Chapter Twenty
C hase held open the wooden door of All Saints parish church to let Tessa pass inside and paused to cast a look back over his shoulder. The morning was bright and beautiful, almost painfully so, with a perfectly clear sky the color of cornflowers. From the front of the church, he could see the long stretch of sweeping downs as they fell away toward the village. Beyond the handful of buildings and cottages making up the seaside hamlet, a ribbon of beach curved away to the west and edged the almost unbearable blue of the sea. So blue it disappeared into the sky on the horizon until it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended.
Tessa stopped, concern for him darkening her face. “Chase?”
He nodded, unable at that moment to find his voice. I’m fine. I’ll be all right.
A damn lie. Even now he couldn’t bring himself to look in the other direction, where the old churchyard’s grave markers stretched to the east and around the rear of the church.
Tessa rested her hand on his arm and gave a reassuring squeeze, then wrapped her arm around his and walked with him into the dark church.
A stagnant odor filled the old Anglo-Saxon church, and the small drop of temperature within its stone walls brushed his cheeks as if stirred by a draught. The church was silent in the morning sunlight falling through the windows except for the scrape of his boots on the stone floor as they made their way past the rows of wooden pews toward the altar. The little church in the Cuillin estate church wasn’t much different from this one, Chase considered, although it had been built only a hundred years ago to look as if it had been in place for centuries, while this place was authentically ancient. Sacred.
Sanctuary.
“Good morning.” A young man in priestly black stepped out from a curtained alcove on the side of the nave and greeted them with a smile. A friendly look correctly sized them up as visitors to the parish. “Welcome to All Saints. Can I be of assistance?”
Chase’s heart thumped against his breastbone, and he pulled in a deep breath to steel himself. The dreaded moment had come. “We’re hoping to speak to the rector.”
“I’m the Reverent Jacob Blaine.” The young man seemed almost embarrassed to admit it. “The parish rector.”
“Chase Maddox,” he introduced himself, keeping his title private. “This is Miss Albright.”
“How do you do?” The priest spread his easy smile to include Tessa. “What can I help you with? A special marriage license, perhaps?”
Tessa stiffened. “No, Father.” She released Chase’s arm and glanced up at him tentatively. “Unfortunately, something far less happy.”
“Oh?” Father Blaine’s smile faded.
“My wife was lost three years ago in a shipwreck.” Chase heard the words through a tunnel, as if someone else had uttered them. “I have reason to believe she might be buried in your churchyard.”
The rector’s face turned as white as his neck cloth against the black of the cassock. “I see.” He swallowed hard enough that Chase would have sworn he heard the sound echo through the stone church. “I don’t…I mean—I am so very sorry.”
Sincerity showed in his eyes, even if Chase’s news left him stunned and at a loss for comforting words. But then, Chase supposed, theological study at university didn’t prepare clergy for situations like this.
“And you believe your wife…” Another swallow, impossibly louder than the first. “That your wife lay at rest in our churchyard?”
Chase’s gut twisted, the only part of him that hadn’t turned numb. Dear God, did he have to repeat it?
“Yes,” Tessa answered for him, temporarily saving him. Again. “That’s what we believe. We’re hoping you can check the parish records, to learn if any unidentified women were buried in the churchyard about three years ago.”
“I don’t have to check the records for that,” Father Blaine assured them. “I know for certain there was.”
His statement didn’t twist Chase’s gut this time—it ripped him in two. The rush of emotion tore through him, with both the unbearable guilt and relentless grief that had consumed him since he had received news of the shipwreck, but also with terrible relief at the possibility that he would finally have answers, that he would be able to put Eleanor’s ghost to rest at last. The emotion was simply damning.
“I’d only been here at All Saints for a little over two months,” Father Blaine explained slowly, as if afraid he might misstep by choosing the wrong words. “I was a new rector in my first position in charge of a parish when a young woman was found dead on Sandy Beach. Drowned. I remember how struck I was by the entire situation, how the villagers came together to give her a proper funeral even though we had no idea of her identity or where her home was, how they took up a collection to buy her a grave marker…” He looked between Tessa and Chase with an expression of knowing sympathy tinged by a desperation to provide comfort. “She wasn’t alone.”
Chase’s jaw tightened. The young rector meant well, but his empty words brought little comfort.
Tessa rested her hand on Chase’s arm in that inexplicable way she had of sensing the turmoil boiling inside him, the way no other woman in his life had ever done. Including Eleanor.
“We would like to know for certain if that woman is my cousin,” Tessa told the rector, her voice both strangely soft yet resolved. “I’m assuming you…took notes…when the woman was found.”
“Yes. I put them into the parish record book with the funeral details.” Father Blaine exuded apology, although none of this was his fault. “I didn’t know where else to put them.”
“That seems like a good place,” Tessa reassured him, earning her a faint nod of agreement from the young priest.
