Rating: K

Word Count=1799

Summary: WHIB for The First Born. On a moonlit night, Clay reflects on the lies and deceptions that ruined his mother’s life in New Orleans but led her to happiness in Nevada. 

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Cartwrights or Bonanza. No copyright infringement is intended against Judith and George W. George’s script. Original plot and characters are property of the author. This story is for entertainment and no money was made from it.

Ratings from the Old Library are on the last page.

Fortune’s Son

Joe and Clay stood at the foot of their mother’s grave, moonlight reflecting off the lake’s surface, casting the marker’s inscription in shadow. Hats in hands, they were lost within their own thoughts as ripples gently broke along the shore. 

“Can I see that picture?”

Joe fished out the delicate silver locket and handed it to his brother. Clay ran his thumb over the intricate scrollwork and wondered how much it was worth. There wasn’t enough light to see the image nestled within so he relied on his imagination to create a picture of a beautiful woman with a smile that heralded Spring with all of its warmth and promises.

Clay wished the lies that had separated his parents had never been told. When he’d met Cousin Edouard, the man had been on his deathbed and very penitent with a priest sitting nearby. Edouard had told a tale of love and tragedy yet claimed he’d atoned for his complicity by paying an Irish couple to raise the baby as their own; since the little family had lived near the docks, there had been no chance for an accidental meeting between mother and son. Fortune had intervened when Marie left New Orleans for a ranch in Nevada as she would never know the child she bore from her brief marriage to Jean had lived in the same city as she. The fear of facing eternal hellfire had changed Edouard’s mind about correcting the sins of the past; now he could die with a clean conscience and hope for Purgatory. 

According to Edouard, the de Marigny name had meant Jean’s debts were never repaid and all his desires had been indulged. When Marie had spurned his advances, Jean’s pursuit had been likened to a stallion in rut and both his jealousy and pride had led to weekly challenges on the field of honor. Marie had finally accepted his attentions yet he’d continued to challenge any man whose eyes lingered upon her.

Shortly after returning home from informing his mother of his marriage, Jean was disgraced to find his new bride posing for a portrait clad in nothing but her thin chemise. It was then Jean discovered Marie was in high demand as an artist’s model—posing nude as well as barely clothed for portraits of women who feared the wrath of their own husbands or lovers. Jean, eager to restore his honor, removed his epee from the nearby stand and challenged the painter to a duel but the man refused, saying his only weapons were paint brushes and a palette. Marie begged her husband to let the man go, promising she would never pose again. Jean refused to listen and slashed at the painter with the epee, cutting wounds on the defenseless man’s face, neck, and hands. The painter backed his way to an open window and leapt to safety.

Jean’s red-hot anger demanded vengeance and he slashed at Marie with his epee. Marie defended herself like a tigress, throwing objet d’art at his head and using expensive silk-covered cushions to deflect his weapon. Cornering her, Jean lunged, intending to kill. Marie managed to deflect the blade and its sharpened point drew a vivid red line alongside her breast. At the sight of her blood, Jean’s anger was drained and he fled their house in shame.

When Jean had left New Orleans, his mother and friends had assumed he would pout for a few months and then return home to a regular schedule of gambling and duels. After several years without notice of his whereabouts, Jean’s life took on mythical proportions and he was remembered as gallant, brave, and, above all, handsome. The wife he’d left behind had been disdained as unworthy of a man who embodied noblesse oblige. 

Marie had been left to fend for herself, on the fringes of the society that had once embraced her. When she’d announced her pregnancy, it had been whispered that Marie was no better than a common tavern wench as no one had believed the baby to be Jean’s. Madame de Marigny had known different but hadn’t corrected her friends and acquaintances; instead, she’d agreed with them and had slandered the mother of her unborn grandchild. Through whispers, Edouard had heard Madame de Marigny employed the services of a voodienne to curse Marie and the child. 

