The Marriage Certificate (26 page)

This story gets more and more interesting
, Peter
thought. He wondered how Rose had coped at the time, as an unmarried mother on
the Isle of Wight. If Frank was the father, it might explain why she stayed at
Brindle Lodge. Frank Williams and George Morris were first cousins. By staying
with Frank’s family, Rosetta may also have received some support from grandparents,
Arthur and Florence. Rose’s options, unless she had money, would have been
severely limited. For most single mothers in 1902, the choice was stark; find
someone to take on the baby, or go and live in the workhouse with your child.

Peter was desperate to know what had happened next, so he
looked for Rose and her children on the 1911 Census. He couldn’t find Rose. He
searched for the twins, but was baffled when he found Edith Ince, but not
Harold Ince. Edith was still at Brindle Lodge with George and Charlotte Morris.
Next to Edith’s name, was the abbreviation ‘F.C.’, which he discovered stood
for ‘foster child’. Of Rose and Harold, there was absolutely no sign.
That’s
bizarre
, thought Peter.
What could have happened? Where was Rose? Where
was Harold?

It was possible that Rose had married and consequently
changed her name. Peter checked the marriage indexes from 1902 to 1911 without
success. He decided he ought to make sure that she hadn’t died; something he
regarded as unlikely. He looked at the death indexes for the same period. He
hadn’t really expected to discover what he did. Rosetta Ince died during the
third quarter of 1902, in the registration district of Winchester. The age
matched. There was no doubt, he thought. It must be her.

Throwing caution to the wind, Peter ordered Rose’s death
certificate immediately, paying the supplement for the express service. He
didn’t look any further for Harold. Somehow, he thought he knew where Harold
Ince was in 1911. He wasn’t in the household at Brindle Lodge with his twin
sister. He couldn’t have been living with his mother, because she was dead. No,
he was living in Leyton, with John and Louisa Williams!

Later, Peter explained his theory to
Felicity, about how Frank Williams could have been the father of the twins and
that his death in the Boer war was the reason for there being no father’s name
entered on their birth certificates.

‘Couldn’t a mother enter the father’s name, even if they
weren’t married?’ Felicity asked.

‘I’ve looked into that. In 1900, a father who was not
married to the mother had to be present at the time of registration in order to
have his name entered on the birth certificate. It was a safeguard to prevent a
woman falsely naming a man as the father. If later on, the mother and father
married or the father wanted to establish his relationship to an illegitimate
child, then the father’s name could be added and a new birth certificate
issued, but in this case, poor old Frank was not around later.’

‘Yes, I see,’ mused Felicity. Then she came out with
something Peter had overlooked. ‘Didn’t one of the postcards say something
about Edith being the image of Frank?’

‘Yes, it did! You’re right! I missed that!’ Peter shouted
excitedly, dashing upstairs to find the postcard. He looked in the folder where
he was keeping a growing number of pieces of information relating to his quest.
He pulled out Florence’s card and found the phrase Felicity had quoted:
Edith
is the image of Frank
. ‘Brilliant! Brilliant!’ he shouted. He rushed back
downstairs to show the card to Felicity, his hand shaking. They reread it
together.

‘That proves it, doesn’t it? asked Felicity.

‘No doubt, as far as I’m concerned,’ Peter replied. ‘Frank
Williams is the unnamed father of Rosetta’s children, but to prove
relationships in genealogy you really need certificates and as it stands at the
moment, the birth certificates of the twins do not show the father’s name.’

‘But why do you want to know who the father of the twins is
anyway?’

‘Ah … well … that brings me to my other unproven theory.’

‘Which is?’

‘I think Harry Williams – the recluse who left the unclaimed
estate, the estate Highborn Research is looking at – may really have been
Harold Ince.’

‘Really? Are you sure? What makes you think that?’

