Recalled to Life by Wendy M. Wilson

Author:Wendy M. Wilson [Wendy M. Wilson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: W Wilson
Published: 2019-09-02T00:00:00+00:00

12

The English Periodicals

“Lady Debra Mountjoy,” said Mette to Mr. Robinson. “Colonel Mountjoy’s wife is named Lady Debra Mountjoy. She’s the eldest daughter of a baronet. She married the colonel in July 1856 in India, and the son was born…” She stopped. Milo’s date of birth was given as February 12. 1857, seven months after his parents married. “He was born in 1857,” she said. She was reading from an old copy of Burke’s Peerage, which Mr. Robinson had discovered on a shelf deep in the back of his shop. “And their only issue—does that mean son? —is the Hon. Milo Horatio Mountjoy. He was at Harrow when this was published…Frank said he… it sounds like the same family. What does Order of the Bath mean?”

“Who has that? And what level does he have?” asked Mr. Robinson.

“Lady Mountjoy’s father…”

“Lady Debra,” corrected Mr. Robinson, “If her father is a baronet…”

“Lady Debra,” said Mette. “Yes, that’s what it says. Her father is a Knight Commander of the Bath…that sounds very English. Does that mean he has to bathe the king?”

“He was probably a military officer then,” said Mr. Robinson. “Or naval. High ranking. You think she — Lady Debra — may have something to do with Colonel Mountjoy and his son’s vendetta against Frank?” He too had seen the young man, and Mette could tell he felt sorry for her, which did not do much to improve her mood.

“I’m not sure why,” she said. “Could we find out where she is? Now, I mean? Or where she was nineteen or twenty years ago?” Mr. Robinson busied himself with a stack of books, and she realized she had given away her thoughts to him, or at least confirmed his suspicions.

“I have a large collection of magazines and newspapers I brought with me from London,” he said. “Some Illustrated London News, Cornhill Magazine before it ceased publication, and the Sunday Magazine. They’re old – but perhaps we can find her mentioned.” He led Mette to magazines heaped up in an even darker corner of the shop. “Browse through them. You may find something.”

Mette knelt and started through the pile. It should have been an arduous task, but she found herself entranced by what she read in the magazines. A most wonderful short story by a writer named Mr. Anthony Trollope—she’d have to see if he’d written anything else. And another by a man named George Eliot that looked interesting and well written. She had a lot to learn about English literature, she knew. After a while her knees ached and she stood and walked over to the window, stretching her arms. Mr. Robinson had made a pot of tea and he brought her some in a delicate china cup. Tea. It was the answer to everything for English people, and she had no idea why when coffee was so much more satisfying. Mr. Robinson liked his tea weak and scented, compared to most New Zealanders, who liked their tea boiled to a dark, tarry consistency.

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