And the last Marquis of Shropshire, with no heir still alive to inherit his title since Henrietta’s father, uncle and cousin had died all those years ago.
"Grandpapa?"
Henrietta's questioning voice cut into his reverie, and he forced himself to smile. Two large plates of refreshments, including thick slices of his favourite plum cake, had been placed onto the sideboard without him even noticing that they’d been brought to the room.
Damn, but he was getting old. Once, he would have been aware of every shift and movement in the parlour, and known with a glance what everyone was thinking, feeling, and planning.
Not any longer. Now all he knew was that Henrietta was hiding something, but that he no idea what it could be.
"I was just thinking how lucky I am to have such a fine family,” he replied with a faint smile. “No man could ask for better.”
The Marchioness reached over and squeezed his hand, a lifetime of shared understanding in that touch.
Silence fell across the room. Henrietta studied him, before coming to an unspoken decision. She took a determined breath before clearing her throat, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.
"Thank you all for coming to this meeting," she began with all the aplomb of a prime minister addressing the House.
"Told you it was a meeting," Abigail said to her husband in a loud whisper. "Now you see that I was right to come."
"Fine, just aim for the cooler rather than the carpet if you feel another turn coming on," replied George, but his attempt at being dour was ruined by the affectionate way he continued to gently rub his wife's back.
Henrietta cast a look of irritation at the Gloucesters but persisted with her obviously prepared speech.
"As I am sure you are all aware, Cottingham's younger brother, Christopher, moved to Montreal to help oversee the family's interests out there," she began.
"How is that progressing, my boy?" said Loughcroft, addressing his question to Cottingham directly. "Is it true that violence has broken out between the Hudson Bay and the North West companies?"
"Yes, and the rivalry between the two can be bitter," said James, oblivious to the glare his wife was aiming at his back. "Christopher has done an excellent job in building relations with people at both firms, but he fears more bloodshed in the near future."
"So why did he come back to England with that friend of his?" asked Emma. "Don't look at me like that, Henrietta! You might not have officially mentioned that he’s home, but we do have eyes, you know. We even saw him not half an hour ago, talking to young Spencer and some other chap."
“Talking in French,” said Loughcroft, with a touch of disgust.
"If you let me finish, I will get to that!" said Henrietta through gritted teeth.
"Dears, please let your cousin speak," said the Marchioness in a dignified tone, although her lips quivered ever so slightly. "It is obviously of great importance."
"Apologies," said Loughcroft with a bow of his head, but Emma just rolled her eyes, and George seemed irritated that he had to be there at all.
Henrietta took a steadying breath before she continued.
"During his time in Montreal, Christopher shared that his brother and I had recently been married. It seems that revealing my family name caused quite a stir amongst some of the North West Company men."
A strange sensation came over the Marquis as old memories stirred. His younger brother, Marcus. His nephew, John, who had fled abroad almost three decades ago.
"They had met a Cartwright before?" he asked.
Henrietta nodded rapidly, and for the first time the Marquis appreciated how nervous his granddaughter really was.
“Yes, and one of them shared that his great-grandfather had been the second Marquis of Shropshire – your father, Grandpapa!”
If Henrietta had expected some kind of gasp or dramatic response to her revelation, she was sorely disappointed. While Shropshire felt his heart rate increase as his mind whirled and spun, no one else in the family seemed to understand the potential importance of what the girl had said.
“Is that the young man who Emma and Loughcroft saw accompanying Mr Douglas?” said the Marchioness.
Henrietta nodded. She opened her mouth to speak, but did not get the chance to continue.
"The friend must be from Lower Canada, then, not France," Loughcroft said in a loud stage whisper to Emma. "That makes much more sense now I think about it, for I could not conceive as to why Mr Douglas would have brought a Frenchman back to England with him."
“Of course he’s from Lower Canada,” said Henrietta, now thoroughly exasperated. “Why would Christopher have brought a Frenchman home with him when he’s not been to France?”
“They do have Frenchmen in Canada,” said Loughcroft reasonably. “Or he could have been from one of the French colonies, like Saint-Dominique.”
“It’s called Haiti now,” said George, surprising everyone with the fact he’d been paying attention to his lifelong friend. “The French there either fled or died in their revolution.”
Loughcroft looked surprised at this disclosure. “I’ll say this for them: the French certainly know how to revolt.”
“It wasn’t the French that revolted, it was the islanders that rose up against them,” said Abby, still looking rather queasy, the poor thing.
“Do people just not like the French?” asked Loughcroft. “Everyone seems to want to go to war with them – including the French themselves!”
“It doesn’t matter, because Monsieur Gautereau is not French!” declared Henrietta, but Loughcroft did not look convinced.
Shropshire remained silent, but the hope that had been in his chest a moment earlier sputtered and died.
Not a Cartwright, then, this mysterious young relative.
It had been foolish to consider he could have been. His brother would have told him. He would have known.
He kept the disappointment from his face, and only his wife, who knew him better than anyone in the world, was watching him thoughtfully.
The children continued to bicker.
