened her eyes and peered out of the window to see their carriage was entering a sizeable town. It must be Oxford, surely. On each side of the wide street tall buildings rose up, built of mellow golden stone, and people thronged the pavements at the side of the thoroughfare, many of them wearing the distinctive gowns of students. That this was a university town was obvious.

Max was taking out his fob watch. “It’s well past midday. If we go to The Star on the Cornmarket we can find stabling for our horses and refreshment for us all before we head to the church.”

“Don’t you think we should go to the church first?”

He shook his head. “No. Food first. And…” He looked at his watch again. “It’s later in the day than I envisaged so I’ll procure rooms for us for the night and accommodation for the servants. We can return to Bratton tomorrow, unless anything untoward should occur.” He held up a hand. “No need to worry. My mother is not expecting us back this evening.”

She hadn’t been going to protest. On the contrary, she was quite enjoying the unaccustomed sense of freedom this enterprise was providing. Never before had she been able to follow her instincts and set out with no goal in sight of what she was going to do next. The effect was positively intoxicating, especially when added to the fact that she was in Max’s company.

The Star proved to be a substantial coaching inn which was happy to provide them with rooms, and, at Max’s suggestion, Elsie was to sleep in her room with her on a pull-out bed. “For propriety’s sake.” She’d wanted to point out that they were soon to be married, but had held her tongue, secretly reveling in his attention to detail. Although in reality she might also have liked it if he’d behaved with a little less propriety. Not that he was likely to with a plain young lady he was only marrying out of convenience.

After taking luncheon in a private parlor at The Star, they set off to locate St Michael-at-the-North-Gate. Elsie, eyes wide with amazement at her first view of a city, followed dutifully ten feet behind them, in the direction in which Max assured her the church lay.

He was right. Having pointed out to her Jesus College opposite the inn and told her that no, it wasn’t his alma mater, but Christ Church, which lay to the south was, and had also been Julian’s place of education, he nodded ahead to where an ancient church stood on the corner of a side road named, rather oddly, Ship Lane. Its tall, ivy-covered, square tower appeared far older than the body of the church. But they were not here to study its architectural merits or origins. Together they pushed open the door and stepped inside the nave.

Out of the bustle of the busy street, a blessed silence descended as Max closed the door behind them.

“I believe the parish registers will be stored in the vestry,” Serafina said. “If we’re lucky. This church doesn’t look as though whoever the vicar is will be living close by. His residence could be anywhere in this town.”

“City,” Max said. “You must remember Oxford is a city. She has a cathedral and that makes her a city, about which she’s very proud.”

“City, then. No matter. What we need to do is find those records.”

The vestry was easily located, as was the iron bound chest that contained the church records. One book each for marriages, deaths and baptisms. A quick perusal found the one they wanted, and they laid it on the small table that occupied the center of the vestry. Serafina opened the heavy, leatherbound tome to find it full of closely packed lines of faded writing. “I think this goes back for years. What year are we looking for? Do you have the exact date?”

Max shook his head. “I have the year—1782—but not the date. Julian thought it was May or June but he couldn’t be sure.” He shook his head. “He was not himself this morning, and it was hard to elicit the information we needed. I think yesterday took more out of him than he would have liked to admit.”

Serafina turned the pages until the correct year was reached, a good three quarters of the way through the enormous book. The writing was still spidery and difficult to read, as though whoever had inscribed the names of those being married hadn’t meant anyone else to be able to work out who they were. The whole book was like that, in fact.

She ran her finger over the pages, Max leaning over her shoulder as though to follow her every move. Nothing in May, save a whole host of people she’d never see and who might even be dead by now, but June produced something. “There.” She jabbed her finger on the page. “Look.”

With difficulty, she read aloud what had been written by the then vicar of this church on the 14 th of June, 1782.

“Julian Aubrey, Viscount Lavington, lawful son and heir to John Aubrey, Earl of Westbury, of Bratton Park in the county of Wiltshire and Abigail Lewis, spinster of this parish, lawful daughter of Amos Lewis, of Taunton, were joined in marriage this day the 14 th of June by Common License by Thomas Abraham, Vicar of St Michael-at-the-North-Gate, in the City of Oxford.”

