“Emma’s taken it very hard,” said Tilly.
“She has strong feelings about paperwork,” I explained.
“It’s not just any old paperwork,” Emma protested. “It’s the section of the Anscombe family archives that would have told us about Albert Anscombe. Without it, we may never know if Albert was engaged to Cecilia before he married Georgiana.”
It sounded so much like the plot of a soap opera that I had to exercise superhuman restraint to keep myself from giggling.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Are the rest of the family records intact?”
“Yes, but they won’t tell us who Cecilia is,” said Emma, “or what she was doing here, in my kitchen, swapping recipes with a cook.”
I didn’t know what to say to her, but I told myself that Aunt Dimity was right—my friend did have a personal investment in our search for Cecilia.
“I’ll make a fresh pot of tea, shall I?” said Tilly, getting to her feet.
“The sovereign remedy for all ills,” I said, quoting Aunt Dimity.
“Not this ill,” said Emma. She rested her chin in her hand and eyed the wad of paper glumly. “You’ve worked with old books and documents, Lori. Is there any way to recover the information written on the paper?”
“None that I know of,” I said. “Not when the paper is that far gone.”
Emma lapsed into an aggrieved silence I didn’t dare break. The sound of the electric kettle coming to a boil seemed to reverberate through the kitchen. While Tilly filled the teapot, I racked my brain to come up with a plan B. I considered asking Ganesha to remove the water-damaged obstacle in our path, but as I wasn’t Hindu, I didn’t think he would listen.
It was then, when all hope seemed lost, that my cell phone rang.
Fourteen
With a muttered apology, I scrambled to my feet and ran to pull my ringing cell phone from my shoulder bag. My heart gave a hopeful leap when I saw that the caller was Lilian Bunting. Distracted by the sight of my even-tempered friend behaving like a distraught teenager, I’d completely forgotten that Lilian was our plan B.
“Lori?” she said when I answered the phone. “I’m afraid I’ll have to postpone my visit to Anscombe Manor.”
“Are you and the vicar okay?” I asked.
“We’re fine,” she said, “but my car has broken down and Mr. Barlow isn’t on hand to fix it. According to Bree, he’s gone to Upper Deeping for a haircut.”
“Has he?” I said, with a sidelong glance at Tilly. Evidently, the fog that had prevented Mr. Barlow from retrieving the parts for her car hadn’t hindered him from sprucing himself up for her. I wondered if she realized that the church tour would be their first date.
“It’s this wretched virus,” Lilian was saying. “If Selena Buxton wasn’t unwell, she would have cut Mr. Barlow’s hair, as usual. He wouldn’t have had to drive all the way to the barber’s in Upper Deeping.” A fretful sigh escaped her. “I commend him for wanting to look his best at the Christmas service, but I do wish he’d chosen a different day to leave the village. I so wanted to see the priest hole.”
“It’s not going anywhere,” I said.
“Nor am I,” said Lilian, sounding vexed. “I’d beg a lift from Teddy, but he’s visiting farms this morning, and I promised to help him with his Christmas sermon this afternoon. Would it be asking too much if I asked you, Emma, and Tilly to come to the vicarage? I’m anxious to show you an item I found in the church records last night. It concerns Cecilia.”
“We’ll be right over,” I told her.
“Do drive carefully in front of Bree’s house,” Lilian pleaded. “The curve will be treacherous in the fog.”
“I slid off the curve once,” I protested. “I won’t slide off it again!”
“Take it slowly,” Lilian advised. “And Lori? Would you ask Emma to bring the golden heart? As I can’t see the priest hole—”
“Say no more,” I cut in. “We’ll bring the heart.” I ended the call and faced my companions, announcing exultantly, “Lilian has found Cecilia!”
* * *
—
EMMA PLACED A HASTY CALL to Mr. Barlow to inform him that Tilly would be at the vicarage rather than the manor. When Mr. Barlow failed to answer his phone, she left a message on his voice mail and hoped for the best.
