Borrowed Vows (12 page)

“I’m afraid not. Everything was sent to the public library in Gloucester. Do you know Gloucester at all?”

“I’m staying there.”

“Anyone will be able to direct you to the library in Brunswick Road. When you get there you’ll see a sign directing you to the Gloucester Collection on the upper floor. It’s all reference, so you won’t be able to take anything home with you, but you can examine most things at your leisure on the premises.”

“Thank you, I’ll do that. I want to find out more about the duel,” Kathryn explained, glancing again at Dane’s portrait.

The guide smiled. “Well, I’m afraid there isn’t a trustworthy account in existence. The only so-called authority is the diary of a prominent local citizen of the time, a man named Jeremiah Pendle, and he’s biased to say the least.”

Kathryn’s lips parted. “Jeremiah Pendle? The banker?”

“You’ve heard of him? Yes, the same, and as odious a slug as ever lived. If it weren’t for him, Sir Dane’s reputation might never have suffered, for the diary contains the only description of the duel, and therefore the only reference to the business of the pistol’s being tampered with. Pendle died of a heart attack the night after the duel, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s a pity he didn’t do so a day before. I would much have preferred Sir Dane’s character not to have been sullied by charges of dishonorable and shameful conduct, even if he might indeed have done the despicable deed.”

Jeremiah Pendle! Kathryn remembered how instinctively she’d disliked and distrusted the banker. Alice had told her she could rely on her intuition, and in this it had certainly served her well! Now it told her that something very untoward indeed had gone on at the duel. What, though? Had the pistol been meddled with? Or was it taken for gospel because of Pendle’s diary?

The guide smiled at her. “I can see you’re eager to find out all you can.”

“Yes. I’ll go back to Gloucester right now.”

“Good luck.”

Kathryn smiled and then hurried from the courtyard. Her steps were lighter than they’d been when she’d arrived. She’d been with Dane again, and knew she’d see him tonight as well. What Alice had told her still didn’t really make sense, but she’d go along with it anyway. All that stuff about audacious plans, happiness, and mystic powers was a bit deep—or crazy—but it was the only explanation on offer right now.

She still couldn’t see the logic of including Thomas Denham in any quest for happiness, because come hell or high water, he was going to die at dawn the day after tomorrow. As for Dane and Rosalind, there didn’t seem much hope there either. Tomorrow, Lammas Eve, he was going to find out about his wife’s affair.

She drove quickly back to the Gloucester apartments, where Jack was tending the climbing roses. He was listening to classical music on his portable radio and gave a start when the car suddenly appeared. Then he grinned and turned the radio down a little. “I was miles away, miss.”

“I didn’t mean to make you jump.” She glanced uncertainly at the radio, for there seemed an odd sort of stereo echo, as if someone else was tuned in to the same station.

Jack didn’t notice anything amiss. “I should keep my wits about me, but I can’t resist a little bit of Beethoven or Mozart. Nothing better to soothe the savage breast, eh?”

“I guess so. Anyway, I won’t keep you. If you could just tell me how to get to the library?”

“Certainly, miss.” He told her exactly how to get there. “It’s about a quarter of a mile from here,” he added.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Any time, miss. Any time.”

At the end of the alley from the apartments, she examined the menu outside the Monk’s Retreat. Maybe she’d eat there this evening. Jack promised good plain food, so she should try it. The British weren’t renowned for their cuisine, but they all looked healthy enough, so some of it must be okay.

She walked on toward the crossroad in the center of the city, and suddenly saw Jeremiah Pendle’s bank. At least, it was the same building, but it was now a stylish modern bar called Jeremiah’s Cellars. There were tables and chairs outside, and its impressive half-timbered facade spilled over with hanging baskets of flowers. Music and laughter echoed into the street, which she couldn’t help thinking was singularly inappropriate for anyplace boasting a connection with a sour apple like Jeremiah Pendle.

She walked quickly past, for in spite of the modern trappings, she still felt the banker’s presence. If he suddenly appeared in the doorway now, mopping his forehead with that damned spotted handkerchief, she wouldn’t be at all surprised.

