"When I first saw you, it was like I was transported to my childhood, for I saw my father walk into the room," said the Marquis softly. "My wife startled, you know. She says that, were it not for the years, she could have believed you to be my brother. I know that Henrietta intends for you to stay with her at their estates; well, mine march alongside those owned by Cottingham, and I would very much like it if you came to see the place your father and grandfather spent a great deal of their youth. There are many family portraits in the Hall, and you will see the resemblance you have to your ancestors."
Jacques felt his heart pounding. "My father?"
The Marquis sighed and his smile faded. "I regret that there is not. My brother certainly had one, but it was not among his effects when he died, and I suspect that he destroyed it."
There was a lump in Jacques’ throat. “I had not realized how much I had hoped one would still exist.”
“I’m sorry, my boy,” said the Marquis, “but there are still toys he played with in the nursery, and I have a few letters he sent me when he was a young man at Cambridge that I am happy to gift you.”
"It would mean everything to me," said Jacques, surprised at the emotions stirring up in his chest. "I know so little of his life before he arrived in Canada. I accept your invitation, Monsieur Shropshire, and I look forwards to seeing your home."
An almost imperceptible change came over the face of the Marquis, and it occurred to Jacques that the man must be an expert at cards.
"A home that I hope you will consider your own, my boy. However, before we get to that - you started by saying that you came here because of your mother; I assume it was more than her wish for you to learn if you looked like us."
Jacques picked up his brandy, taking a slow drink before he could trust himself to answer. The old anger surged up inside his chest, and despite the kindness of the old man before him, his innate hostility to the Cartwrights returned.
"I wish to know why my father was cut off from the family, Monsieur, and why my mother was left out in the cold by such a noble British house."
"I am aware that a wrong has been dealt to you, and to your mother," said the Marquis softly, "and sadly my answers there will be based on conjecture rather than fact. As for why John was cut off by his father... well, there I can help you a little."
"Do not have a concern for my emotions in this matter, for he himself told everyone he was an enfant terriblé before being cast out of England." Jacques paused, thinking back to the few anecdotes that had been shared with him, and couldn’t help the slight grin forming on his lips. "He did not improve much in Montreal, from what I have been told, and took up with the Voyageurs for a while, teaching them a song of his own devising that is considered vulgar even by their standards. Oh, and there was the incident with the stolen pemmican, but he went to the grave denying his involvement."
The Marquis chuckled. "That sounds like John, but he was far from a terror! He was certainly responsible for a string of broken hearts all over the country and half of the continent, but he was a kind boy to those he loved. Sadly, he tended to love ladies who were already married, and did have a distressing habit of getting into duels as a result. He got into duels for many reasons, come to think of it."
Jacques raised his brows. "He did? That explains why my mother always says she had believed he would die by the sword and not from the sickness that claimed him. He had a temper, then?"
"Not in the least," said the Marquis, his eyes growing soft at the memory. "Rather, he was forever being called out by other men who felt that he had... how should I put it... wronged them, in some way. His love of tricks and pranks were not always well received by the men he played them upon, nor was his love for the various women in his life particularly constant. You must understand that in the days of your father's youth such behaviour was more common than it is today."
"The wronging, or the duels?" said Jacques dryly.
"It was because of a duel that your grandfather cast out John," continued the Marquis, although he was smiling with deep amusement. "Cut him off without a penny and told him never to darken the doors of any Cartwright, or he'd see John put into a debtor's prison himself. I always thought he overreacted, for his own conduct as a young man was far more shocking. At the time we all thought John would simply rusticate until he was forgiven, but the argument between them was darker than any of us knew, and it was the last time we saw your father."
"It is much the same story that he told his friends in Montreal," said Jacques, oddly satisfied to learn that for all the flaws in his father's character, at least the man had been honest. "Although he said he left the country to prove that he could make something of himself in a way that suited him rather than his family. He met my stepfather and joined the North West company. It is not an easy life, nor is it easy to earn the respect of my stepfather, but he succeeded at both."
"We did not even know where he died when my brother informed us of his passing," said the Marquis, his expression turning hard. "Marcus, it seems, knew where he was the whole time, but chose not to share that information. I am afraid we will never know what passed between the two of them, or what words were said in haste, but Marcus considered your father dead from the moment he left England's shores."
"I understand, Monsieur, but it still does not explain why you refused to recognise my mother. Or me."
The look of astonishment on Lord Shropshire's face was so genuine that Jacques felt his whole world shift.
"What are you talking about, my boy? I had no idea that either you or your mother existed until this morning, I swear it. Marcus led us to believe that John died penniless and alone."
Jacques swore without thinking. "Penniless! Nothing of the sort, Monsieur! He had a great deal of investments in the North West Company among other things, and I am very comfortable thanks to his legacy. As for alone; his funeral was the grandest ever seen in Montreal, so I'm told, for although he was known to have the devil about him, he was well liked by all he knew. It is said that my stepfather wept openly, something I only believe because my mother is incurably truthful, for I have never seen him display any such emotion, even when grieving the death of his brother."
