The church lay less than a mile away, in the tiny village of Lansallos. It was built of the same gray stone as the farmhouse Vickery had been born in and stood on a slight rise. The headstones were gray, too, some of them illegible with age, covered with lichen, tilting. Joe and Martha Prowse’s headstone was legible, but its message was brief:
Joseph Prowse, aged 27, d. April 4th, 1789
Dora Prowse, infant, d. April 6th, 1789
Martha Prowse, aged 23, d. April 7th, 1789
Rest In Peace
Georgie’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back, but they returned. Her eyes stung and her nose stung and her throat was tight. She groped for her handkerchief, blew her nose, wiped her eyes.
How did Vickery feel seeing this? A tragedy, baldly engraved on a headstone. The deaths of his father, his sister, his mother.
She wiped her eyes again and looked at him. His face was taut, jaw tightly clenched again. He hadn’t reached for his handkerchief, but there were tears on his cheeks.
Georgie wanted to put her arms around him and hug him, but instinct told her that that wasn’t what Vickery wanted right now.
She exchanged a glance with her father. They both stepped back, leaving Vickery standing alone at his family’s grave.
Georgie took hold of her father’s arm and hugged it tightly. His hand came to rest over hers, comforting.
When they were out of earshot, she whispered, “This is harder than I thought it would be.”
“Yes,” her father said quietly. “It is.”
They strolled silently for several minutes. The churchyard felt peaceful—the sunshine, the lush grass, the trees, the gray headstones. The church itself was small, but surprisingly handsome, with beautiful arched windows and a tower.
“Shall we go inside?” her father suggested.
The church was cool and silent and even more beautiful inside than it was outside—the wide, arching windows with their carved stone mullions, the fine wagon-roof ceiling, the oak pews with their carved bench ends.
“Tudor,” her father said, resting his hand on the back of one of the pews.
The church had a feeling of age to it, and it also had the same peaceful feeling as the graveyard. Georgie found herself wondering if Vickery had been christened here. She rephrased that question in her mind—Where was Charley Prowse christened?—and her gift gave her the answer.
She led her father to the font. It was large and square and made of stone, with a wooden cover. “Norman,” her father said, running his fingers over the carved stone.
“Vic was christened here,” Georgie said, and wondered if the date had been recorded anywhere. “Oh!” She lifted her head and turned swiftly, crossing the nave, moving almost blindly, not seeing with her eyes but with her gift.
“The parish register,” she said, bringing the book back to her father. The register was large and leather-bound. “Vic’s christening is recorded in here. And his birth.” She laid the register on the font and carefully opened it, turned a few pages, seeing dates and names inscribed in spiky black handwriting, and then closed it again. “I think we should wait for Vic.”
Vickery joined them ten minutes later. His cheeks were now dry, but his face was still taut, still tight.
“You were christened here,” Georgie told him. “In this font. And look, the church register. I thought . . . would you like to see the entries about you?”
He nodded, but didn’t speak.
Georgie carefully opened the pages. There was no need to search; her gift told her where each entry was. She found his parents’ wedding first, in February of 1784. Fifteen months later came his birth—Charles Prowse, May 18th, 1785—followed by his christening. Twenty-one months after that, his sister’s birth. And lastly, the three deaths.
Vickery read the entries silently. He didn’t speak. He looked as if he couldn’t speak, as if his throat was so choked with emotion that speech was impossible.
Georgie turned back to the entry recording his birth. Charles Prowse, May 18th, 1785. “You’re four months younger than we thought.”
Vickery made no reply to this comment.
She glanced at him, saw the tightness of his jaw, the moisture bright in his eyes, and said, “Have a look through the register, Vic. Take as long as you like. Father and I will wait outside in the sun.”
At the door, she looked back. Some trick of perspective made Vickery look very alone—the arched roof, the long nave, his solitary figure. She wanted to catch up her skirts and run back to him and say fiercely, You’re not alone, Vic.
Her father held the door open for her. Georgie cast one last, anxious glance at Vickery and stepped outside. She blinked in the sudden, bright sunshine and released her breath in a sigh. “Poor Vic.”
“Let’s see if we can find some accommodation in the village,” her father said. “He’s had enough for one day. Liskeard can wait.”
“The aunt in Liskeard is dead,” Georgie told him.
“Is she?” Her father sighed, too. “Well, we’ll tackle that tomorrow.”
Chapter Nine
Alexander was used to having many demands made on him. It came with being a duke. He had eight estates, each with tenants and employees, and although he had secretaries and men of business and bailiffs and stewards, ultimately all decisions rested with him. And if it was the Duke of Vickery’s responsibility to foster his estates, it was Alexander St. Clare’s purpose to bring an end to child labor. He’d written letters and given speeches, had campaigned and petitioned, had forged ahead, every month a little closer to his goal.
His days had been filled with things that needed to be done but he’d never had any difficulty holding it all in his head, in deciding what to do first, what second, what third. He’d never felt harried or harassed, never felt overwhelmed.
He felt overwhelmed now. Everything was chaotic in his mind. It was a relief to cede control, to let Lord Dalrymple arrange accommodation in Lansallos, to not have to make any decisions, to be told that this was where they were staying for the night, and that this afternoon they’d do nothing more strenuous than walk down to the cove.
The walking was a relief, too—to be outside, to simply be putting one foot in front of the other, no need to think or talk or make decisions. Not that his brain was silent. I am Charley Prowse. The name went round and round in his head. Charley Prowse. Charley Prowse.
It didn’t feel like his name. Didn’t feel like him.
They followed a cool, shady woodland path with a creek burbling alongside. Alexander walked mechanically, his boots crushing bright yellow celandine flowers. After some time they emerged into sunlight. A tiny part of Alexander’s mind noted that this was a clifftop meadow and that the sea was close by; the rest of his attention was occupied by his new name, his new history, his new family. “The landlord says there’s a cutting that leads down to the cove,” he dimly heard Lord Dalrymple say. “Shall we?”
Alexander didn’t care where they went. I am Charley Prowse. Charley Prowse. He followed the Dalrymples, placing his feet automatically, oblivious to the beauty of the day. The path sloped downward, banks rose on either side, the sky was blotted out, his left shoulder brushed rock, his right shoulder brushed rock—