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Chapter Eight

October 1811 Montrose House, London Lady Montrose

S he stared at the fireplace. The flames danced, but she did not feel their warmth. Everything was so cold now. What was the point? It had been two months since Harold had died, and her world had completely shattered.

How did it come to this? she thought bitterly. How am I the last of my family? First Henry, Amelia, and little Harry. Now my only remaining son. She shuddered, choking back a sob. What have I left to live for?

Images of her granddaughter flitted through her thoughts. Elizabeth. No. She could not bear it. So many years of searching, leads going cold… I cannot. My heart will not bear any more. Standing slowly, she made her way to the table where she kept everything concerning the search for her grandchild. Almost as if in a dream, she gathered the scattered papers into a pile and walked to the fire. She thrust the stack into the flames, watching emotionlessly as they burned.

Years of searching and nothing to show for it. And today was the final straw. She let her thoughts go back to earlier in the day when she had received an unexpected caller.

“Madam?” Jameson entered the parlor, a strange look on his face. “There is a gentleman here to see you. He brings a young lady…” her servant trailed off and looked away.

“Well, what do they want?” she asked impatiently.

“The man claims the girl is Miss Montrose,” Jameson said solemnly. “His story sounds very convincing, but I am still suspicious.”

Her heart leaped , and she sat forward in her chair. “Show them in!” she cried. “Can it possibly be true?”

“My lady, I beg you to be cautious. These years since your husband’s death it has been no secret that you seek your granddaughter. And now you are in an especially vulnerable position, given the passing of Master Harold.” Jameson knelt at her side, his eyes pleading as he encouraged her to think rationally.

“But what if it is?” she countered. “If it is Elizabeth, then all will be well again. Tell me their story. I am assuming you inquired.”

“After interviewing them, I left them waiting in the vestibule with a pair of footmen,” Jameson said. “The man’s name is Wilbur Roland. He is from Yorkshire and has resided in that county his entire life. The girl has been known as Eliza Montgomery since she came to a foundling home ten miles from your son’s residence.”

“And her appearance? Does she look like my Elizabeth?”

Jameson nodded. “There is enough resemblance to make me pause, your ladyship. Please remember that you very recently posted a reward for any information. They could be less than honest and in search of easy coin.”

Lady Montrose frowned. She knew that her servant spoke sense, but even a vague hope that this girl was Elizabeth Montrose was enough for her to grant the two people waiting in the vestibule an interview. “Show them in,” she finally said after a long moment of silence.

Jameson nodded, standing and exiting the room. He returned a few moments later with the man and the girl.

They each greeted her with an obeisance and then stood before her without speaking. Good, she thought. They have sense enough to wait until I address them. Instead of speaking, she took time to observe them.

The man was middle-aged and not very tall. She guessed he stood only five feet three inches or so. His gray hair still had flecks of brown in it, and he had at least two days of growth on his face. His clothing was that of a common laborer, and he stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his patched and overly large coat.

The girl stood a little behind the man. Her gown, a dull, brown thing covered in a dirty apron, was made of coarse fabric. Her half boots were worn and scuffed, but still seemed to be in decent condition. Her dark brown hair had been pulled into a knot at the back of her head.

Not Elizabeth, she thought. Her hair is all wrong. And it was. Elizabeth had naturally curly hair that strained against her braids. This girl’s hair was straight and contained.

Lady Montrose turned to address the man. “I see you wish to take advantage of a heartbroken woman,” she said sourly. “How very despicable! Did your mother teach you no better?”

“That is hardly fair, your ladyship! We haven’t said a word, have we Eliza?” He turned to the girl. “Tell the lady your story.” Mr. Roland pulled on the girl’s arm and brought her to stand in front of him.

She cleared her throat. “My mother and father and brother were killed. I ran away and went to live at the orphanage ten miles from my home. I’ve been hiding there all this time until Mr. Roland told me that you were looking for me.”

“It all sounds very rehearsed,” Lady Montrose said dismissively, waving her hand. “Those are facts anyone could give. Tell me, what was your mother’s favorite color?”

Eliza gaped. “Um,” she said. “Blue.”

“That is a good guess, but wrong.” Amelia Montrose favored dusty rose colors . “How much did he pay you to come here and pretend to be my niece?” Without waiting for a reply, she turned to Mr. Roland. “How did you even learn what she looked like? I have all the miniatures of my son and his family.”

Mr. Roland’s eyes bulged. “We will just be going now,” he said hastily. “Come on, Eliza. The lady won’t be paying us nothing.”

“He paid me a half a crown,” Eliza burst out. “I didn’t think there would be any ‘arm in it! But even I can see you are distressed. Forgive me, Lady!” Mr. Roland pulled her arm again, and she shook him off.

