Lord Henry pulled out a chair for Eleanor to sit at the table and silently frowned at her so that she began to eat, or at least crumble a piece of bread on her plate.
‘You are too pale. And I wager you did not break your fast before we left.’ He took a seat opposite, cut a wedge of cheese and added it to the crumbs on her plate, ignoring her objections. ‘I would prefer to deliver you back to your son in one piece and in good health.’ She had lost weight, he thought. Of course she would in the circumstances, food would be her last consideration, but he had to try to do something to help her. When she had looked at the comfortable manor house and the pretty gardens, when she had envisioned Thomas living out a dream there with another woman, it had taken all his will-power not to drag her into his arms and blot out the cruel vision with his own kisses. He tightened his lips in a wave of disgust. So what had he done? Only snarled at her and increased the pain by his vicious words. He lifted his shoulders a little, discomfited by the thought that his command of his emotions when dealing with Eleanor was not as firm as he would like.
He took a mouthful of ale and then, tankard in hand, engaged the hovering landlord, who had returned to the room with a platter of fruit, in casual conversation.
‘We had hoped to visit an acquaintance of ours in the village. Sir Edward Baxendale. We understand that he is from home.’
‘Aye, my lord.’
‘We do not know him very well. Have his family lived here long?’
‘Generations of them, my lord. There’s always been a Baxendale in Whitchurch, at the Great House.’ Mine host, to Lord Henry’s relief, was not reluctant to demonstrate his local knowledge and did not object to their interest in the local gentry.
‘Do you see much of the family?’
‘Quite a bit. With the hunting. And church. And the ladies walk in the village.’
‘Are they well thought of locally?’
‘Aye, my lord. Sir Edward’s open-handed enough and a fair lord of the manor.’
‘I am more acquainted with his sister,’ Eleanor prompted, hoping for enlightenment on Octavia.
‘Aye. Poor girl.’ The innkeeper shook his head in ready sympathy. ‘Not that we see much of her, o’ course. But it can’t be easy for her.’
‘Oh?’ Eleanor looked up enquiringly, hoping to encourage a more detailed comment.
Mine host nodded. ‘What with a baby—growing up he is now—and a husband not long dead. Poor girl. And so pretty. But Sir Edward will ensure that she lacks for nothing—there’ll always be a roof over her head. He’s always been caring of his family.’
‘Of course.’ Eleanor smiled and nodded despite the tight band around her heart. ‘Did you…did you ever meet the lady’s husband before he died?’
‘Don’t know that I did.’ The innkeeper scratched his head. ‘Away from home a lot, as I remember, but the lady had made her home here with her brother.’
‘Has she…has she gone to London with Sir Edward now?’
‘Aye, ma’am. All of them. Saw them myself. And the baby as well. Not to mention the mountain of luggage. Seems like they intend to stay for the Season and the Great House all shut up. Pity you missed them.’
As the innkeeper prepared to return to the public room and leave his guests to eat their luncheon in peace, Lord Henry stopped him.
‘One more matter, sir, if you would be so kind. The Reverend Julius Broughton—is he vicar here?’
‘Aye, my lord. He is. If you wish to speak with him, the vicarage is the house next to the church, set back behind the stand of elms. But you’ll likely find him in the church. They’re burying old Sam Potter from down by the forge. So the Reverend Broughton will be doing the Lord’s work today at least—you can’t turn your back on a funeral if the body’s coffined and waiting at the church door! He’ll be there—at least for today.’
An interesting comment, Henry thought, not sure what to make of it. Or the slight undercurrent in mine host’s voice. Was it dislike? Contempt?
‘Do you know the Reverend well?’
‘Some.’ The innkeeper’s smile was sly as he turned for the door. ‘Some would say more than an innkeeper should! Likes his ale does the Reverend, and fine brandy. And he has a mind to other things many would say as he should not, being a man of the cloth. Some days he’s in the Red Lion more than he’s in the church! Not to mention his comforts at home!’
On which he left them.
With Eleanor’s hand drawn through his arm, held firmly, Lord Henry stepped out of the Red Lion and strolled down the village street in the direction of the church. The village itself was small, not much more than a score of stone cottages at most, the village street merely hard-packed earth with grassy verges, but the church was impressive with solid walls and zigzag carving on the round-headed arches of door and window. When they came to the gabled lych-gate into the churchyard, they discovered that the innkeeper had been accurate in his information. A funeral was in progress with a small knot of mourners in the far corner of the churchyard where the coffin was being lowered into a grave. They could make out the black and white vestments of the Reverend Julius Broughton amongst them, his white surplice and ministerial bands fluttering in the light breeze.
‘We must wait on Samuel Potter for the final time, it seems.’ Henry led Eleanor to a sun-warmed seat beside the church door to wait. It was a tranquil spot, sunlit and restful, only the distant murmur of voices to disturb the silence and the nearer chirp of sparrows which were nesting in the roof above their heads. A tranquil place indeed. But one, Eleanor feared, where she might discover the indisputable evidence that she was not Thomas’s wife, never had been. In this church Thomas could have been joined with Octavia Baxendale in the sight of God. His son named within those sun-warmed arches. She bit down on the panic that swelled beneath her breast bone. Her life would be shattered beyond redemption.
At last the mourners departed.
‘Sam Potter returned to his Maker.’ Henry took one of her hands in his, noting her calm outward composure. Perhaps too calm. ‘Are you well enough to face the Reverend? I will speak to him alone if you prefer it.’ On impulse he pressed his lips to her fingers. ‘I do not doubt your courage. I never could. You have nothing to prove to me, Nell.’
‘I know. And I know that you would take on this burden.’ She smiled her thanks, but rose to her feet, smoothing the skirts of her coat with nervous hands as the clerical figure approached them along the path. ‘We will see him together. He cannot tell us anything worse than the knowledge which we already have.’
Introductions were made, the cleric expressing polite interest. Henry, after a glance at Eleanor, opened the point at issue.
‘We wish to speak with you, sir, concerning a marriage and a birth in this parish. It concerns a member of our own family.’
Julius Broughton raised his brows at the request, but smiled his compliance. ‘Very well. Perhaps you would come to the vicarage where we can sit in comfort and I will see if I can help you.’ No hint of unease here.
They followed him to the spacious vicarage, built in the previous century and tucked away behind the elms, to be shown into a library at the front of the house, overlooking the churchyard and the church itself. A pleasant room. Wood panelled, lined with books, a fire offering welcome from the hearth, the retreat of an educated and scholarly man. It was also spotlessly clean, the