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Chapter Twenty-Five

December 30, 1811 London Bingley

C aroline had been speaking nonstop since they left Hertfordshire. Elizabeth and Jane did not seem to mind. The former listened raptly, as if she hoped Caroline’s tales would unlock the memories hidden away in her mind. For Charles Bingley, the memories were soothing but also unsettling, for they reminded him of the worst day of his life. And so, he breathed a sigh of relief when the Bennet sisters had been deposited at Gracechurch Street.

Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had taken their own carriage. The Gardiners, with their children, followed in their conveyance. Darcy rode with Bingley, but his own carriage transported his belongings and his valet. His horse plodded along behind, slowing the pace. They would stop briefly at his townhouse to deliver Caroline and her things before continuing to Darcy House—and hopefully, a meeting with Lady Montrose.

“I believe I shall have a rest,” Caroline said as she climbed out of the carriage and made her way to the front door. “I am very tired.”

“You spoke enough to earn it,” he said good-naturedly. “I shall see you at dinner.” The carriage door closed and lurched forward. Both gentlemen stayed silent for the rest of the journey. When they arrived at Darcy House, a servant showed Bingley to a room to wash the road dust away. He had no plans to rest. Montrose House stood only a few doors away, and he meant to see Lady Montrose without delay. The sooner the interview was behind him, the sooner he might find peace.

Almost before he realized it—before he had fully composed himself—he found himself standing on her threshold. Summoning his courage, he knocked on the door and waited. A moment later, it swung open to reveal a rather severe-looking butler. “Yes?” the man intoned.

“Mr. Charles Bingley, to see Lady Montrose on a matter of great importance.” He prayed the man could not detect the strain in his voice.

“You will wait here.” The butler stepped aside and motioned to a chair. “I shall see whether her ladyship will accept your card.”

Bingley waited for ten interminable minutes before the butler returned. “Her ladyship will receive you,” he said. “Keep your remarks brief. Lady Montrose has no patience for idle chatter.”

Bingley inclined his head, and the butler relieved him of his hat and gloves. Following a few paces behind the silent servant, he used the opportunity to examine his surroundings. The house bore signs it had been recently redecorated. Everything had been masterfully redone with colors to welcome and soothe the onlooker.

The butler stopped before a pair of polished doors and pushed one open. “Mr. Bingley, your ladyship,” he said.

“Thank you, Morton,” came the clipped reply.

Bingley entered. The room was dim, but welcoming, thefire crackling cheerfully and several candelabras casting golden pools of light. Lady Montrose sat in a high-backed chair near the hearth, her features wreathed in shadow.

“Well, come here,” she snapped.

He obeyed at once, halting a few feet from her chair.

“You bear the likeness of your father,” she remarked. “I can see the resemblance, despite having met but once. I have a good eye for faces.”

“You honor me, ma’am,” he said, bowing in response.

“State your business then.” She did not invite him to sit.

He hesitated. “I scarcely know how to begin. I have taken a lease in Hertfordshire, and whilst residing there, I believe I discovered your granddaughter.”

Of a sudden, her countenance hardened, cold and immovable. Slowly, she rose. Lady Montrose was not tall, but looked every inch the formidable woman, and were he a lesser man, Bingley might well have quaked beneath her commanding presence.

“Enough. I shall not endure another word. Where is this woman? Was she too cowardly to come herself? I am weary of charlatans and fortune hunters. Tell me, have you squandered your inheritance and now seek to wring coin from an old woman’s sentiments? Are you so dishonorable?”

“No! I swear to you, your ladyship, I have found Elizabeth. The proof is undeniable!”

“Then why has my granddaughter not contacted me herself? My Elizabeth wrote every week.”

She faltered slightly, and Bingley thought he saw her lip quiver. He pressed on. “She suffered a head injury. She has no memories from…before.”

“And why, then, should I believe this woman is my granddaughter if there is no evidence?”

“There is! She has—”

“No! I shall not hear it—not one more false claim. Jameson! Milton!” Two liveried footmen appeared at the door. “Remove this man. I shall not endure another disappointment.” She sank into her chair, her face hidden in her hands as her servants moved to either side of Bingley. He allowed himself to be guided from the room, his limbs leaden.

Dejected, Bingley took his hat and his coat. “But she has the brooch,” he murmured as the door opened.

“Sir! What did you say?” asked Jameson, stepping forward.

“The brooch—with Mr. Montrose’s personal crest. I recognized it. And she is the very image of Aunt Amelia.”

Jameson’s brow furrowed. “I shall do what I can, sir. Her ladyship places her trust in me, though I can promise nothing. Might I have your direction, sir?”

Bingley withdrew a card from his pocketbook and handed it over without delay. “Why did she cast me out without a proper hearing?” he asked quietly.

“Lady Montrose has been inundated with pretenders,” he revealed. “She is weary of the charade. I do not doubt she is,even now, penning letters to have her granddaughter declared dead.”

“But she is not!” Bingley’s breath caught. This could not be happening—not after everything. He had promised!

“I shall do my best to forestall any rash actions. Watch for a note. I shall advise you how to proceed.”

Bingley donned his hat, and turning to face the servant directly, asked “Why are you helping me?” he asked.

Jameson stilled. “Because my mistress has suffered enough sorrow. I wish only to see her smile again.”

Satisfied, Bingley gave him a solemn nod and took his leave, fervently hoping Jameson would send word soon. He could not conceal this encounter from the interested parties for long.