“I keep the records in my study.” He gestured in the general direction of the rectory, then visibly pulled back his shoulders and straightened his spine, as if steeling himself. “If you’d like to see them…”
Not at all. Yet Chase somehow managed to answer, “Yes, we would.”
Father Blaine nodded and led them from the church to the neighboring rectory, where they were greeted by a middle-aged housekeeper. The gray-haired woman didn’t ask the reason for their visit, but she must have guessed something terrible had happened by seeing all three of their grim faces and hearing the simple announcement by the priest that they would be in his study.
The office was small and cramped, filled with stacks of books and papers of all kinds, covering every surface from desk to floor—several books even filled the narrow window seat, framing the view of the country road running past the churchyard. His brow furrowing with solemnity, the young rector gestured at the pair of chairs in front of his desk in invitation for Tessa and Chase to sit, then went to the rough-hewn shelves behind his desk and traced a fingertip over the spines as he searched for the specific volume he wanted. He let out a long breath and pulled a book bound in black leather from its shelf.
“The shipwreck happened in early January, 1814,” Chase said as Father Blaine flipped through the pages.
The priest nodded as he scanned each recorded note. He froze, then he quietly read, “‘January the twenty-seventh…unidentified woman washed ashore on Sandy Beach, delivered to Dr. Poston in the village, then given to the parish church for care. January thirtieth…burial in parish churchyard.’” He paused to pull in a steadying breath as Chase did the same. “‘Blonde hair, green eyes, slender but middling size…green brocade dress, matching travel coat…with a birthmark located on her—’”
“On her left shoulder blade,” Chase interrupted quietly. “Brown dots forming a small rectangle.”
“Yes.” The priest lifted his eyes from the book and met Chase’s gaze across his desk. “Is she your wife?”
“Yes.” The single word ripped from him.
Chase stared straight ahead, not daring to glance at Tessa. Seeing her tears would break him.
The young priest placed his palms flat on the desk on either side of the book and let his head slump between his shoulders. A ragged breath pulled from him, and Chase knew Father Blaine felt the same contradictory rush of grief and relief he desperately wanted to feel…but didn’t. It was as if Eleanor had died a second time, yet the release he’d expected from the dark feelings that consumed him didn’t come. The searing emotion burning in his belly was as fierce as ever, and the only trace of comfort came from now knowing what had happened to her after the storm, where her story finally ended.
“Her name was Eleanor Jane Maddox,” Tessa quietly told the priest in a voice so soft and heavy with grief that it was barely a sound at all. “Can you please add her name to your parish record?”
“Of course.” With a shaking hand, the rector took the quill from the desk set, dipped it in ink, and carefully added a note to the book.
The grisly work finished, Father Blaine sat back in his creaky old chair with a silent sigh of finality. All three of them stared at the record book, and when the priest closed it and placed it back into place on the shelf, Chase saw Tessa swipe her gloved hand at her cheeks, the tears finally falling.
The rector looked out the window and blinked hard against the bright sunshine of mid-morning. “I can show you her grave, if you’d like.”
Chase nodded, clenched his jaw hard, and came to his feet to take Tessa’s arm to escort her outside, not because she needed his help, but because he needed hers.
They silently followed Father Blaine through the churchyard with its forest of gravestones to the far corner where a sheltering chestnut tree spread its strong boughs to frame the sweeping view of the green hills rolling into the distance. Overhead, the soft chirping of songbirds and the rustle of leaves on the faint breeze were the only signs of life in the otherwise still yard.
The grave was marked by a small, plain stone, adorned only with a carving of a cross and the date… January, 1814 .
But it was the small bouquet placed at the base of the stone that squeezed at Chase’s heart. Flowers not yet wilted, which couldn’t have been more than a day or two old.
He murmured in surprise, “Someone put flowers on her grave.”
“The village women take turns placing flowers here,” Father Blaine told them. “Most of the villagers are connected to the sea, in one way or another—fishermen, sailors, dockers… I think they understand that your wife’s fate could likely be the same as theirs someday, or of the men they love.” He paused before adding, “The villagers have claimed her as one of them. They’ve not forgotten her.”
Chase said nothing, only nodded when Tessa placed her hand on his arm.
“I’ll leave you to have a moment alone,” the priest said. “You’ll let me know, will you, what you decide to do about her remains, if they should stay here or be moved to your home parish?”
“Of course.” But Chase’s thoughts were focused on the flowers and the overwhelming gesture of love and kindness they represented, given to a woman none of the villagers knew. Not even her name.
As the rector turned to leave them, he paused only long enough to repeat, “She wasn’t alone.”
This time, Chase understood exactly what the young priest meant, and he took comfort in the words, both in their quiet assurance and in the rush of relief that surged through him. Finally, the blackness that had engulfed him began to lift, the weight easing from his shoulders and the lead ball from his chest. His breath came deep and steady, even as his vision blurred from the stinging tears burning his eyes.