‘Well think about it … John and Louisa’s son, Henry, died
when he was two years old. Henry and Harold were almost the same age, a month
to the day between them. I know Henry was unwell for a few months before he
died – that’s in the postcards. I expect Louisa and Rosetta kept in touch all
the time, especially if they were friends. Perhaps they exchanged postcards
with little pieces of news? Then Louisa sent Rosetta the telegram telling her
of Henry’s death and asking her to come to Leyton urgently. OK, are you
following me?’

‘Yes,’ Felicity said impatiently.

‘Now here’s the amazing part … Henry died during the last
quarter of 1902 and during the same quarter, Rosetta Ince died in Winchester.’

‘What? The same Rosetta?’

‘Someone called Rosetta Ince died in the last quarter of
1902, aged twenty-seven – the right age. It has to be her. I’ve ordered the
death certificate by the express service, so I should know for certain tomorrow
… assuming no delay in the post of course. If I’ve found her death, it means
that Edith and Harold were orphaned … you following me?’ Peter asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Eight years later, on the 1911 Census, Edith is listed in
the household of George and Charlotte Morris as a ‘foster child’. Her brother
Harold isn’t there, in fact there’s no sign of any Harold Ince, aged ten on the
census. However, on the same census, John and Louisa have a son Harry, aged
ten, but their son died. So who is Harry? He must be Harold Ince. They must
have fostered him and completed the census return falsely, to show him as their
natural son. It’s possible, because that was the first census completed by the
householder, rather than an enumerator. If Rosetta did die in 1902, then Edith
remained with the Morris’s and Harold went to live with John and Louisa. It all
fits, don’t you see? It all fits!’

‘So how does this affect the unclaimed estate and Highborn
Research?’

‘What it means is, that if Harry Williams was really Harold
Ince, then he had a twin sister. If I could prove that Edith was Harry
Williams’ twin sister then her descendants would have a strong claim to inherit
Harry’s estate.’

Peter continued with growing excitement, ‘I can’t imagine
how Highborn would know anything about Edith and Harold. I’ve only found out
through the marriage certificate, the postcards, and the telegram. They can’t
have the physical evidence I have. Maybe they’re researching the Uncle David
who went to New York. I’m fairly certain that Edith Ince, as a sister to Harry,
would blow any claim from a descendant of David Crockford completely out of the
water, but only if I could convince the Treasury Solicitor’s Office that she is
Harry Williams’ sister.’

‘But, if the Rosetta Ince who died in 1902 is not the mother
of Edith and Harry, then all of this would fall apart, wouldn’t it?’

‘Well yes, it would … so let’s keep our fingers crossed.’

Peter stayed indoors out of the
way, when Desmond brought the post the following day. He couldn’t bear the
thought of getting into a long conversation with the postman whilst he held on
to a vital letter from the GRO. The delay would have been torment. He waited
until the post came through the letterbox and then dashed to see what had
arrived. His heart was beating hard though excitement as he spotted the correct
envelope and tore open the seal. He surprised himself. He hadn’t realised just
how involved he was becoming in the life of Harry Williams. It
was
the
death certificate of Rosetta Ince.

Peter sat down and read the entries on the certificate once
more. He turned on his computer and looked up the details of the accident. The
train was bound for Southampton, when it collided with a goods train travelling
in the opposite direction. There were fourteen fatalities in all.
Hence the
inquest
, he thought.
Rosetta must have been on her way to Ventnor from
Leyton
. The accident happened on 17 October and Rosetta was summoned to
Leyton by the telegram on 9 October.
Could that mean,
Peter wondered,
that Rose stayed with Louisa for the intervening period of eight days?
Including the funeral of Henry?

He wondered if there was any way he could check. There might
be, if the funeral was mentioned in the local paper. It meant another trip to
Leyton library, but it would be worth it …
if
he found a mention in the
Leyton
Chronicle
.

