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Chapter Four

Nottinghamshire, 1806 Lady Maude Montrose

“I t has been seven years, your ladyship. Forgive me, but perhaps the time has come to have your granddaughter presumed dead—for the sake of settling the matter of the inheritance.” Mr. Silas Winters stood before Lady Montrose, his hat clasped in his hands. He worried the brim unceasingly. “I, too, miss your son. Henry was the best of men and an excellent business partner. But he is gone, and so too, I fear, is his daughter. There has been no sign of her these seven years.”

“And what do you mean to do if I capitulate to your desires?” she asked testily. “What purpose does having Elizabeth declared dead serve you?” She was no fool. The man wanted something.

“Well, a considerable portion of my company’s assets are tied up in the trust you so diligently prepared for your granddaughter. If I wish to expand, I must access more than the funds you presently release for expenses.”

“Expenses which seem to have grown excessively these past two years. And tell me, pray, why have you not yet expanded? Surely, there is enough income being generated to allow it.”

“Some investors require ready capital,” he said calmly. “I shan’t bore you with the details. The intricacies of trade can be of no interest to such an exalted personage as yourself.”

“Do not patronize me,” she snapped, rising. At her full height, she could look him in the eye, and she hoped the quelling glance she leveled in his direction put paid to his ridiculous sycophantic behavior.

“I meant no disrespect. If you could but see my purposes…”

“Enough! I shall not declare Elizabeth dead, and shall use every connection at my disposal to ensure you do not attempt anything to the contrary. Send your business matters to Jameson. He will see that you receive sufficient contributions from my son’s estate to manage his portion of the affairs.”

“Perhaps you could simply allow me to purchase his shares of the company,” Mr. Winters declared beseechingly. “Then you would never have to see me again.”

“Unfortunately for both of us, the trust was arranged such that Elizabeth’s consent is required to dispose of any assets. I had it specifically drawn up to prevent unscrupulous trustees from making decisions of which I might disapprove. And if you possess the means to buy my son's shares, then you surely have the funds to meet your business expenses.”

With a wave of her hand, she dismissed him. Winters withdrew sullenly, his displeasure plainly writ upon his face. He will not give up easily , she mused. Thus, it was no surprise to her when Mr. Robert Bingley appeared at her door a week later.

“Lady Montrose.” He bowed deeply. “It has been many years since we last spoke.”

“That fool Winters sent you. Speak quickly, that I may disabuse you of whatever notion you carry and send you on your way.”

“Yes, Mr. Winters did send me. These are the expenses and reports he says you requested.” Mr. Bingley placed a sheaf of papers in her hand. “It is a favor for a friend. I have sold my shares to Winters and invested elsewhere.”

Lady Montrose blinked. “You are no longer in business with Mr. Winters?” she asked. “Why?”

“My reasons are my own, madam,” Mr. Bingley said stiffly, refusing to meet her eye. “Be that as it may, I believe this is the best course of action for my family. We have removed from Yorkshire and are presently bound for Bedfordshire. My wife has family there who will receive us whilst I seek lodgings in town.”

She nodded slowly. Curiosity urged her to press for answers, but she held her peace. “I wish you the very best, then,” she murmured. “Henry always spoke fondly of you.”

“I thank you, your ladyship.” He bowed again. “For what it is worth, I support your efforts to search for your granddaughter. She is of an age with my own child, and they played together often. Caroline misses her.”

With that, Mr. Bingley departed, leaving Lady Montrose to her thoughts. “Jameson!” she called, summoning her faithful servant to her side. “Has there been any news?”

Jameson bowed low and took a seat next to his mistress. “I received a note from the Runners this morning, madam,” he said quietly. “They advise it is foolish to continue searching after so many years. They think all hope is lost.”

“No.” She slapped her hand against the arms of her chair. “Elizabeth is out there somewhere. I must find her.”

“Mistress.” Jameson took her hand. She allowed the familiarity in honor of his dedication to her and her son. “If she is still alive, it is likely that she is in an orphanage or has gone into service somewhere. How can we find her?”