"He sounds awfully French with a name like that, and you do keep calling him monsieur,” said Loughcroft, and it was hard to tell if he was deliberately goading Henrietta, or if he genuinely had assumed the mysterious man was French.
“He’s from Montreal in Lower Canada, where they mostly speak French,” she replied through gritted teeth.
Shropshire glanced at his wife, who gave an almost imperceptible smile. She had guessed, then. And understood.
“How was I supposed to know that?” said Loughcroft with a shake of his head. “I don’t have any business interests in either Upper or Lower Canada. Not got any in the Americas at all, come to think of it.”
“Not one?” said George looking surprised. “I though Pocklington had asked you to come in on a venture?”
“He did, and although it would likely have doubled our fortune, Alistair refused,” said Emma, looking annoyed.
“Not worth the risk, my dear, and my brother Perry agreed,” replied her husband. “The only reason the Loughcroft name has held on so long as it has is because we followed the advice of our ancestors: if you can’t reach it within a week, don’t invest in it.”
“That’s all well and good, but not relevant in the least,” said Henrietta, but no one was paying attention. Shropshire felt sorry for his granddaughter and genuinely wanted to know more about this fellow from Montreal, but even he was intrigued to know how the Loughcrofts had come by their odd piece of financial logic.
“Doesn’t that restrict your ability to increase the family coffers, my boy?” he asked. “It rules out any kind of shipping for a start.”
Loughcroft shuddered. “Good God, shipping! We avoid anything that involves oceans and boats other than local fishing boats, for the last time we invested in any such venture was Raleigh’s hunt for El Dorado. Ha! Two hundred years later and we’ve never seen a penny back on the fortune we spent!”
“You
do know it’s a myth, don’t you,” said Emma with long-suffering patience.
Loughcroft scoffed. “It’s not a myth at all, I’ve still got the assurances signed by Raleigh in the library. We invested a fortune and a half with the man.”
“I think my sister means that El Dorado is a myth that the Spanish made up and Raleigh fell for,” said Gloucester, his mouth grim but his eyes dancing with amusement.
“The Spanish! Well, that just goes to prove my point, doesn’t it? Raleigh should have known better!” said Loughcroft with triumph.
It was all Shropshire could do not to laugh at the looks of bemusement that met this declaration, but his youngest grandchild was rapidly losing her patience.
“Will you all stop being so ridiculous and just listen to me!” she demanded, but the butler chose that moment to enter the room, carrying with him a silver tray containing a large bowl of shaved lemon ice, no doubt from Gunters.
“You are an absolute prince, my good man,” Abigail declared as the stoic gentleman presented the tray to her. “Cottingham, I demand you double his wages immediately.”
“I’m sure my Lord compensates me very well, Lady Gloucester,” said the butler, saving his employer some embarrassment. He casually accepted a few coins from George, intended to be passed to the delivery boy from the tea shop with the man’s undying thanks.
“It’s always worth paying good servants the best rate that you can,” said Emma as soon as the butler had left the room. “Life is so much more comfortable when you don’t have to worry about replacing staff with complete unknowns.”
“And at least you can control how much of your private business is shared with the world,” agreed Cottingham. “Mother has always held to much the same belief. ‘Treat your people well, and they will treat you well,’ she says, and I believe she’s right.”
“Unless it’s a damned Raleigh,” said Loughcroft darkly.
Emma opened her mouth to respond, but did not get the chance to utter a word before her younger cousin let loose a strangled scream of frustration.
“James will you stop encouraging them, you know how important this is!” she snapped at her husband, who looked suitably abashed. “And Loughcroft if you say one more word about Sir Walter Raleigh I will not be responsible for my actions! It is not important in the least!”
Loughcroft looked like he was about to tell Henrietta that the loss of his family fortune to the hands of the famous privateer was a very important matter indeed, but his wife placed a restraining hand onto his arm, and from across the room, George shook his head in a silent warning.
Alistair, with considerable effort, stayed silent.
“Why don’t you tell us your news, darling?” said the Marchioness gently in the ensuing silence. “Anyone who interrupts you will have me to deal with.”
The room remained silent, although Shropshire could tell that most of his family, even Gloucester, were struggling to hold their tongues.
Quiet did not come naturally to his dependents, and nor did withholding their opinions. It was one of the things he liked best about the children, and hoped that his great-grandchildren would inherit.
Henrietta seemed aware that she had lost any hope of gravitas in the situation. Shropshire watched the conflict in her expression as the desire to give her older cousins and their spouses a good telling off fought with the important information she had about this distant relative of theirs.
Not that Shropshire understood her excitement. The young man was a Gautereau, not a Cartwright, so nothing beyond the pleasure of having a new name to add to the family tree had changed.
He saw the moment Henrietta came to her decision. She lifted her chin a little, the strength of all the Cartwrights who had come before lending her the resolve to continue. She took a deep breath, and then turned her gaze directly towards him.
"There’s much to explain, but since no one else here seems to understand how important this is, I shall have to rush my fence. Our guest, Monsieur Jacques Gautereau, appears to be the legitimate grandson of your brother Lord Marcus through his son John Cartwright, and as such, is the heir to the Marquisate.”
