Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 76
He looked up at Jack. Into his eyes. “Shall we?”
“You can do it,” Jack said.
“You don’t want to look with me?”
“I trust you.”
Thomas’s lips parted, not quite in surprise—because, really, why wouldn’t Jack trust him? It wasn’t as if he could alter the pages right there in front of him. But still, even if he was terrified by the outcome, wouldn’t he want to see? Wouldn’t he want to read the pages himself? Thomas could not imagine coming all this way and not looking down as each page was turned.
“No,” Thomas said. Why should he have to do this alone? “I won’t do it without you.”
For a moment Jack just stood there unmoving, and then, cursing under his breath, he went over to join him at the desk.
“You’re too bloody noble,” Jack bit off.
“Not for long,” Thomas muttered. He set the book on the desk, opening it to the first page of records. Jack stood beside him, and together they looked down at the tight, sensible penmanship of the Maguiresbridge vicar, circa 1786.
Thomas swallowed nervously. His throat felt tight.
But he had to do this. It was his duty. To Wyndham.
Wasn’t that his entire life? Duty to Wyndham?
He almost laughed. If ever anyone had accused him of taking duty too far . . .
This had to be it.
Looking down, he turned the pages until he found the correct year. “Do you know what month your parents would have married in?” he asked Jack.
“No.”
It was no matter, Thomas decided. It was a small parish. There were not many weddings.
Patrick Colville and Emily Kendrick, 20 March,
William Figley and Margaret Plowright, 22 May,
He moved his fingers along the page, sliding them around the edge. Breath held, he turned the page.
And there they were.
John Augustus Cavendish and Louise Henrietta Galbraith, married 12 June, 1790, witnessed by one Henry Wickham and Philip Galbraith.
Thomas closed his eyes.
So this was it. It was gone. Everything that had defined him, everything he possessed . . .
Gone. All of it.
And what was left?
He opened his eyes, looking down at his hands.
His body. His skin and his blood and his muscle and bone.
Was it enough?
Even Amelia was lost to him. She’d marry Jack or some other, similarly titled fellow, and live out her days as some other man’s bride.
It stung. It burned. Thomas could not believe how much it burned.
“Who is Philip?” he whispered, looking down at the register. Because Galbraith—it was Jack’s mother’s name.
“What?”
Thomas looked over. Jack had his face in his hands.
“Philip Galbraith. He was a witness.”
Jack looked up. And then down. At the register. “My mother’s brother.”
“Does he still live?” Thomas didn’t know why he was asking. The proof of the marriage was right there in his hands, and he would not contest it.
“I don’t know. He did the last I knew. It has been five years.”
Thomas swallowed and looked up, staring off into space. His body felt strange, almost weightless, as if his blood had changed into something thinner. His skin was tingling and—
“Tear it out.”
Thomas turned to Jack in shock. He could not have heard correctly. “What did you say?”
“Tear it out.”
“Are you mad?”
Jack shook his head. “You are the duke.”
Thomas looked down at the register, and it was then, with great sadness, that he truly accepted his fate. “No,”
he said softly, “I’m not.”
“No.” Jack grabbed him by the shoulders. His eyes were wild, panicked. “You are what Wyndham needs.
What everyone needs.”
“Stop, you—”
“Listen to me,” Jack implored. “You are born and bred to the job. I will ruin everything. Do you understand? I cannot do it. I cannot do it.”
Jack was scared. It was a good sign, Thomas told himself. Only a stupid man—or an exceedingly shallow one—would see nothing but the riches and pres-tige. If Jack saw enough to be terrified, then he was man enough for the position.
And so he just shook his head, holding Jack’s gaze with his own. “I may be bred to it, but you were born to it. And I cannot take what is yours.”
“I don’t want it!” Jack burst out.
“It is not yours to accept or deny,” Thomas said.
“Don’t you understand? It is not a possession. It is who you are.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jack swore. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking. “I am giving it to you. On a bloody silver platter. You stay the duke, and I shall leave you alone. I’ll even be your scout in the Outer Hebrides. Anything. Just tear the page out.”
“If you didn’t want the title, why didn’t you just say that your parents hadn’t been married at the outset?”
Thomas shot back. “I asked you if your parents were married. You could have said no.”
“I didn’t know that I was in line to inherit when you questioned my legitimacy.”
Thomas stared down at the register. Just one book—
no, just one page of one book. That was all that stood between him and everything that was familiar, everything he thought was true.
It was tempting. He could taste it in his mouth—desire, greed. Fear, too. A galling dose of it.
He could tear out that page and no one would be the wiser. The pages weren’t even numbered. If they removed it carefully enough, no one would realize it was gone.