Since I had to be home by noon or risk missing out on the steam train, we decided to take two cars. I led the way in Bill’s Mercedes and Emma followed in her Land Rover, with Tilly riding shotgun.
I didn’t envy Tilly. Emma, who’d been known to ride her chestnut mare through blizzards and tropical downpours, began to grumble about the fog as soon as we stepped outside. I suspected that she wouldn’t stop grumbling until we reached the vicarage.
Our journey to Finch would have tried the patience of a saint, and Emma wasn’t in a saintly frame of mind. When I had to feel my way around the treacherous curve in front of Bree Pym’s redbrick house, I could almost hear Emma pounding the steering wheel in frustration. We must have passed the Hobsons’ cottage and my father-in-law’s wrought-iron gates, but I couldn’t see them, and I had to slow to a crawl again as I crossed the humpbacked bridge.
If the day had been clear, the view from the top of the bridge would have warmed my heart. The village green would have stretched before me, an elongated oval of tussocky grass encircled by a cobbled lane. Evergreen wreaths and twinkling lights would have added a festive touch to the honey-colored stone buildings that lined the lane, and woodsmoke would have curled from every chimney. In the distance, St. George’s stumpy, square bell tower would have played peekaboo through the boughs of the churchyard’s towering cedars. Beneath me, the Little Deeping River would have leaped and gurgled between its willow-draped banks.
The day wasn’t clear, however, so I had to imagine the heartwarming scene. I had to imagine the river’s gurgle, too, because I wasn’t about to invite the fog into my car by lowering a window. Gripping the steering wheel firmly while watching for unwary villagers, I bumped down the bridge and onto the cobbled lane.
I felt as if I were driving through a cloud. The heavy mist parted lazily as I cruised through it, then closed behind me like fuzzy gray drapes. Emma’s headlights were nothing more than a pair of blurred pinpoints in my rearview mirror, and I caught only the faintest glimpses of Sally Cook’s tearoom, Bill’s office, and old Mrs. Craven’s cottage as they loomed intermittently out of the fog.
Prior experience rather than eyesight told me I’d passed the old schoolhouse that would have been the venue for the Nativity play, and the schoolmaster’s house where George Wetherhead lived. I released a sigh of relief when I pulled up in front of the vicarage, then braced myself for impact as Emma pulled up behind me. I heaved a second sigh of relief when she parked the Land Rover without putting a dent in Bill’s bumper.
It wasn’t until we were standing in the vicarage’s front garden that I could make out the twinkling lights in the windows and the holly wreath on the front door. Lilian must have been watching for us, because she opened the door before we reached it. Emma brushed past me impatiently, and Tilly, who looked as though she was glad to be on terra firma again, trailed after her. I followed them inside.
Angel, the fluffy white vicarage cat, seemed to sense Emma’s prickly mood, because she put her head out of the dining room, then beat a hasty retreat. Lilian, who was dressed in a tweed skirt, a pearl-gray twinset, and tasseled loafers, seemed to sense Emma’s mood as well, because she didn’t offer us tea or waste time chatting about the weather. After collecting our coats, she ushered us into the library at the rear of the rambling two-story house.
The book-lined room stretched the full width of the vicarage. Its mullioned windows and French doors overlooked a broad meadow that sloped down to the riverbank. The vicar’s mahogany desk stood before the French doors, but it faced into the room, as though he preferred the sight of book
s to the sight of a waterlogged meadow.
Every lamp in the library had been lit, presumably to fend off the encroaching gloom, and a log fire burned in the modest stone hearth, bathing the room in warmth. A green velvet sofa sat at a right angle to the hearth, facing a pair of comfortably saggy armchairs across an old coffee table. Tilly and I took the armchairs, and Emma sat beside Lilian on the sofa.
Lilian began to reach for a red spiral-bound notebook that lay on the coffee table, then stopped with a gasp as Emma held the golden heart out to her. Lilian took it and turned it over in her hands, allowing the flickering firelight to play on its intricate surface.
“Exquisite,” she said as she returned the heart to Emma. “Valuable, as well, though I suspect its owner cared more about the giver than the gift.”
