Page 31 of The Colonist’s Petition (Heirs & Heroes #2)

Twenty-Two

T he unfamiliar writing on the unfranked letter gave George pause.

Did she wish to pay the postage on a letter from an unknown sender?

Curiosity won and she picked out the necessary coins from her reticule.

The post from her grandfather, most likely Johnathan, Jane, and Phil were all properly directed.

This last thin missive that either the sender had no means to pay for the postage or no desire to.

The fine hand led George to believe it was the later as the writer was obviously educated.

She walked to town alone today owing the fact that Timothy showed signs of a cold and the day was blustery.

George tucked all the letters, including one from her father addressed to her aunt, also unfranked, into her reticule and cinched it tightly shut before finishing the little shopping required.

As soon as she stepped from the shelter of the building the wind commenced a game of tugging at her securely tied bonnet requiring George to keep one hand on her head and the other firmly on her basket.

Walking to town was pure folly. Without the benefit of trees there was little to break the force of wind off of the moor.

Aunt Elaine was right, she should have waited until tomorrow for better weather, but she wanted her letters too badly. There was little to do but forge ahead.

At the crossroads, a well-used carriage, not unlike her father’s, stopped. A man not much older than her opened the door. “Miss, is this the road to Limewood?”

George eyed the coach. The occupant was slightly shabbier than the driver.

Having never heard of Limewood in her life, she pointed to the village without saying a word.

Someone there would be able to answer the question.

George hurried across the road and heard the coachman urge the horses forward.

Only to her dismay the coach did not turn the direction intended but pulled up beside her and slowed.

She was alone with little cover. While this might have been thrilling in a novel, the thumping heart in her chest was all too real.

The man opened the window. “Let me give ye a ride.”

George weighed her options. She could run into the moor in hopes that he would not follow.

Lord Banbridge’s manor was less than a quarter mile ahead, although he was in London, his staff would likely shelter her, but a quarter of a mile walking next to the coach seemed like an invitation to trouble. That left one option.

George turned and hurried back toward the crossroads. Just beyond the right fork was a small house of a farmer or shepherd or such. Since the coach would have to turn around and the wind was now at her back, she might have a chance.

She could make out the chimney and its promising puffs of smoke. At the frustrated shout of the driver, George left the road running as fast as her skirt and the wind would allow in the most direct path to the house. A yell behind her propelled her faster toward the friendly chimney.

A rabbit darted out of her path as another shout came from behind her. Or was that her own scream? Had the basket not been her aunt’s very best one, George would have abandoned it. The chimney was closer now and she could make out the entire form of the house and its accompanying stable.

Cries behind her were louder as the man was surely closer. No man with good intentions would pursue a lady through the moor.

Lungs burning, George kept running. A man exited the stable near the house with the chimney carrying a bucket.

George tried to yell, but her lungs were burning, and no sound came out. Still the man turned her direction, his face registering surprise. She slowed her steps, confident that the man chasing her would stop.

“What—” the wind caught the farmer’s voice and whipped his grey hair around as George slowed to a stop feet from him.

“Miss!” shouted the man chasing her.

Still? George whirled to face her assailant, confident that he would not inflict harm on her in front of a witness.

The man held up her reticule. “You. Dropped. This.” He bent over, struggling to catch his breath.

George wished she could do the same, instead she held on to a fence post for support.

“I did not mean to scare ye.” The man stepped closer, holding out her bag.

George took it with a grateful nod.

The coach that she ran from pulled into the yard.

The man turned to the farmer. “I’m looking for Limewood. Can you direct me?”

“Never heard of a Limewood.”

The man pulled a paper from his pocket and showed it to the farmer, who shook his head. He then held it close enough for George to read it. The paper was dappled with water stains blaring the writing in a feminine hand. It was a letter addressed to a Mr. F. Hale.

“Who is this letter from?”

“My late brother’s wife.”

“And you are?”

“Mr. Fredrick Hale, at your service.” He bowed.

“What is your sister-in-law’s given name?”

“Elaine.”

Her aunt mentioned that Mr. Hale had younger brothers.

“Do you know her? I returned home from Canada to find this letter waiting for me?—”

The wind ripped the letter from his hand and into George’s dress. She grabbed it, crumpling the letter further. “May I read it?”

Mr. Hale looked at the farmer. “May she stand in the shelter of your barn?”

The man led them to the door. The wind immediately lost its fight and George’s skirts fell into their proper place. She took the offered letter and unfolded it, looking for the signature. It was indeed her aunt’s.

If the solicitor's office managed to be clean but dusty, the genealogist's office was dusty yet clean.

