Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“What in the world?” Richard exclaimed against the biting cold of the journey he was undertaking from London to Dartmoor.
The trip would normally take a week one way, but the duke was desperate for answers.
He was also not in the right frame of mind.
He thought that the cold would at least awaken the dark recesses of his mind, and so riding hard on horseback instead of going by carriage was more of a self-flagellation.
Even in the frigid cold, Victoria’s face still sometimes materialized in his troubled mind.
She looked shocked, then heartbroken. However, afterward, she had looked numb as if she was accepting who he really was.
It hurt to think that she had made the quick conclusion, but he was aware that it was his fault.
The fourth day was nearing its end when he finally reached Dartmoor. He had to find a small village called Widecombe in the Moor. The gravestones could be found near the church of St. Pancras. There, he’d find Cecilia Weston-Abernathy’s grave next to her husband’s, Thomas’s.
First, though, he scanned the place. It was beautiful in its own way, Medieval in style and atmosphere. The church seemed to be the anchor, with the graves sprawled to its side. There, he could explore the graves and also talk to the priest in charge of the parish.
“Someone came all the way here to dismantle my lie,” Richard muttered.
He was alone, and it made sense to talk to himself in what felt like desolation.
He did spy perhaps two people walking from the graves to the rest of the village, where the rest of the population most likely was.
The place had more than a thousand people, enough for a thriving village.
If he walked a few more yards from the church, he’d hear the noise coming from a bustling community.
However, the church itself on a weekday provided an eerie backdrop.
Richard entered the church, hoping to find the priest. The interior was surprisingly airy for its size, thanks to its large windows.
The design was Gothic, and the architecture was made possible by local granite.
The parish might look imposing and grand, but he spied many things that needed fixing.
As he let his senses take over, he realized that the damp smell, the slipping roof, and the growing ivy on the walls were enough justification for more donations.
He didn’t have to look further for the priest, it seemed. A man was hunched over in one of the pews, his thin hair illuminated by the late afternoon sunlight.
“Father Miller? Is that you?” Richard asked.
His voice was low, but it sounded louder in the silence of the church. His words rolled, and there seemed to be an overlap in them that felt a little disconcerting. He dismissed it as a sign that he had spent too much time in London.
“Y-yes? Good day to you,” the priest stammered, rising from his seat and wiping his palms on his rough and threadbare cassock. “Who is asking, my lord? We don’t have much to offer a gentleman of your stature here. The best we can provide you is the vicarage, and even if it might not suit you.”
“I do not care for such things, vicar. I am here for a very important reason that had me traveling for days on horseback. Exhausted as I am, I will take any accommodation before I go on my way once more.”
He had stayed at small, dingy inns along the way. He did not mind anymore.
“My lord, you still have not mentioned your name,” the vicar reminded him.
“Apologies, Vicar. I am the Duke of Hawksford, Richard Weston,” he replied, stepping closer.
He saw the vicar’s eyes slightly widen, and his throat bobbed.
“I believe you recently had a visitor. Lord Penwike or a representative of his. Someone had offered you a dirty coin to release private records on my cousin, Lady Cecilia Abernathy.”
“Your Grace, I—I don’t know the name. Our population may be healthy for a village, but we rarely get visitors from the outside,” Miller stuttered, his face looking pale. His fingers twitched around a black book, presumably a small bible or a missal.
Richard tried his best not to exhale sharply, as there was a strong urge to do so. He could not believe a man of God would be lying to him right inside the church, while standing on the foundation of his parish. He breathed in once more to ease the roaring anger rising in him.
“There’s no need for lies when I know the truth,” Richard said.
“I know what a lie looks like. It burns to the surface, especially for good men who are only trying what it’s like for the first time.
You sold my family’s burial records, and not for a good reason, either.
The records were used to destroy an infant’s life before it even began.
Perhaps you were only trying to help reveal the truth in exchange for silver, thinking there could be nothing wrong with such a trade.
