“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. Youwillfind 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.