An eternity of silence met his granddaughter's pronouncement, and the Marquis found himself gripping his chair to prevent himself sliding to the floor in shock.
Then everyone in the room began talking at once, and the usual familial anarchy took over.
Chapter Three
"You will forgive Henrietta her flair for the dramatic, I hope," said the Marquis of Shropshire as he passed a large glass of brandy to Jacques. "I'm rather afraid that she is not talking to me right now, but I'm sure she will come about. Despite her sulks, however, I have no intention of throwing you into a room full of my descendants in the assumption that you can swim. Some conversations are better had in private."
Jacques accepted the drink, but his attention was very much on the face of the old lord. He was searching for any hint of resemblance between them, much as he had done when he first met his young cousin, but it was difficult to do without the aid of a mirror.
"There is nothing to forgive, Monsieur Shropshire," he promised. "My cousin seems very fond of surprises and grand plans, I think."
"The problem is that my grandchildren tend to make a complete hash of things when left to their own devices," the Marquis replied with a disarming frankness. "I've sent the others away, you know. Henrietta is very put out about it, which is understandable when you consider that this is her home and not mine, but there must be some benefits to age, and I insist that doing as I please is one of them."
Jacques watched in silence as the old man lowered himself into the chair opposite, arthritic bones slowing his movements. They were in Cottingham's study together, alone now that the heavy wooden door had been firmly pushed shut, although he half-expected Henrietta was on the other side with a glass pressed to her ear.
The thought amused him.
"Your health," said the Marquis, raising his glass in the air before taking a long drink of the amber liquid inside. Jacques followed his example.
The Marquis was not what he had expected. Lord Shropshire, now in his late eighties, was still in possession of a handsome face and well-built frame, although he moved with the deliberate steadiness of someone who knew a bad fall would render them incapable. He smiled easily, at least at Jacques, with a kindness that invited confidence. He carried tiredness around him like an old cloak, as though he'd lived through and witnessed too much pain and loss. From what little Jacques knew of the Cartwright family and their recent history, it was not a surprise to see how such events had etched themselves onto the Marquis.
"Why did you send away your other grandchildren, Monsieur? I was not afraid to meet them all, even in one tangle."
They were speaking in French again, the Marquis being both fluent and eloquent in the language.
"I know, but there are some things we must discuss, my boy, and I did not feel that it was fair upon you to do so with an audience." He rested his head against the back of the leather wingback chair, and closed his eyes. "It concerns your position in the family, and the wrongs done to you by my brother."
"Allow me to stop you there," said Jacques, setting his brandy down upon the small side table. "I was not completely honest with Henrietta about my reasons for coming to England and wish to be perfectly clear with you as the head of the Cartwright family."
The Marquis opened his eyes to turn a quizzical expression onto him. "Do go on."
"I am not here to demand restitution from my grandfather, or to lay claim to any fortune or money he may have left. Do not feel as though you have an obligation to me on behalf of your dead brother, Monsieur. I feel no loss at having never met him. My father died while I was a still an infant and so I do not feel as though I am a part of your family, although I do not wish to cause offence by that statement."
"Such candor," said the Marquis, although he seemed to be finding Jacques' heartfelt speech amusing more than anything else. "It is surpri
singly refreshing to be told the unvarnished truth. I am intrigued to learn something, however. If you do not feel a connection to your father's people, why did you seek us out when Mr Douglas informed you of our connection?"
Jacques hesitated before answering.
"My mother," he eventually said, then paused again as he tried to find the right way to explain. "You have to understand that she is the best of women, and has dedicated her life to her children."
"Children?" interrupted the Marquis. "You have siblings?"
He couldn't help the proud smile that blossomed at the thought of his brothers and sisters. "Indeed, there are seven of them in all."
Shropshire's eyes widened for a moment, and if Jacques didn't know better, he would have said there was a flash of jealousy, or perhaps longing, in the old man's expression. "It must be a wonderfully noisy household. I apologise for my interruption, however. Please, continue."
Jacques scratched at the back of his head for a moment. "Naturally you know that my siblings and I have different fathers. After her mourning period, my father's best friend, Henri Gautereau, proposed to my mother, and they were married soon after. You must understand that he has been everything I could have wished for in a parent, and I have never wanted for a father in my life."
"Then he has my eternal gratitude," said the Marquis with a sincerity that Jacques could feel as well as hear.
"But I do not look like him," sighed Jacques. "He is known as the Great Bear in Montreal; a tower of a man with straight black hair and swarthy colouring. My siblings are all made in his image - not that my sisters would appreciate that observation! My mother is petite, pale, but with equally dark hair and eyes. And then there is me."
"Tall, slim, and with chestnut locks," replied the Marquis. "Like I was, in my youth. Not that you could tell under the wigs and powder, but I digress."
"I have only one miniature of my father, painted in Montreal," he continued, surprised at the way his throat was tightening. "It is not a good likeness, I am told, but it is all that I have. My mother thought that I should come to see you, the Cartwrights I mean, to see if I look like you."
The Unknown Heir: Book Nine in the Regency Romps Series Page 4