Mr. Cavendish, I Presume (31 page)

Jack closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. It almost looked, Thomas thought, as if he were trying to obliterate a memory.

“It’s going to be hideous today,” Jack said.

Thomas nodded slowly. It was an apt description.

“It’s going to be a bloody circus.”

“Indeed.”

They sat there, doing nothing, and then they both looked up at precisely the same moment. Their eyes Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

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met, and then Thomas glanced to the side, over at the window.

Outside.

“Shall we?” Jack asked.

“Before anyone—”

“Right now.”

Thomas set down his half-drunk glass of brandy and stood. He looked over at Jack, and for the first time he felt their kinship. “Lead the way.”

And it was strange, but as they mounted their horses and rode off, Thomas finally recognized the lightness in his chest.

It was freedom.

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 Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

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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.

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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 Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

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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.

Jack didn’t answer, and Thomas did not feel like pressing further, so he set to work inspecting the shelves.

Moral Rectitude and the Modern Man
. No, thank you.

History of Fermanagh
. He’d pass on that as well.

Lovely as the county was, he’d had enough of it.

Account of the Voyages
by James Cook. He smiled.

Amelia would like that one.

He closed his eyes and took a breath, allowing himself a moment to think of her. He’d been trying not to.

All through the morning, he’d kept his mind focused on the landscape, his reins, the bit of mud stuck to the back of Jack’s left boot.

But not Amelia.

Certainly not her eyes, which were not at all the color 310 Julia

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of the leaves on the trees. The bark, maybe. With the leaves, together. Green and brown. A mix. He liked that.

Nor had he not been thinking of her smile. Or the exact shape of her mouth when she’d stood across from him the night before, breathless in her desire for him.

He wanted her. Dear God, he wanted her.

But he did not love her.

He could not. It was untenable.

He returned to the work at hand with grim purpose, pulling every book without an embossed title off the shelf so he could open it and look inside. Finally he reached a section with nothing but ledgers. He pulled one out, and his heart began to pound when he realized that the words before him were recordings of births.

Deaths. Marriages.

He was looking at one of the church registers. The dates were wrong, though. Jack’s parents would have married in 1790, and these were all far too recent.

Thomas looked over his shoulder to say something to Jack, but he was standing stiffly by the fire, his shoulders drawn up toward his ears. He looked frozen, and Thomas realized why he had not heard him moving about the room, looking for the register.

Jack had not moved since they had entered.

Thomas wanted to say something. He wanted to stride across the room and shake some bloody sense into him because what the
devil
was he complaining about?
He
, not Jack, was the one whose life would be Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

311

ruined at the end of the day.
He
was losing his name, his home, his fortune.

His fiancée.

Jack would walk out of this room one of the richest and most powerful men in the world. He, on the other hand, would have nothing. His friends, he supposed, but they were few in number. Acquaintances he had in abundance, but friends—there was Grace, Harry Gladdish . . . possibly Amelia. He found it difficult to believe that she would wish to see him after all was said and done. She would find it too awkward. And if she ended up marrying Jack . . .

Then he would find it too awkward.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to refocus on the matter at hand.
He
was the one who had told Amelia that she must marry the Duke of Wyndham, whoever that might turn out to be. He couldn’t bloody well complain because she followed his instructions.

Thomas put the parish register back on the shelf and pulled out another, checking the dates that led each entry. This one was a bit older than the first, concluding at the very end of the eighteenth century. He tried another, and then a fourth, and this time, when he looked down at the careful, elegant handwriting, he found the dates he was looking for.

He swallowed and looked at Jack. “This may be it.”

Jack turned. The corners of his mouth were pinched, and his eyes looked haunted.

Thomas looked down at the book and realized that his hands were trembling. He swallowed. He had made 312 Julia

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it through the day up to this point with surprising purpose. He’d been a perfect stoic, prepared to do what was right for Wyndham.

But now he was scared.

Still, he pulled from his reserves and managed an ironic smile. Because if he could not behave like a man, then what was left of him? At the end of the day, he had his dignity and his soul. That was all.

He looked up at Jack. Into his eyes. “Shall we?”

“You can do it,” Jack said.

“You don’t want to look with me?”

“I trust you.”

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.

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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?

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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.

“I don’t know. He did the last I knew. It has been five years.”

Thomas swallowed and looked up, staring off into space. His body felt strange, almost weightless, as if his blood had changed into something thinner. His skin was tingling and—

“Tear it out.”

Thomas turned to Jack in shock. He could not have heard correctly. “What did you say?”

“Tear it out.”

“Are you mad?”

Jack shook his head. “You are the duke.”

Thomas looked down at the register, and it was then, with great sadness, that he truly accepted his fate. “No,”

he said softly, “I’m not.”

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“No.” Jack grabbed him by the shoulders. His eyes were wild, panicked. “You are what Wyndham needs.

What everyone needs.”

“Stop, you—”

“Listen to me,” Jack implored. “You are born and bred to the job. I will ruin everything. Do you understand? I cannot do it. I
cannot
do it.”

Jack was scared. It was a good sign, Thomas told himself. Only a stupid man—or an exceedingly shallow one—would see nothing but the riches and pres-tige. If Jack saw enough to be terrified, then he was man enough for the position.