My mother lived at Longford in Derbyshire, an old place, now
my home, which had come into the Coke family in James I.'s
reign, through the marriage of a son of Chief Justice Coke's
with the heiress of the De Langfords, an ancient family from
that time extinct. While staying there during my summer
holidays, my mother confided to me that she had had an offer
of marriage from Mr. Motteux, the owner of considerable
estates in Norfolk, including two houses - Beachamwell and
Sandringham. Mr. Motteux - 'Johnny Motteux,' as he was
called - was, like Tristram Shandy's father, the son of a
wealthy 'Turkey merchant,' which, until better informed, I
always took to mean a dealer in poultry. 'Johnny,' like
another man of some notoriety, whom I well remember in my
younger days - Mr. Creevey - had access to many large houses
such as Holkham; not, like Creevey, for the sake of his
scandalous tongue, but for the sake of his wealth. He had no
(known) relatives; and big people, who had younger sons to
provide for, were quite willing that one of them should be
his heir. Johnny Motteux was an epicure with the best of
CHEFS. His capons came from Paris, his salmon from
Christchurch, and his Strasburg pies were made to order. One
of these he always brought with him as a present to my
mother, who used to say, 'Mr. Motteux evidently thinks the
nearest way to my heart is down my throat.'
A couple of years after my father's death, Motteux wrote to
my mother proposing marriage, and, to enhance his personal
attractions, (in figure and dress he was a duplicate of the
immortal Pickwick,) stated that he had made his will and had
bequeathed Sandringham to me, adding that, should he die
without issue, I was to inherit the remainder of his estates.
Rather to my surprise, my mother handed the letter to me with
evident signs of embarrassment and distress. My first
exclamation was: 'How jolly! The shooting's first rate, and
the old boy is over seventy, if he's a day.'
My mother apparently did not see it in this light. She
clearly, to my disappointments did not care for the shooting;
and my exultation only brought tears into her eyes.
'Why, mother,' I exclaimed, 'what's up? Don't you - don't
you care for Johnny Motteux?'
She confessed that she did not.
'Then why don't you tell him so, and not bother about his
beastly letter?'
'If I refuse him you will lose Sandringham.'
'But he says here he has already left it to me.'
'He will alter his will.'
'Let him!' cried I, flying out at such prospective meanness.
