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Chapter Thirteen

November 12, 1811 London Lady Montrose

L ady Montrose slammed her bedroom door as hard as she could. “Charlatans!” she cried angrily. “Scheming, devious little pretenders. I ought to have known that putting out a reward for information would bring all manner of riffraff to my door.” She collapsed in a chair, putting her elbow on the arm and her face in her hand.

Three this week. Each time, a man escorted a woman into her presence, claiming to have found Elizabeth. People presented all sorts of stories to explain her long absence—fear for a life, kidnapping, and even memory loss. Each girl fell short in some way, from mismatched features to ignorance of her granddaughter’s life in Yorkshire.

To make everything worse, the pressure to declare Elizabeth dead mounted. Peers of the realm wished to have a proper heir installed at Marston Hall. Thankfully, Maude had friends in high places. Her friendship with some who were close to the Prince Regent aided her in her quest. However, she learned that even their reach had limits. Marston Hall needed management, and no one thought that she, the mistress of the estate for the better part of three decades, could do it justice.

It is for the earldom’s sake, they told her. Bah!

Sighing, she stood and moved to her window. It overlooked the gardens and not the street in front of the house. In summer,the garden was a pretty prospect—a riot of blooms and greenery. It was a veritable sanctuary from the grimy streets of London. Now, the plants were stripped of their leaves, and all was dull and brown.

Am I a fool to keep hoping? She posed this question to herself often. The answer was always no. Lady Montrose felt deep in her heart that if Elizabeth were dead, she would know it. She loved her granddaughter fiercely and had always looked forward to receiving the post, hoping to find one of the little drawings made by the child's hand.

How much longer can I continue my search? I do not know if I can withstand the repeated disappointment.

Elizabeth

“A note for Miss Bennet.” Hill presented a folded piece of paper to Jane, who accepted it with a word of thanks.

“Who is it from, dearest?” Mrs. Bennet looked up curiously, her fork suspended halfway to her mouth.

“It is from Mrs. Hurst.” Jane read the letter quickly. “She wishes to invite me to dine today. The gentlemen are out with the officers, and she finds herself in want of company.”

“And she did not extend the offer to Lizzy or Mary?” Mrs. Bennet frowned.

“She hardly spoke to us when they called, Mama.” Elizabeth sought to placate her mother. Mrs. Bennet despised deliberately rude people, and it would not do for her to have a grudge against Mrs. Hurst when the lady’s brother sought Jane’s attention so assiduously.

“Oh, if you are certain.” She brought her fork to her mouth and consumed the bite of egg. “Jane, you must take the carriage. It appears it may rain.”

Jane turned to Mr. Bennet. “Are the horses available?” she asked, with a hopeful smile.

“They are. When shall I call for the carriage?” Mr. Bennet gave his daughter a wink. Everyone in the house felt pleased that Jane had attracted the attention of a wealthy and amiable man—even Mr. Bennet, who did not like the idea of giving the care of his eldest daughter over to any other man.

Jane replied with a time before returning to her meal. Her look of contentment warmed Elizabeth's heart. She found joy in seeing her sister in love.

Thomas spoke from his position next to his father. “I should like to arrange a shooting party with the gentlemen,” he said. “I enjoyed the sport with Mr. Bingley and the other gentlemen in residence at Netherfield Park. If we bag enough birds, Mama might host a dinner that very evening.”

“That sounds like a lovely idea!” Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands excitedly. “I do like having guests, and we have not had a large party here in some time.”

“Very true.” Mr. Bennet wiped his mouth with his serviette and pushed back from his chair. “I shall leave the pair of you to plan the affair. Perhaps next week?” He excused himself, likely bound for his study to attend to estate business.

Elizabeth finished her meal and left the breakfast room. Charlotte meant to call later, and she wished to be ready to greet her friend.

The carriage, with Jane safely inside, departed around two o’clock. Elizabeth and Charlotte watched from the window as it trundled down the drive. Heavy gray clouds hung low in the sky, a certain sign that rainfall was imminent.

“He is sure to propose before the month is out,” Charlotte predicted.