Tessa knelt beside the stone and fussed with the wildflowers, her trembling fingers tucking in the stems and fluffing the petals. The flowers didn’t need her attention, he knew; she instinctively knew he needed a moment to recover himself. Then she lingered a moment longer to run her hand over the stone and trace the cross and date, before sitting back on her heels and pushing herself to her feet to stand beside him.
“I’ve made my decision,” he told her gently. “I won’t have her remains moved to Cuillin. She never liked the estate, and this place is…” He turned away to gaze across the countryside, then up at the chestnut tree and down at the blue and white flowers growing in the cracks of the short stone wall encircling the yard. “It’s so much different from there.” He murmured, half to himself, “Maybe here she’ll find the peace she never could in life.”
Tessa laced her fingers through his in silent agreement.
Slowly, they returned to the church and found the rector waiting for them outside the main church doors.
“I’ve decided to leave my wife’s remains here,” Chase informed him. “But I want to make arrangements for a proper headstone, as well as donation to the parish and to the village—something appropriate to help the villagers, like improvements to the local school or market hall.”
The priest’s mouth fell open. “That’s extremely generous of you.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
Tessa signaled her approval by squeezing his hand.
“And you should know,” Chase finally confided, “my wife was the Duchess of Greysmere.”
His eyes grew wide. “Which means you are…”
“Yes. I’m the duke.” Chase grimaced. “But I don’t want anyone to know. I want everyone to know her only as Eleanor Maddox. I’m only telling you because I will need your assistance in purchasing the new headstone and anonymously making the donations.”
“Of course…Your Grace.” The young priest’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “But I never heard any news about a duchess drowning in a storm.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. It was kept as private as possible.” Because he’d been a bastard of a husband from which she’d been desperate to flee. Because he’d fled himself while the candles were still lit for the memorial service. “Her passage to London was a sudden, last-minute decision. We had no idea the storm was coming. The ship wrecked in the waves, and she and my son both perished. At least we know now where she’s at rest.” He swallowed down the painful knot in his throat. “Thomas’s body was never found.”
The young priest paled. Chase would have sworn the man had seen a ghost creeping up behind them from the graveyard, except that his eyes were fixed to Chase’s. “How old was he?”
“He was just about to turn two.” He didn’t dare look at Tessa as he explained, “Eleanor needed to be in London, and she didn’t want to leave our son behind, especially since I was often away from the estate. She didn’t want to put him in the care of servants.”
Father Blaine reached out a hand to steady himself against the wooden door.
Tessa reached for him. “Father? Are you all right?”
He shook his head, as if suffering a physical blow. “There was a boy who washed ashore about five miles to the north of here,” he told them, his voice little more than a stunned whisper. “In the neighboring parish, about two weeks before the woman on Sandy Beach.”
Thomas. Chase’s chest squeezed so hard his heart stopped. Then, through an agonizing searing of pain, he somehow managed to ask, “Is he buried here, too, or in the other parish?”
The priest’s fingers gripped hard at the door handle, until their tips turned as white as his face. “No…he was alive.”
Chase felt the earth tilt beneath him.
“He was small, not more than two, not yet breeched,” Father Blaine continued. “He had washed ashore in a little rowboat. We thought—we thought his father had taken him fishing and fallen overboard, that God had miraculously steered him into the cove. Someone must have put him into the boat when the ship was sinking… I took him into the rectory for a few days, cared for him, fed him. I asked up and down the coast—about ten miles in each direction—if anyone had reported a missing child, or a stolen one.” His words came halting and rough. “No one ever came forward.”
Chase held tightly to Tessa’s hand for support. What the man was saying… impossible.
“He was so small, just a little thing,” Father Blaine mumbled. “So young he couldn’t even give his name, so I called him Davie after my brother David.”
“He was towheaded,” Chase forced out through numb lips. A vision of his son filled his mind from the last time he’d seen him. “So blond his hair was almost white…green eyes…a bit of a red rash on his left cheek…”
“Yes,” the priest whispered.
Thomas. But Chase didn’t dare let his hopes rise. The idea that Thomas might have survived was preposterous. No… miraculous , and Chase had never been friends with God. His son coming back from the dead wasn’t the absolution he deserved after all he’d done in his life.
Yet he couldn’t help but rasp out, “What happened to the boy?”
“The Fishers took him in…a seaman and his wife who had lost their own son a little more than a year before. They opened their home to him, raised him as if he were their own…”
A desperate hope Chase couldn’t resist clenched his gut like a vise. “Is he still with them? Is he still…?” He didn’t dare utter that last hope aloud.
“Alive? Yes. And well. I can take you to see for yourself.” The young priest solemnly locked eyes with Chase. “And perhaps another lost soul can finally be found.”
Chase knew he didn’t mean Thomas.