Peter turned back to the certificate. The age and address
matched. It was definitely the correct Rosetta. She was a spinster. Her
children were left with no mother and no legal father. He already knew that
legal adoption did not exist before 1927. The children were separated. George
and Charlotte fostered Edith. John and Louisa must have fostered Harry. Edith
retained her mother’s surname, the name under which she was born. John and
Louisa, however, subjugated Harry into their household, giving him their
surname, the name Williams and referred to him on the 1911 Census as ‘son’.

A whole series of implications flashed through Peter’s mind.
Did Harry know that John and Louisa were not his biological parents? Probably
not, certainly not as a child, but perhaps he was told later. Did Harry know
that he had a twin sister on the Isle of Wight? It didn’t seem as if he had
kept in touch with her, if he did. He hadn’t made any provision for her in a
will. In fact, he hadn’t left a will and enquiries at the time of death
obviously hadn’t discovered the existence of a twin sister.

Peter contemplated whether John and Louisa deliberately
deceived Harry, having him believe they were his parents. It was likely. They’d
moved to Moses Street, West Ham by the time of the 1911 Census. The new
neighbours would have assumed that Harry was their son. The move could have
been a new start after the loss of Henry. What if John had left the Castle Mail
Packet Company – or the Union Castle Line as it became known – to work locally
on a dredger? He would have been there to support Louisa, rather than be away at
sea. Perhaps, his change in work meant a pay cut and they needed to move to a
smaller house, or to one more convenient for the docks.

Peter tried to imagine the situation. As the years went by,
it may have become too late to tell Harry the truth about his true parentage.
Sometimes things were best left as they were. Then John Williams was killed in
1914. Harry was all that Louisa had. She didn’t remarry. Would she have risked
jeopardising her relationship with him? No, of course she wouldn’t. She needed
him to look after her in her old age and that’s what happened. She lived with
him in the house he owned, until she died in 1962 at the age of ninety-two. He
was present at her death and named on her death certificate, as informant and
son.

Then, he supposed, after John died, Louisa’s links with her
late husband’s family on the Isle of Wight might have been severed as time
passed, especially if she managed to avoid family reunions and visits, or fell
out with them. It was all quite plausible, Peter decided. He could completely
understand how Harry may unwittingly have become estranged from the remainder
of the Williams family and his twin sister.

What should he do now though? Peter contemplated his
options. So far, he was piecing together a pretty convincing story that the
reclusive Harry Williams, was in reality born Harold Ince. Legal adoption did
not exist in 1902. A person could have been named anything they liked, but
although Harry was known by the surname ‘Williams’, under inheritance law he
would be regarded as ‘Ince’. His assets should go to his bloodline and Peter
had discovered that Harry had a twin sister, Edith. If she had any descendants,
then they would be entitled relatives and could, in theory, inherit Harry’s
unclaimed estate.

There were a couple of things that Peter needed to do: find
a death notice for young Henry Williams. It might show whether Rosetta was at
his funeral, which could tie in with her ill-fated return journey to the Isle
of Wight. Also, and perhaps more importantly, Peter needed to trace any living
descendants of Edith Ince.

Before he got up from his computer, Peter remembered one
other thing that he needed to check. He went to the Bona Vacantia website and
once more looked down the list of unclaimed estates. Had Highborn beaten him to
it? He was barely able to look and he felt his heartbeat quicken with angst as
he looked at the names. He was greatly relieved to see that Harry Williams’
estate was still on the list.

It was after midnight and the house lay in almost total darkness.
Down in the small sitting room, next to the kitchen, the glow of a cigarette
was the only sign in the blackness that someone was in the room. Harry sat in
his favourite leather armchair. The clock ticked rhythmically on the
mantelpiece above the fireplace. It was December and the ashes in the grate lay
cold. The paraffin heater behind him emitted a feeble mixture of heat,
moisture, and odour. However, the warm remains of a fire lay in the fireplace
upstairs: the one in her bedroom, the one he had lit, before he went off to
work as usual that morning.

