Page 39

T he short walk to St. John’s Church became considerably longer as Sir Frederick’s limp grew more pronounced. Amelia, who had been striding ahead in her eagerness to reach the parish records, forced herself to moderate her pace.

“You need not wait for me,” he said, correctly interpreting her sideways glances. “I assure you I shan’t lose my way.”

“Of course I won’t walk on ahead,” she said. The warmth in her voice surprised her, as did the smile he gave her in return.

Dark clouds had begun gathering on the horizon, but Amelia paid them little heed, her mind too full of possibilities.

Keeping pace with him, Amelia turned. “Oh, Sir Frederick! What if I’m right? What if we uncover proof of a marriage between Pernilla and her lover?”

Sir Frederick halted, maybe to consider the question though perhaps to ease the pressure on his leg, for Amelia darted a glance of concern at his thigh to which he’d pressed a hand, wincing briefly before he said, “Do you really suppose the crypt we saw belonging to Pernilla is a fabrication? Do you really think it possible she ran away one night, married her lover, and had a passel of children, one of whom would be the rightful owner of the Pendleton title and estate?”

Amelia squared her shoulders, her momentary sympathy for her companion gone. “Then why are you accompanying me on this expedition if you think this whole idea is one fanciful notion of mine?”

He stared at her as if considering her question, then said, “It is true that I enjoy indulging your fancies—for your honest enthusiasm is more refreshing than anything I’ve encountered for a long time.

” Hesitating, he added, “I’ve never been a man who will discount a possibility merely because, on the balance of probabilities, it is almost certain to be proved wrong.

No, Miss Fairchild, the truth is that I, in fact, owe my life to such a philosophy. ”

“That’s very deep and mysterious,” Amelia said, surprised when he laughed, and said, correctly interpreting her response, “You are suspicious that I am making up stories to appear less of the empty-hearted libertine you think me?”

“I think nothing of the sort!”

“Oh, you have done, and now you don’t know what to think.

” Unexpectedly, he reached out a hand and gently touched her cheek, saying, “It’s never particularly bothered me what people think but I will confess, Miss Fairchild, that, increasingly, I wish to be held in your high regard.

Ah, now, here we are and, if my note has been delivered as requested, we will hopefully find the vicar is expecting us. ”

The church stood solid and imposing against the darkening sky, its ancient stones holding centuries of secrets. As they approached the heavy wooden door, the first fat drops of rain began to fall.

“The beadle did say we would find him here,” Sir Frederick said, rapping sharply on the door. After a moment, he tried the handle. “Locked.”

“We can’t just give up. We leave the day after tomorrow.” Amelia couldn’t keep the frustration from her voice.

“Don’t worry, my dear. I am not a man to give up so easily, though”—Sir Frederick glanced at the threatening sky—“I do think we should return to the castle before—”

A crack of thunder interrupted his words, and suddenly the heavens opened. Within seconds, they were both drenched.

“Quick!” Sir Frederick grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the church’s side entrance. The small door, typically used by the vicar, opened to his touch. They stumbled inside just as another thunderclap shook the windows.

The vestry was dim and close, filled with the musty scent of old prayer books and well-worn cassocks. Amelia was acutely aware of Sir Frederick’s presence beside her, of how his wet shirt clung to his shoulders, of the way water dripped from his dark hair.

“You’re shivering,” he said softly, shrugging out of his coat despite its dampness and draping it over her shoulders.

“I’m quite all right,” she protested. “But your leg—you should sit.”

He didn’t argue, lowering himself onto a wooden bench with a barely suppressed grimace.

Amelia contemplated his pained expression. “Where did you say you received the injury?”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh.” Amelia wrestled with her next question, then asked, “Bullet or sword?”

“Bayonet.”

“Bayonet?” she asked, her voice sharp and high to her own ears. “But bayonets are only used during…”

She trailed off and he finished for her, “During war. Yes, it’s an old war wound, and it troubles me particularly when the weather turns cold and damp.”

“You fought in the war?” Amelia sat beside him, careful to maintain a proper distance despite the bench’s narrow width. “But I thought—that is, Thomas said you spent the war years on the Continent, enjoying yourself.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “Did he? And you believed him?”

“I—” Amelia stopped, suddenly uncertain. How much had she accepted without question? “Where were you wounded?”

“In France.” His voice was quiet.

The shock of this revelation left her momentarily speechless. Word was that Sir Frederick had gone carousing on the Continent far from the battlefield. “Thomas never mentioned—”

“No, I don’t suppose he would have.” Sir Frederick’s smile held no humor. “My work was done behind enemy lines. I heard Thomas died bravely.”

She stared at him, seeing him anew and thought of all her incorrect assumptions. The limp she’d attributed to some mishap during his supposedly dissolute years abroad. The shadows that sometimes crossed his face. The way he’d tensed when someone at dinner had made a careless joke about the war.

“Why did you never say anything?”

“Would you have believed me?” He met her gaze steadily. “You had formed your opinion of me long ago. The rakish baronet who fled to the Continent rather than serve his country. Who spent his time in pursuit of pleasure while better men died.”

“I was wrong,” she whispered. The admission cost her pride, but truth mattered more. “About so many things, it seems.”

Thunder rolled again, but more distantly now. In the vestry’s dim light, she could see raindrops clinging to his eyelashes.

“Not about everything,” he said. “I did pursue pleasure on the Continent—after the war. I needed…something to drive away the memories. The nightmares.” His hand moved as if to touch her face, then dropped.

“But I am not that man anymore. Just as you are not the same girl who pledged her troth to Thomas.”

“No,” she agreed softly. “I’m not.”

A shaft of watery sunlight suddenly pierced the vestry’s high window, illuminating a row of leather-bound books on a nearby shelf. Amelia rose, drawn by their promise, and Sir Frederick followed more slowly.

“Parish records,” she breathed, running her finger along the spines. “Dating back to… yes! Here’s 1719.”

Together they lifted down the heavy volume, laying it carefully on the vestry’s small desk. The pages were yellowed but well-preserved, the clerk’s careful handwriting still clearly legible. Amelia’s heart beat faster as she turned to August’s entries.

And there it was. Not in the book itself but written separately on a loose piece of paper.

“August 8th, 1719,” she read aloud. “William Greene and Pernilla Pendleton, joined in holy matrimony.” Her finger traced the line below. “Witnessed by…”

“The curate and his wife,” Sir Frederick finished. “The very day before she supposedly died.”

They stared at each other, the implications slowly sinking in.

“She didn’t die,” Amelia said. “She escaped. With William.”

“And her father covered it up rather than face the scandal.” Sir Frederick’s voice held grudging admiration. “But why make this entry at all? Even if it isn’t actually in the book? Surely that defeated the purpose?”

“Perhaps…” Amelia hesitated. “Perhaps someone wanted the truth to be known. Eventually.”

His hand covered hers where it rested on the ancient page, and as he looked at her, his thumb traced small circles on her wrist, sending shivers up her arm that had nothing to do with her damp clothing.

“Sir Frederick—” she began.

But before she could continue, the vestry door opened, flooding the small room with light. They sprang apart as the vicar entered, full of apologies for his lateness.

“Ah, you found the records!” he said cheerfully, apparently oblivious to their flushed faces and damp clothing. “Fascinating reading, aren’t they? All those old stories, waiting to be discovered.”