"Son of Montague Stanier and Phoebe his wife," said the Duke, aloud.
"Yes."
"Not Rendle. Stanier. Christened in his own name. And then my father's attorney took him to his aunt and they called him Rendle for thirty-three years."
"I'll need to make a fair copy," said Frances, "and have it attested by the curate and the wardens. And there will be the bishop's transcript, in the diocesan registry at Oxford. Every parish sends a copy of its year's entries to the bishop at Easter; it's been the rule since Queen Elizabeth. The transcript for 1785 will be in a bundle in the registry. They will want both. They will want to compare them."
"They," said the Duke.
"The Committee for Privileges of the House of Lords. The Attorney General. Garter King of Arms. Whoever it is who decides who is a duke." Frances began to rule a line on a sheet of her own paper, quite carefully, as if it mattered very much that the line should be straight. "I have never had to know before."
The wardens and Mr. Tuckwell had withdrawn to the porch, discussing the price of barley to show that they were not listening. Robin was sitting on the floor in the corner of the vestry, playing with the headless soldier among the hassocks. The Duke stood beside the table with his hand flat on the open register, the hand with the new ring on it, the Rundell's ring, the copy, and Frances saw that his fingers were spread over the page, and that the page was old and soft and might very easily have come away.
"There's a bishop's transcript in Oxford," she said, without looking up.
"I know," said the Duke. "You told me a moment ago." And then, after a pause, very gently: "I wasn't going to."
"I know you weren't."