The library was a gray Victorian building without a great deal to commend it. Richard wouldn’t care for it much, she thought as she went into the vestibule. The reference section was on the upper floor, and the noise of the street faded behind as she went up the stairs. Signs directed her to the Gloucester Collection, which was housed in a tall-windowed room at the end of a long corridor. It was very quiet. Several people were seated at tables with notepads and piles of old books assembled before them, and the only sound was made by someone using a copying machine in a corner. The electric whir was out of place in such Dickensian surroundings.

A woman librarian was seated at a large desk close to the door. She was matronly, with gray hair tugged back into a tight bun, and smiled pleasantly as Kathryn approached.

“May I help you?”

“Yes, I hope so. I’ve been told this is the place to come to find out about events in the Gloucester area at the end of July, beginning of August, 1815.”

“It certainly is.” The woman got up. “What is it you’re particularly interested in?”

Kathryn didn’t have to think long. “The Waterloo ball in Cheltenham, the maiden voyage of the
Lady Marchwood
from Gloucester docks, the duel between Sir Dane Marchwood and Thomas Denham, and the death of Jeremiah Pendle. Oh, and his diary, of course.”

“Well, we can accommodate you. We have a recent edition of the Pendle diary, so you won’t have to struggle with Jeremiah’s old-fashioned handwriting, and everything else will be on microfilm of the
Gloucester Journal
newspaper. I’m afraid all the old print can be very hard on the eyes, they didn’t believe in wasting space in those days, but if you’re prepared to plow through...?”

“I am.”

“Follow me. You’re in luck, there’s a machine free. Usually they have to be booked in advance.” She led Kathryn through into a small darkened side room, where large-screened consoles were placed at desks around the walls. The screens were difficult to read, hence the dark room, and the only unoccupied machine was in the darkest corner of all. The woman switched the screen on and then went into another adjoining room to find the appropriate microfilm.

She placed it on the machine and showed Kathryn how to wind it to and fro. “It’s all very antiquated, I’m afraid, but at least it’s simple to operate. Now then, everything’s arranged in months, so I’ll start you off at the beginning of July. Ah, there it is. I’ll leave you to it, then. If you need me, I’ll be at my desk.”

“Thanks.”

Alone by the console, Kathryn gazed at the screen. Small print? The woman hadn’t been joking! Thank God the screen enlarged it a little, otherwise she’d need a magnifying glass. Right, she’d take things in chronological order, which meant starting with the Waterloo ball. She wound the microfilm to the end of the month and began to scan the columns.

Chapter Thirteen

The microfilmed pages were so tightly packed that finding anything seemed impossible, but suddenly Kathryn saw what she was looking for. It was tucked away at the foot of a column, between a report on a horrid murder and robbery, and an item about the sad loss of one of His Majesty’s frigates during a storm off Iceland.

“At the Royal Well in Cheltenham the noble victory of Waterloo was celebrated with the greatest festivity at a grand ball attended by all the nobility and gentry of the country. At one time the number of carriages seen approaching the venue exceeded seventy. Among those present were the Duke and Duchess of Beaufort, the Marquesses of Worcester and Lorne, the Earls and Countesses of...”

Kathryn hurried through the list, and at last saw the names she sought. Sir Dane and Lady Marchwood. And there, much further down the list, Mr. Thomas Denham. She also saw another name she knew, Dr. George Eden, the trusted, well-respected man who was one of the few people Dane thought worthy of close friendship. She half expected to see Jeremiah Pendle’s name as well, but it wasn’t included. She read on.

“The ball was opened by the Duke and Duchess of Beaufort. Country dances and reels were elegantly interspersed with minuets, ländlers, polonaises, and that newest addition to fashionable and superior occasions, the waltz, which was executed with particular distinction by Sir Dane and Lady Marchwood.”

Kathryn raised an eyebrow. Executed with particular distinction? What exactly did that mean? She continued.

“There was a supper of such magnificence that it was advantageously compared with anything Mr. Gunter could supply. Favorite airs were played during the repast. After supper the company repaired outside to witness a great number of beautiful fireworks, consisting of rockets, brilliant suns and stars, wheels, and emblematical devices displayed in radiant fire, the whole concluding with a grand discharge of rockets, fireballs, Indian trees, serpents, etc. The guests began to disperse at daylight, and the occasion was universally acknowledged to be the most suitable and laudable for such a momentous time in our history.”

