“Thank you, my lord. How did you know about that? It looks like those ladies all have something to hide.”
“Oh, they do,” Jonathan confirmed. “Now, I am a man who knows many of these things. I do not spread gossip myself, but I listen and observe. By the way, while it may not be the wisest idea, I’m glad you got some air here, air without all those patrolling men in your courtyard.”
“So, you know. Has he talked to you?”
“He seems very occupied.” Jonathan’s face softened. She did not want his pity, either, but she was grateful for his intervention. “Let me escort the three of you back to Hawksford House.”
“Your carriage?”
“I will follow yours.”
When they arrived at Hawksford House, the foyer seemed larger than usual, cavernous even. It also felt cold, even though Victoria knew the fires in most rooms were always tended.
“I don’t think he’s here,” Victoria said.
“I should go then,” Jonathan said softly. “I will return once Richard is here. He’s a fool for doing this. Whatever this is. There are dark circles around your eyes, and you had to walk in Hyde Park without him. That is not right.”
Victoria merely nodded. She did not trust herself to speak.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“What in the world?” Richard exclaimed against the biting cold of the journey he was undertaking from London to Dartmoor.
The trip would normally take a week one way, but the duke was desperate for answers. He was also not in the right frame of mind. He thought that the cold would at least awaken the dark recesses of his mind, and so riding hard on horseback instead of going by carriage was more of a self-flagellation.
Even in the frigid cold, Victoria’s face still sometimes materialized in his troubled mind. She looked shocked, then heartbroken. However, afterward, she had looked numb as if she was accepting who he really was. It hurt to think that she had made the quick conclusion, but he was aware that it was his fault.
The fourth day was nearing its end when he finally reached Dartmoor. He had to find a small village called Widecombe inthe Moor. The gravestones could be found near the church of St. Pancras. There, he’d find Cecilia Weston-Abernathy’s grave next to her husband’s, Thomas’s.
First, though, he scanned the place. It was beautiful in its own way, Medieval in style and atmosphere. The church seemed to be the anchor, with the graves sprawled to its side. There, he could explore the graves and also talk to the priest in charge of the parish.
“Someone came all the way here to dismantle my lie,” Richard muttered.
He was alone, and it made sense to talk to himself in what felt like desolation. He did spy perhaps two people walking from the graves to the rest of the village, where the rest of the population most likely was. The place had more than a thousand people, enough for a thriving village. If he walked a few more yards from the church, he’d hear the noise coming from a bustling community. However, the church itself on a weekday provided an eerie backdrop.
Richard entered the church, hoping to find the priest. The interior was surprisingly airy for its size, thanks to its large windows. The design was Gothic, and the architecture was made possible by local granite. The parish might look imposing and grand, but he spied many things that needed fixing. As he let his senses take over, he realized that the damp smell, the slipping roof, and the growing ivy on the walls were enough justification for more donations.
He didn’t have to look further for the priest, it seemed. A man was hunched over in one of the pews, his thin hair illuminated by the late afternoon sunlight.
“Father Miller? Is that you?” Richard asked.
His voice was low, but it sounded louder in the silence of the church. His words rolled, and there seemed to be an overlap in them that felt a little disconcerting. He dismissed it as a sign that he had spent too much time in London.
“Y-yes? Good day to you,” the priest stammered, rising from his seat and wiping his palms on his rough and threadbare cassock. “Who is asking, my lord? We don’t have much to offer a gentleman of your stature here. The best we can provide you is the vicarage, and even if it might not suit you.”
“I do not care for such things, vicar. I am here for a very important reason that had me traveling for days on horseback. Exhausted as I am, I will take any accommodation before I go on my way once more.”
He had stayed at small, dingy inns along the way. He did not mind anymore.
“My lord, you still have not mentioned your name,” the vicar reminded him.
“Apologies, Vicar. I am the Duke of Hawksford, Richard Weston,” he replied, stepping closer. He saw the vicar’s eyesslightly widen, and his throat bobbed. “I believe you recently had a visitor. Lord Penwike or a representative of his. Someone had offered you a dirty coin to release private records on my cousin, Lady Cecilia Abernathy.”
“Your Grace, I—I don’t know the name. Our population may be healthy for a village, but we rarely get visitors from the outside,” Miller stuttered, his face looking pale. His fingers twitched around a black book, presumably a small bible or a missal.
Richard tried his best not to exhale sharply, as there was a strong urge to do so. He could not believe a man of God would be lying to him right inside the church, while standing on the foundation of his parish. He breathed in once more to ease the roaring anger rising in him.
“There’s no need for lies when I know the truth,” Richard said. “I know what a lie looks like. It burns to the surface, especially for good men who are only trying what it’s like for the first time. You sold my family’s burial records, and not for a good reason, either. The records were used to destroy an infant’s life before it even began. Perhaps you were only trying to help reveal the truth in exchange for silver, thinking there could be nothing wrong with such a trade. However, I will tell you now how the information was used for warfare, the truth to support lies!”
