The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(73)
She let out a breath, hoping it would calm her wayward thoughts. Perhaps it was the hunger in her stomach and not the ache in her heart that made her feel empty. She’d seen so many couples over the last several weeks, ones who cherished each other, and the truth hit her like a blast of wind. If Rupert’s lies were true, she’d never have a husband.
A vision of Michael swept into her thoughts, and her heart clenched in panic. She squared her shoulders in a desperate attempt to calm the unease. No matter what she wanted or what she expected for her own life, she shouldn’t allow any of it to intrude upon today. Yet, deep inside, she screamed silently. Why did she have to forgo everything? A husband, security, her own family, her own home? Why did she have to forgo even the stark certainty she could spend her life helping Bennett take his rightful place in society while teaching him how to run his estate?
All her life, things she cherished were taken away—fanciful wishes and whimsical wants and eventually, simple needs. Fate had been cruel before, but now it was downright hateful.
After all she’d sacrificed, she could expect abject ruin.
She swallowed the lingering pain. She’d do it all again—subject herself to the sacrifices and the pain and the shame—as long as her family was safe.
“Miss Lawson?” The vicar’s brow formed neat lines. “I expect you either are here to rail at me or set the church on fire.”
“Neither, Mr. King.” She took a sip of the tea for fortitude and released her breath. When she set her cup down, a small amount of liquid spilt into the saucer, betraying her disquiet. “I just want to see the evidence for myself.”
His serene expression rivaled one of the paintings that surrounded the four walls in the room. Angels, shepherds, and the church’s previous vicars gazed from their frames as if stuck in perpetuity to face a numb purgatory.
Exactly how she felt—numb and stricken.
“I understand,” Mr. King offered. His soothing tone indicated he had experience with grief and providing comfort. That talent would serve him well today since she was grieving. He rose, walked to his desk, and unlocked a drawer.
Soon he returned with the register in his hand. A single ribbon marked a page. The large journal dwarfed his hand, and the leather betrayed its age with stains and worn corners on the front cover.
He settled in the chair next to March and flipped open the book to reveal a rainbow of names composed in inks of blacks, indigos, blues, and grays. Silently, he handed her the register. She scanned the sheet bookmarked. The left column on each page listed the date, followed by columns containing the groom’s and bride’s names and signatures. The last column marked the date of the solemnized wedding vows.
March’s gaze slowly swept the page until she found the entry for the eighth of October and the year 1794. Her eyes focused on the names.
On the page was her father’s bold signature with her mother’s graceful one beside his. Time along with her heartbeat ground to a halt, much like a millstone when it lost its momentum.
She blinked slowly in a poor attempt to clear the burn from her eyes. She couldn’t allow herself to fall apart—not in front of the vicar. Otherwise, she’d never be able to pick up the pieces again.
Whether it was a minute or an hour that passed, he finally spoke. “I’m sorry.” The whisper floated through the air. “So sorry that my church and I are the cause of such distress in your life. I know this entry is truthful as I was there at your parents’ wedding.” He continued softly as he turned to face her. “I remember it distinctly.”
March jerked her gaze to his.
“It was the first cool day of autumn and my father, the previous vicar, had promised to take me fishing, but … when he told me of the ceremony, I bellowed my disapproval. He said if I behaved, I could attend, and we’d leave straight away from the church.”
She took a moment to compose her thoughts. She would have been six years old. “Was I there?”
“I don’t remember you attending, but your grandparents, Lord and Lady Lawson, were in attendance.”
If the service had taken place in October, then her mother had to have been carrying Faith—much too early in her pregnancy to be noticeable.
“I have one vivid memory. Your father was livid at his father. After your parents signed the register, they left without a word.”
“Is your father still alive? Perhaps—”
The vicar shook his head. “No. My father died several years ago.”
“Why here? My family’s estate is in Leyton.” She spoke the words to herself, but the vicar nodded as if understanding her confusion.
“I don’t have an answer to offer you.”
“Did my cousin share why he thought to look for this information here? How would he know?” Her confusion was mounting. None of this made any sense.
“I believe someone advised him to come here and investigate, Miss Lawson.”
As if he’d called her a charlatan, she flinched. Her name, the one she’d always answered to, was no longer hers.
Her gaze swept over her pelisse, her valise, her reticule, and her half boots. All familiar but unrecognizable at the same time. Who was she? When she walked into the church, she was one person. Now, when she departed, she’d be another.
There was no denying she was her parents’ child. She had inherited her mother’s height, and favored her father. For heaven’s sake, Bennett favored her. It made little difference as she wasn’t born within the confines of a legal marriage. Illegitimate children of peers walked in a no man’s land. Being born on the wrong side of respectability was only tolerable if there was money and the parents boldly accepted their bastards. Her parents were gone, so she was already working at a disadvantage.