Several slightly harried clerks bent over desks covered with odd papers and books.

Mr. Fawkes offered more than one bow to the earl as he led him back into an office where a large, dark wood desk was piled high with folders and papers.

Mr. Fawkes set his hand on a stack five inches high. “This is what I have gathered so far. I have never seen a family tree with so many loose ends.”

The earl sat in the nicest chair, and Johnathan followed in the other. The genealogist adjusted his spectacles and opened up the folder containing the first set of files.

“Now, this is what you sent me regarding your current line and the entailment that leads to Sir Lightwood. Unfortunately, I do not believe it is correct. Nor is it the line of succession.”

“What?” exclaimed the earl.

Mr. Fawkes tapped a line on a chart full of names. “You see here, this line. The Lightwood Barony’s connection goes back to the Second Earl of Whitstone. That is four generations that must be checked. I highly doubt that only one child was born for each of that many generations.”

“And up here is all a muddle. While your father took the title…” Dizzying words continued out of Mr. Fawkes’s mouth as he explained two other anomalies, which made him curious. “The man now known as Mr. Nathan Whittaker of Massachusetts is the only son of the Fourth Earl and his second wife.”

“Yes, the first and all their children died of a terrible illness. Everyone knows that,” said the earl.

“The parish records do not confirm that children passed. However, they are not in good order.”

“So what does this mean for our petition?” the earl waved at all the papers.

“Nothing at the moment. Because it is an unconfirmed conjecture. I need more documentation or, better yet, witness accounts, journals and such. Until then, you continue as though your information is correct.”

He opened another folder. “Now, this is somewhat problematic. The son of the fourth Earl of Whitstone now known as Nathaniel Whittaker, an American and Johnathan’s grandfather did not officially abdicate. He simply left, and the title was bestowed on your father without proper process.”

The earl took the papers and read them. “My father was not legitimately an earl? What of me?”

“If Mr. Nathaniel Whittaker wrote a declaration of his allegiance to the King or the colonies, then things would be much cleaner.” Mr. Fawkes pinned Johnathan with a glare. “Did he in any way help with the Revolution?”

“He lost two sons to it. My own father eventually succumbed to losing a limb. I do not know financially how much he contributed. But he was with the Yankees.”

“Hmm, that will not help you at all. And this is another problem: the man born as Nathaniel Ryeland, now Whittaker, refused to return to England upon his father's death in 1771. He was still a British citizen at the time. The earldom should have never passed to the man recognized as the Fifth Earl and hence to you as the Sixth Earl without a petition to Parliament. From the letters you provided, it is obvious that the dowager Countess of Whitstone, Lady Eugenia Ryeland, was aware that her son was alive and in the American Colonies and very much a subject of the crown.”

“So I should not be an earl?”

Mr. Fawkes looked John Ryeland, the Sixth Earl of Whitstone, in the eye and spoke the words only he could say. “Quite possibly not.”

Silence filled the room.

Mr. Fawkes opened yet another folder. “However. This correspondence from the King to your father is proof that he acknowledged the earldom as it was bestowed. Which is highly in your favor and I doubt Parliament will strip you of the title.”

Another file was opened. “Mr. Whittaker, you have no living uncles, correct?”

“My Uncle Francis lives in Hingham,” Johnathan paused, "Massachusetts, not England.”

“Is he older or younger than your father?”

“Younger.”

Mr. Fawkes slid a paper in front of Johnathan. “I understand your grandfather had four consecutive wives. If you can write down everything you know about your relations, it would be helpful. The information provided to me left many potential holes.”

Johnathan looked over the paper. The first wife died in childbirth with her child.

Nothing to add there. The second and all of their children passed from illness before the oldest was ten.

The third was his grandmother and the last was Widow Black and she had grown children of her own.

As for his uncles, aunts, and cousins everything appeared to be in order.

“I have nothing to add. That is my family as I know it.”

Mr. Fawkes frowned at the paper. “It is missing proper dates. There must be proper records kept.”

Johnathan rubbed his chin. “There might be church records and such.”

“I presume I cannot expect more from the colonies.” A king could not have spoken with more condemnation than did the genealogist.

“My solicitor is sending men to my cousin in Massachusetts to confirm information. If you need clarification, I suggest you send a request to him immediately.” The earl stood, ending the conversation. “If you learn more, please contact me through my solicitor.”

The oddest feeling that the earl was somehow snubbing Mr. Fawkes for his haughtiness toward him pleased Johnathan. A warm pride filled him. The earl’s protectiveness had grown to include him.