Indeed, Elizabeth could see. The resemblance was striking, from the delicate curve of the nose to the dark curls. It was as though she were gazing upon a mirror of herself.
“No painter ever quite captured her eyes,” Caroline added with a tinge of wistfulness. “I am thankful God saw fit to preserve them in her daughter.”
Tears welled in Eliabeth’s eyes. “It is a gift beyond measure to see my mother’s likeness. Thank you, Caroline.”
“I have already arranged to commission a copy in London. When it is completed, the original shall be yours.” Caroline reached out and clasped Elizabeth’s arm with quiet affection.
“I shall be content with the copy if you would prefer to keep the original,” Elizabeth demurred.
“It is of no consequence. The same artist will paint the copy, so it will be as though I, too, have the original work.”
Elizabeth cradled the miniature with care. Caroline and Darcy sat without speaking, as she studied her mother’s visage. As she did, memories forced their way to the present, a sudden, sharp pain pierced her head. Struggling to catch a breath, she lowered the portrait to her lap and pressed her fingers to the scar at her temple.
“My love?” Darcy leaned forward, his concern evident. The warmth of his nearness touched her heart, and the pain eased. “Are you well?”
“It is nothing,” she said, attempting to reassure him. “At least, I believe it is nothing. Though there are times when my head hurts—usually without warning.”
“Do you need to retire?”
His concern was apparent, and he touched her arm as though to be certain she was well.
“Was it the portrait?” Caroline asked anxiously. “I am very sorry if it caused your upset.”
“No, no. You are both needlessly worried! I shall be quite well.”
The matter was allowed to rest, and Elizabeth endeavored to enjoy the rest of the evening. That night, she dreamed of her mother. Amelia Montrose rocked her gently, singing a soft lullaby until sleep enfolded her once more.
Chapter Twenty-Five
December 30, 1811
London
Bingley
Carolinehadbeenspeakingnonstop since they left Hertfordshire. Elizabeth and Jane did not seem to mind. The former listened raptly, as if she hoped Caroline’s tales would unlock the memories hidden away in her mind. For Charles Bingley, the memories were soothing but also unsettling, for they reminded him of the worst day of his life. And so, he breathed a sigh of relief when the Bennet sisters had been deposited at Gracechurch Street.
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had taken their own carriage. The Gardiners, with their children, followed in their conveyance. Darcy rode with Bingley, but his own carriage transported his belongings and his valet. His horse plodded along behind, slowing the pace. They would stop briefly at his townhouse to deliver Caroline and her things before continuing to Darcy House—and hopefully, a meeting with Lady Montrose.
“I believe I shall have a rest,” Caroline said as she climbed out of the carriage and made her way to the front door. “I am very tired.”
“You spoke enough to earn it,” he said good-naturedly. “I shall see you at dinner.” The carriage door closed and lurched forward. Both gentlemen stayed silent for the rest of the journey. When they arrived at Darcy House, a servant showed Bingley to a room to wash the road dust away. He had no plans to rest. Montrose House stood only a few doors away, and he meant to see Lady Montrose without delay. The sooner the interview was behind him, the sooner he might find peace.
Almost before he realized it—before he had fully composed himself—he found himself standing on her threshold. Summoning his courage, he knocked on the door and waited. A moment later, it swung open to reveal a rather severe-looking butler. “Yes?” the man intoned.
“Mr. Charles Bingley, to see Lady Montrose on a matter of great importance.” He prayed the man could not detect the strain in his voice.
“You will wait here.” The butler stepped aside and motioned to a chair. “I shall see whether her ladyship will accept your card.”
Bingley waited for ten interminable minutes before the butler returned. “Her ladyship will receive you,” he said. “Keep your remarks brief. Lady Montrose has no patience for idle chatter.”
Bingley inclined his head, and the butler relieved him of his hat and gloves. Following a few paces behind the silent servant, he used the opportunity to examine his surroundings. The house bore signs it had been recently redecorated. Everything had been masterfully redone with colors to welcome and soothe the onlooker.
The butler stopped before a pair of polished doors and pushed one open. “Mr. Bingley, your ladyship,” he said.
“Thank you, Morton,” came the clipped reply.
Bingley entered. The room was dim, but welcoming, thefire crackling cheerfully and several candelabras casting golden pools of light. Lady Montrose sat in a high-backed chair near the hearth, her features wreathed in shadow.