“I believe you may be correct.” Elizabeth smiled and motioned to the settee. “Everything looks promising. He seeks Jane’s company whenever they are in the same room, and they ignore everyone else in favor of their private conversations.”

Charlotte nodded in agreement. She paused and bit her lip. “And what of the attention he pays you?”

Elizabeth laughed without mirth. “What do you mean?” she prevaricated. That Charlotte had noticed Mr. Bingley’s odd behavior regarding her meant that it was real and not something created by her overactive imagination.

“Really, Eliza, do not pretend you have not noticed. His preoccupation has become more pronounced the more often you are in company. What can he mean by courting one sister whilst openly disdaining another?”

“Are you so certain that he disdains me?” she asked weakly. Truthfully, she had feared just that. Would Jane marry only to have her husband forbid her from seeing her dearest sister ever again? It would be his prerogative as her husband.

“I may not be as skilled a judge of character as you, but even I can see Mr. Bingley's looks are not friendly—at best, perplexed; at worst, disapproving.”

Elizabeth sighed. “What am I to do about it? I do not seek his attention, and I distance myself from him whenever possible. I am certain I have done nothing to deserve his censure, either. It is not as if I can approach him and ask for understanding. That would be the height of rudeness and presumption.”

“I do not envy you your position. Our more astute neighbors will notice, eventually. You know how much everyone loves gossip. I would hate to see you harmed by Mr. Bingley’s strange behavior.” Charlotte patted her hand affectionately.

Charlotte departed around ten minutes later, leaving her friend alone with her thoughts.

Elizabeth had pondered Mr. Bingley’s manner many times since they first met. No explanation seemed plausible, except for one. But even that seemed so outlandish, so as to invite doubt.

Could he have known me or my kin? she wondered. It did not seem wholly improbable. The Bennets found her in Derbyshire, and Mr. Bingley was from the North. But ‘north’ was so broad a description. What were the chances that Elizabeth’s place of birth and Mr. Bingley’s former home were close enough that they had known each other?

Thunder rumbled, and Elizabeth glanced out the window. Raindrops hit the windowpanes, and she felt glad that Charlotte had departed before the storm began. The drizzle soon turned to a deluge, and the drive outside grew muddy. Little streams of water drained away from the house.

“I am pleased Jane went in the carriage.” Mrs. Bennet appeared in the parlor doorway. A shawl was wrapped tightly around her, offering meager protection against the lingering chill of the season.

Elizabeth turned and smiled at her mother. Mrs. Bennet came and stood beside her, and they stared out into the dreary afternoon.

“Do you ever wonder where I came from?” she asked on impulse.

Mrs. Bennet straightened. “I did, once,” she finally said. “The horrors you may have faced consumed me for a time, and to maintain my peace, I determined to set aside whatever may have happened and focus only on that which I could control. Whatever life you led before, I could make a better one for you. Have I succeeded, dear Lizzy?”

Elizabeth leaned into her mother’s side. “You have,” she confirmed. “I have no cause to repine my life here. I would not trade it for anything.”

Mrs. Bennet kissed her head. “What makes you contemplate such heavy matters?”

What should she say? She could not speak of the increase in dreams, both benign and frightening, nor could she begin to describe Mr. Bingley’s odd behavior. Mrs. Bennet’s temperament was, in some ways, akin to Jane’s. She saw the best in people and disliked it when people betrayed her trust. Unlike Jane, however, she could detect when someone behaved in a willfully impolite manner.

“It is nothing,” she finally murmured. “Perhaps it is the weather that brings forth my musings.”

“We love you, Elizabeth.” Mrs. Bennet’s fervent words went a good way to calming the turmoil in her heart, and Elizabeth nodded.

Jane did not return to Longbourn that night. The rain made the roads impassable, and so she decided to remain at Netherfield until the weather improved and she could make her way home.

Elizabeth retired that night, weary from a day of distressing contemplations and praying earnestly that her dreams would be unmolested by night terrors.

“Catch me, Charlie!” She leapt off the fence post into her friend’s arms.

“Careful, Lizzy!” Charlie admonished, the force of Elizabeth’s attack causing him to stumble backwards. “You will hurt us both if you are not.”