However, I will tell you now how the information was used for warfare, the truth to support lies! ”
The vicar sank back into the bench, a sob released from his throat.
“Your Grace, I was in a bind. The roof was falling. It is still slipping, but I have managed to pay enough money to ensure it does not completely fall. The rest of the money went on more church improvements, such as making repairs at the bell tower. Some went to feed the children. None of the purse was used to support me personally. I knew it was wrong, but the heart of it was to save the church.”
Anger still roiled in Richard’s veins. However, some of what was directed towards the vicar was starting to transfer to Penwike, who exploited a desperate man. He knew when and how to strike. He could not help but acknowledge the cold intellect that his nemesis possessed.
“It is not a miracle to make improvements from dirty money,” the duke groused, even as he tried to level his emotions. “His money was also not enough to completely transform your church. Would you like enough coin for a miracle?”
“A miracle?” the vicar asked, looking genuinely confused.
“Yes, a miracle,” Richard replied, reaching into his coat to withdraw a large purse and dropping it onto the bench next to the vicar.
It was clear what the contents of the purse were by how they clinked when they hit wood. The duke knew that the amount would more than triple the one that the marquess gave, based on what it could purchase.
“I am not asking you to change the burial records of Cecilia Abernathy,” Richard said.
“That is already there. It is the truth. However, I want you to add information to the baptismal register for a Melody Weston-Abernathy. Record that Cecilia managed to bring his infant daughter to be baptized before she died.”
“B-but that entry would be -,” Miller stammered, looking conflicted. His eyes looked at the purse and back at the duke.
“Nothing more than a late entry,” Richard added. “It happens with baptism, the information is scribbled somewhere else in a little book, waiting to be transferred to the official ledgers. Isn’t that particularly common?”
The vicar hung his head and admitted with a nod, “Yes, it has happened a few times before. I had many things on my mind.”
“You did have many things on your mind. The repairs. Strange men coming to you for information,” the duke narrated. “Take the purse. This parish deserves to be revived, and the child deserves to live a peaceful life.”
The vicar reached for the purse, finally, and placed it in the pocket of his cassock. Then, he walked to where the records were, Richard assumed. So, he followed closely behind. He wanted to see the ink dry for himself.
Father Miller opened the leather-bound register.
It was heavy, but his trembling movements made it seem even heavier.
He found the baptismal section and wrote Melody’s name on a space appropriate for her age.
It had gone so quiet that the only sound Richard could hear was the scratching of the quill on paper.
Melody Weston-Abernathy, daughter of Thomas Abernathy and Cecilia Weston Abernathy …
Richard watched the ink soak into the page, solidifying Melody’s place in his family’s fabricated history.
It was a crime. If they were to be discovered, both he and Miller would be stripped of their titles and positions.
However, he could not bring himself to feel guilty about the act.
The ink was not just forgery, but also protection for the little girl that he had come to care about.
It was giving the child a steadier future, one without ridicule.
Both the duke and the vicar waited for the ink to dry before the book was closed. After he heard the definitive thud, Richard let out an exhale. It was done.
“This never happened, Vicar,” Richard declared, meeting Miller’s gaze. “If Penwike or any of his men return, or even if the authorities do, you will show them the book. Do not speak of my visit here. Know that I only did this to protect a child. I would not have done so otherwise.”
“I understand, Your Grace,” the vicar said, nodding fervently. “I have not seen anyone but ghosts as of late, and the villagers on Sundays. W-would you like a place to sleep in for tonight?”
“I just need a nap, Vicar. Then, I will leave before the break of dawn,” Richard said, after some consideration.
He was still thrumming with the success of his mission, but he needed his strength to journey back. A carriage ride was tiresome enough, but doing so on horseback was exhausting.
After a few hours’ rest, he slipped out of the vicarage and untied his horse. He climbed on the animal, as they considered going south this time. He hoped to go faster if the weather was fine and the horse was able.
For now, Richard had won a small victory.
But soon, London would remind him of the larger defeat: how he had lost his wife.