Chapter 25 #2
“Had you forgotten the marriage decree that rules England and Scotland?” Godric asked Burnsby, his voice even more threatening for its calm. “Bigamy is a capital offense, never mind an offense to God and your soul.”
He turned to Lancelot. “His lands and estate will be forfeit to the Crown and will pass to you immediately, before his death.”
A lazy smile curled Lance’s lips. “I don’t believe my wife and I will have time to visit you in the Tower, Burnsby. We should probably say goodbye tonight, as I understand the snow has stopped. We will leave tomorrow at first light.”
“We can sell this benighted abbey,” Colette said with a shudder. “Perhaps we should donate it back to the church.”
Burnsby launched into a stream of cursing that surprised me, even after all that I had learned about him since we arrived.
Ophelia had begun weeping. I drew her thin shoulders against me and rocked her back and forth.
“I can’t believe he’s my fa-father,” she said, under the cover of his shouting. “I don’t want to be related to a felon.”
“I’ll adopt you, and we’ll move to France.” I paused. “After all, Ophelia, no one knows that you exist.”
“What do you mean?” She raised her face, and I blotted her tears.
“You are not recorded in Debrett’s, or even in the family Bible. I can adopt you without admitting a connection to your appalling father.”
“Or Lance and I can adopt you,” Colette offered. “You can choose between darling Evie and your brother.”
“Th-Thank you,” Ophelia said.
“This is all the drama I can stomach for one night,” Colette stated.
She turned to Sophonisba. “I’m sure you’d prefer to host Christmas dinner, light the Yule log, and all the rest of it without a fake wife glaring at you.
Especially since this time next year you’ll be visiting your husband in the Tower, if they allow marital callers. We shall leave the dining room to you.”
“I told you my father was dissolute, darling, but I’m afraid that I underestimated the extent of his depravity,” Lance said to Colette.
“We won’t share this with my father,” his wife advised. “Mon père is not a forgiving man. He has many close contacts in the English government, and I’m afraid that he might contrive to have Burnsby dispatched.”
“You can’t mean that!” Sophonisba squeaked.
Colette’s smile was as bright as the diamonds in her hair. “Certainly, I do. My father could easily arrange to have Lord Burnsby tossed out of the Tower into the moat. I suspect it happens all the time.”
“In fact, the action of throwing someone out the window is known as defenestration,” Godric said.
Colette shrugged. “A word just for throwing someone out the window? The English language never ceases to amaze.”
“Fine!” Burnsby screamed. “You forced me to it. Sir Godric, read aloud that bloody parish register.”
I frowned. What was the point of that?
Godric drew the paper from his breast pocket and opened it, reading: “A Record of Declaration of Present Intent. Married twenty-fourth June, 1774, Clifford Burnsby in the parish of Lochvaben to Susanna Brattle lately from Lochrutton, both out of this parish, as witnessed by Margaret Dowdy.”
“Is this an exact copy of the parish register for your marriage, Lady Burnsby?” Godric asked. “In other words, does it accurately record your wedding, as witnessed by one Margaret Dowdy?”
She scowled at him. “Yes, and don’t think you can get around my marriage, because you can’t! Our witness is still alive.”
“I see,” Godric said. “Lord Burnsby?”
Ignoring him, Burnsby turned to his wife. “My seventieth birthday has been tainted by vulgarity and disrespect. I would prefer to eat in my chambers.” He struggled to stand. Stooped over his cane, his cravat wine-stained and jacket askew, he seemed more like ninety than seventy.
“If you wish, Bunny,” Sophonisba said, rising as well. “Except it’s your birthday! Now that everyone knows I’m Lady Burnsby, I could sit at the other end of the table.”
“The table is all yours,” I said. “Sit where you will.”
Burnsby shot me a vicious glare and shook his head. “No.”
“You aren’t worried about these silly charges, are you, sugar pie?” Sophonisba asked. “Everyone knows that lords never go to jail. Now the world will finally know you’re mine, and we can travel to Paris.”
“Lords do face punishment for their crimes,” Godric said dispassionately.
“Perhaps if I were the only extra wife,” I said, “Burnsby could plead advanced age, swearing that senility made him forget his earlier marriage vow. But if I understand the situation correctly, he married three women, Hecuba, Alice, and me, after Sophonisba. Three sets of false vows, over thirty years? That is not senility.”
Godric cleared his throat. He had his eyes fixed on my husband. “Burnsby, before you retire to bed, surely you have something to say?” He tapped the piece of paper he held against his knee.
“I feel one of my headaches coming on,” Burnsby said. “We can revisit these questions tomorrow.”
“Whatever you want, boo-boo,” Sophonisba said. “We shall celebrate your birthday then.” She swept me a triumphant glance. “Now that the truth is out, things will be very different in the abbey, I promise you that.”
She was the very image of a lady who has won a tournament, and the prize was even more vile than I had imagined.
“Burnsby,” Godric said, a warning in his voice. “I do understand that the truth is better heard in private than from me, but I assure you that I will share it on the morrow, if you do not.”
“What is he talking about?” Sophonisba asked. “Bunny, is there something you need to tell me?”
I could see Burnsby’s jaw working as he suppressed whatever he wanted to say in reply. Instead of answering, he stomped toward the door.
Sophonisba caught up the train of her stained ermine cloak and ran after him.
Ophelia picked up my glass of wassail and drained it. “That was appalling,” she said, her voice husky from crying. “Why did my father ask you to read aloud from the parish register, Godric? We already knew the gist.”
He waited to answer until the sound of Sophonisba’s voice had faded away down the corridor.
“They are not legally married, and he knows it.”