“A phaeton is hardly a gig. This is a most uncomfortable conveyance.” Davina kept gripping the edges of the seat so she would not bounce around. Because when she did, she bounced closer to him, he had no incentive to slow down.
“What an impractical carriage for the country,” she complained.
“I think Roberts indulged himself. It is far more fun to drive than a little gig.”
He glanced over whenever the road permitted it. Her blond hair swung beside her cheek and her blue eye sparkled with her spirited good humor. Despite her objections, she was enjoying herself. The brisk breeze caused her face to flush, and he thought she looked very lovely.
It went without saying that he would take her to the parish church. Not only because he needed to hear what she heard and see what she saw, but also because he enjoyed her company. There was another reason, perhaps the most important one, however. Should she start prying into the events surrounding the fire, he wanted to distract her. He did not doubt there were rumors about that night. Some might even be true.
He would prefer she did not learn about it. Ever, and certainly not now, here, in the shadows of that ruin. No one could hear that story and think well of him. He realized her opinion of him had come to matter.
“Ah, that must be it,” she said, pointing to the small stone structure up a short lane to their left.
He slowed and turned the carriage. Inside a stone fence, he stopped, stepped out, tied the horse and helped her down.
A smaller building flanked the church. An old man came out of it. He wore the clothes a farmer might, loose trousers and a linen shirt and a long frock coat many years old. He placed a low crowned hat on his white hair and approached them.
“Are you the vicar?” Davina asked.
“No vicar here. Just me. If you’ve come to marry, you’ll have a properly ordained Church of Scotland minister not some vicar.” His light blue eyes peered from a face so wrinkled it looked like crushed parchment. “Are you Brentworth?”
“Yes, he is,” Davina said. “How did you know?”
The old man chortled. “Well now, that is the silly carriage from the big house, and this one is looking a lot like a lord, so I just guessed. Been a while since you’ve been in these parts, Your Grace.”
“Yes.”
The priest looked at Davina. “Man of few words.”
She nodded. “We have come to look at the parish records. To see if there is any information about the barons or their families in them. The ones before . . .” She made a vague gesture toward the current owner. “The Scot ones, I mean.”
“Come in, then. I’ll pull out the books and you can look all you want. There’s probably at least a few marriages noted and whatnot else. You can use my dinner table.” He turned and walked inside with the careful, slow steps of the aged.
Brentworth followed Davina into the little cottage. Stone like the church, already it held the damp of winter. A low fire burned in a large fireplace. The whole lower level was one big chamber, with the dinner table close to the hearth. Beams overhead made for a low ceiling, and he had to duck to avoid hitting his head.
He sat beside Davina. The priest placed two very fat, large books in front of them. From the condition of the leather binding, it was easy to see which was more recent. He opened that one and saw thatrecentmeant it began in 1685. “This is the one we need.”
She leaned over so they both could read the pages in the overcast light. The priest brought a candle, which helped, but she still hovered right over his arm, her face no more than five inches from his, her breast all but pressing his side. The impulse to give her soft, luminous cheek a kiss almost overcame him. Only the minister’s presence stopped him. The old man kept looking at Davina.
She paged through, curious.
“We should move forward in time or this will take many hours,” Eric suggested.
“I know. It is just interesting to see these names follow through over the years. I supposed if I had lived here my whole life, I would recognize them as the ancestors of my neighbors.”
It no longer irritated him when she spoke as if she might have lived here her whole life because, of course, she was a descendant of the MacCallums noted on these pages. Thus did desire alter a man’s opinion, he supposed.
She permitted him to find the page for 1730, at which point they examined each notation more carefully. Births, burials, marriages—all received their space, with the marriages showing the signatures of the couple, and some deaths describing causes.
“Here he is. Here is my grandfather. I am sure of it,” she said, her delicate fingernail stopping on a birth notice in 1740. “James MacCallum, born to Michael and Elsbeth on 4 March. Now we know what name to look for, at least.”
“Was he known as James in Northumberland?”
“He was.”
“James MacCallum. It is such a common name.”
“Which is why they did not have to change it.”