It had sure been quite a Regency wingding, Kathryn thought, sitting back as she finished. Update it a little, and it could be a modern embassy reception, or something at the White House.

She began to scan the screen again, this time searching for a report on the
Lady Marchwood
. The ship had set off on her maiden voyage on the day after the ball, so anything about it must follow fairly quickly. She found it almost straightaway.

“On this day was the deep-sea vessel, the
Lady Marchwood
, seen off in splendid style as she departed on her first voyage to bring timber from the Baltic. Watched by Sir Dane and Lady Marchwood, and to the acclaim and cheers of a large gathering of notable persons, the ship was hauled through the lock from the dock basin, and on entering the river was turned by means of ropes in order to sail downstream on the full tide. A band played sea shanties, and the general populace was entertained by a fair which went on until midnight. The vessel is expected to return to Gloucester in one month’s time.”

The report ended there, and the column ran on without break into something about a large importation of prime Westphalia hams being sold at Portsmouth. Prime Westphalia hams? It hardly seemed possible that such an inconsequential fact was considered important enough to put into print! On second thoughts, though, maybe it wasn’t all that inconsequential. In the days before refrigeration, the arrival of such a commodity was probably of considerable significance.

Putting the hams from her thoughts, she looked again at the report on the
Lady Marchwood
. There was no mention of anything untoward, and certainly no mention of Dane’s challenging Thomas Denham to a duel. Thomas’s name didn’t even crop up. Maybe she’d find a few lines about the duel itself...

She wound the film on, but almost immediately saw Jeremiah Pendle’s name. “The Death of Mr. Jeremiah Pendle. It is with great regret that we report the demise of one of Gloucester’s foremost citizens. Mr. Jeremiah Pendle passed away this morning after suffering a tremendous seizure of the heart. He was found at his desk in his premises at the Cross, and is believed to have been stricken by the unfortunate death yesterday of his nephew, Mr. Thomas Denham, who was misguided enough to enter into a dawn meeting with Sir D—e M———d.

Mr. Pendle leaves no immediate heir, and his estate therefore devolves upon the only remaining member of the Denham family, a gentleman farmer believed to be at present residing in Norwich.”

As before, the column then ran on into another item, this time the prices of ewes at Gloucester market. She wound swiftly ahead, searching for anything else about the duel, but it wasn’t mentioned again.

The librarian came in to see how she was managing. “Have you found all you wanted?” she asked.

“Yes, I think so. The duel doesn’t get much of a mention, though. Sir Dane Marchwood’s name isn’t even printed properly, just the first and last letters of each word.”

“That was frequently the case in those days. Most publications are littered with disguised but excruciatingly obvious names. I can only suppose it was to get around the then libel laws. As to no proper report on the duel itself, there wouldn’t be. Duels were illegal, you see, and to make a lengthy report might lead to the authorities suspecting participation of some sort by the newspapers or their proprietors. Jails weren’t terribly savory places then. Anyway, I’ve looked out the copy of Pendle’s diary. It’s strange, but the events you’re looking up appear to be very popular all of a sudden. My colleague logged the microfilm and diary out this morning. Usually they don’t get looked at from one month to the next.” She nodded back at a rather dapper man standing in the doorway. He was looking at Kathryn rather curiously, and the woman laughed. “Take no notice of Simon, my dear. He thinks you’re the same woman come back again. Apparently you’re her spitting image, if you’ll excuse the phrase. I told him it was clear you hadn’t been here at all before now. They say everyone has a double somewhere. Anyway, the final few pages are all you’ll really be concerned with, because the duel was the last thing Pendle wrote about before he died. Actually, I’ve just had another read myself, it really is a curious and intriguing story.”

Kathryn looked at it with distaste. The reporter in her always loathed distorted writing, and she knew before she started that Pendle’s account would be very slanted indeed. Still, if it was the only record of the duel, she had no choice but to read it. Unless, of course ... She looked up hopefully at the librarian. “I’m told this is the only authority on the duel, but perhaps there’s another one? Surely someone else wrote about it?”