The girl came forward and knelt next to Lady Montrose’s chair. “I do hope you find your girl, madam,” she whispered. “I have a family, and you should have one, too.” Eliza took Lady Montrose’s hand and kissed the back.

Maude tried not to cringe, understanding as she was of the girl’s sentiment. “I thank you,” she said stiffly. “Pray, do not allow miscreants and malicious men to take advantage of you again.”

The ragged girl stood and curtsied sloppily. She turned and left the room, shoving Mr. Roland’s hand away from her as she walked by.

Jameson showed the pair out before returning to his mistress’s side. “Your ladyship?” he asked quietly.

Maude sat frozen in her chair, the reality of the unfairness of life crashing down upon her. The rings on her fingers dug into her hands as she clasped them together. “What is left, Jameson?” she asked.

“Life, madam.” He sat on the footstool beside her chair without invitation, but she did not care. He had been her faithful attendant for so long, they were past such things.

“How could anyone seek to take advantage of my sorrow? It is in every way cruel and unfeeling.” She swallowed hard, intent on saving her misery for the solitude of her chambers.

“There are many such people in the world, unfortunately. Many take pleasure in other’s pain. Still more look for easy ways to secure a fortune. But we must not give up.”

“Give up?” she repeated, turning to look at him. “I never thought to. But it is very tempting.” So tempting, in fact, that the pull of the idea took root in her chest.

“I believe I shall go to bed now,” she said woodenly.

“Shall I have a tray sent to your room, my lady?” Jameson asked. His voice was laced with concern.

“Yes, a little something would be just the thing. Thank you, Jameson.”

Her bitter thoughts pressed against her consciousness, and she collapsed. As the tears fell, she did not try to slow them. Face damp, she allowed the despair of so many losses to consume her. But still, something in her demanded that she hold on to hope. Elizabeth had to be alive.

The future of the earldom was uncertain. With her son’s death, the title should fall to Elizabeth. But she had been missing for almost twelve years now, and those in power pressured the countess to declare her granddaughter officially dead. She had stubbornly refused. Today, a letter came from the Crown, granting her one year more before the title would be settled on one of her husband’s distant cousins. The man had barely reached his majority and lived in Scotland. His great-great-grandfather had been Lord Montrose's great-uncle.

The last of the papers shriveled in the flames as she watched dispassionately. If I am meant to find Elizabeth, God will have to intervene now, she reasoned. I have done all that I can do.

Hundreds of pounds over the years had gone into the search for the missing Montrose heir. Marks had never wavered, for she paid him handsomely. Eventually, however, he retired and married, settling in a small hamlet outside of London. Jameson, too, had married, but he did not leave. Instead, Lady Montrose asked his wife to be her companion. Mrs. Jameson was pleased to accept the position until the birth of her first child.

The empty house felt oppressive. Resigned to another sleepless night, Lady Montrose readied for bed. As she drifted to sleep with her head resting on goose down pillows, she prayed fervently that her granddaughter would be found.

Bingley

He woke in a cold sweat, gasping and heaving as he rolled out of bed. It was a dream, he thought. Only a dream. No—it had been a memory, one he had long buried. Now it had resurfaced with a vengeance.

Bingley padded to the window. He shivered in the cold but welcomed the rejuvenation it brought. How many years since he last had that dream? “It must be at least eight,” he said aloud, then returned to his thoughts. It was always the same dream.

He ran down the street to the Montroses’ house. His father had sent him with a note for Mr. Montrose, requesting a meeting later that day. It was early, but Mr. Montrose was always awake at six.

Young Charles Bingley knocked on the door, only to have it swing open at his touch. Curious, he crept inside, calling out to announce his presence. The air was eerily still, and it caused his skin to crawl and raised bumps to spring up on his arms. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and he crept carefully down the hall. He did not know what urged him to move forward, but he reacted instinctively.

He reached the study and pushed the door open. He could see a pair of boots from where he stood in the doorway. Alarmed that Mr. Montrose was hurt and in need of help, he rushed forward.

“Sir!” he cried, kneeling and shaking Mr. Montrose’s shoulder. “Sir, wake up!” The gentleman was cold to the touch, his eyes closed and his chest unmoving. Charles staggered back, tears falling and breath coming in gasps. He whirled around and bolted from the room. He did not stop running until he reached his home and the safety of his father’s arms.

Charles shook himself from the memory. No one other than his father knew that young Charles Bingley had discovered Mr. Montrose lying in a pool of blood on his study floor. A heavy stone statue lay by his side, clearly the weapon used to deliver the fatal blow. Heaving, he had run from the house and all the way back to his father, babbling incoherently.