Pulling away from his touch, she buried her face in her hands. “I cannot simply give up,” she said, sobbing. “How could I betray Henry’s memory?”

“I shall never give up, my lady,” he replied. “There is one Runner still willing to search. His name is Marks. You might hire him away from the Bow Street Runners.”

“See it done.” Wiping her tears on a hastily procured handkerchief, she dismissed him, wishing only for solitude. Today, the fourteenth of March, was Elizabeth’s birthday. The gloomy spring day perfectly matched Lady Montrose’s mood.

Feeling unequal to life at the moment, she retreated to her chambers. In two weeks, she would travel to town where her husband awaited her. The old fool was one-and-ninety now and resided in town year round. He left her to her own devices, but required her to come to his side for the second half of the season.

How he managed to live so long baffled her. His lifestyle, whilst not dissolute, was hardly conducive to a long life. Lord Montrose ate rich, sumptuous meals and lived indolently. Their son, thirty-seven years of age, had taken over his father’s duties in the House of Lords years ago. Despite his age, Lord Montrose still had all his faculties. Even so, he had happily ceded parliamentary responsibilities to Viscount Marston.

Before she could depart for London, an express rider arrived, bearing a letter edged in black. Her heart clenched with anxiety as she broke the seal.

Mother,

Father is dead. I shall see you at Marston Hall within a week. His will demanded he be interred there.

Marston

“He is gone,” she murmured to the empty room. She did not know what to do with the information. Her husband had commanded her life for so long…

Well, one thing was certain. Her searches for her granddaughter no longer needed to be clandestine. Lord Montrose had decreed that his second son be cut off for sullying the family name. His edicts had not ceased when he learned that Henry had died.

“Who cares about the girl?” he had said, scowling. “Her mother is nothing but the daughter of a tradesman. Leave her to her fate.” She recalled his cold demeanor when she had seen him in town that year. Furious, she had feigned obedience whilst continuing the search for her granddaughter behind her husband’s back.

And now he is gone. He can do nothing to stop me. Her dowry had remained largely untouched for many years, for she did not have cause to venture into town for longer than her husband required her. The fifty thousand pounds had grown significantly, and now she was free to do with it as she wished.

I shall find Elizabeth, she vowed.

Marston—now Lord Montrose—arrived before the week’s end, his father’s body following in a wagon behind his carriage. They interred him in the family crypt with little ceremony. Most of Lord Montrose’s friends had died long ago, and the only family he had left were his son and his wife. “What will you do now, Mother?” Harold asked as they ate a quiet dinner following the funeral.

“I believe I shall go to London,” she mused. “This is your home now.” And I shall never grow used to knowing you as anything other than Viscount Marston.

“I would never cast you out,” he protested. “Marston Hall has a fine dower house if you wish to vacate the manor.”

“Harold,” she said calmly, “I mean to find Elizabeth.”

Her son fell silent. She continued speaking when he did not reply.

“Your father kept a tight rein on my pin money,” she confided. “I had enough to meet my needs, but no more. Despite our separate residences, he still had a hand in my life these many years. Now that I am free to do what I will, I mean to expand my search for your niece.”

Her son sighed. “I would only caution you, Mother. You may not find her. And if you do, you may not like what you discover. Elizabeth will be fifteen now—a young lady.”

“She was eight when…” Lady Montrose paused to compose herself. “She should remember us, should she not?”

“I met her only twice. Father kept me too occupied to get away. And are your words not further evidence to proceed cautiously?”

She nodded. “I need to know,” she whispered. “I cannot bear not knowing.”

Harold patted her hand and changed the subject. “Now that the old man is gone, I suppose it is time for me to search for a wife. At seven-and-thirty, there is no time to delay.”

“If you live as long as your father, then there is no need for concern.” She chuckled. “He married me at forty.”

“I need an heir, Mother. A daughter will do as well as a son, thanks to the nature of the earldom’s charter.” The earldom was old, and as such, daughters could inherit in the absence of sons.

Lady Montrose smiled sadly. “I would like another grandchild,” she murmured.

