Page 106 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

He did not particularly want to give up Wyndham. It was…

Him. Wyndham. It was him. That’s who he was.

But this was wonderful. Sneaking off, tearing through the dawn as it rose over the roads…

He was discovering that maybe there was more to him than his name. And maybe, when all was said and done, he’d still be whole.

Chapter 19

Thomas found the ride to Maguiresbridge surprisingly pleasant. Not that he’d expected the countryside to be anything but picturesque, but the circumstances of the day did not lend themselves toward an amiable outlook. As for Jack—he seemed uninclined toward conversation, but he did occasionally provide bits and pieces of the local history.

Jack had enjoyed growing up here, Thomas realized. No, more than that, he’d loved it. His aunt was a lovely woman; there was no other way to describe her. Thomas was quite sure that she would have made a wonderful mother. Certainly Cloverhill would have been a far more enjoyable place to be a child than Belgrave.

Ah, irony. By all rights, Jack had been robbed of his inheritance. And yet Thomas was beginning to feel that he had been the one cheated. Not that he’d likely have had a more pleasant childhood were he not the Wyndham heir; his father would have been even more bitterly tempered living in the North, known to all as a factory owner’s son-in-law.

Still, it did make him wonder. Not of what might have been, but of what could be. He had made it a mission not to emulate his father, but he had never given much thought to what sort of father he himself might someday prove to be.

Would his home be adorned with miniatures, the painted frames worn down by too much handling?

Of course, that presupposed that he had a home, which was very much still up in the air.

A small village came into view, and Jack slowed, then stopped, staring into the distance. Thomas looked at him curiously; he didn’t think that Jack had meant to pause.

“Is this it?” he asked.

Jack gave a nod, and together they rode forward.

Thomas looked around as they approached the village. It was a tidy little place, with storefronts and homes tucked up next to each other along a cobbled street. A thatched roof here, daub and wattle there…it was no different than any other small village in the British Isles.

“The church is that way,” Jack said, motioning with his head.

Thomas followed him along what he presumed was the high street until they reached the church. It was a simple gray stone building, with narrow arched windows. It looked ancient, and he could not help but think it would be a rather nice place to be married.

It was, however, deserted. “It does not look as if anyone is about,” he said.

Jack glanced over at a smaller building, to the left of the church. “The register will likely be at the rectory.”

Thomas nodded, and they dismounted, tying their horses to a hitching post before making their way to the front of the rectory. They knocked several times before they heard footsteps moving toward them from within.

The door opened, revealing a woman of middling years. Thomas assumed she was the housekeeper.

“Good day, ma’am,” Jack said, offering her a polite bow. “I am Jack Audley, and this is—”

“Thomas Cavendish,” Thomas interrupted, ignoring Jack’s look of surprise. It seemed grasping to introduce himself with his full title during the last few minutes of its legitimacy.

Jack looked as if he wanted to roll his eyes, but instead he turned back to the housekeeper and said, “We would like to see the parish register.”

She stared at them for a moment and then jerked her head toward the rear. “It’s in the back room,” she said. “The vicar’s office.”

“Er, is the vicar present?” Jack asked.

Thomas elbowed him hard in the ribs. Good God, was he asking for company?

But if the housekeeper found their request the least bit intriguing, she did not show it. “No vicar just now,” she said, sounding bored. “The position is vacant.” She walked over to the sofa and sat down, telling them over her shoulder, “We’re supposed to get someone new soon. They send someone from Enniskillen every Sunday to deliver a sermon.”

She then picked up a plate of toast and turned her back on them completely. Thomas took that as permission to enter the office, and walked in, Jack a few paces behind.

There were several shelves against the wall that stood opposite the fireplace, so Thomas started there. Several Bibles, books of sermons, poetry…“Do you know what a parish register looks like?” he asked. He tried to recall if he’d ever seen the register at his parish church, back near Belgrave. He supposed he must have, but it could not have been particularly distinctive, else he would have remembered it.

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