Page 78 of A Lady in Name

He did not look down immediately, his eyes searching her face. Lucy gestured to the page. His eyes dropped to the entry.

“It says Alice Oade of the parish of Chaseley was married on the twentieth day of November to Beves Ankerville of the county of Hereford.”

“Thank you.”

Lucy felt the strange intensity begin to leave her, and a feeling of calm descended into her bosom. She had expected elation. Instead, she was possessed of a sensation of deep satisfaction, as if a wrong had been righted. Whether hers or her mother’s, Lucy did not know — perhaps both.

She came around the table, and the cleric gave place. Stefan hovered, his hand laid over the entry as if he would conceal it. Lucy touched the hand and gave him a tiny smile. “I am not going to swoon this time.”

He returned the smile. “I will be within reach if you do.”

His hand shifted and Lucy looked at the entry, reading the vital words. In themselves unremarkable, but their message dictated the tenor of her whole future life. Lucy wanted to pick up the book and hold the words to her chest, as if to imprint them forever in her bosom. She could not drag her eyes from the writing, although she heard Stefan speaking in the background of her mind.

“I cannot suppose you will allow me to remove this book? For a brief period only.”

“Remove it?” The cleric was quavering a little. “Oh, dear me. I do not think… Though I dare say it might be safe enough.”

“No matter.” Stefan again. “I will instruct my lawyer to come here and witness the entry. His affidavit will suffice, I think.”

“Well, yes, if you think it sufficient.”

“Until then, I beg you will keep it safe, sir.”

Reverend Poslingford’s fluttery tones were reassuring. “I shall secrete it away, my dear sir. Under lock and key, have no fear.”

The words blurred as Stefan responded. Something odd was happening. As Lucy stared closely at the entry, the words appeared startlingly familiar. Strange. She had not read them before. Unless it was her need to hold them close to her heart.

Something clicked in her brain. “It is not the words.”

She had not realised she had spoken aloud, but the voices ceased and Stefan and the Reverend Poslingford looked round from where they had moved aside to converse.

“What was that, Lucy?”

She looked up, straight into Stefan’s face. “I know this hand.”

He came to stand beside her, looking with puzzled eyes at the entry. “What do you mean?”

“The handwriting. I know it.”

Stefan’s frown deepened. “You can’t know it. You have never seen it before.”

“Not this, no,” Lucy said, insistent now. “But the handwriting. I have seen that before.” She looked sharply up at the cleric. “Were you serving this parish when this was written?”

The cleric came to the other side of the table, his head poking forward like a tortoise as he met her steady gaze through the spectacles. “Yes, yes. I have been here these thirty years.”

“But you did not write this, I think.”

Stefan’s hand was on her arm. “Lucy, what is the matter?”

She turned on him, prey to a horrid expectation. “I keep telling you. I know this hand.”

“The lady is perfectly correct.” The cleric held up his right hand, and for the first time Lucy noticed how the fingers curled into the palm. “I cannot write with this hand, for I have a palsy. I have learned to use my left, but not well enough, I fear, to make a legible entry. No, no. I rely upon my curate to keep the registers.”

Stefan’s head jerked up. “Your curate?” He looked at Lucy. “But it can’t be. The fellow is miles from here.”

Lucy slammed her hand down on the open volume. “But was he then?” She eyed the curate, an unpleasant coil of suspicion in her breast. “Do you remember who was your curate at this time? In 1780?”

The cleric tutted in his gentle way. “Now let me see. There have been a few in my time. Ambleside has been here several years. Before him? Who was it now?”