Rexanne Becnel (15 page)

Sarah drew up, not even aware of her destination, and glanced around. Another busybody to deal with. Yet Sarah was not entirely sorry to see the vicar’s wife. Perhaps she had better information than the baker’s mother.

“My dear, how are you? How are you?” Mrs. Liston gushed. “I have been meaning to call on you. But with all of Mr. Liston’s duties and then my own as his wife, well, as you can only imagine, I have been exceedingly busy.”

“I’m sure you have,” Sarah concurred. “But I am glad to see you now. How are you? And Mr. Liston?”

Sarah suffered through a quarter hour of various complaints, cautions, and dull bits of gossip. She was struggling for a way to escape, sorry she’d ever encouraged the conversation, when the discourse at last turned to the topic she desired yet did not dare bring up herself.

“…and I bade good-bye to that American. You know the one. That handsome Mr. MacDougal.”

“Oh, yes.” Sarah nodded. She shifted her package from one arm to the next. “He has left Kelso?”

“Well. He has come and gone quite a bit. Most curious, those comings and goings of his. He rode into town very late last night, then departed again just after noon.”

“Has he? Well, who’s to say he won’t return later this evening? Or perhaps tomorrow?”

Mrs. Liston shook her head so hard the fat curls on either side of her thin cheeks quivered. “This time he took all his luggage, and though I hear he is paid up through the month, he said there’s a chance he mayn’t be back. I had it from Mrs. Halbrecht herself. Gone to Dumfries, she said. That’s a goodly journey. P’rhaps he means to set sail back to America from there.”

Dumfries. Sarah had to think a moment to place the town. It was all the way to the east, along the Atlantic coast.

Sarah escaped Mrs. Liston as quickly as she could, mulling over that odd bit of information. She refused to think about how relieved she was that Marshall MacDougal was not with Estelle Kendrick. She refused also to examine too closely the hollow feeling in her chest at the idea of him actually being gone forever.

It was what she’d been hoping for, and now it had come to pass. After hearing Mr. MacNeil’s ugly remarks, Mr. MacDougal must have given up his foolish quest to prove himself Cameron Byrde’s rightful heir and gone back to America. What other reason to head to Dumfries? After all, it was a port city. Ships must arrive and depart to America on a regular basis.

Had they done so thirty years ago?

Thirty years ago. The thought brought Sarah to a sudden halt outside the leather goods store. Had his mother sailed from Dumfries to America all those years ago? She had to have sailed from somewhere, and most likely it had been Cameron Byrde who’d paid for her passage.

Could he also have wed her while they were there?

Sarah’s heart sank.

It was more than possible. The terrible truth was that it would be just like the Cameron Byrde she’d always heard about to do just such a devious thing. Marry his pregnant lover in secret, then ship her halfway around the world with the promise to join her later.

She clenched the paper package in her arms, unmindful of the damage she did to its contents. Though the scenario she imagined was not likely, it nevertheless was possible. And that meant she must follow Mr. MacDougal to Dumfries. She simply could not afford to take the chance that he might find a record of a marriage she prayed had never taken place.

M
R
. Hamilton threatened not to provide either the horses or the vehicle for such an outrageous purpose.

“What’s to see in Dumfries?” the old fellow demanded to know. “If it’s ocean scenery you’re wanting, farther south at Maryport’s the place, not Dumfries. And what’s wrong with the North Sea, anyway?”

“I’ve seen the North Sea,” Sarah muttered, shooting Mrs. Hamilton a beseeching look.

Mrs. Hamilton struggled with conflicting emotions. Sarah did not want anyone else to know her true reason for this sudden journey west. But the housekeeper was worried. Something was afoot between Sarah and that man. Something beyond this battle over his claim to Olivia’s properties. That alone was reason enough for her to forbid Sarah to go after him to Dumfries.

But perhaps there was a stronger reason to let her go. Sarah needed to be married. She was a good-hearted girl, but she was impulsive and reckless and headed for trouble, if the past was any indication. What if she got herself into a compromising situation with this American gent? Apparently she’d already come close with some other fellow. Why James had prevented their marriage, she didn’t know. Better Sarah wed than not.

But James wasn’t here now. And from the looks of things, Sarah was not about to take no for an answer.

Mrs. Hamilton lowered herself into a chair. “Perhaps a jaunt to Dumfries would be good for you, child.”

“Are you daft?” Mr. Hamilton interrupted. “She don’t need to go there.”

“Hush, old man. She’ll do just fine. I’ll send a maid with her, and an extra footman. What do you say to that, Sarah, girl?”

“Yes. Thank you,” Sarah replied, smiling her gratitude. “Thank you.” She ran off to begin packing. Mr. Hamilton trudged off, grumbling, but in reluctant agreement.

Mrs. Hamilton remained seated in her favorite kitchen chair, however, drumming her gnarled fingers upon the scarred oak tabletop and thinking.

If Sarah was to be compromised, as it seemed she was destined to be, better that it happen here than in London. Mr. MacDougal was not leaving for America just yet; somehow she was sure of it. Let him compromise her—if he hadn’t already done so in the carriage last night. Once found out, they would be forced to wed, and once wed, his threat to Olivia and Augusta would be considerably lessened.

