Page 56 of War of the Wedding Wagers
“Why, of course,” Sir Frederick said affably, though Amelia thought she detected a note of regret in his voice as he handed over the heavy iron key. “You are one of Lady Pendleton’s groundsmen?”
“We’ve just been to see Pernilla’s grave,” Amelia told him, grateful for the distraction from her turbulent thoughts. The old man looked almost ancient enough to have been alive in her time. On a whim, she asked, “Do you know the story of the young Lady Pernilla? The current Lady Pendleton’s great-great aunt?”
“Aye, were a strange tale and not all will agree to the fate of the poor lassie,” said the old man, his rheumy eyes holding a glimmer of something that made Amelia lean forward eagerly.
“We just saw her grave in the crypt,” said Sir Frederick, his hand coming to rest protectively at the small of Amelia’s back. “There’s little doubt about her fate.”
“Not according to the rumors from when I was a wee boy passed down to me by me da.”
“And what were those rumors?” Amelia prompted, barely noticing how she’d shifted closer to Sir Frederick’s warmth.
“Lady Pendleton says her great-great aunt fell to her death shortly after planning to elope with a man of whom her father disapproved.” Sir Frederick raised an eyebrow. “And her grave is in the crypt, so I don’t see there can be any rumors to discount that.”
“Oh, there are rumors, to be sure,” said the old man, a knowing look crossing his weathered features. “Rumors that when she ran away, her father chose to declare her dead.” His hand closed over the key that Sir Frederick handed him.
“Is that what your father told you?” Sir Frederick asked and the old man nodded, his eyes taking on a distant look as if seeing into the past.
“The old Viscount Pendleton—Miss Pernilla’s father—was a proud man and he would rather his daughter be dead than that he be publicly shamed by her defiance.” He nodded. “That’s what me own da told me, him wot were but a boy when it all happened and remembered it clear as daylight.”
“And what else did your da tell you?” Amelia asked, feeling her excitement grow, her hand unconsciously finding Sir Frederick’s arm again.
“That Lady Pernilla ran away with the man wot had been courting her and of whom her papa disapproved. Yes, ran away to start a new life while her da declared her dead.”
Amelia jerked her head up and caught Sir Frederick’s surprised glance. He smiled slightly, his eyes holding a spark of shared adventure that made her heart skip, then said, “Well, as it’s hardly going to be possible to exhume Lady Pernilla’s grave, perhaps, Miss Fairchild, you would like to accompany me to see the vicar. You did suggest earlier that a perusal of the Church Register could be informative, did you not?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The short walkto 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 onthis 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.
