Gwendolyn began turning pages. “I can’t read anything here. It is too dark, and the writing is very cramped. Or completely illegible.”
“Let us go stand by the door.”
St. Albion’s did not have pews but wooden chairs. They pulled two to the doorway, ignoring the rope to the bell above in the tower. Beckett opened the front door wider. They settled into their chairs, and Gwendolyn reopened the registry.
“Where to start?” he said.
She studied his features, the lines at his eyes from years in the military and squinting into the sun, the masculine maturity of his jaw, his cheekbones, the line of his mouth. “Lord Ellisfield is just over five and thirty, and he told me he remembered the marchioness’s son. How old do you believe you are?”
“Thirty-one. I think. I could be younger or older but, I suspect, by not more than a year or so either way.”
She made a quick calculation. “Let us start at 1783. That gives us a good range to search.” She went to the front of the book. “It starts at 1710.”
“It is a small community.”
She paged through the 1700s, conscious that he leaned toward her, his arm protectively on the back of her chair so he could read over her shoulder. Births were listed with the names of the parents. That was convenient.
“It shouldn’t be hard to find a listing for the Marquess and Marchioness of Middlebury. I imagine they were written with a flourish.”
“It still feels strange to me,” Beck murmured.
“That they are your parents?” she asked, running a finger down a page, lingering on any births and then moving on.
He didn’t answer.
They kept reading.
Ten minutes into their search, she felt Beckett stiffen. He looked out the door. “What is it?” she asked, and then she heard Reverend Denburn’s voice. He was saying something to the warden.
A few moments later, he appeared in the doorway. “Hello, Miss Lanscarr.” He turned to Beckett, who had risen to his feet out of respect. The reverend regarded him a moment and then said, “I am sorry, sir, I know we’ve been introduced—”
“Nicholas Curran,” Beckett said. “Not a problem. There are a number of guests at Colemore.”
“That there are. More than I have ever seen. Like the old days.”
Gwendolyn placed a finger in the registry to mark the page. She stood. “You have been to several of the Middlebury house parties?”
“Oh, yes. I am one of the disappointed whist players. What brings you to church this early in the morning? Looking for some spiritual guidance?” He chuckled as if he jested.
“I forced him to join me,” Gwendolyn said. She held up the book. “I enjoy genealogy.”
“Do you now? Are you searching for anyone in particular?”
Gwendolyn paused. She’d forgotten what they had told Mr. Tucker. However, Beckett was thinking quicker than she was. “My late mother was rumored to be from this village. Or somewhere in Kent. Miss Lanscarr is helping me in the search.”
“Family is very important,” Reverend Denburn said solemnly. He had a double chin that made him seem older than he probably was. “Well, search away. I hope you find something in your perusal.”
“We shall put the registry back on its stand when we are finished,” Beckett said respectfully.
“Yes, please do. All right. I’m on my way to breakfast with the marchioness and her guests. Will I see you there?”
“Hopefully,” Beckett answered. “I’m famished.”
“As am I,” Gwendolyn said. The reverendstarted to turn, but then she realized she had another question for him. “Reverend?”
He stopped, looked back at her.
“You have been the marchioness’s whist partner in the past, correct?”
