Agneau, West Sussex.
But unlike the names above and below it, it didn’t have any other information except a scratched-out name that was no longer readable.
She marked the page and went to find Corinne or someone who could be sent after her.
As Joan was walking into the hall, the woman found her instead. Corinne lifted a hand in greeting. “I was coming to check in on you. Have you found anything?”
Joan nodded. “Yes, I located the name you gave me but there’s nothing helpful, I’m afraid. I’ll show you.”
Corinne followed her into the library and stood over the circular table as Joan opened the ledger. “See? It’s only a last name, location, and year. Nothing else is included like in the other registries.” Joan indicated the name with a sweep of her hand.
“I see. Well, you’re correct, that doesn’t help us much.”
“What does it mean when there’s so little information? Did the baby die?” Joan asked, frowning to mourn a baby she’d never known.
“No, it means the child was adopted, actually,” Corinne answered with warmth. “It happens quite often, and when there’s this little information, it usually means the child was adopted by someone who wished to remain anonymous. Likely someone unrelated to the child, or it could mean that the child was reclaimed by its mother soon after being left at the hospital or church.” She shrugged. “It means we have a dead end on finding a next of kin, however, and that answered the question we needed to answer, so thank you.” Corinne studied Joan. “It wasn’t the answer we were searching for, but it will help us to do what is best for the young one.”
“Indeed,” Joan replied.
“And I think Miss Bronson is finished as well. If you two wish to have tea, you’re welcome,” Corinne invited.
“I’d love some tea,” Joan replied, following Corinne out into the hall. Miss Bronson waved as she approached. “Will you join us for tea?” Corinne asked.
“I’d love to, but I really must be on my way. Perhaps next time?”
“Certainly.”
“I’ll remain,” Joan told Corinne, and said goodbye to her friend. She wasn’t exactly in a rush to return home, not while still angry with her brother. The Foundling Hospital had a peaceful atmosphere that called to her, so she stayed an extra hour for tea before reluctantly calling for her carriage.
Her disinclined attitude shifted to anticipation and curiosity as she approached her home, only to see the Duke of Westmore’s carriage departing.
Rowles had called? On her? Her brother? What was the nature of the visit?Her mind spun with questions and possible answers.
When the carriage came to a stop in front of her home, she stepped out quickly and all but rushed inside to seek her brother.
“Himes, where is my brother?” she asked the butler, handing a maid her reticule.
“I believe he’s in his study, my lady.”
Joan strode down the hall toward her brother’s office, and rather than greeting her as she walked in, he held up two letters.
She paused.
“Can you assist me?” Morgan asked.
Realizing it was War Office business, Joan nodded, pushing her own personal questions into the back of her mind for the moment. “Of course.”
“One is a forgery; one is the real document. Can you tell me which one is the falsified one?” He laid out the linen papers with their wax seals, then leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he waited.
Joan studied them each, reading through the sentencing document from a magistrate in Wessex. One carried a much harsher sentence than the other.
“My inclination is to believe the papers with the heavier sentence,” Morgan stated.
“I disagree.” Joan’s attention shifted between the two documents. “They are both sentencing papers for a criminal, but see this, here.” She pointed to a small spot of ink beside a word. “Compare with this.” She pulled the other document closer and traced her finger over the paper. “No spots.”
“I don’t follow.” Morgan’s replied.
Sighing, she explained. “Magistrates aren’t usually known for perfect penmanship on a document that they tend to fill out multiple times a day. In the second document, great care was taken to make itseemauthentic. The first oneisauthentic because it’s written in the common way, with the lack of attention a magistrate would take to complete it and send it on its way. This one”—she pointed to it again—“is perfect. Not one dot of ink or flick of atout of place. It was carefully completed. Carefully cultivated.”