Max let out a deep breath. “So he did marry her. It’s written here in plain English.”

“Did you ever doubt his word? I wonder if the same vicar is still here?” Serafina peered at the signatures of the married couple and those of two witnesses—Robert Trubshawe and George Paynter. “Or at least one of the witnesses. The trouble is, it’s such a long time ago now. We need to talk to at least one of those three, if any of them are still living. If only to get a description of the married couple to verify if they were indeed your brother Julian and this mysterious Abigail.”

Max nodded.

“Excuse me?” A refined and yet troubled voice sounded behind them.

Serafina and Max swung around as one, like children caught out in some naughtiness. The man standing behind them was elderly and wore the black uniform of his trade—vicaring.

“Oh, you made me jump.” Serafina put a hand to her throat. “I’m so sorry if we shouldn’t be in here, but we have something very important to do.”

The vicar harrumphed. “Well, you could have come and asked me. I would have been quite happy to assist you. What is it you are searching for?” He didn’t sound all that friendly.

“Were you the incumbent here twenty-seven years ago?” Max asked.

The vicar shook his head. “Alas, no. I have been here but twenty years. A long time, I concede, but not so long as my predecessor who died whilst in office here. I think perhaps he would be the gentleman you are enquiring about. The Reverend Abraham.”

Serafina couldn’t help the frown. No chance of questioning the vicar then. But that left the two witnesses. She put her finger on their names. “What about these two men? Robert Trubshawe and George Paynter? They give their origins as ‘of this parish.’ Do you know if either of them might still be living here in Oxford?”

The vicar stepped forward and read for himself the record of the marriage. “You are making enquiries about this marriage? That seems more than a little strange.” He raised his rather bushy gray brows. “What is it to you, might I ask?” His tone remained cold and forbidding, as though they were requesting something clandestine.

“You might ask, but I might not tell you,” Max said.

“Then I might not divulge the whereabouts of either Robert or George.”

So he knew them by their first names. They were likely then to be members of his congregation, or to have been members, once. Twenty-seven years was a long time and they might not have been young when they’d acted as witnesses to this marriage. But why did he find their request strange?

She put a hand on Max’s arm to restrain him. “Could I ask you why you’re so surprised we’re enquiring about this, Father?”

The old man narrowed his eyes as though considering whether to divulge anything to her. “Because you are not the first to come here asking me about this marriage.”

Serafina and Max exchanged glances. So that was how the woman had found out her marriage had not been false. She’d come enquiring at the church to see if they had any record of it—and found the same thing they just had.

“It is a matter of inheritance,” Serafina said, frowning at Max again to keep him quiet, as she could feel the tension in his arm. “My companion is the brother to the man in question, who is now the earl himself, and on his death bed. You will understand how important this matter is, and how quickly we must resolve it.”

The vicar’s brows did another wiggle upwards. “Aha,” he said, sounding perhaps a little less stern. “A lost heir, perhaps. Then that is different. But I’m sorry to say that Mr. Trubshawe, who ran a respectable inn, is no longer with us. I conducted his funeral myself, some five years since.”

“And George Paynter?”

“Still living, but in a parlous condition. He has fallen on hard times since his wife died and old age took him. I do what I can for him, but he spends much of his money on liquor. You will no doubt find him in The Malt Shovel , Mr. Trubshawe’s old place of business. Just down the lane from here.”

Serafina bestowed a grateful smile on the old man. “Thank you so much for your help.” Then she thought of something else. “Was the other person who came here enquiring about the marriage a woman?”

The vicar nodded. “She was.”

“And did she ask to speak to the witnesses?”

“She didn’t mention them at all, so I refrained from drawing her attention to them.”

That was odd. “Could you tell me why you did that?”

He shifted uncomfortably as though not at ease with further revelations, but it seemed honesty got the better of him. “She did not seem to be a lady,” he said, with infinite care. “And I did not care for her attitude.”

Max held out his hand. “Thank you very much for your assistance.”

The old man took it. “Don’t give George Paynter any money,” he warned as Max opened the door back into the nave. “He will only pour it down his throat. If you wish to reward him in any way, buy him food.”

“We will,” Serafina called as she hurried after Max.