“Do you know who gave the heart to whom?” Emma asked eagerly.
“Not yet, but it must have been a gift given with love,” Lilian replied, “and love is always more valuable than gold.”
“Yes, it is,” Emma agreed, though she sounded as if she would have preferred a positive response to a platitude. With a sigh, she placed the heart on the coffee table, with the entwined C and M facing upward.
“Did you find any useful information in the Anscombe family archives?” Lilian inquired.
Emma groaned and buried her face in her hands, so I told Lilian about the water-damaged papers.
“Which is why we’re kind of counting on you,” I concluded, adding in a stage whisper, “If you haven’t found anything, make something up. Emma needs a win.”
Emma lifted her head and nodded wearily. “Lori’s right, Lilian. I do need a win.”
“Please don’t get your hopes up too high,” Lilian cautioned, “because there may be a slight hitch.” She picked up the red notebook and opened it. “I copied the relevant entries from the church records verbatim, but to save time I’ll summarize them for you.” She glanced down at her notes. “Albert Anthony Anscombe was the second of five children born to Sir Stanley and Lady Margaret Anscombe. The Anscombes had two sons and three daughters. None of the daughters were named Cecilia.”
“Kit told us he’d never heard of a Cecilia Anscombe,” I said.
“I couldn’t find one in the records,” said Lilian, “and I went all the way back to the sixteen hundreds.”
“How late did you stay up last night?” I asked, taken aback.
“Quite late,” she replied. “There wasn’t anything else to do, and once I get stuck in to a project, I find it hard to stop.” She consulted her notes again. “Albert Anscombe was christened in St. George’s Church on the fifteenth of July, 1837. His name doesn’t surface again until the banns were read in 1865.”
“The banns?” I said uncomprehendingly.
“The banns of marriage,” Lilian clarified.
For the first time since we’d entered the vicarage, Tilly spoke up. “The word ‘banns’ is taken from a Middle English word meaning ‘proclamation,’ which is rooted in Frankish and thus can be traced back to Old French.”
“Fascinating,” I said, “but not entirely helpful.”
“Honestly, Lori,” Lilian said with a hint of exasperation. “Teddy has presided over several weddings since you moved to Finch, including yours. You and Bill used a special license to get married, but you must remember Teddy reading the banns before the other weddings.”
The vicar was a lovely man, but there was no getting around the fact that his sermons were soporific rather than stimulating. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Lilian that I allowed my mind to wander freely whenever her husband climbed into the pulpit, however, so I said with more kindness than truth, “I remember hearing the banns, but I’ve never really understood them.”
Lilian’s pursed lips and cocked head suggested that she saw through the kindness, but she didn’t call me out on my lie.
“Banns are an announcement of a couple’s intention to marry,” she explained. “They must be read aloud in the home churches of both parties and in the church in which they are to be married, if it differs from their home churches. The banns must be read out in church on three Sundays in the three months prior to the wedding.”
“For a marriage to be lawful in the Church of England,” Tilly added, “banns must be read out in church.”
“Why?” I asked.
“They’re a safeguard against invalid marriages,” said Lilian. “When the banns are read, anyone can come forward with a reason why the proposed marriage may not lawfully take place.”
“Impediments to marriage vary between legal jurisdictions,” Tilly chimed in, “but they normally include a preexisting marriage that has been neither dissolved nor annulled—”
“A vow of celibacy or a lack of consent,” Lilian interjected.
“Or the couple being related within prohibited degrees of kinship,” Tilly finished.
It was like watching a scholarly tennis match, but between the two of them, I had my explanation.
“Got it,” I said. “Carry on!”
“Finally,” Emma muttered.
Lilian turned a page in the notebook and continued, “On the fifth of March and on the second of April, 1865, the banns were read—”
“Miss Cecilia’s recipe for besan ladoo is dated 1865,” I broke in.
“For pity’s sake, Lori,” Emma said waspishly. “Will you please stop interrupting Lilian?”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Go ahead, Lilian.”
