* * *
The box, once opened in the Reverend’s study, held an odd assortment of things. There were old photostats of pages from several parish registers, two or three army muster lists, a number of letters and scattered papers, a small, thin notebook, bound in gray cardboard covers, a packet of elderly photographs, curling at the edges, and a stiff folder, with the name “Randall” printed on the cover.
Brianna picked up the folder and opened it. “Why, it’s daddy’s family tree!” she exclaimed. “Look.” She passed the folder to Roger. Inside were two sheets of thick parchment, with lines of descent neatly ruled across and down. The beginning date was 1633; the final entry, at the foot of the second page, showed
Frank Wolverton Randall m. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp, 1937
“Done before you were born,” Roger murmured.
Brianna peered over his shoulder as his finger passed slowly down the lines of the genealogical table. “I’ve seen it before; daddy had a copy in his study. He used to show it to me all the time. His had me at the bottom, though; this must be an early copy.”
“Maybe the Reverend did some of the research for him.” Roger handed Brianna back the folder, and picked up one of the papers from the stack on the desk.
“Now here’s an heirloom for you,” he said. He traced the coat of arms embossed at the head of the sheet. “A letter of commission in the army, signed by His Royal Majesty, King George II.”
“George the Second? Jeez, that’s even before the American Revolution.”
“Considerably before. It’s dated 1735. In the name of Jonathan Wolverton Randall. Know that name?”
“Yeah.” Brianna nodded, stray wisps of hair falling in her face. She wiped them back carelessly and took the letter. “daddy used to talk about him every now and then; one of the few ancestors he knew much about. He was a captain in the army that fought Bonnie Prince Charlie at Culloden.” She looked up at Roger, blinking. “I think maybe he was killed in that battle, in fact. He wouldn’t have been buried there, would he?”
Roger shook his head. “I shouldn’t think so. It was the English who cleared up after the battle. They shipped most of their own dead back home for burial—the officers, anyway.”
He was prevented from further observation by the sudden appearance in the doorway of Fiona, bearing a feather duster like a battle standard.
“Mr. Wakefield,” she called. “There’s the man come to take awa’ the Reverend’s truck, but he canna get it started. He says will ye be givin’ him a hand, like?”
Roger started guiltily. He had taken the battery to a garage for testing, and it was still sitting in the backseat of his own Morris. No wonder the Reverend’s truck wasn’t starting.
“I’ll have to go sort this out,” he told Brianna. “I’m afraid it might take a while.”
“That’s okay.” She smiled at him, blue eyes narrowing to triangles. “I should go too. Mama will be back by now; we thought we might go out to the Clava Cairns, if there was time. Thanks for the lunch.”
“My pleasure—and Fiona’s.” Roger felt a stab of regret at being unable to offer to go with her, but duty called. He glanced at the papers spread out on the desk, then scooped them up and deposited them back in the box.
“Here,” he said. “This is all your family records. You take it. Maybe your mother would be interested.”
“Really? Well, thanks, Roger. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” he said, carefully laying the folder with the genealogical chart on top. “Oh, wait. Maybe not all of it.” The corner of the gray notebook stuck out from under the letter of commission; he pulled it free, and tidied the disturbed papers back into the box. “This looks like one of the Reverend’s journals. Can’t think what it’s doing in there, but I suppose I’d better put it with the others; the historical society says they want the whole lot.”
“Oh, sure.” Brianna had risen to go, clutching the box to her chest, but hesitated, looking at him. “Do you—would you like me to come back?”
Roger smiled at her. There were cobwebs in her hair, and a long streak of dirt down the bridge of her nose.
“Nothing I’d like better,” he said. “See you tomorrow, eh?”