Mrs. Hamilton smiled to herself, then bent down to rub her aching knee. Sarah could pursue one plan to protect her family, while she would pursue another. Oh, but this was more excitement than she’d had in many a day.

So it was that the next morning Sarah and an entourage of three rocked briskly down the highway, heading west with a team of four horses, Sarah was taking no chances this time should one of the animals go lame. From Kelso to Dumfries would normally have been a two-day journey. But Sarah felt compelled to stop at every church whose spire showed on the horizon. This time she’d brought a small chest of money with her, adequate to make a significant enough donation to ensure cooperation at every church she approached.

The answer at each one was, thankfully, always the same. No entry in the parish records for a Cameron Byrde, nor for a Maureen MacDougal.

But though relieved, Sarah was not reassured. Her sister’s birthright would not be safe until Marshall MacDougal was on board a ship headed back to America. Until that happenstance, she could not let down her guard, nor relax her vigilance.

As for Marshall MacDougal himself, though she was alarmed that he too had stopped in each of those churches, she was relieved not to have run into him. She meant to avoid the man at all costs. Confronting him would do no good, and it might do much harm—if her unsettling dreams of the past few nights were any indication.

Sarah shuddered to remember the wicked bent her dreams had begun to take of late. To recall his kisses made her skin heat. And to remember how he’d touched her and roused her…

To relive those unbelievable few minutes was enough to make her tremble and grow damp all over again. No matter how she tried to put it out of her head, something inside her yearned for him. It was a terrible thing to admit, even to herself. But it was true. And to her great chagrin, it seemed to be getting worse.

Across from her, Mary, the maid Mrs. Hamilton had insisted she bring along, yawned and shifted in her sleep.

So far the young woman had not asked too many questions. It helped considerably that Sarah had suggested the pretty, unattached Mary, and also a handsome, unattached groom named Fleming. The two had quickly progressed from curious glances to appreciative stares to blatant flirtation. Just as Sarah had hoped, the two of them kept one another occupied while she went about her secretive business at each of the churches along the way.

But now, as they approached the outskirts of the busy port town of Dumfries, Sarah was not nearly so confident of her hastily contrived plan. What if she should run into Mr. MacDougal? After all, Dumfries was not that large and he would be asking the same questions in the same places as she.

“Oh,” Mary groaned, and again yawned, then straightened up and stuck her head out the window. “Are we there yet?”

“Yes,” Sarah answered. “But we shan’t be staying very long. A day or two and we should begin back.”

When the girl looked outside again, craning her neck and obviously searching for a glimpse of Fleming up beside the driver, Sarah felt a stab of guilt. Though she had deliberately promoted this little romance between them for her own convenience, she did not want Mary to do anything she ought not do. She’d learned firsthand the perils of that sort of reckless behavior, and after all, the girl was in her employ and therefore under her care.

“Mary. I think you ought to exercise a little caution when it comes to Fleming. Do not be too quick to fall under his spell.”

The girl sat back in the seat, her pose as demure as any lady’s maid’s should be. But her brown eyes sparkled with mischief. “Don’t you worry. I can take care of myself with the likes of him, Miss Sarah. Better you warn him not to break his heart over Mary Douglass.”

Sarah suppressed a grin. “That confident, are you?”

Mary crossed her arms and stared frankly at Sarah. “I know you’re well above me, miss. But some things don’t change, no matter if you’re in society or in service. A man’s a man. They all want the same thing, an’ I don’t think I have to tell you what that is. At the same time, a woman’s a woman. What we most want is something we can only purchase if we spend our fortune well—if you catch my drift.”

Sarah caught her drift. As the girl rattled on and the carriage rolled on, she caught Mary’s drift very well indeed. And as they settled into a comfortable inn, and Sarah sat down to a warm meal, she had to wonder if she’d already squandered too much of her fortune on the wrong man—and whether, if he reappeared, she would throw the rest of her sorely diminished fortune into his hands.

Marsh was in a foul mood. He had been ever since he’d left Kelso in such a state of frustration. On the long journey to the coast, his failure to find any proof of his mother’s claim to have wed Cameron Byrde had hammered at him, one blow at a time, until he found himself mired in both frustration and depression. Unfortunately, neither of those emotions seemed to have decreased his need for some physical release.

He stood now on the main street of Dumfries, outside a coffeehouse very like the ones that lined the streets of London, and looked about. A pair of women glided by, trailed by their maids. They were a young and comely pair, probably well-to-do young matrons, dressed in the fashions of London and Paris, but with rust-colored hair and bright brown eyes that proclaimed their Scottish heritage.

One of them glanced at him, then away, then back again, smiling this time at his frank stare. He followed their progress as they swept by, appreciating the full bosoms and swaying hips revealed by their close-fitting walking gowns.

Why could he not lust after a winsome Scottish lass like one of them, instead of a difficult English priss like Sarah Palmer?

