“I have had that honor. I was playing with her when she defeated Lord and Lady Orpington. Good players. They had been the reigning champions.”
She thought of what Lady Orpington had said about her husband’s health beginning to fail during those games. Had Reverend Denburn sat quietly and not offered help to an obviously ill man? If so, he wasn’t what she would consider a true servant of the Lord.
So she pushed. “Can you tell me why Lady Middlebury refuses to let anyone play this year? It is as if she has banned cards of any sort.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “You can play charades, that sort of thing. I also hear the young people wish a dance. The marchioness will even be inviting a few prominent parish families to attend. Nothing like a Colemore country dance to stir the blood.”
“But whist?” Gwendolyn pressed. She would think Lady Middlebury would prefer her annual card game over a dance that included locals to increase the number of young people.
Reverend Denburn made a sonorous sound as if considering what he should say before sharing. “Lady Middlebury has had a difficult year. You saw her husband last night. He was—” He paused as if debating a word.
“Slightly erratic?” Beckett suggested.
“He’s always been that. He didn’t weather the death of his brother well, even though it has been decades. Then Death kept knocking.”
“What do you mean?” Gwendolyn asked, wishing to hear the reverend’s knowledge of all that had happened.
“Nothing untoward. After his brother, his brother’s wife and young son drowned. Did you hear of it?”
“No,” Beckett lied for both of them.
“Sad story. He fell into the river, and she died trying to save him. I wasn’t here back then, but I’ve heard stories. I also have a sense,” he continued, warming to his topic, “that last year’s death of his good friend Lord Orpington stirred up old memories. None of us wish to be reminded of our own mortality. Then again, Lord Middlebury has always been—well, let us say the responsibilities of the estate have rested heavy on his shoulders.”
“You have known him long?” Gwendolyn wondered.
“Ever since I took the livelihood here some twenty-five years ago. I met Lady Middlebury first. We are distant cousins. She’s been very good to me. To my whole family.”
“She seems nothing but kindness,” Gwendolyn agreed perfunctorily. “So, I don’t understand why she wouldn’t let her very good friend Lady Orpington play whist.”
He clasped his hands. “What can I say? She is our hostess. Must be going. I shall see you at breakfast if you hurry.” On that note, he left the church.
Gwendolyn had, of course, been hoping for more. She looked to Beckett. “He’s not a deepthinker.” She was quiet a moment and then she said, “What I don’t understand is how Lady Middlebury can be so petty as to deny her childhood friend a chance to play her favorite game and win back her title?”
“You ask a question when you already have the answer. Yes,” Beckett said as if it was obvious, “she also took advantage of her childhood friend’s husband’s ill health.Pettyis a nice description. Of course, Lady Orpington is not letting this go gracefully. They are both like two dogs with one bone.”
Gwendolyn nodded. “Something is terribly wrong here. I mean, her behavior is—” She paused, tapped the book, and then she tried a different tack. “If we were talking about my cousin Richard, who took over the family house by declaring our father dead, then I could see such manipulations. But Beckett, these people, all of them, have too much money to be greedy.” She frowned. “Don’t they?”
“Greed doesn’t have a social class. Then again, Gwendolyn, what if my memories of a murder are true? Winstead, the murderer, was the marquess’s man. I don’t believe he acted independently. If that is true, they risk losing it all. Now, back to the book.”
They returned to their search.
And there it was—the third of May 1786, a boy was born to “Marquess and Marchioness of Middlebury.” To Gwendolyn’s disappointment, no name was recorded.
“The third of May,” Beckett said. “I’ve a birthdate.”
“And you are thirty-one, just as you’d thought.”
On the same page was the entry of the child’s father’s death. That writing appeared bleak and somber. The marquess died on the tenth of September 1786.
Gwendolyn stared at those entries. “He only had a few months with his son.”
“But no name for the child.”
“Let us look at the christenings.” Gwendolyn turned to the back of the registry, where the baptisms were recorded.
Beckett leaned against her as if anxious for the information. He ran his finger down a few more lines. “Robert Ellicott Dumas William Chaytor, christened on the seventh of May 1786.” Beneath his name were the signatures of his godparents, Lord Walter and Lady Chaytor. Walter was the marquess’s given name.
His uncle, his godfather, had his mother murdered?
