The autumnal chill, the icy wind on
her cheeks with Branson as her companion was glorious. The only companion she
wanted, Clara thought with joy and sorrow. She had her freedom but Branson did
not. Dead or alive, there would always be Grace.
They arrived at the highway marker made of stone that
divided the road in three directions. One pointed to London, the other to
Somerset and the third directed the traveller to
Berkshire.
A field of mown barley cut by a stream and shaded by a
brown-leaf oak tree was a short distance away. Branson dismounted and led
Gladiator to the stream to rest and take water. Then he helped Clara down, took
up the leather satchel and slung it over his shoulder.
Wordlessly, they cut across the furrows to a level spot
where Branson spread his cloak and flopped down. Her cousin stretched his long
body and folded hands under his head. The sun winked over his golden hair.
He squinted up at her and patted the place beside him. “Sit
down. I won’t bite.”
“You’ve promised that before and you bit
anyway.” Nevertheless, Clara sat down beside him, tucking her legs under her
gown. “How did you manage it? What lie did you tell to convince Dr. Rutledge
you were my husband?”
“I produced a written record.” Branson
showed her the spine of the registrar’s book tucked in his satchel.
She stared at him in shock. “You forged a
wedding ceremony in the parish records?”
“If only it were that easy.” His full mouth
twisted wryly. “I confessed everything. Vicar Wimbley knows we were not married in London or anywhere else for that matter. I gave
him a version of the truth and he was so impressed by our story of star-crossed
love that he wrote the entry in his own hand. It helped that I pressed upon him
a generous donation. He expects a wedding to follow. I had to tell him the
marriage would take place as soon as I had you safely home.”
“You lied to a man of God,” she said
bluntly.
“Your brother wanted you out of Gateshead
and I devised a means to get you out. That is all that matters.”
Clara removed the leather-bound volume from
the satchel and turned to the last page. Their names were there and the date
they were supposed to be married. “It looks so ... so real, ” she said softly. “Can one acquire a wife so easily?”
“When needs must—yes. Is that so terrible?
Everyone already thought we were married and even Wimbley believes us betrothed. It was a lie that could do no harm.”
“You talk as though a woman’s good name is a
small thing. It is a small thing to a man but it is all a woman has. You gave
your word to the vicar the record of our marriage would be made true. That was
inconvenient. I wonder how you mean to dispose of me.”
Clara thumbed through the pages further back
to the date Grace Leeds had given as her wedding day.
“What are you doing?” Branson rose up on one
elbow and tried to take the book out of her hands.
Clara twisted away, quickly scanning the
rows of names until she found it: Branson
Reilly . “Here it is. Here you are. Branson Reilly and Grace Leeds .”
“What of it,” he growled. “I told you we
were married. Now, hand me the book, Clara.”
She shielded it with her body and peered at
him suspiciously. “Why? What have you to hide?” She turned the pages rapidly,
skimming down the names on the lookout for just one. Births, deaths, marriages,
year after year, but there was no record of the death of Grace Reilly .
“She is not here!” Clara whirled to face
Branson. “Your wife, Grace—there is no funeral entry or death notice. Her name
is not listed here.”
Branson opened
his mouth as if to frame a lie, then closed it and rubbed his hands over his
face. “I said I had something to tell you. It might help you to know the truth.”
Clara licked her dry lips. “It always helps
to know the truth.” But her heart was hammering in her chest.
He did not answer but wrenched on the silk
tie at his throat as though it was
her cheeks with Branson as her companion was glorious. The only companion she
wanted, Clara thought with joy and sorrow. She had her freedom but Branson did
not. Dead or alive, there would always be Grace.
They arrived at the highway marker made of stone that
divided the road in three directions. One pointed to London, the other to
Somerset and the third directed the traveller to
Berkshire.
A field of mown barley cut by a stream and shaded by a
brown-leaf oak tree was a short distance away. Branson dismounted and led
Gladiator to the stream to rest and take water. Then he helped Clara down, took
up the leather satchel and slung it over his shoulder.
Wordlessly, they cut across the furrows to a level spot
where Branson spread his cloak and flopped down. Her cousin stretched his long
body and folded hands under his head. The sun winked over his golden hair.
He squinted up at her and patted the place beside him. “Sit
down. I won’t bite.”
“You’ve promised that before and you bit
anyway.” Nevertheless, Clara sat down beside him, tucking her legs under her
gown. “How did you manage it? What lie did you tell to convince Dr. Rutledge
you were my husband?”
“I produced a written record.” Branson
showed her the spine of the registrar’s book tucked in his satchel.
She stared at him in shock. “You forged a
wedding ceremony in the parish records?”
“If only it were that easy.” His full mouth
twisted wryly. “I confessed everything. Vicar Wimbley knows we were not married in London or anywhere else for that matter. I gave
him a version of the truth and he was so impressed by our story of star-crossed
love that he wrote the entry in his own hand. It helped that I pressed upon him
a generous donation. He expects a wedding to follow. I had to tell him the
marriage would take place as soon as I had you safely home.”
“You lied to a man of God,” she said
bluntly.
“Your brother wanted you out of Gateshead
and I devised a means to get you out. That is all that matters.”
Clara removed the leather-bound volume from
the satchel and turned to the last page. Their names were there and the date
they were supposed to be married. “It looks so ... so real, ” she said softly. “Can one acquire a wife so easily?”
“When needs must—yes. Is that so terrible?
Everyone already thought we were married and even Wimbley believes us betrothed. It was a lie that could do no harm.”
“You talk as though a woman’s good name is a
small thing. It is a small thing to a man but it is all a woman has. You gave
your word to the vicar the record of our marriage would be made true. That was
inconvenient. I wonder how you mean to dispose of me.”
Clara thumbed through the pages further back
to the date Grace Leeds had given as her wedding day.
“What are you doing?” Branson rose up on one
elbow and tried to take the book out of her hands.
Clara twisted away, quickly scanning the
rows of names until she found it: Branson
Reilly . “Here it is. Here you are. Branson Reilly and Grace Leeds .”
“What of it,” he growled. “I told you we
were married. Now, hand me the book, Clara.”
She shielded it with her body and peered at
him suspiciously. “Why? What have you to hide?” She turned the pages rapidly,
skimming down the names on the lookout for just one. Births, deaths, marriages,
year after year, but there was no record of the death of Grace Reilly .
“She is not here!” Clara whirled to face
Branson. “Your wife, Grace—there is no funeral entry or death notice. Her name
is not listed here.”
Branson opened
his mouth as if to frame a lie, then closed it and rubbed his hands over his
face. “I said I had something to tell you. It might help you to know the truth.”
Clara licked her dry lips. “It always helps
to know the truth.” But her heart was hammering in her chest.
He did not answer but wrenched on the silk
tie at his throat as though it was
Similar Books