“You can do it,” Jack said.
“You don’t want to look with me?”
“I trust you.”
Thomas’s lips parted, not quite in surprise—because, really, why wouldn’t Jack trust him? It wasn’t as if he could alter the pages right there in front of him. But still, even if he was terrified by the outcome, wouldn’t he want to see? Wouldn’t he want to read the pages himself? Thomas could not imagine coming all this way and not looking down as each page was turned.
“No,” Thomas said. Why should he have to do this alone? “I won’t do it without you.”
For a moment Jack just stood there unmoving, and then, cursing under his breath, he went over to join him at the desk.
“You’re too bloody noble,” Jack bit off.
“Not for long,” Thomas muttered. He set the book on the desk, opening it to the first page of records. Jack stood beside him, and together they looked down at the tight, sensible penmanship of the Maguiresbridge vicar, circa 1786.
Thomas swallowed nervously. His throat felt tight.
But he had to do this. It was his duty. To Wyndham.
Wasn’t that his entire life? Duty to Wyndham?
He almost laughed. If ever anyone had accused him of taking duty too far . . .
This had to be it.
Looking down, he turned the pages until he found the correct year. “Do you know what month your parents would have married in?” he asked Jack.
“No.”
It was no matter, Thomas decided. It was a small parish. There were not many weddings.
Patrick Colville and Emily Kendrick, 20 March,
William Figley and Margaret Plowright, 22 May,
He moved his fingers along the page, sliding them around the edge. Breath held, he turned the page.
And there they were.
John Augustus Cavendish and Louise Henrietta Galbraith, married 12 June, 1790, witnessed by one Henry Wickham and Philip Galbraith.
Thomas closed his eyes.
So this was it. It was gone. Everything that had defined him, everything he possessed . . .
Gone. All of it.
And what was left?
He opened his eyes, looking down at his hands.
His body. His skin and his blood and his muscle and bone.
Was it enough?
Even Amelia was lost to him. She’d marry Jack or some other, similarly titled fellow, and live out her days as some other man’s bride.
It stung. It burned. Thomas could not believe how much it burned.
“Who is Philip?” he whispered, looking down at the register. Because Galbraith—it was Jack’s mother’s name.
“What?”
Thomas looked over. Jack had his face in his hands.
“Philip Galbraith. He was a witness.”
Jack looked up. And then down. At the register. “My mother’s brother.”
“Does he still live?” Thomas didn’t know why he was asking. The proof of the marriage was right there in his hands, and he would not contest it.
“I don’t know. He did the last I knew. It has been five years.”
Thomas swallowed and looked up, staring off into space. His body felt strange, almost weightless, as if his blood had changed into something thinner. His skin was tingling and—
“Tear it out.”
Thomas turned to Jack in shock. He could not have heard correctly. “What did you say?”
“Tear it out.”
“Are you mad?”
Jack shook his head. “You are the duke.”
Thomas looked down at the register, and it was then, with great sadness, that he truly accepted his fate. “No,”
he said softly, “I’m not.”
“No.” Jack grabbed him by the shoulders. His eyes were wild, panicked. “You are what Wyndham needs.
What everyone needs.”
“Stop, you—”
“Listen to me,” Jack implored. “You are born and bred to the job. I will ruin everything. Do you understand? I cannot do it. I cannot do it.”
Jack was scared. It was a good sign, Thomas told himself. Only a stupid man—or an exceedingly shallow one—would see nothing but the riches and pres-tige. If Jack saw enough to be terrified, then he was man enough for the position.
And so he just shook his head, holding Jack’s gaze with his own. “I may be bred to it, but you were born to it. And I cannot take what is yours.”
“I don’t want it!” Jack burst out.
“It is not yours to accept or deny,” Thomas said.
“Don’t you understand? It is not a possession. It is who you are.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jack swore. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking. “I am giving it to you. On a bloody silver platter. You stay the duke, and I shall leave you alone. I’ll even be your scout in the Outer Hebrides. Anything. Just tear the page out.”
“If you didn’t want the title, why didn’t you just say that your parents hadn’t been married at the outset?”
Thomas shot back. “I asked you if your parents were married. You could have said no.”
“I didn’t know that I was in line to inherit when you questioned my legitimacy.”
Thomas stared down at the register. Just one book—
no, just one page of one book. That was all that stood between him and everything that was familiar, everything he thought was true.
It was tempting. He could taste it in his mouth—desire, greed. Fear, too. A galling dose of it.
He could tear out that page and no one would be the wiser. The pages weren’t even numbered. If they removed it carefully enough, no one would realize it was gone.
