“And Alice Brown told me that letters sent to the place in Scotland would find you. I wrote three times, and when you did not answer my last—” and Caroline broke off with things unutterable in her face.
“I never had any but the first when you were going to London. I answered that. Yes, I did! Don’t look incredulous. I wrote from Sorrento.”
“That must have miscarried. Where did you address it.”
“To the old place, inside a letter to Mrs. Mercer.”
“I see! Poor Mrs. Mercer went away ill, and did not live long after, and I suppose her people never troubled themselves about her letters. But why did not you get ours.”
“Mrs. McIan died at Venice, and the aunts came out, and considering me too young to go on with the laird and his girls, they fairly made me over to a Russian family whom we had met. Unluckily, as I see now, I wrote to Mrs. Mercer, and as I never heard more I gave up writing. Then the Crimean War cut me off entirely even from David. I had only one letter all that time.”
“How is it that you are a governess? I thought one was sure of a pension from a Russian grandee!”
“These were not very grand grandees, only counts, and though they paid liberally, they could not pension one. So when I had done with the youngest daughter, I came to England and found a situation in London. I tried to look up our old set, but could not get on the track of anyone except Emily Collins, who told me you had married very soon, but was not even sure of your name. Very soon! Why, Caroline, your daughter looks as old as yourself.”
“I sometimes think she is older! And have you seen my Eton boy?”
“Was it he who received the delightful popinjay, who ‘Up and spak’ so much to the purpose?” asked Mr. Ogilvie.