The vicar sank back into the bench, a sob released from his throat.
“Your Grace, I was in a bind. The roof was falling. It is still slipping, but I have managed to pay enough money to ensure itdoes not completely fall. The rest of the money went on more church improvements, such as making repairs at the bell tower. Some went to feed the children. None of the purse was used to support me personally. I knew it was wrong, but the heart of it was to save the church.”
Anger still roiled in Richard’s veins. However, some of what was directed towards the vicar was starting to transfer to Penwike, who exploited a desperate man. He knew when and how to strike. He could not help but acknowledge the cold intellect that his nemesis possessed.
“It is not a miracle to make improvements from dirty money,” the duke groused, even as he tried to level his emotions. “His money was also not enough to completely transform your church. Would you like enough coin for a miracle?”
“A miracle?” the vicar asked, looking genuinely confused.
“Yes, a miracle,” Richard replied, reaching into his coat to withdraw a large purse and dropping it onto the bench next to the vicar.
It was clear what the contents of the purse were by how they clinked when they hit wood. The duke knew that the amount would more than triple the one that the marquess gave, based on what it could purchase.
“I am not asking you to change the burial records of Cecilia Abernathy,” Richard said. “That is already there. It is the truth. However, I want you to add information to the baptismalregister for a Melody Weston-Abernathy. Record that Cecilia managed to bring his infant daughter to be baptized before she died.”
“B-but that entry would be -,” Miller stammered, looking conflicted. His eyes looked at the purse and back at the duke.
“Nothing more than a late entry,” Richard added. “It happens with baptism, the information is scribbled somewhere else in a little book, waiting to be transferred to the official ledgers. Isn’t that particularly common?”
The vicar hung his head and admitted with a nod, “Yes, it has happened a few times before. I had many things on my mind.”
“You did have many things on your mind. The repairs. Strange men coming to you for information,” the duke narrated. “Take the purse. This parish deserves to be revived, and the child deserves to live a peaceful life.”
The vicar reached for the purse, finally, and placed it in the pocket of his cassock. Then, he walked to where the records were, Richard assumed. So, he followed closely behind. He wanted to see the ink dry for himself.
Father Miller opened the leather-bound register. It was heavy, but his trembling movements made it seem even heavier. He found the baptismal section and wrote Melody’s name on a space appropriate for her age. It had gone so quiet that the only sound Richard could hear was the scratching of the quill on paper.
Melody Weston-Abernathy, daughter of Thomas Abernathy and Cecilia Weston Abernathy …
Richard watched the ink soak into the page, solidifying Melody’s place in his family’s fabricated history. It was a crime. If they were to be discovered, both he and Miller would be stripped of their titles and positions. However, he could not bring himself to feel guilty about the act. The ink was not just forgery, but also protection for the little girl that he had come to care about. It was giving the child a steadier future, one without ridicule.
Both the duke and the vicar waited for the ink to dry before the book was closed. After he heard the definitive thud, Richard let out an exhale. It was done.
“This never happened, Vicar,” Richard declared, meeting Miller’s gaze. “If Penwike or any of his men return, or even if the authorities do, you will show them the book. Do not speak of my visit here. Know that I only did this to protect a child. I would not have done so otherwise.”
“I understand, Your Grace,” the vicar said, nodding fervently. “I have not seen anyone but ghosts as of late, and the villagers on Sundays. W-would you like a place to sleep in for tonight?”
“I just need a nap, Vicar. Then, I will leave before the break of dawn,” Richard said, after some consideration.
He was still thrumming with the success of his mission, but he needed his strength to journey back. A carriage ride was tiresome enough, but doing so on horseback was exhausting.
After a few hours’ rest, he slipped out of the vicarage and untied his horse. He climbed on the animal, as they considered going south this time. He hoped to go faster if the weather was fine and the horse was able.
For now, Richard had won a small victory.
But soon, London would remind him of the larger defeat: how he had lost his wife.
Chapter Thirty
Meanwhile, Victoria was startled from her depression by the arrival of family members she almost forgotten she could lean on.
Wallowing in her sorrow in her room was difficult. However, pretending to be hopeful around her family members was much worse. She had been in her usual haunts—her bedroom, the library, the drawing room, and the nursery—spreading gloom throughout. It was almost like she was no longer the Victoria who loved climbing trees, running in the gardens, and riding horses. She was no longer Vicky, but the discarded Duchess of Hawksford. Perhaps there should be a title like that.
“Vicky! We’ve missed you. I hope you can forgive us for not sending word that we were coming,” Daphne cried, as she enveloped her twin in a tight embrace.
“Stop bumping me with your belly!” Victoria complained, only half-annoyed.
She had to admit that the drawing room felt less like a crypt with Daphne and Wilhelmina coming to visit her. Even Daniel’s somber look added more color to her home. They brought her a few treats, which Victoria grabbed with glee like the little girl she was.
