Page 26 of Impetuous

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Sir Philip, I thought you had decided not to be so mistrustful of everyone and everything. I did not ask him for a description of his family tree. He told me that he was a descendant of Margaret Verrere, and I saw no reason to disbelieve him.”

“Perhaps Mr. Simons was the victim of a ruse, too. Perhaps it was your David Miller who forged the books, then sold them to Mr. Simons.”

“That’s absurd. It makes no sense—he would have made even less selling them to a dealer than Mr. Simons made selling them to Papa. Only a fool would do so much for no more money than that.”

“You’re probably right about that.” He was silent for a moment—no doubt thinking up more objections, Cassandra thought wryly.

Then he asked, “Why did he not sell them directly to your father?”

“Because he did not know that we were related then. He sold them to Mr. Simons last year. He is a merchant from Boston, and he travels to England every year. This time, when he came, he dropped by to see Mr. Simons, and Simons told him about selling the books to us. He was curious about us—wondered what his English cousins were like, you know.”

“Mmm.”

“He sold the journals here because he thought they would fetch a better price. He found them among his mother’s things when she died, and he has little interest in history or books. I think all your fears about the documents being forgeries are ungrounded.”

Sir Philip looked once again at the journal in his hand. It was hard for him to continue to believe that such a skilled and careful forgery would have been pulled off for no more reward that the sale of the journals had brought. “And what other profit could there be?” he mused aloud.

“What?”

“Nothing, just thinking to myself. You are right. It is difficult to believe that these journals are not genuinely old. And are they indeed the work of Margaret Verrere?”

“Oh, yes, you would have only to read the beginning, and you would have no question.” She pulled out the first journal and opened it, handing it to him to read. “It begins right after their elopement, during the ocean voyage. You can see all her worries and fears about her father, as well as her joy at escaping a loveless marriage.”

Sir Philip began to read, squinting down at the faded, spidery script. After a few moments he looked up. “Yes. I can see that it is indeed the work of a young girl, full of high drama and violent emotion.”

Cassandra quirked an eyebrow at him. “Something you disapprove of, no doubt.” She reached over and took the book, opening it to a place she had already marked with a scrap of paper. “Look, here is her first mention of sending the letter to her father. See? And down here she explains about wanting the two families to have to join together to search for the dowry.”

She ran her finger down the page to the passage she sought. “‘…for which reason I did leave part of the answer to the mystery in Neville’s hands.’”

“Since he spent his whole life searching for it, I would scarcely say it was in his hands.”

“Perhaps she left him word where it was, and it was somehow lost. I don’t know. She isn’t very clear here about where it is. But, later on, when she was older and she mentioned it again…” She put down the book and picked up a later journal, again going to a marked place.

“Here—‘…along with the Neville map, the one I hid in the Queens Book.’”

“The Queens Book?” Sir Philip repeated. “What is that?”

“I was hoping that you knew, since it is something in your house.”

“Something that was in my house almost two hundred years ago,” he corrected. “It isn’t a famous piece of family lore, if that is what you have been thinking. I have never heard of a Queens Book. Surely that is not the name of it.”

“I thought it must be a particular history of the queens of England. Or perhaps a specific one about a particular queen. It is difficult to tell with this writing. It is so fine, and the ink is faded. And the habit they had of capitalizing the oddest words—it makes it difficult to guess whether that is the title or what. But I presume that, being a book, it would be in your library.”

“Probably. Unless it was sold or borrowed or given away. Or perhaps even tossed out—it has been several generations, you know. Who is to say that someone along the line would not have thrown the book out?”

“Don’t say that!” Cassandra gazed at him in horror.

“It has been a great deal of time, Miss Verrere. Not all my ancestors were lovers of books—including my father.”

“Yes, but surely this was an important book, a valuable one, maybe. It was one that Margaret knew of, so it must have had some significance.”

“At the time.”

“Yes, but if it had significance, one would think it would have been regarded as important enough to be saved by future generations.”

“We do have a number of old books, especially on the higher shelves in the library. Certainly we can look for it at Haverly House.”

“We?” Cassandra’s breath caught in her throat. She had been half afraid that once she gave Sir Philip the clues to the location of the map, he would insist on looking for it by himself. Men were so often strange about things like that. Cassandra suspected that they disliked sharing the fun.