He dragged his gaze reluctantly from the two women and slapped his riding gloves against his open palm. The fact was, Sarah Palmer might be difficult, but he had to admit that she was no priss, at least not once you scratched beneath that polished veneer she wore so well.

Again he slapped his gloves, then, frowning, started across the Street. He’d been to three churches today, with as many left to approach. Though he fought it, he was fast growing discouraged. Could his mother have made up the story of a marriage, just as she’d made up the story of his father’s death during the Atlantic crossing?

And could he really blame her for doing so? Could any decent person with any amount of feelings blame her for anything she might have done to ensure her survival and that of her little child?

Bedeviled, he turned the door ringer of the handsome residence attached to the grandiose St. Andrew’s. Marsh didn’t think a devious bastard like Cameron Byrde would have brought his serving girl/lover to so grand a church as this. Then again, thirty years ago it might not have been so grand.

An hour later he trudged out, depressed anew. Only two churches left. Of course, there were other port towns he could try. But a feeling of defeat dogged his steps as he retrieved his horse and started up the granite-paved street.

A half hour later he decided that St. Jerome’s was as far a cry from St. Andrew’s as he could have found, A small, beaten-down church, its stone walls were blackened with moss, its sagging roof jagged with loosened slates.

Marsh tried to picture it thirty years ago, how it might have looked to a simple country lass, her view of the world colored by the love she felt for the man at her side. Damn Cameron Byrde! He had not deserved her love, nor that of his second wife and subsequent child.

He was weary and frustrated, so when the graying priest answered the door to the rectory himself, Marsh was less cordial than he should be. “I would like to examine your parish records of marriage,” he said without preamble. “I’m willing to pay for the privilege.”

The old priest blinked in surprise. “I…ah…I was just sitting down with a cup of tea. But…ah…come in. Come in.” He stepped back and gestured Marsh into a neat but rather shabby little parlor. “Will you join me, Mr…. Mr…?”

Marsh whipped off his hat, immediately chagrined at his poor manners. “MacDougal. Marshall MacDougal. And thank you for the offer,” he added, glancing around as he entered. No fire in the grate. One cup on the small tray, with only a single biscuit beside it. “Thank you, but I’ve already intruded enough on your tea. I wouldn’t think of disturbing you any more than I must.”

At least his donation here would be more useful than in those other, more prosperous parishes.

“Ah, but it’s not intrusion, my son. Indeed, I welcome the company. I am Father Paterson,” he added. “And I’ve been at St. Jerome’s for many a year. Now, whose marriage records do you seek to find?”

The small, low-ceilinged office was as crammed with books and artifacts as the parlor was clean of them. Father Paterson lit a lamp and, after dusting off first this shelf, then that, he finally tugged out an old volume bound in well-worn burlap. The letters on the spine, barely legible, read,
1754 to 1805
.

Marsh stared at the ledger wobbling before him in the old priest’s trembling hands, and for a long moment he could not reach for it. A sudden fear of the truth gripped him, and though he knew there were other churches in other ports still to search, he was nonetheless afraid of what he would learn in this book. It made no sense at all, and after a moment he shook his head, chasing that cold feeling away. He took the book, then rested it on the cluttered table beside the lamp.

The entries were carefully made, long rows with names, ages, places of birth and current residences. Marsh looked up at the silently hovering old man. “How long have you been here?”

The skinny fellow smiled and pointed to the page in front of Marsh, where a crisp upright penmanship gave way to a slanted flourishing one. “Right here. April 1793. Almost thirty-five years now, though we’ve not nearly so many marriages these days as we used to. My flock is mostly past marryin’ age, you see, and…”

Marsh didn’t hear the rest of the priest’s words. He couldn’t, for the sudden thudding of his heart and subsequent roaring of blood in his ears precluded any other sound. He stared at the carefully inscribed names, third line down from the top.

The date blurred and Marsh had to blink to clear his eyes.

September 15, 1796. Six months before he was born.

He looked up, conscious of the very real feeling that something in his chest was constricting. His mother had stood here, probably in this very room, just as he now did. She’d stood here beside Cameron Byrde, both of them aware of the child they’d conceived within her. She’d stood here and pledged herself to a man she loved, a man who’d said his vows with no intentions of keeping them.

How long until he’d sent her off alone on that ship bound for America?

How many lies had he said to her to convince her to go on to America without him?

Marsh looked up at the priest, who gazed at him now with a faint smile on his lined face.

“Have you found what you were searching for?”

Marsh nodded. “Did you…did you marry them?”

The priest bent and, squinting, read the line pointed to. “I must have, for that’s my entry.”

“Do you remember them?”

The priest continued to stare at the entry as if some image from the past might rise up from the page to remind him. But when his faded eyes lifted to meet Marsh’s, the answer was clear.

“’Twas a long time ago, laddie. I’m sorry. Did you say you were a MacDougal like her?”

Marsh couldn’t answer right away, not aloud.
Yes, I am related to her. I am a MacDougal, just like her. And I always will be
. In that moment, with the proof of his legitimacy staring up at him, confirming his right to claim Byrde as his true name, Marsh vowed never to use that name again. Never.