Edouard had loved his cousin but he’d loved money far more. He’d offered to find a home for the baby with an elderly Irish couple located in Faubourg Sainte Marie, in the American sector, for a fee. As he’d expected, Madame de Marigny had rewarded him handsomely for his services and afterwards paid him a stipend to keep their secret. With this blood money, he’d opened a gaming establishment and employed Marie as a hostess as her newfound occupation meant his cousin would remain the object of scorn among the wealthy French matrons. 

Edouard’s house of cards had collapsed with the arrival of Ben Cartwright. The American had revealed that Jean had worked on his ranch in a faraway place called Nevada and that Jean’s dying request had been for Marie to know he’d always loved her. Once Ben began poking his nose into Marie’s affairs, offering his help to restore her tattered reputation, Madame de Marigny insisted that Edouard either run Cartwright out of town or kill him. Since Edouard had wanted the past to remain firmly buried, he’d opted for murder by challenging Cartwright to a duel. Edouard hadn’t foreseen the intervention of Jean’s old friend, Marius d’Angeville. From Marius, Cartwright had learned how Madame de Marigny conspired to tear asunder Jean and his new bride through vicious lies. 

Marius faced Edouard on the field of honor but lost his life. Edouard had expected his secrets to remain buried but Ben Cartwright beat a confession from him. In a twist of fate, it was now Edouard who was ruined. 

Ben married Marie a few short days after Marius’ funeral. Afterwards, the newlyweds left New Orleans for Nevada. 

Edouard said he knew the intimate details of the incident between Jean and Marie because he’d been present. Clay had asked questions but Edouard refused to elaborate, only assuring the younger man his story was true. He then had handed Clay yellowed newspaper clippings to verify his tale. One was a sanitized version of the events that had led to Jean leaving New Orleans and the other was a brief announcement of Marie’s marriage to an American named Ben Cartwright. Edouard’s final gift to Clay had been a faded letter written to a relative in which Marie told of the birth of a son she called Petit Joseph—Little Joe.

After leaving Cousin Edouard, Clay had headed straight to the hall of records to confirm the old man’s story and to inquire about his grandmother’s will. Since Jean had been the sole heir to the de Marigny estate, Clay had hoped to find a reference to a safe deposit box or at least a treasure map leading to a fortune. Instead, he’d been disappointed to find a probate record dated after his grandmother‘s death; it had not only listed every item she’d possessed, along with an appraised value, but it had also had the date for the sheriff’s sale. Her debts had far exceeded her wealth. The only thing left of Clay’s birthright was the family name, which he’d immediately rejected in favor of the surname of the Irish couple who’d cared for him. 

The elaborate scrollwork on the locket cut into Clay’s fingers, bringing him out of his reverie. 

It’s not fair Joe has a good name and money when I don’t have anything. 

Clay opened his eyes and drank in the moonlit capped waves rippling on the lake. 

“What was she like?” Clay asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

“I really don’t remember much,” Joe said as he shrugged one shoulder. “I was just a little kid when she died.”

“You have to remember something. Even if you think it’s foolish, I’d like to hear it.”

Joe closed his eyes and deeply inhaled the scents of pine and damp earth. His brows drew together at the memory of her funeral, the most painful day of his childhood. A gentle breezed ruffled his hair and whispered in his ear.

“When I was scared or sick, she’d sit on my bed and hold me in her arms. She rocked me as she sang next to my ear. The song was one she’d learned from her mother.” A short chuckle escaped Joe’s throat as he added, “It tickled when she did that.”

One corner of Clay’s mouth twitched down in disappointment. He gave the locket back to Joe and wished for the memory of a mother who soothed a child’s fears with a song. 

Joe lightly punched Clay’s arm. “We’d best get back to the herd. Dawn comes early during round up.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” said Clay, his eyes reflecting the glint of moonlight. “How about we drink a toast to our mother?”

“I know just the spot,” said Joe. 

The End
August 2012