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.
Chapter Nine
October 1811
Lucas Lodge
Elizabeth
Elizabethsmoothedthefrontof her gown to remove any wrinkles that had gathered during the ride to Lucas Lodge. Sir William hosted a lavish dinner party once a month, inviting all the four-and-twenty genteel families of the neighborhood. A large number of guests filled the lodge that day. Red coats mingled with blues, browns, blacks, and greens, standing in stark contrast to the more muted colors worn by the other gentlemen.
“It is good that Kitty and Lydia are not here.” Mary leaned over and whispered conspiratorially into Elizabeth’s ear. “They would swoon with so many officers present.”
“A man in a red coat may be handsome to look upon, but the life of following the drum certainly holds little attraction.” Elizabeth smirked at her younger sister. “Kitty and Lydia like their comfortable situation far too much to succumb to the pull of a scarlet soldier.”
“They are young,” Jane cut in. “Let them have their fantasies. We certainly had ours.”
“Oh, yes, Jane, do remind us what that little poem said. ‘Let me compare you to a summer’s dawn?’” Mary chuckled and prodded her sister’s arm in teasing affection.
