CHAPTER FIVE #4
“Perhaps so.” Stefan tapped the cover of the book he had just set down on the pile, a frown between his brows. “If Mr Graydene kept records of everything, as you say, they must be here somewhere.”
Dion eyed him with suspicion. “You cannot be thinking of hunting for them?”
Stefan looked up. “Why not?”
His glance swept across the large dark wood sideboard with its cupboards below and a desk on the other side. Lucy noted Dion’s shocked expression as she followed his gaze.
“You can’t ransack the vestry!”
But Stefan’s eye had shifted, catching Lucy’s gaze. “Do you have any notion where else we might find records?”
Lucy shook her head. “For all I know, Papa kept them locked away. This was his work sanctum, you see. I might beard him in his study, but he always shooed me out when I came in here.”
“Then there is nothing for it but to go on looking.” He moved to the sideboard as he spoke, but checked at the sound of a latch at the outer door.
“We are discovered,” hissed Dion, skipping quickly to the door by which they had entered which led into the interior of the church.
Following Stefan’s lead, Lucy did not move as the old blackened door swung inwards. Unlike Dion, she was well able to guess at the identity of the shadow which was immediately cast upon the stones of the vestry floor. The curate’s thin form followed it, appearing from behind the door.
Seeing the intruders, he threw up his head and let out a gasp. “Miss Lucy! What are you doing here? And my lord too!”
The memory of her last meeting with Mr Waley rushed into Lucy’s mind. What would he think of this invasion after what had passed between them? As much to save face as anything else, she rushed into speech, moving forward to intercept him before he could address himself to the others.
“Forgive this intrusion, Mr Waley, I beg. Mine is the blame. Lord Pennington and his sister are merely trying to assist me.”
The curate’s cheeks were flying two spots of colour, and Lucy recognised the signs of incipient anger. “To do what, may I ask? And in my vestry?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to retort that it was not his vestry, and she had as much right as he to be in it, but prudence kept her from voicing her thoughts. Hastily, she embarked upon a bald explanation.
“This was the obvious place. I am trying to discover some reference to my mother.” She saw his lips purse, and added tartly, “You will not object to my plain speaking, I know, since you are fully cognisant of my past.”
He sniffed. “On a matter of such extreme delicacy, I would not presume to speak. But since you have opened the subject —”
“Cut line, man!” The interruption burst from Stefan. “To the devil with your prosing. Do you know where other records than these may be kept?”
He waved a hand at the pile of volumes which had been the subject of their searches. Aware of the curate’s stiffening, Lucy frowned Stefan down and put out a conciliatory hand.
“Pray can you help me, Mr Waley? I know Papa kept note of all events that occurred in his church, and surely the occasion of my birth must be laid down somewhere? Or my real mother’s death was recorded, perhaps.”
Mr Waley had been bending an outraged glare upon Stefan, but he turned back at this, a frown drawing his brows together above the spectacles. “What is it you wish to discover?”
“Why, anything. Some little fragment that may point me where I may look for my mother’s people.”
To her surprise and dismay, he came closer and took the hand she had inadvertently waved in her agitation, holding it between both his own. His tone became almost avuncular. “Is this wise, my dear Miss Lucy? Is it not a step upon the road to misery and disappointment, perhaps?”
“Good God, what are you trying to do to the girl?” Stefan again, disgust in his voice. “If Lucy wants to discover her mother, who are you to presume to discourage her, sir? Do you imagine she will be less miserable for being kept in ignorance?”
“Stefan, pray hush,” uttered Lucy, retrieving her hand and casting an unloving look upon his lordship.
“Mr Waley’s scruples do him honour.” She turned again to the curate, hoping she had smoothed his ruffled temper.
“You are right to be cautious, Mr Waley. And very kind. But I am too anxious to find out what I may to be able to sit still upon the matter.” She gave him a penitent smile.
“Papa would have told you how stubborn I can be once I have the bit between my teeth.”
He hesitated, and Lucy was thankful to see Dion had dragged her brother to one side and was urgently whispering in his ear. She only hoped he might be kept in check, or all her efforts to engage Mr Waley’s assistance might be vain.
At length the curate’s bony shoulders sagged.
“Very well, if you are determined on this course.” Without hesitation, he went to the sideboard and bent to open the cupboard.
He withdrew another set of large books, rose and laid them on the top.
Lucy watched him sift through them, picking out one volume.
He opened it and flicked through the pages.
A pang smote Lucy as she recognised Papa’s hand in the neat entries, but it dissipated as she realised Mr Waley seemed to know exactly what he was looking for.
He located a particular page and ran his finger down the lines. It stopped, and he kept it in place, looking up at Lucy. “Here. You may find this of interest.”
She eyed him with a resurgence of the excitement that had attended her first hopes on entering the vestry. Then she moved swiftly to the sideboard as the curate shifted to make room for her, but keeping his finger upon the place. Lucy cast her eyes upon the entry.
With one accord, her cousins came to look over her shoulder.
“Birth,” Lucy read aloud. “Lucinda Graydene Ankerville, on the fifteenth day of April, seventeen hundred and eighty-one. A girl, born to Alice, believed Oake or Oade, not of this parish, deceased, and Beves Ankerville of the county of Hereford.”