“But . . .” Mr. Dowrey moistened his lips and wrung his hands together. “But why?”
There were several answers he could give. Because I don’t need the money. Because you’re poor. Because you worried about me for twenty-five years. Because your wife cried when I came back. “Because you’re family,” Alexander said.
Chapter Fifteen
Alexander had thought Eliza Menhennick’s house grim when he’d arrived, but when he left he no longer thought that. It was still gray and sharp-gabled, but he could now see that its lines were handsome. It looked like a house that had been hibernating for a long time, waiting for happiness and prosperity to return to it.
He tucked the sketch more firmly under his arm and asked, “Where’s Eliza Menhennick buried?”
“Not far,” Georgiana said. “Five minutes’ walk.”
The church was larger than the one in Lansallos and there were many more graves, but Georgiana led the way without hesitation. Miss Menhennick had been buried in the same plot as her parents, her name appended to their headstone. Eliza Grace Menhennick, b. Oct. 23rd, 1731, d. Dec 5th, 1789.
Alexander stood silently for a moment, gazing at the inscription, wishing he could remember the woman. “Where’s Polglaze now?” he asked.
“Dead. In a pauper’s grave in London.”
“Did she steal much from Miss Menhennick?”
Georgiana’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Two silver teaspoons that are in Tavistock,” she said. “A silver hairbrush that’s in Exeter. A silver tea caddy that’s in Basingstoke. Some coins that are in pockets all over England. And you.”
Alexander looked back at the grave and studied the dates. Eliza Menhennick had only been fifty-eight when she died. “Did Polglaze . . . do you think she might have killed Miss Menhennick?”
Both Dalrymple and Georgiana looked at him sharply.
There was a moment of silence. Alexander heard a cart rattle past in the street. Then Lord Dalrymple said, “Georgiana, where is the person who killed Eliza Menhennick?”
Georgiana shook her head. “There isn’t anyone.”
“Where’s the person who harmed her before she died?”
Georgiana shook her head again. “There isn’t anyone.”
“Where did Eliza Menhennick die?”
“In her bed.”
Alexander was relieved. He tried to piece together what had happened all those years ago. “Miss Menhennick didn’t trust Polglaze, so she hid her valuables, and when she died Polglaze took what she could find, which wasn’t much.” He thought about this for a moment. “Maybe that’s why Polglaze took me?” Would he have been left behind if the maid had been able to steal Eliza’s jewels? “Did she sell me? Or did she just abandon me?” He rephrased it as a question Georgiana could answer: “Where is the person Polglaze sold me to?”
“Dead, in Exeter.”
“Where’s the chimney sweep I was found with?”
“Dead in Exeter.” Georgiana slipped her hand into his. “It’s the same person, Vic. Polglaze sold you to him.”
Alexander gave an inward shiver. He stared at the dates on the gravestone again. Eliza Menhennick had died in December and Leonard St. Clare had found him in February. He knew the exact date: February sixteenth, 1790. The day he’d stopped being Charley Prowse and become Alexander St. Clare.
He looked at Eliza’s headstone for a long time, Georgiana’s hand warm in his, Lord Dalrymple standing silently beside them, and then there came a moment when he inhaled deeply, a breath that seemed like a new beginning. He lifted his head and looked around and spied a bench by the church. “Let’s sit over there.”
They sat side by side. Alexander laid the sketch on his lap. The low sunshine cast reflections on the glass—he couldn’t see his parents’ faces—but he didn’t need to. “You were right,” he told Georgiana. “It’s true that I’m Charley Prowse, but it’s also true that I’m Alexander St. Clare.” He smoothed his hand over the glass, arranging things in his mind in the order they needed to be done, the way he did when his stewards and men of business brought problems to him. “Here’s what I plan to do. First, I’d like to stay here a day or two, hire some servants for the Dowreys, get those guineas safely into a bank. I don’t want anyone taking advantage of them.”
Dalrymple nodded, as if he approved of this.
“Second, I want to go back to Lansallos and tell Bill Kernow who I am.”
Dalrymple nodded again. Georgiana smiled, and tucked her hand into his.
“And then I want to go home to Thornycombe, because even though I’m Charley Prowse, I’m more Alexander St. Clare.” His memories were all Alexander’s. The little he had of Charley were other people’s recollections, a pocket watch and a coral necklace and a sketch. And a fear of the dark.
“I don’t want to hide that I’m Charley, but I don’t want to tell anyone, either. It’s . . .” Alexander tried to find the right word and came up with: “Private.” Which didn’t quite encompass it, but came close.
He looked down at the sketch again. “I think . . . in a way I’ve been lucky.” He’d been loved by Martha and Joe Prowse. Loved by Eliza Menhennick. Loved by Leonard St. Clare. “Not many people have had so many parents as I have.”
Bill Kernow had wanted to be his father, too. And Lord Dalrymple almost was. He remembered Dalrymple on the clifftop road that morning, calling him a damn fool boy and then hugging him tightly.
Alexander lifted his gaze from the sketch and looked at Georgiana.
He’d discovered a great many things about himself in the past week, but he’d discovered almost as much about Georgiana. She had secrets as profoundly life changing as his own: the magic running through her family, the magic running through her.
But for all that he’d learned about her, one thing remained unchanged. He loved her. He would always love her.
He lifted Georgiana’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “And as soon as we’re home I’m going to marry you.”
Afterwards
The wedding of Alexander St. Clare, Duke of Vickery, and the Honorable Georgiana Dalrymple was held on the second Sunday in October. The church was full to bursting; everyone in Eype parish wanted to witness their duke marry their viscount’s daughter.
In the front pew, alongside Lord and Lady Dalrymple, were three guests no one recognized: a smiling old fellow with a broad Cornish accent, and an elderly gentleman and his wife. When someone asked who they were, the duke replied: “They’re family.”
The Duke of Vickery had eight estates and a mansion in London, so the bridal tour took several months, but once it was over the Vickerys chose to make Thornycombe their home. They liked the long shingly beaches and the cliffs and the wide skies and clear light.
The duke’s bill for candles became less than it had been. His valet started leaving only one candle burning in the ducal bedchamber overnight. Vickery steeled himself to dispense with it altogether, but his wife told him that she liked to see him when they made love, so the candle stayed. Whenever the duke woke in the middle of the night he was deeply glad for that candle, because he really didn’t like the dark.