Free Web NovelChapter 69: False Log Problems
The heavy iron gates of the Saint Jude Parish creaked with a mournful groan as Penelope’s carriage pulled to a halt.
Dusk had firmly settled over the province, casting long, skeletal shadows from the stone spires across the untamed courtyard.
Stepping out of the carriage, Penelope pulled her dark velvet cloak tightly around her shoulders to shield herself from the biting evening chill. The air here smelled of damp earth, old stone, and burnt tallow, a stark contrast to the fragrant, polished halls of the Marquis’s estate. Now that Penelope was here, an unsettling sensation rested in her chest, but there was no use turning back now.
"Well, this is it," she murmured into the evening air before turning to Martha. "Wait in the carriage for me. I won’t be long."
"As you wish, My Lady," Martha replied with a slight bow of her head.
Penelope then turned and walked up the cobblestone path, her heart thumping a nervous rhythm against her ribs. In her hand, she gripped the log that came from this particular parish. Normally the parish doesn’t accept visitors after noon, but luckily for her, she was able to pull some strings to make it here.
The parish was quiet, almost entirely deserted save for the faint, flickering glow of candlelight leaking through the stained-glass windows.
To anyone else, this was merely a place of worship and quiet reflection. But to Penelope, as she looked up at the heavy, arched wooden doors at the current moment, it felt more like the threshold of a fortress holding the darkest secrets of her family’s past.
She couldn’t understand what she was so nervous about.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she reached out and pushed the heavy iron ring of the door, stepping inside and closing it shut behind her.
The air inside was thick with the scent of ancient incense and melting beeswax. Tall, stone pillars stretched upward into the shadows, illuminated only by the crimson and azure fractures of light bleeding through the high stained-glass windows.
At the far end of the aisle, near the altar, a solitary figure stood with his back to her, meticulously snuffing out the evening candles. He wore the simple, dark habit of a high-ranking parish clerk, his shoulders slightly hunched with age.
When Penelope saw him, her shoulders visibly eased.
This was Father Thomas, the keeper of the Viremont registries. He was the man who had overseen the parish for nearly three decades, and the only person alive who could verify the unyielding ink in her mother’s portfolio.
Penelope’s footsteps echoed sharply against the cold stone floor as she walked down the center aisle.
Hearing the approach, the old priest paused, setting his brass extinguisher aside, and slowly turned around. His weathered face was lined with gravity, but his eyes softened instantly when they fell upon her.
"Lady Penelope," Father Thomas murmured, bowing his head in respectful greeting. "I received your urgent messenger just an hour ago. I must admit, I did not expect to see the new Marchioness at such an hour. Is everything alright?"
Penelope stopped before the altar steps, clutching the leather portfolio to her chest. "Thank you for waiting for me, Father. I know the hour is late, but what I have to ask you cannot wait for morning."
The priest looked at the file in her arms, a flicker of solemn understanding passing through his gaze. "Is there something you require from the parish?"
"Yes," Penelope said, her voice steady despite the rapid drumming of her heart. She stepped closer, placing the file onto the wooden lectern between them. "And I need you to tell me, without a single lie, if the hand that wrote these records belongs to this church. It’s just that there is something wrong with..uhm my sister’s record so I came to have it fixed."
Father Thomas peered down at the faded parchment through a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, his calloused fingers lightly tracing the columns of elegant, unyielding script.
"Really?" he murmured, adjusting his glasses. He leaned a fraction closer, the amber candlelight catching the deep crevices of his brow as he studied the log.
Penelope nodded, her throat tight as she tried to keep her voice entirely casual, a mere concerned sister looking to rectify a bureaucratic error. "Yes. It says here that my sister went through a full-term birth, which would mean a nine-month gestation. But the thing is, my little sister wasn’t born on that timeline. Everyone in Aelgard knows she was born prematurely, at only six months. She was a fragile baby. I came to have the record fixed so it reflects the truth."
"Lady Mirabel, right?" Father Thomas asked, looking up from the page. "It is quite surprising, because your mother also came here wanting to rectify this same log years ago. I assumed she already mentioned it. But... now you are here as well."
Penelope’s breath hitched at that.
"My mother came here?"
The priest nodded. "Yes, if I’m not mistaken it happened five years before her passing. Let me have another look at it."