Lilian began again. “On the fifth of March and on the second of April, 1865, the banns were read for the marriage between Albert Anthony Anscombe of this parish and Cecilia Rose Pargetter of the parish of Skeaping.”
I did not cry out, “Cecilia!” But I thought it.
“The banns were read twice,” said Lilian, “but they weren’t read a third time, and there’s no record of the marriage taking place in St. George’s.” She looked up from her notes. “Albert Anscombe’s name doesn’t appear again in the church records until the banns are read for his marriage to Miss Georgiana Weldstone. Albert and Georgiana were married in St. George’s on the seventeenth of June, 1866.”
“What happened?” I asked. “Why didn’t Albert marry Cecilia? Did he jilt her when he met Georgiana?”
“She could have jilted him,” Lilian pointed out.
“Someone could have unearthed an impediment that barred them from marrying each other,” Tilly offered.
“Or they could have agreed that they’d made a mistake,” said Lilian, “and gone their separate ways amicably.”
“Whatever happened,” Emma said tiredly, “it has nothing to do with the Hindu altar in my priest hole. Albert’s Cecilia was Cecilia Pargetter.” She pointed at the entwined initials on the gold heart. “And ‘Pargetter’ doesn’t begin with M.”
“That’s the hitch,” said Lilian.
I stared at the heart, willing my brain to come up with a solution that would put Emma out of her misery. Happily, it obliged.
“Maybe it’s not a hitch,” I said slowly.
“What do you mean?” asked Lilian.
“We’ve been assuming that Miss Cecilia’s initials are C.M.,” I said. “What if they aren’t? What if the M doesn’t refer to Cecilia but to someone who gave the gold heart to her as a memento of their love?”
“Are you suggesting that someone other than Albert gave the gold heart to Cecilia?” said Emma. “Someone whose name begins with M?”
“Why not?” I said. “Put yourself in Cecilia’s shoes. You’re engaged to be married to Albert when you fall hopelessly in love with M. What do you do? Your parents will look at you cross-eyed if you break up with Albert, so you commemorate your love for M. with an altar in the priest hole.”
“How did Cecilia find out about the priest hole?” Emma asked.
“The cook told her about it when they were swapping recipes,�
�� I said, struck by sudden inspiration. Hoping that no one would ask me how the cook knew about the priest hole, I continued. “Maybe Cecilia planned to visit the altar secretly after she was married, for old time’s sake, but when the marriage fell through and she was banned from the manor, she couldn’t retrieve her treasures.”
“Perhaps M. was the reason the marriage fell through,” Lilian said thoughtfully. “Perhaps he stood up in church during the reading of the banns and declared his undying love for Cecilia.”
“After which, he galloped away with her on a white horse,” I said triumphantly, “and they lived happily ever after.” I looked at Emma. “Satisfied?”
“No,” she replied, frowning. “It’s a nice story, but it’s completely hypothetical. We have to find out more about Cecilia Pargetter. We have to find out who M. is.”
Her unremitting sullenness was beginning to get on my nerves, but I reminded myself of all the times she’d put up with my moods, took a deep breath, and said calmly, “Of course we do.”
“Well,” said Lilian, perusing her notes, “we know that Cecilia Pargetter was ‘of the parish of Skeaping.’”
“Skeaping?” I said as a memory clicked into place. “I’ve been to Skeaping Manor. Bree and I took the boys there before Bess was born. It’s a museum now, but it was a house once. Maybe Cecilia Pargetter lived in Skeaping Manor.”
“Where is Skeaping Manor?” Emma asked.
“It’s about three miles south of Upper Deeping,” I said, “on the edge of Skeaping village.”
“We could ring the museum,” Tilly said tentatively. “The curator would be able to tell us about the manor’s previous occupants.”
“He would,” I agreed, “but the museum is closed for the holidays.”
“We don’t need a curator,” Emma said determinedly. “We need a computer.”
“Feel free to use my laptop,” said Lilian. “It’s on Teddy’s desk. While you’re conducting your search, I’ll make tea.”
Aunt Dimity and the Heart of Gold Page 12
