by Banks, Evie
“Perhaps we knocked on the wrong door”—began the elder man. His accent was decidedly not Texan.
“Sorry about that. I thought you were Ray,” said Renee and lowered the bat.
“Who is Ray?” asked the younger man.
“My soon to be ex-husband.”
“That chuffed bloke ranting about crazy bi— about crazy women?”
Renee made a face. “That’s the one.”
“Yeah, we passed him on the stairs. That man’s your husband, you say?” He appeared amused.
“We’re separated,” said Renee, waspishly. “How can I help you?”
The older man, having got over the initial shock of a woman jumping out of a door and yelling at him, cleared his throat. Renee suddenly felt very nervous.
“Are you Georgina Renee Montshire Krebs?” he asked.
Renee scowled. “It’s Renee.”
“But you are the above named?” he pressed.
“Yes. What do you want?”
Nothing good had ever come from a repetition of her full name. It was only ever used on legal documents and bills. Bills! Her mind jumped to the stack of unpaid bills gathering dust in the corner. The two men in suits must be debt collectors. All her anger evaporated immediately and was replaced by fear. She stepped backwards in the apartment and the gentlemen followed.
“I’m going to pay them I promise! I’m working every shift I can.” She scurried over to the table and started flipping through the envelopes. “I paid half the electric bill last week—I worked it out with the company over the phone and will pay the rest next week so you don’t have to worry about that one.” She flipped to the next envelope. “I know I’m behind on cable bill, but I’ll pay it; I’m going through a really hard time right now. It’s not easy just relying on myself.”
She realized she was babbling and the tears that were choking her up probably didn’t help matters. She continued to go through the bills and didn’t notice the concerned looks the two men were giving each other. The younger one spoke. Renee had worked herself into a blubbering hysteria and he had to repeat himself to get through to her.
“Mrs. Krebs? We’re not here to make you pay on your debts. We’re not debt collectors.”
“You’re not?” She inelegantly snorted up mucus that was about to drip down onto her collar. The older man looked aghast down his high, beak-like nose. Renee thought he might have shuddered in disgust. She was suddenly aware that she was still in her waitressing uniform and a child had spilled some of his chocolate shake on her skirt. “You’re not from a collection agency?” she asked again.
“No, I promise we’re nothing like that,” said the younger man, shaking his head.
“Then who are you?”
The two men looked at each and as if by agreement the younger man took a deep breath and began to speak.
“You are perhaps familiar with the unfortunate events that occurred in England during the Grand Reunion?”
Renee nodded her head mutely. Was she ever.
“Yes, well, we—that is, I—Roberts is along to give his professional opinion—are representatives of the late majesty’s government of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.”
“I thought Ireland was a separate country.”
“Some catching up lessons shall be necessary,” said the older man, Roberts, not looking much happier than he had when she sucked up her snot.
“Pardon me?” said Renee, confused. She wasn’t following what any of them were saying. They were here from England. That’s all she could make out. “You’re here from England.”
“Yes.”
“To see me?”
The young man nodded. “Yes.”
“But why?”
The two men exchanged glances again and then—as if they had rehearsed this beforehand—both sank to one knee.
“Georgina Renee Montshire Krebs, you are the last person in line of royal inheritance. We are here to offer you the throne of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and all the Realm. The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE SILENCE STRETCHED into minutes and the two men were getting uncomfortable. It was difficult to maintain a kneeling position. Beads of sweat formed at Roberts’s temples. They were staring up at Renee as if expecting her to respond to this ridiculous statement.
“I believe we are all wondering if you accept,” said Roberts, reaching out to steady himself on the arm of the sofa.
Renee remained mute. The words coming out of their mouths made no sense and yet here were two men kneeling among her piles of laundry asking her to be the queen of England.
Her eyes narrowed in distrust.
“How much did Ray pay you to do this? If this is where the rent money is going then you can tell him that I’ll find him, and I’ve got a brand new metal baseball bat waiting to be broken in.”
Roberts sighed and got arthritically to his feet. His knees creaked. The younger man, who introduced himself as Philip Chase, followed suit, rubbing his knees and doing some quick squat stretches.
“I told you she wouldn’t believe it,” Chase said to Roberts.
“Whether she believes it or not, she is who she is. Can MI6 kidnap her?”
Renee tried to follow what they were saying as they talked in front of her like she wasn’t there. What was MI6?
“Excuse me,” she said, trying to break into their conversation.
“I don’t believe so. Improper use of funds.” Chase shook his head sorrowfully. “They’re on a tight leash these days.”
“Excuse me”—
“Well, we’re really in a pickle, aren’t we? The clock is ticking. Imagine the palace boarded up, the employees turned out on the street.”
“Roberts, you exaggerate.”
They continued talking like this without noticing her. She went to her closet and came back armed with an air horn. She pushed the button and the sound filled the small apartment causing both men to jump once again. When the sound ceased her ears were still ringing.
Roberts’s hand flew to his heart. He staggered backwards and fell into a seat. Chase bent over to attend to Roberts whose eyes were closed and was breathing deeply.