Penelope quietly stepped back, giving the old priest the space he needed to confirm the originality of the parish log.
"This is no mistake, Lady Penelope," he calmly clarified, his voice carrying the absolute certainty of a man who had kept the secrets of the dead for decades. He closed the book halfway, resting his palm flat against the leather cover. "I was the head clerk here at that time. I remember the night vividly. Lady Genevieve did not deliver a fragile, struggling premature infant. She delivered a remarkably healthy, crying, full-term baby girl."
Penelope felt the blood drain from her face. She gripped the edge of the wooden lectern to steady her hands. "But Father... that is impossible. If she was born a full-term baby on that exact date, then she would have been conceived during the winter months. My father was away on his ten-month diplomatic campaign in the Western principalities. He was nowhere near Aelgard."
The old priest let out a long, heavy sigh. He looked around the empty, cavernous church before leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a somber, reverent whisper.
"When your mother discovered the exact same mathematical discrepancy three years after the birth," Father Thomas revealed quietly. "She came to this very altar, weeping and holding the very same copy of the registry you hold now. She begged me to double-check the mid-wife’s logs and the attending physician’s private journals, thinking there had been a clerical error. I checked them all, Lady Penelope. There was no error."
Father Thomas’s expression shifted slightly as he let his thoughts wander back through the decades, his eyes narrowing as he mentally cataloged the archives.
"Is it possible you have another log to defend what you just said?" Penelope asked, her voice tight. "Something undeniable?"
"There... should be one in your family estate," the priest replied thoughtfully, his fingers tapping the edge of the lectern. "A domestic ledger. Every noble house keeps a private account of births, baptisms, and physician fees to track the lineage for the crown. If your mother kept this parish extract, she likely kept the matching estate ledger somewhere safe."
He looked up, meeting Penelope’s desperate gaze with a steady, reassuring nod.
"How about you bring me that log, and in the meantime, I’ll gather the secondary reports from our vaults, if I can still find them—the midwife’s personal receipt and the tithing records from that month. Then, I will review both alongside this parish registry. Though I can assure you, Lady Penelope, this log undeniably came from this parish. It bears our seal."
Penelope exhaled softly, the breath trembling past her lips as a heavy, resolute calm settled over her. The truth was within her grasp, buried somewhere in the very manor where she had suffered for so long.
She was going to do just that.
*****
When Penelope made it back to the estate, the sky had already darkened to a deep, pitch-black night, the cold air biting at her cheeks as she stepped out of the carriage.
As she hurried through the grounds, she suddenly paused, her eyes catching a solitary figure silhouette against the dim lanterns.
Vincent was sitting out on the stone patio, a heavy fur-lined cloak draped over his broad shoulders.
"Vince?"
She blinked, genuinely surprised to find him out here by himself at such an hour, especially given how recently he had been bedridden. Clasping her cloak tightly, she made her way over to his side.
"What are you doing out here? It’s freezing."
"I was counting the minutes," he replied, his deep voice cutting through the quiet rustle of the night wind. "Three more minutes late, and I was going to rally the guards and head out to look for you."
He rose to his full height, looming over her with a mixture of exasperation and relief. "Why do you enjoy staying out so late, hm?"
Penelope smiled apologetically, a soft, weary warmth touching her expression. "The parish I went to... I had to stay a bit longer than I originally anticipated. I truly did not mean to worry you."
Vincent let out a low sigh and clicked his tongue, though the tension in his shoulders visibly dissipated now that she was back.
"These days, you are always out doing something. Is there an issue, Penny? Did the meeting with your aunt not go well?"
"No, it went very well," she replied softly, her thoughts drifting back to the impossible dates in the registry. Then, she looked up at him, her gaze earnest. "There is something else, but I promise I will tell you everything once I have it all officially confirmed." freewebnσvel.cѳm
Vincent studied her face for a long, quiet moment before speaking. "Does that mean your schedule will not be free anytime soon?"
"Why do you ask?"
Vincent looked directly into her eyes, his expression turning solemn. "I shall be heading to the imperial palace in two days," he dropped, the sudden announcement catching Penelope completely off guard. "The Emperor has summoned me. I was wondering if you would be able to accompany me to the capital."
