Page 108 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

Thomas’s lips parted, not quite in surprise—because, really, why wouldn’t Jack trust him? It wasn’t as if he could alter the pages right there in front of him. But still, even if he was terrified by the outcome, wouldn’t he want to see? Wouldn’t he want to read the pages himself? Thomas could not imagine coming all this way and not looking down as each page was turned.

“No,” Thomas said. Why should he have to do this alone? “I won’t do it without you.”

For a moment Jack just stood there unmoving, and then, cursing under his breath, he went over to join him at the desk.

“You’re too bloody noble,” Jack bit off.

“Not for long,” Thomas muttered. He set the book on the desk, opening it to the first page of records. Jack stood beside him, and together they looked down at the tight, sensible penmanship of the Maguiresbridge vicar, circa 1786.

Thomas swallowed nervously. His throat felt tight. But he had to do this. It was his duty. To Wyndham.

Wasn’t that his entire life? Duty to Wyndham?

He almost laughed. If ever anyone had accused him of taking duty too far…

This had to be it.

Looking down, he turned the pages until he found the correct year. “Do you know what month your parents would have married in?” he asked Jack.

“No.”

It was no matter, Thomas decided. It was a small parish. There were not many weddings.

Patrick Colville and Emily Kendrick, 20 March, 1790 William Figley and Margaret Plowright, 22 May, 1790

He moved his fingers along the page, sliding them around the edge. Breath held, he turned the page.

And there they were.

John Augustus Cavendish and Louise Henrietta Galbraith, married 12 June, 1790, witnessed by one Henry Wickham and Philip Galbraith.

Thomas closed his eyes.

So this was it. It was gone. Everything that had defined him, everything he possessed…

Gone. All of it.

And what was left?

He opened his eyes, looking down at his hands. His body. His skin and his blood and his muscle and bone.

Was it enough?

Even Amelia was lost to him. She’d marry Jack or some other, similarly titled fellow, and live out her days as some other man’s bride.

It stung. It burned. Thomas could not believe how much it burned.

“Who is Philip?” he whispered, looking down at the register. Because Galbraith—it was Jack’s mother’s name.

“What?”

Thomas looked over. Jack had his face in his hands.

“Philip Galbraith. He was a witness.”

Jack looked up. And then down. At the register. “My mother’s brother.”

“Does he still live?” Thomas didn’t know why he was asking. The proof of the marriage was right there in his hands, and he would not contest it.

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