The maid-of-all-work and the cook had no idea the residents of the house were dead when they arrived that morning. There was a kitchen entrance, meaning they were not required to venture further into the house until later. Breakfast was at nine, and until alerted, the small staff had no idea what had occurred above stairs. Later, he learned from his father that Mrs. Montrose and little Harry were also victims of the attack. Their daughter Elizabeth was nowhere to be found. Theories and gossip circulated. Some claimed the eight-year-old girl had gone mad, murdered her family, and fled. Others believed that she had been kidnapped after witnessing the entire affair.

Robert Bingley had never been the same after. He worked hard with his other business partner, spending long hours at the factory. Charles and Caroline were sent to school and came home only during the summer months. Then, seven years after the murders, Mr. Bingley sold his shares of the company to Mr. Winters and relocated his family to London, where he turned his attention to new business interests. He found great success in imports and exports and, in time, made his fortune, securing his children’s futures.

Caroline took the loss of Mrs. Montrose especially hard, for the lady was her godmother. Elizabeth and Caroline had spent hours in company with Mrs. Montrose, who, though the daughter of a tradesman, had taught them proper comportment and encouraged them to speak as gentlewomen. His younger sister still spoke fondly of the kind, warm lady and her desire to emulate her godmother in all things.

She was like a second mother, he thought. The Montrose family welcomed the Bingleys with open arms and no judgment. Yes, they had spent many hours together, the children especially. After Mrs. Bingley’s death, Mrs. Montrose had often offered to mind Charles and Caroline whilst her husband and their father attended to business at the factory and mill.

He ran a hand through his hair. Harry Montrose had only been four years of age, but already seemed older than his years. Charles recalled giving him rides on his back and galloping around the small parlor. Harry would cling to his shirt, giggling and commanding his ‘horsey’ to go faster.

They had played with toy soldiers, too. Charles never minded that Harry was so much his junior. He had always wanted a brother and saw the boy as just that.

Father had allowed him to attend the funeral. He could hardly bear to see them lying in repose in the parlor when they had come to pay their final respects, but he knew it was his duty. “You have seen more death than any lad of your age ought to,” his father said sadly. Charles agreed.

Caroline wept for days when she learned of Mrs. Montrose’s death. “Where is Elizabeth?” the eight-year-old asked. “Why can I not see Elizabeth?”

When he tried to explain that Elizabeth was gone, Caroline only wanted to know when she would return. The idea that no one knew what had become of young Miss Montrose was difficult to grasp.

More memories surfaced as he stood by the window: Mr. Montrose reading from Aristotle; Father telling Mrs. Montrose how much he enjoyed the meal; Caroline throwing her sampler because she could not get a stitch right the first time, and her godmother gently insisting she retrieve the cloth and try again.

Weary from lack of sleep, Charles struggled to push the memories aside. Why now, after nearly twelve years, did he recall those nightmarish events? Something must have stirred them. He knew, of course, what it was, but his sleep-deprived mind resisted acknowledging the source. It was far too dangerous to hope, too reckless to entertain such a notion. It could not be that Elizabeth Bennet had any connection to the missing Elizabeth Montrose. Her resemblance to the late Mrs. Montrose notwithstanding, it was ludicrous to imagine that Mr. Bennet’s second daughter could be related to the Montroses.

Still, the similarities between his memories of Caroline’s godmother and Miss Elizabeth churned in his thoughts, refusing to let him rest. At last, in the wee hours of the morning, he called for his valet and dressed for a ride. Bingley made his way to the stables and ordered his most spirited mount to be saddled. Hercules was always good for an intense ride, and the exertion would surely purge these irrational imaginings from Charles’s thoughts.

The dark stallion pranced eagerly as his master mounted. Bingley secured his hat and took up his riding crop before urging the horse into a brisk trot. Impatient as he was, he kept Hercules at a canter until the animal was properly warmed, then kicked him into a gallop.

The wind whipped past his face, biting his cheeks and numbing his nose. He did not care. The pounding of hooves on hard ground filled his ears, and he forced himself to concentrate on the path ahead, lest his horse stumble in a hidden hole. He kept Hercules at a gallop for a time before easing him into a trot. Frost crystals clung to the field grass. The horizon brightened, and he knew it would not be long before the sun crept up to melt the glistening, frozen dew.

He was some miles south of Netherfield Park when he caught sight of Longbourn through a break in the trees. The residents of the gray stone structure were likely still abed; no movement could be seen from his vantage point. Then, a figure in a dark cloak slipped away from the house—his instinct told him it was Elizabeth.

Blast and botheration. All the purging his ride had afforded him was destroyed in an instant.