Telford was an intelligent chap. It only took him three steps to let loose a grunt of understanding. “You mean to test Beth’s theory that Prince Rupert married an island girl.”
“If he did, a clergyman would have presided. There’d be a record.” It might take them nowhere. But it was a lead he could follow here on Tresco.
And since he didn’t fancy another swim quite yet, leads on Tresco sounded like just the thing.
10
Beth had grown up with a vicar for an uncle, and now for a brother. But never did she imagine that it would result in their library table being completely covered with every parish record able to be dug up. Which, given the long history of the isles, meant a considerable stack of manuscripts, books, and ledgers.
Even so, they knew what range of dates they were looking for, and there were plenty of them to do the looking. They ought to have found the answer by now. But it had taken approximately forever for Oliver and Uncle Mark to unearth the key to whatever cupboard the old records were stored in, and then rain had blown in, and they hadn’t wanted to transport them until it had passed. Then they’d had to eat, and they had only been at work for an hour before Sheridan succumbed to his headache again and retired, and the rest of them had stopped, too, out of sympathy. And because those old books smelled so strongly of mold that they were all getting headaches.
Which meant that here it was, midday on Saturday, and they were still paging through texts between sneezes—though at least the long stretches of time had given Senara ample opportunity to organize and assign. They’d come in today and found a nice little chart telling who to read what.
Beth scanned yet another faded list of births and deaths. Some of the dates were impossible to make out, but the ones she could be certain of said 1646. Close. They didn’t know exactly what year to look for, but it ought to be sometime between 1648, when Mucknell returned to the Scillies after prowling the waters around Ireland for a while, and 1650, when he and Prince Rupert left English waters for a term in Portugal and Spain before going to the Caribbean. Any line could be the one that held the linchpin to her theory.
Beside her, Emily dragged the church’s cupboard key in a slow circle, her eyes moving back and forth across another page. “Here’s a Kerinda and a Robert in 1651. Rupert is a form of Robert.”
“A year too late, though,” Sheridan said from his chair on the opposite side of the table. “Mucknell and Rupert were in Portugal by then and would soon be on their way to the Caribbean.”
“And if we consider every Robert, we’ll never be able to narrow it down,” Oliver added.
Beth forced her eyes back to the pages Senara had assigned to her, but her gaze kept wanting to drift to Sheridan. His bruises were even worse today, though the swelling around his nose was finally going down. He didn’t have full black eyes, but the smudges still looked awful. And must feel even worse.
And clearly the blow had knocked something loose in his head for him to have spouted that nonsense yesterday. What had he meant, he wasn’t going to propose? Why would he have? They barely knew each other.
And she certainly wasn’t the prettiest girl in England. Nor would she ever spend a decade begging him for anything, most especially “another chance.” He was mad, that was all. The only possible explanation.
Or Senara was right, and he was sweet on her. Which may in fact explain his otherwise inexplicable fixation with her having flirted with Scofield before she knew he was Scofield.
She sucked in a long breath and blew it slowly out. All her self-lectures on grace should have been more diligently applied. She felt like an utter heel when she looked at his mottled face and considered that he’d only earned the bruises because he’d been trying to rescue her. Spurred on by jealousy over her.
It was rather sweet, really. At least if one ignored the fact that he was still holding her trinket box hostage. No one had ever exchanged fisticuffs for her sake before. A bit brutish . . . and a complete failure . . . but sweet.
The mold was clearly getting to her. She sat back in her chair and rubbed at her eyes, which prompted Emily to do the same.
“You know what this reminds me of?” A ghost of a smile on her lips, Emily twirled the key in her fingers now. “Etiquette class at the academy, where we had to recite that endless list of titles from the peerage. Creation, extant, or extinct. So many names and dates.”
Beth chuckled, following the movement of the iron with her tired gaze. “I had to tell myself stories about them to remember them.” But she already had the story for the records she was looking for now. Just not the names.
Clearly as weary of eye as she was, Emily stared at the key too. “It’s pretty, isn’t it? Old keys are so much more interesting than the modern ones. All the scrollwork on the handle end. Almost looks like jewelry—and I suppose they were worn as such, back in the day. Grandmama still has an old chatelaine that’s a true work of art.”
“Mm.” The church’s key was indeed lovely, that scrollwork looking nearly shamrock shaped. “There’s a box of keys in the attic to all the old trunks and chests. I loved to look through them as a girl just because they were so interesting. And because Senara had a necklace with a lovely old key for a pendant.”
From her place at the table, Senara flashed her a smile. She was taking her newly appointed role as organizer quite seriously and had even joked that there’d be a ruler for the knuckles of anyone shirking their duties. Though with a check of her watch, Senara stood up now rather than lecture her and Em about chattering during their work. “If you all can carry on without me for a few minutes, I promised Mam I’d help with the bread.”
Oliver chuckled. “I daresay we can stay on task without you for a while.”
Senara sent him a playful scowl. “If not, we’ll just have to tell Mabena to bring her schoolmaster here to keep you all in line.”
Oliver snorted. He and Casek Wearne may be on better terms than ever in their lives, but no one was exactly surprised when Mabena had opted to spend much of her time with him at his family’s home or her parents’ rather than here. “Try it and I’ll put all these records away in protest.”
Senara laughed her way toward the door. “Not until I say so, Ollie. Keep at it. I’ll be back soon.”
Beth sneaked another glance across the table. By all rights, Sheridan’s eyes ought to be more tired than the rest of theirs—he’d been at it this morning long before anyone else joined him. But then, he seemed to be more accustomed to digging through dusty old parchment than anyone else in the room. He had rocked his chair onto the back two legs and was currently holding a page up toward the window.
Had he really been thinking of proposing to her? After a mere week’s acquaintance? It couldn’t possibly be. She’d been nothing but rude to him. And he was a marquess. She was hardly a suitable match for him, which his sisters really were likely to point out if ever they met.
His chair came back down on all fours with a loud smack, and he shook the page in his hands. “I may have it. Mayday, 1650. A wedding recorded. Briallen Carew to R. Simmern.”
Beth, much like Telford and Oliver and Libby and Emily, just stared at him. Telford then waved a hand in the air. Apparently that meant “more information, please” in whatever language it was those two spoke.