"I meant no offence," said the Marquis softly, as though he were approaching a skittish horse. "I share only what we were told, but I believe you completely on this matter. Marcus had a spiteful streak in him, but until today I had no idea how wide it was."
Jacques gave a curt nod to show he accepted the apology. "I suspect, then, that your name has been wronged by my family for all these years. My mother wrote to your brother to let him know his son was dead, on the advice of her own parents. She told him about me and offered to bring us to England along with all our papers to show I was a Cartwright by birth. When my grandfather wrote back, he said that the Marquis - I assumed he meant you - had no need to see either his nephew's son or his papers. He added that as he had considered his son dead for five years, he did not wish to have contact with us again."
There was a moment of silence. The Marquis, slipping back into English, let loose a diatribe that was too fast for Jacques to follow, but in which he did recognise several rather explicit phrases.
"Forgive me my discomposure, my boy, but you have no idea how ill a turn Marcus served both of us," Lord Shropshire said in French when he eventually regained his temper. The old man had risen from his seat to pace the length of the study. It was odd, but the anger had taken years off him, and Jacques caught a glimpse of the powerful man the Marquis had been in his prime.
"I take it, then, that you did not know of my mother's letter," said Jacques slowly.
The Marquis shook his head, and Jacques believed him.
"I promise you that I was completely unaware of your existence until today, but had I known, had Marcus done his duty and informed me that John had left a wife and a child behind, then I would never have abandoned you to your fate. The Cartwrights protect their own and always have. We owe both you and your mother a
great apology for what was done."
This, however, was too much. The gravity of Lord Shropshire's words and expression betrayed his intentions, and Jacques was not about to let the man labour under any misapprehension.
"You owe us nothing, Monsieur, truly. Do not think that we were left destitute or alone in the world. My mother's family are wealthy in their own right, and my stepfather acts as though the only use for his money is to spoil his wife and children - myself included in that number. I was not exaggerating when I said that I am very comfortable thanks to the wealth inherited from my father. You have no obligation, financial or otherwise, to either my mother or myself. Indeed, she would be deeply offended by such an offer. My family is highly regarded in Montreal, even though it is not common for French Catholics to be so easily accepted."
"Catholic?" said the Marquis sharply.
Jacques lifted his chin. "Yes. My parents are Catholic. I understand it is not a popular denomination here in England, but I do not see what concern it is of yours. They are not your family, after all."
Lord Shropshire rubbed at his face before sitting back down in his chair. "I'm afraid that it is my concern, thanks to some of the laws of this land. Forgive my impertinent questions, but did my nephew convert to Catholicism? Did your parents marry in a Catholic church? If they each retained their faith, were they married in a Protestant church first?"
Jacques felt his hands curling into fists. "Had your brother had any decency, Monsieur, you would have known all of this twenty years ago. My parents were married at the Anglican Christ Church Cathedral in 1791, eleven months before I was born and then baptised there, which I think is as important to you, is it not? My full name is John Alexander Cartwright, but my father always called me Petit-Jacques, and it stuck. I am also a protestant, as are my grandparents. My mother converted to marry my step-father, Henri Gautereau after her mourning ended, and thus my siblings are Catholic. My grandparents insisted that I not be converted because of my father's people. I do not know why it was so important to them, considering the way we were treated. My mother decided that I should be known as Cartwright-Gautereau, to show my allegiance to both my fathers. It is a mouthful, though, and I have greater cause to be grateful to my stepfather's people than the Cartwrights, and so I have not bothered to correct anyone when they have assumed my name to be just Gautereau. Does that answer all your questions, or will you require witnesses to attest to my honesty?"
"I'm so sorry I had to ask," said the Marquis, looking genuinely apologetic, "but I'm afraid that your position in the family is rather dependent on these facts. I trust there are records of both the marriage and your birth are in order? Perhaps you brought copies with you?"
"What is this about?" demanded Jacques, finally losing his composure with the old man. "I have made it clear that I am not after money, nor even recognition from you, Monsieur. I see no reason for my existence to have an impact upon your life. Henrietta, I know, wishes to bring me into the family fold, but once I return to Montreal you will not have to spare a single thought upon me. I do not understand your interest in my legitimacy and religion under these circumstances, and I demand an explanation."
The Marquis, far from being put out by his display of temper, smiled slightly. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and pressed his splayed fingers together. An ornate ring, gold with the largest ruby Jacques had ever seen, glittered in the light.
"Either you are a greater actor than John Kemble ever was, or you truly are oblivious of your position. No, don't blow up at me again! I meant it as a compliment! You see, your existence has come as a shock to the whole family, but also returned a hope that I lost with the death of my sons."
There was pain in the old man's face, aging him as he paused, lost in memories.
"Henrietta's father?" guessed Jacques, his voice soft.