Things were different now, Harry thought. In just a few
hours, everything had changed. The world turned on its side; the very
foundations of his life rocked by what she’d told him.

An hour before, the undertakers had brought her body
downstairs. He heard them make their way down the hall, trying to be quiet and
respectful as they carried her out to the shiny, black, unmarked van.

‘Use Harringtons,’ had been her last instruction to him and
pretty much her last comprehensible words. The undertakers, Harringtons’
Funeral Services, were a division of Harringtons’ Department Store, which
dominated High Street and included as part of its frontage, the former premises
of his grandfather’s drapery business. Only now, he wasn’t
his
grandfather. Somebody else’s perhaps, but not his. Not now, anyway, not after
what she’d told him.

So, who was he? Not the son of John and Louisa Williams it
seemed, and not the person he’d spent his whole life being … well, for as far
back as he could remember.

He’d found her lying on the floor in the bedroom when he’d
got home; she was cold and confused. He’d managed to get her back into bed. She
didn’t weigh much these days. Ninety-two year old women are generally pretty
frail and withered. Mother was no exception. Once back in bed, she seemed to
come round and he’d relaxed a little.

‘Are you all right, mother? What happened? Did you fall?’

‘Yes,’ she managed to croak, ‘but I’ll be fine now.’

‘I’m going to the telephone box on the corner. I’m going to
call the doctor.’

He found the doctor’s number, grabbed his coat, and left the
house. He took some coins to pay for the call. When he was connected, he
explained the situation and the doctor agreed to come at once.

Harry returned quickly and went back upstairs to see
how she was. He made her comfortable, plumping up the pillows and straightening
the bedclothes. She started rambling and he began to worry that he should have
called an ambulance rather than the doctor. He began to wonder if this might
actually be it, the day he knew would eventually come; the day he had tried to
prepare himself for in recent years. He knew that she didn’t want to die in
hospital. Anyway, it was too late now for an ambulance, the doctor was on the
way.

Harry went downstairs, made two cups of tea, and filled a
hot-water bottle. He took them up to the bedroom and slid the bottle under the
blankets near to her feet. She muttered something to him and so he sat on the
bed beside her.

‘Here you are, mother, I’ve made you some tea. Can you
manage a drop?’

Her eyes opened and she looked steadily at him, but said
nothing.

‘Do you want anything, mother? I’ve called the doctor.
Wouldn’t you like some tea?’

‘No,’ she sighed. ‘Not just now.’ She closed her eyes again.

They were both silent for a minute. Then she turned her head
towards him, opened her eyes a little, and spoke: ‘Harry, there’s something I
need to tell you.’ Her voice was weak. She paused to catch her breath.

Harry looked steadily at her, listening.

‘I’m not your mother,’ she said flatly.

‘What do you mean? You’re rambling. Of course you’re my
mother.’

‘I didn’t give birth to you, that’s what I mean. It was
Henry, poor Henry who I bore, not you.’

‘What are you saying? Who’s Henry?’

‘Henry was our son. You’re Rose’s son.’

Harry was completely confused. Was she really saying this,
or was she making it up. ‘Who’s Rose? Rose who?’

His mother paused again, trying to gather herself. ‘My dear
friend Rose, the one who perished in the train crash.’

Harry looked at her not knowing what to think, or what to
say. ‘But I’m your son. Are you saying that you and dad are not my parents?’

‘That’s right,’ she said weakly. ‘Frank is your father … dad’s
brother … and Rose is your mother, not me.’

‘Rose who?’ he shouted, ‘Rose who?’ Harry was getting
annoyed now, but his mother seemed not to notice.

‘Rosetta Ince, my best friend. She was my bridesmaid. She
died in the train crash and we took you on, brought you up as our own. I should
have told you … I’m sorry.’ A tear rolled down her cheek and she closed her
eyes. She turned her head away. ‘We should have told you,’ she muttered, her
voice fading, before she drifted to sleep.