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The landlady’s eyes widened dramatically. She leaned towards him, speaking in a loud whisper. “Gentry,” she said. “Proper gentry! I can’t even remember their names; they are so grand. And they asked for you by name.”
Jude’s jaw dropped. Mystified, he followed Mrs. Hopkins into the plain room, stopping short in the doorway.
The Duke of Bosworth himself was sitting on one of Mrs. Hopkins’s overstuffed, tatty armchairs, sipping a cup of tea from her chipped chinaware. Another gentleman was seated opposite him, gazing into the fire, with his back to the door. Slowly, he turned around, looking straight at Jude.
Jude’s heart seized. It was like looking into a mirror.
The gentleman looked shocked as well. He stood up, gaping at Jude, his eyes as wide as saucers. They kept staring at each other without speaking for several moments. Jude felt like he was going to faint. The resemblance was uncanny, even though this man’s russet brown hair was threaded with grey, and his skin was wrinkled. He had exactly the same build and physique as Jude, as well as the exact shade of green eyes.
“I… I don’t understand,” stammered Jude, taking a step back. “Who are you?”
The duke stood up, walking to Jude. “I believe this is your father, Jude,” he said in a quiet voice. “Perhaps you should sit down before you fall. I will explain everything.”
***
Jude sipped his tea, unable to take his eyes off the gentleman sitting opposite him. He still couldn’t believe this was happening. Was hereallysitting in Mrs. Hopkins’s shabby lounge room, drinking tea with the Duke of Bosworth and another gentleman claiming to be his father?
Surreptitiously, he pinched himself. It hurt. So, hewasawake and not dreaming.
The gentleman had hesitantly introduced himself as the Marquess of Winston. And now, the gentleman was telling a remarkable tale, his voice fading in and out. Jude took a deep breath, trying to focus, but it was hard. Very hard.
“I lost my only son many years ago,” said the marquess, looking pained. “Twenty-five years ago, to be exact.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath as he plunged into the story, staring Jude straight in the eye. “It was a tragedy that I have never recovered from.”
Jude’s heart skipped a beat, but didn’t say anything. He just waited for the gentleman to continue.
“My wife and son were on a long journey,” he continued, his eyes misting at the memory. “I was not with them in the carriage that day. They were travelling from one of our homes to the other. I was waiting for them to arrive, but they never did. Afterwards, I found out what happened.”
He stopped, his face twisting in pain, but then he took another deep breath.
“They found the carriage abandoned on the side of a road,” he said. “The coachmen were all dead. My wife was injured, and crying hysterically. There was no sign of my son. She told me that the carriage had been ambushed by criminals and demanded all her jewellery. When she refused to give it to them, they shot the servants and dragged her out of the carriage with our crying son in her arms.”
The marquess shuddered violently. Jude’s heart flipped over. Tears were pricking behind his eyes. He didn’t know if he wanted to hear the rest, even though he was yearning for it, as well.
“She realised they were cold-blooded killers,” he continued. “She begged them for mercy, throwing her jewellery at them, but they just laughed. They took it, but also dragged our boy from her arms, saying they were going to teach her a lesson for standing up to them.
The last thing she recalled was crying and pleading for them to give him back before everything went black. She had a nasty head injury, which took a long time to heal. We believe they knocked her out with a pistol.”
Jude shuddered. He could barely find his voice. “And… and you never found your son?”
The marquess shook his head sadly. “No. I searched high and low, scoured the countryside, but there was never any sign of him. He vanished entirely.” He took another deep, ragged breath. “My dear wife never recovered from it. She blamed herself, even though I tried to reassure her. She wasted away, refusing to eat and passed away six months later.”
Jude blinked back tears. He still couldn’t believe it, but this lady might have been his mother. A tragic lady who had lost her small son in the most horrific of circumstances, before dying of a broken heart herself.
“I lost both my wife and son,” said the marquess, his face tight with grief. “In the space of six months I went from the happiest, most content man in the world to a wild, grief-stricken shell. I never recovered from it, either. But I did not die, like my late wife. It has been my torment to stay in this world, never knowing what truly happened that day.” He hesitated, gazing at Jude intently. “But now… now, I may have the possibility of it.”
Jude swallowed a lump in his throat. “They took me to an orphanage in Shrewsbury in March 1790,” he said in a quiet voice. “They found me abandoned on the doorstep of a church. The priest took me to the orphanage himself.”
“Dear Lord,” whispered the marquess, looking overwhelmed. “That is when it happened. March, in the year of our Lord, 1790.”
They gazed at each other, both dumbstruck.
“It is true, then,” said the duke, looking excited. “Itmustbe true. The resemblance is remarkable between the two of you. What are the chances that this boy was abandoned in the same month and year that your own dear son vanished?” He hesitated. “It cannot be a coincidence!”
The marquess shook his head incredulously. “The chances are next to nil,” he said, his voice shaking. He stood up, approaching Jude, kneeling at his feet and gazing at him intently. “And Jude appears the age my son would be now. But just to make sure… may I see your right arm?”
Jude’s heart somersaulted. He knew what the marquess was looking for. Everything was falling into place, like the pieces of a puzzle. He reallywasin the midst of a dream. The happiest dream he could ever imagine, besides being with Evelina. He rolled up his sleeve, turning over his arm, so that the large scar was clearly visible.
The marquess gasped. Hesitantly, he reached out, tracing the scar with a finger. “You were a mischievous young thing,” he whispered, his eyes shining with tears. “You were always tearing away from your nanny and mother. One day, when you had only been walking for a month, you got away from your nanny in the kitchen, upending a hot kettle on your arm. It was a terrible burn. We were all distraught.”
