Page 102 of The Ladies Least Likely

“It is.” She turned to face him. “Particularly since the page might have held record of a rather unusual wedding between a haberdasher’s daughter and the son and heir of a duke.

I imagine the young lord procured a special license, rather than having the banns read for weeks.

And this is the sort of marriage where a ducal father might come along later and be very displeased to find a record that such an ill-advised and unapproved marriage existed. ”

“We at St. Mary Redcliffe’s would never choose to hide from human eyes an act sanctified and sealed by God,” the vicar said. “I am sorry if you have been misled.”

She closed the register, her stomach turning over.

“I am sorry, too. The legal matter my intended faces has to do with settling a ducal estate. A record of the late duke’s marriage might go some way toward establishing proper guardianship over his heirs.

It might even save a set of young, innocent children from a usurper who would leave them—who has left them—abandoned and destitute. ”

She started for the door, disappointment a bitter weight in her chest. Marguerite’s marriage lines, while they meant a world of difference to Mal’s status, had little value all on their own.

If the document were even admitted as evidence in a court case, a legal battle could be drawn out for years, perhaps decades, if anyone decided to challenge Mal over the duke’s estates.

And Sybil, she imagined, had both the resources and the determination to do so.

“I thank you for your time, Father,” Amaranthe said, recalling her manners. “I have enjoyed peeking into the room that inspired young Chatterton. One might wish his forgeries and stratagems had led him to better fortune.”

The poor boy had ended himself with arsenic in a London garret, about the same time she left Cornwall. Amaranthe felt an affinity for young Chatterton. She herself had more than once created a manuscript and passed it off as an ancient work, just as Chatterton was suspected to have done.

Mal had said he wouldn’t claim his patrimony. He didn’t want to disinherit Hugh or his siblings. Amaranthe didn’t wish to, either. It was enough that they two knew the truth.

Tears veiling her vision, she turned again toward the door, fighting a tide of despair at the thought of her future.

Would Mal forgive her lies if he was living one himself?

Would he still wish to marry her? What kind of a life or a future would they have, neither of them quite proper nor respectable, he of dubious birth, she of a dubious trade?

She had a hand on the iron grillwork of the door when the vicar said, “Wait.”

Amaranthe turned and watched as he stepped to a chest under a far window and withdrew a small box.

It took him a few tries to select the appropriate key.

Then he withdrew a rolled sheet of parchment and returned the box to the chest. He came toward her, his face solemn and pained, as if he had eaten something that disagreed.

“I ministered that marriage,” he said quietly. “I recall it.”

Amaranthe stilled, caught in a moment clear as an etching: the sweeping vaulted arches of the ceiling, the light through the paned glass, the sounds of traffic on the street below, and the cool quiet secrets of the room.

Hair rose on her arms. The knowledge about to come to her, once seen, could not be unknown.

She took the parchment with trembling hands.

“The bride’s family came looking,” she said. “No record was ever produced.”

He grimaced. “Dukes can be very persuasive, especially when they are outraged fathers. But if it is a matter of protecting children…”

She unrolled the folio-size sheet and regarded it.

Unlike the hasty hand of some of the other scrawled entries, this was firm and strong.

Hugh Delaval, Lord Vernay, his mark , clear and bold.

Below it, more delicately, almost dreamily, Marguerite Grey, her mark.

Bea’s loopy letters, the scribbled dash of Vernay’s friend.

The same lines, the witness of a sacred act, that Marguerite had tucked into her Book of Hours.

What a strange, unhappy twist of fate to wipe Marguerite’s mind with a fever, leaving her an abandoned wife thrown on the charity of her sister, and her son a scrappy bastard to grow up by his wits and his fists.

Perhaps Beatrice was right and it was the work of a higher power.

Perhaps her Maker had shielded Marguerite from an empty union and kept her son from knowing greater cruelty.

Mal would be a different man had he grown up like young Hugh, pampered, protected, groomed from birth to bear the weight of his own importance.

He might not at all be a man she could love.

She couldn’t be sorry for the obstacles he’d overcome in his life, though he labored under the shadow of his birth.

But this document could make that shadow disappear.

The corners of the parchment fluttered as her hands shook. “This record would protect against an injustice, were I allowed to bring it with me. But I am not sure it is enough, on its own, to persuade a judge.”

The vicar considered this. “I will send a signed letter explaining the—er, circumstances and attesting to its accuracy.” He winced. “I hope you will return this page in the course of time, however. It would behoove me to restore the register.”

Amaranthe gave him the precious document to hold and from her reticule produced her favorite penknife, the one she used to hold down parchment sheets as she wrote and with which she scraped away mistakes.

She traveled with it as a charm and, truth be told, a sort of protection.

One never knew when one would need a penknife for cutting a binding or sharpening a quill.

Or to remedy a far larger mistake than a misplaced slash of ink.

“A copy for your register will be but the work of a moment, Father, if you have fresh parchment and ink.”