“Jesus, woman,” said Chase. “You couldn’t kick us in the shins or something if you had something to say? It would hurt less.”
“Neither of you is permanently damaged, but somebody had better start talking or it will happen again.” She held out the air horn, her finger paused above the red button.
“Okay, okay!” said Chase, putting his hands up in submission. “Just don’t do that again. Christ almighty. MI6 should hire her; she’s good at torture. We’ll tell you everything. Perhaps we should sit down.”
He looked around and not finding a clear space on the sofa, he moved a pile of towels and underwear. Renee stood awkwardly, embarrassed by the contrast of the well-dressed gentlemen and her messy house. She had been so busy at work that she had been too exhausted to clean it.
“Would the lady perhaps like to take my chair?” said Roberts, making a gallant effort to get up despite his chalky color.
“No, please sit. You don’t look so good.”
Roberts sank back into the chair in relief and covered his eyes with a spotty hand. Renee looked around and then pulled over a wooden chair from the kitchen table. She sat straight while she listened. Chase sat forwards, his elbows on his knees while he talked.
“This is quite unexpected, I imagine. It must seem very strange, the two of us showing up out of nowhere.”
Renee nodded curtly.
“But I assure you, our business is very serious. You see, the whole of the royal family was in that pavilion when it exploded,” said Chase. “It was unprecedented, a gathering of that size. It was supposed to be an exercise in the grandness and roots of the monarchy. Partly because the anniversary of the Queen’s coronation was coming up and partly because the last several years have seen an uptick in anti-monarchy propaganda and acti
ons to limit or even eliminate the whole institution. So this family reunion was going to get everyone excited again about the royal family because see, even your neighbor might have royal antecedents. Every little twig of every family branch going back to the Plantagenets was sought out. The aristocrats hated it, of course—thought the idea of searching out the royals who had become commoners somehow diminished their own standing.”
“Ducks in peacock plumage, said the Duke of Hillock,” added Roberts, still hiding behind his hand.
“Yes, well, extensive genealogical research was done to search these people out, but in many cases there were dead ends. Records not located, people simply vanishing from history, things of that nature. Obviously the record keeping for royals and aristocracy was better than for most of the populace, but sometimes things get missed. Or someone doesn’t want to be found, or there are deliberate erasures.”
“Deliberate? Why would someone be erased from the royal family?” Renee was intrigued.
“Politics, of course,” said Roberts, finally raising his head to look at Renee. “For example Maria Therese, the daughter of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette simply disappeared after her parents were guillotined in the French Revolution. It is rumored that she found sanctuary in Germany, but nobody knows for certain. She was the last survivor of her family.”
Renee nodded. “But you said some people don’t want to be found. Who are they and where did they go? How do you even know about them?”
“Ah,” said Chase, “now we are getting closer to the heart of the matter. Until recently, inheritance generally passed patrilineally from father to son, or to the nearest male relative in the absence of sons—this was generally the cause of civil strife, when two male relatives both claimed to be the nearest relative. Think of the War of the Roses or of the Princes of the Tower—the two little boys were considered future rivals for the kingship so they were locked away in the tower and never heard from again. Wouldn’t it have been better if they had been able to hide away for a while, pretend they hadn’t been born royal? How many times has this happened in history, we don’t know.”
“That’s terrible,” said Renee.
“Yes. But there was also a problem of too many sons. That is, too many potential heirs for the throne. The eldest son was in line for the throne, but he would always have to distrust his younger brothers, continually look over his shoulder wondering if they were scheming to do him in and perhaps claim the throne for themselves. In return, the younger brothers always had to wonder if the older brother was plotting to kill him to insure clear succession.”
“Doesn’t sound like a happy family portrait,” said Renee.
“No, it doesn’t,” agreed Chase. “It was a very dangerous and delicate situation for everyone. One wrong word or misplaced suspicion could lead to blood spilt.
“Montshire, as you are probably aware, was a family intimately involved in royal history, existing in England since even before the Norman Conquest, and for a brief time they even reigned in the 17th century in the fluid time between James II and William of Orange. It was not a glorious reign and ended quickly for some of the reasons described.”
“No, I didn’t know that!” said Renee.
“There were four Montshire brothers. William, the eldest and the first Montshire monarch, and Frederick, Alfred, and George, the youngest. William, fearing a plot from his younger brothers, had them arrested on trumped up charges of treason, eventually putting Frederick to death. This prompted a counter-rebellion which freed Alfred and George. Alfred sought revenge for Frederick’s murder and killed William, thereby becoming king himself. George, the youngest who was only seventeen at the time, knew his life was in danger no matter which way the wind blew. Clearly, he couldn’t count on brotherly love, having already seen two brothers killed by each other’s hands. He fled, but it was not known what happened to him. It has always been assumed that he died on the run or perhaps was captured and killed on the spot because there is a single line of reference in a letter stating, ‘George M., heir presumptive, stopped at Winchester.’ Now, it was always presumed that he had been killed there while on his way to one of the seaports, Bournemouth or Portsmouth.”
Renee realized she was leaning forward, worried for this young man George. “But now you don’t think he was?”