“Auntie Amelia says we should not climb fences.” A girl with dark hair and a scowl stood with her hands on her hips. “You will tear your gown, Lizzy.”

“I do not mind! Gowns are annoying, anyway. I would much rather wear breeches!”

The girl gasped. “You would not! That sounds very indecent. And I love pretty gowns.” She sat daintily on the blanket spread near the offending fence and sighed. “I cannot wait until I can wear grown-up gowns like your mama.”

“That is a long way away.” Charlie set Elizabeth down and turned to the other girl. “We ought to enjoy being young. We shall have to be responsible sooner than we would like.”

“Ladies do not have responsibilities,” Elizabeth huffed. “Mama stays home all day with me and Harry.”

“Do not be silly, Lizzy.” The dark-haired girl chuckled. “Your mama manages the house and her children. That is a chore by itself.”

“How difficult could that be?” Elizabeth frowned. “We watch Harry all the time. It is not hard.”

Charlie laughed and shook his head. “You will have that discussion with your mother sometime, little Lizzy. I am certain she will tell you all about how hard it is to care for two rambunctious children.”

The images faded, and another scene replaced them. A woman with dark brown curls held her tenderly in her arms, a book open in front of them. Elizabeth examined the pictures carefully, tracing the outline of a rabbit and a kitten. She could read the words herself, but having Mama tell her the story was one of her favorite things. Papa, too, for he used the funniest voices when he read.

“It is bedtime, Elizabeth.” The woman caressed her hair and kissed the top of her head.

“No! Just one more story, please?” she begged. Snuggled further into the lady’s lap, she pulled an arm tightly around her, hugging it fiercely. “Please, Mama? It is not so late yet.”

“Harry went to bed an hour ago. We have let you remain up long enough.” Elizabeth turned to the doorway. A man stood there; his features obscured by the dim light. “Come, my pearl. It is time for sleep.” He came towards her, tapping her nose with his finger.

She pouted, but allowed him to pick her up and carry her to her bed. He kissed her forehead and patted her cheeks. “Sleep well, my little darling.”

Elizabeth gasped and sat up. Her heart pounded, and she looked around in a daze. The dull light outside signified the coming dawn, and she threw back her covers, ignoring the cold. Climbing out of her bed, she hurried to the window and pushed open the drapes so that she had enough light to see. She must record everything she could remember before the dream faded.

For what felt like the thousandth time, she cursed her inability to draw people. Who is Charlie? She wondered about the girl, too. Dark hair, very pretty… She picked up a pencil and a piece of paper and began to hurriedly write the contents of the dream. Charlie, Harry, Mama, Papa… Names she somehow knew were connected to her past life. Who is the girl? And who is Aunt Amelia?

Her weary mind contemplated the dream after she had it recorded. One name, Charlie, stood out. The idea that Mr. Bingley might have known her in a past life suddenly seemed more plausible. But was her dream the workings of a mind that struggled to understand her neighbor’s character, or was it something more? Could this boy in her dream be Mr. Bingley?

Already, the images had begun to fade, and she could not recall the young boy’s features. Had he possessed the same reddish-brown hair as the gentleman who now courted Jane?

“It is impossible to know,” she murmured aloud. Carefully, she folded the paper and rose from her seat. Kneeling on the frigid floor, cold despite the rug beneath her bed, she drew out her little wooden chest from its hiding place. She opened it and carefully put the folded paper on top of everything else inside. Closing the lid, she slid it back to its hiding place under the bed and then turned, leaning back against the frame and resting her head on the mattress.

I should try to get more sleep, she told herself. But now her mind raced, and she felt too restless to sleep. Instead, she stood and went to her wardrobe. A walk seemed to be in order. Perhaps the cold would banish the last of the night’s hauntings.

Hastily, she donned a serviceable brown gown and her warmest pelisse. Last, she put on woolen stockings and her half boots. With her winter cloak tucked over her arm, Elizabeth left her chamber and ventured downstairs and out the door.

The cold air bit at her cheeks and her nose and, for a moment, she contemplated returning to the warmth of the house. Eager to be rid of the last of her dream, she pressed forward. A half hour would be all it took to be done with the shadows that taunted her whenever she dared close her eyes.