Elizabeth went to her chambers, intending to refresh herself, but soon grew distracted. She knelt on the floor and reached under her bed. The small chest her father had given her was tucked behind a bedpost out of immediate sight. Her younger sisters had thus far respected her privacy, but Elizabeth did not wish to take any chances with this link to her past.
Slowly, she pulled it out and stood to lock the door, then climbed onto the bed, chest in hand. She crossed her legs and set it down before her, rubbing a hand on the smooth surface before opening it.
There was not much inside. A ragged and stained blue dress that the servants had been unable to get clean, a soiled handkerchief that had once been white…and a piece of jewelry.
It was the nicest thing in the entire chest. An ivory crest had been set in gold filigree. There was a clasp on the back that could secure it as a brooch. Elizabeth had always felt that there was something more to the piece. She could make out tiny hinges on the side, indicating that the brooch opened somehow. There was also a tiny hole at the top. It might be decorative, but she thought it looked as though something was missing.
She rubbed her thumb over the surface, marveling at the detail. Once, she had considered taking the brooch to London in hopes of finding out whose crest adorned the surface. Papa had insisted that she not do so. “What if you lose it?” he asked. “Or what if it is stolen? What if someone believes you stole it?” None of her sisters knew the truth about her origins, and Elizabeth could not draw well enough to capture the design. She had allowed his fears to sway her and the token from her past remained locked away beneath her bed.
Now she took it to her desk. Carefully, she sketched the crest on a sheet of paper. The likeness was not perfect, but it was close enough to the original. Two swords crossed behind a shield. The letter ‘M’ stood out, carved roses climbing the sides of the letter, and the outside edge of the ivory boasted intricate scrolls and ivy. The effect was lovely.
A family crest meant prominence. But what if Elizabeth was only a child thief? What if she sustained her injury when she fled with her purloined treasure?
Perhaps Papa was right to caution me,she thought. She tucked the paper into her writing box, burying it beneath a bundle of letters.You ought to leave it alone,she scolded herself.Nothing good can come of your curiosity.
She put the brooch back into her chest, closing it securely before hiding it under the bed. Determined to think of happier things, she retrieved a favorite novel and made her way to the parlor.
Chapter Eight
October 1811
Montrose House, London
Lady Montrose
Shestaredatthefireplace. 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.Pleaseremember 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.