Lord Shropshire nodded. "Her mother and older brother, too. There was an epidemic that swept through the county, and took many members of my family with it. Henrietta was left as the last Cartwright of her generation. Her uncle was next in line to inherit, but a riding accident... well, there was no one left for he never married, and a mere granddaughter, no matter how exceptional a woman she is, cannot inherit the Marquisette."
"You have a grandson," said Jacques. "The Earl of Gloucester, no?"
"Via my daughter," explained the Marquis. "His claim is even less robust than that of Henrietta as a result, for the laws of England will not let my title pass down through the maternal line. After my sons and grandson, Marcus was the next in line to be Marquis."
"So if he were alive, your brother would be your heir," said Jacques slowly.
"Yes, but he died in the same epidemic as Henrietta's family, and my younger boy was still alive at the time. Succession to my title was still clear."
"I see," said Jacques, not sure what name to give the churn of emotions in his chest. His thoughts were racing in all directions as he found himself remembering every comment made by his parents and grandparents about his Cartwright heritage. "Had your brother recognised us, then perhaps the situation would be different; is that what you are saying?"
Lord Shropshire raised a brow. "Whether he chose to recognise you or not is completely irrelevant, my boy. You are a direct descendant of my father through your paternal line. That makes you my closest living male relative."
There was a long silence. Not even the sounds of the Cottingham household penetrated the grand walls of the study, making it feel like the whole world had collectively held its breath at Lord Shropshire's revelation. Oddly enough, the only clear thought in Jacques' head was how happy his grandparents in Montreal were going to be when they got this news, and that he estimated it would be less than three minutes before they went to inform every member of the Beaver Club of his new status, and lorded it over the families they held in dislike.
But it couldn't possibly be true. This type of thing... it just did not happen, and certainly not to a French-Canadian who, while he was perfectly at home with the Metis fur traders of Quebec and could be trusted to spend a convivial evening with the middle classes of Montreal society, had not the first notion of how to run an estate, or bow to a King, or be an English peer of any description at all.
"Please accept my apologies for I am being very stupid indeed, Monseiur Le Marquis, but are you saying... is it true.... are you saying that I am your heir?"
"You are indeed, my boy," said the old man with considerable solemnity. "When I die, you will be the 4th Marquis of Shropshire, and will inherit all of my estate."
"Ah," said Jacques. He paused when both his brain and mouth refused to work.
"I will need to see the papers, I'm afraid," said the Marquis hurriedly. "Not because I doubt you, but because the Government will want to be certain that you are, indeed, the son of John Cartwright and his lawful wife. Your baptism also matters, for Catholics are not allowed to take their seats in the Lords regardless of their title, which was why I felt compelled to ask so many questions."
"Ah," said Jacques. He felt as though his brain had been stuffed with cotton, for it refused to create even a single coherent thought.
"It would perhaps be for the best that we do not announce you as my heir until all the legalities have been completed. Not because I have doubts, you understand, but to prevent the gossips of the Ton from causing trouble. One does not reach my age without making enemies, you see, and then there are those who will make trouble for the sake of it. Beyond that, the Regent has become increasing anti-Catholic in the last few years, despite the influence of Mrs Fitzherbert, while Cumberland – he’s one of the Royal Dukes, and brother to Prinny - is almost fanatical in his dislike of Papists. If they suspect even for a moment that you might throw your support behind Catholic Emancipation once you take your seat in the Lords, I would not put it past them to try and cast doubt on your birthright."
"They could do that?" asked Jacques, momentarily diverted from the tumult of thoughts swirling about his head.
The Marquis grimaced. "Considering the lengths Prinny has gone to in his attempts to annul his marriage to Princess Caroline, I'm afraid that I have little faith in the integrity of this generation of Royals. No, I want to be sure that everything is watertight before we announce to the world that you are my heir."
Jacques rubbed at his temples. "I am not sure that I want to be a Marquis," he muttered.
If he expected the current holder of that title to react with shock at his pronouncement, he was sorely disappointed. Lord Shropshire, a conciliatory smile on his face, leaned forwards so that he could grip Jacques gently on the arm.
"Your world has been turned upside down, hasn't it? For now, we won't talk about things like obligations to the title, or the family holdings, or taking your place in the House of Lords. We can introduce you to society as a distant cousin of mine and ease you gradually into the Ton. That will also allow me to delay presenting you at Court, so I am not compelled to lie about your parentage."
Jacques didn't respond to this. Lord Shropshire picked up the half-empty brandy glass from the side table and took it back to the decanter. He was liberal with Cottingham's brandy, filling the glass far higher than decorum usually permitted.
Jacques accepted it gratefully. When the Marquis took a long, deep drink from his own glass, Jacques smiled and did likewise.
"To my unknown heir," said Lord Shropshire with a rueful grin.
Jacques smiled, but didn't say anything out loud. He found himself suddenly longing for his family to appear, or to wake up back in Montreal with all this nothing but a fevered dream.
He took another mouthful of brandy, contemplating the ridiculousness of fate in silence.
Chapter Four
The Unknown Heir: Book Nine in the Regency Romps Series Page 5