Marston—for she could not think of him as Lord Montrose yet—stayed in Nottinghamshire to oversee the spring planting. Lady Montrose wasted no time packing her trunks and making her way to London. She took up residence in her London home, Montrose House. According to her marriage settlement, she had lifetime use of the residence. The earldom had another property, Marston Manor, that her son and his future bride would occupy whilst in town. Within a fortnight, she had gone through her husband’s belongings, sorting what ought to remain with the earldom and be sent to her son at Marston Hall, and setting aside the rest to be donated to charity. Her own chambers she resolved to refurbish. But first, she had a task to perform.

The day following her arrival, Lady Montrose spoke to the Bow Street Runner who was still in her employ, making arrangements to post a reward for information in the London papers. “It is impossible for a child to disappear without a trace,” she said impatiently when he brought up the years that had passed since Elizabeth’s disappearance. “Had you not been incompetent, then my granddaughter would have been found. I do not care how long it takes. You will find Miss Elizabeth Montrose.”

Satisfied that he would take her seriously, she returned to her home. She felt a little regretful of her outburst, attributing it to her constant state of worry for Elizabeth. As she disembarked from the carriage, she noted a gentleman on the curb, ostensibly returning to his own residence.

“Lady Montrose. It has been an age.”

“Mr. Darcy. It is good to see you.” She curtsied.

George Darcy was of an age with her. He had lost his wife, Lady Anne Darcy, some years ago. Seven or eight, if she recalled. Mr. Darcy had mourned his wife at the same time Lady Montrose mourned the loss of her relations.

“I understand that condolences are in order,” he said kindly. “Lord Montrose was a force to be reckoned with.”

“My son will be even more so than his father.” She smiled affectionately. “Thank you for your kind words.” They parted ways, he to his home next door and she to hers.

The next weeks passed slowly, with no news from Mr. Marks. She grew impatient but tried to keep occupied with refurbishing her chambers. When they were finished, she moved to the public rooms.

In June, Mr. Marks finally came to Montrose House with information.

“I found an innkeeper in Derbyshire who remembers an inquiry that came through his establishment around the time in question,” he said. “Some cove was searching for news of a carriage accident and a lost child. The innkeeper did not remember much else.”

It was the best lead she had been given in a long time. “Did he not give you a name?” she pressed.

“No, my lady. He said it were something like Barnett. Maybe Bartlett. But he could not say for certain.” Marks bowed his head regretfully.

“It is worth investigating,” she muttered. “Where was this inn?”

“It were very near to the county border,” he replied. “Not thirty miles from Marston Hall.”

“The location fits. How far from my son’s home in Yorkshire?” She leaned forward eagerly.

“Around twenty miles. A long way for a child to wander.” He shrugged.

“There is no saying whether Elizabeth wandered that far. We only know that this mysterious Mr. Barnett sent inquiries there. Which means the letter must have originated somewhere closer.”

“I shall do me best, m’lady.” Marks looked doubtful, but schooled his expression when she gave him a hard look.

“Be off with you, then.” She waved her hand dismissively, and he backed out of the room. Wearily, she rose and went to her chambers. Pulling a wooden box off a shelf in her closet, she took it to her bed. Sitting slowly, she held the box on her lap and opened the clasp.

Inside there were four miniatures. On her last visit, before everything had happened, she had commissioned portraits of her son and his family. They were immortalized in oils, their happy expressions captured forever. Amelia’s fine eyes laughed from the painting. Elizabeth’s eyes were very similar. She likely favors her mother even more now, she mused. It is a shame that your parents did not live to see you grow into a young lady.

Carefully, she put the mementos back into the chest. After returning it to the closet, she ordered a tray. No longer a young woman, she preferred to retire early. Though it was not quite six in the evening, she felt unaccountably tired.

Rest is all I need, she told herself. I shall be well in the morning. Yes, for the first time in many years, she had a direction. Elizabeth would be found soon; she knew it deep in her heart. And when she is safely back in my arms, I shall make her my heir. Elizabeth will have everything that should have been her due, and more. It never occurred to her that her grandchild might wish for anything different. After all, family was everything to Lady Maude Montrose. Would it not be the same to anyone who shared her blood?