Chase spread out his hands. “Nobody ever looked too closely into it before because just weeks later, Alfred Montshire was deposed rather brutally, thus ending the whole Montshire saga which lasted only four months. Three brothers dead and a fourth presumed dead. It was better for everyone not to believe there was a possible heir out there.”
“The only thing going for the Montshires was that they were Protestants,” interjected Roberts. “But, of course, the Glorious Revolution that brought William of Orange put an end to a need for them. The rest of the Montshires were much reduced in stature after this affair and the name has died out in England due to marriage and an unfortunate inability to much reproduce.”
Renee considered what she had learned. A fluttery feeling began in the pit of her stomach. “But you don’t believe George Montshire died, do you?”
“There is the distinct possibility that he didn’t,” said Chase. “No one ever bothered to look before, but the catastrophe that has befallen the royal family has led genealogists to return to some of these mysteries as there is no obvious heir at the moment.”
“And this led you to me?” said Renee in disbelief. “But how?”
“A ship’s manifest that sailed from Portsmouth a week after the date of the letter referencing the heir presumptive’s location at Winchester, lists a George Shireman, age seventeen, among its passengers. It was bound for Boston, Massachusetts. Unlike the rest of the passengers, he was not an indenture, but paid his way in full. Very unusual for a boy of only seventeen.”
“What do you mean he was not an indenture?” asked Renee.
“Most migrants to the American colonies had their way paid by men of property in America, in return for seven years of service.”
“Like slaves?”
“Somewhat, although after the agreed period of time, the owner of the indenture, if he was an honest man, would release the servant and sometimes even grant him a plot of land. This sounds better than it was in reality. Most indentured servants did not survive their term of service or were swindled by their owners. But travelling to America was prohibitively expensive and the only way to get there was through these agreements. So you see, a young man able to travel without contracting for an indenture, is quite unusual.”
“And you think George Shireman was George Montshire?”
“It seems to fit,” said Chase, “but that’s not the end of the clues.”
“We would hardly have made this abominable trip if it was,” said Roberts. “Your town is…quaint, if I may say so Mrs. Krebs.”
“That’s one way of describing the middle of nowhere,” said Renee. “I want to know more about the clues.”
Chase consulted a small notebook.
“Well, we couldn’t find the disembarking records in Boston so it’s not clear where George Shireman immediately went to or if he even survived the passage, but some half a dozen years later there is a marriage certificate for George Shireman, small farmer, and Mary Collins, in Braintree, Massachusetts. This George Shireman would be the same age as the George Shireman who left Portsmouth. The trail goes cold for the next several decades, but there is a land deed in the archives of Virginia for the purchase of timberland in the western part of the state—today called West Virginia and back then nothing but wilderness, signed by George Shireman. Again, the same age as the George Shireman of Portsmouth would be at that time. There is no death certificate for George Shireman, not as far as can be located.”
“Then the trail ends,” said Renee, despondently. She had been getting quite excited by the story.
“Actually, it gets better,” said Chase and unfolded a piece of paper that looked like a photocopy of some very antiquate
d handwriting. “A letter from one of the largest landholders in the area of western Virginia, writes to his sister in 1740 that he is very grieved about the passing of his friend, George Montshire.” Chase began to read the paper. “A very courtly man he was and he and his wife Mary, who has been dead these two years, were often guests in our home, and us in theirs, and frequently helped each other in times of sickness or the dread times of winter, company being scarce in this vast, empty forest. His son, also George, has entrusted to us a letter to post to his aunts and uncles in Braintree Massachusetts when I travel to see you in Philadelphia next month. How many years has it been since we last encountered each other, I am grown quite grizzled!”
Chase stopped reading. “The rest of the letter discusses his plans and family news and is not relevant. I read to you the pertinent piece of information, that George Montshire, who owned land in the same vicinity as George Shireman and of the same age as George Shireman, who also had a connection to Braintree Massachusetts, had passed away, leaving a son also named George Montshire. The George Montshire who died must be George Shireman, who himself was previously George Montshire!”
“Why did he suddenly change his name back to Montshire if it is the same person?” asked Renee.
“By this time, it was several decades since the tragic saga of the Montshires, and the Hanoverians were well entrenched. There was no longer any danger of his being hunted by the monarchs and who in the rough and wild country forests of the New World would ever connect their neighboring farmer to the intrigues of a faraway land? No, he clearly felt that it was safe to reclaim his name.”
“And this George Montshire of Virginia is my ancestor?”
“Yes, the rest is easy to reconstruct. The son that was mentioned in the letter died in the 1760’s and his son George, grandson of the original George Montshire, fought in the Revolutionary War. His son, also named George, migrated to Kentucky and his son George fought in the Civil War for Kentucky, losing a leg in the process. Kentucky George’s son George migrated to Texas and served as a sheriff. It is in Texas where the Montshires have resided ever since, though they don’t seem to have branched out at all. George Montshire, your father, was directly descended from George Montshire of Virginia, who himself was heir to the throne until it passed by agreement to William and Mary. And you, Mrs. Krebs, are the sole offspring of George Montshire. You are the legitimate heir.”
