Tears started in her eyes. She remained silent but her head moved in the barest of nods.
“Emily, my dearest girl,” he choked, pulling her down where he could kiss her. And she responded, one hand threading his hair as her mouth opened to his own. For nearly a minute she clung to him until reality returned.
“No, we mustn’t,” she cried, appalled at her actions.
“Don’t leave,” he commanded as she broke away and ran for the door. She paused to look back. “Think well, my love. If you marry Norwood, you will spend the rest of your life in misery. You cannot possibly care for him. I’ve seen the way you avoid his company. Do you think anything will change later on?”
“Of course not. He has no interest in anything beyond an heir.”
“Emily, my love,” he pleaded. “You deserve so much better. And I can give it to you.”
“There is nothing to be done,” she stated, her voice cracking into a sob. “It is my duty to marry well. The betrothal is already arranged. You cannot deny that the connection is all that is proper.”
He sighed in resignation. “No, not if all that matters is a list of assets and liabilities on a piece of paper. But I thought you wanted more than that, like love and tenderness and warmth. You are a person, Emily. A living, breathing being with needs and interests and desires of your own. So is Norwood. So am I. The duke can give you a title, but never his heart. A title can be a cold, empty commodity when you are facing yet another night alone. You and I belong together, as you must admit if you examine your heart. It is not too late.”
“You do not know my father,” she cried, stumbling out of the room. “It was too late the day I was born.”
He sighed. Why had he even tried? Poor Emily. She had been taught to revere duty above all else, even if that meant burying her real self under an icy facade that all too soon would freeze both heart and soul. As soon as he rose from his bed, he must leave. He could not remain to listen as her betrothal was announced to the public. Even his usual good humor could not survive that.
* * * *
“Yes, Ellen?” asked Amanda when the maid appeared in her doorway. She had just returned from teaching and hoped this was not a call for medical attention. After being up all night, she was tired.
“A Mr. Grayson to see you, ma’am,” reported Ellen, bobbing a curtsy. She held out a calling card.
“Show him in..” She stared at the engraved card.
W. M. Grayson
of
Grayson, Grayson, & Smith, solicitors
. Had her father discovered some new way to command obedience?
Mr. Grayson was nonthreatening, a lean, modest man in his fifties whose thinning gray hair and thick spectacles complemented his thin-lipped mouth and permanently stooped shoulders. They exchanged pleasantries for some minutes until Ellen had delivered a tea tray and withdrawn from the room.
“Your husband was John Peter Morrison, son of Edward Rawlings Morrison of Herefordshire?” he asked.
“I believe that was his father’s name, though Jack never spoke of his family. There was a well-established rift between them.”
“What do you know of his family?”
“His mother was the youngest daughter of Viscount Brodley. Her maternal uncle was Mr. George Comfray, who owned an estate some fifteen miles from here. And Jack had a brother, William, who refused to acknowledge any relationship between them. I fear that is all.”
“Have you met none of them then?”
“Only Uncle George. We stayed with him for some months after our marriage.”
“And when were you wed?”
“March 22, 1807. What is this to the purpose?”
“I must establish your identity. Have you your marriage lines?”
Amanda retrieved them from her desk. Mr. Grayson compared Jack’s signature to a paper he pulled from his pocket and nodded.
“What is this about?” asked Amanda again.
“You are aware that Mr. Comfray died?”
“Of course. Nearly two years ago.”
“His will mentioned your husband, Mrs. Morrison.”
“Then how comes it that we heard nothing earlier?” she asked sharply, thinking how nice it would have been to have a bit more in Vienna than Jack’s pay. It was one reason she had agreed to spy. They had needed the money it brought.
Mr. Grayson sighed. “It is rather involved. The wheels of the law turn slowly in the best of times, and even worse in this case. I was ill when Mr. Comfray died. My son took care of the routine of reading the will and settling with the servants, but the task of contacting heirs was left until I returned many weeks later. I sent a letter to Mr. Morrison in care of his regiment, not realizing that he was no longer with them. By the time I learned that he had transferred to Wellington’s staff, he had died at Waterloo.”
Amanda said nothing, wishing that the man would reach his point.
The dry, ponderous voice resumed. “Once I ascertained that he had drafted a will leaving all he possessed to his wife, I set in motion an effort to discover your whereabouts.”
“It has taken you more than a year to find me?” she asked skeptically.
“No. The search was suspended for some months when Mr. William Morrison filed suit contesting the validity of both wills.”
“He would,” grumbled Amanda. “From what I’ve heard, William would begrudge Jack even a penny-piece.”
“An admirable description,” agreed the solicitor with a slight smile.
“But why was I never informed?”
“You have done a marvelous job of hiding yourself from the world, Mrs. Morrison. Even my client, Mr. Comfray, knew nothing of your background. Mr. Morrison’s military associates lost sight of you after Brussels. I only discovered your direction some days ago when his grace of Wellington described your recent meeting. Mr. William Morrison’s suit was denied last month, so the will is now proved.”
“What exactly is this inheritance?” she asked, suspicious at the time and money that must have gone into the search.
“Mr. Comfray’s estate.”
Her eyes widened. “You mean Beau Cime?” It was a lovely property, sited on a hilltop, with an Elizabethan manor that had been updated in Uncle George’s youth to improve its comfort without sacrificing its charm.
“In part. Aside from legacies to several servants, he left everything to Mr. John Morrison. The estate is profitable, and the investments bring in around five thousand a year.”
Amanda was having trouble breathing. Five thousand? The principal must be well over a hundred thousand to produce that much. Had Jack known that he was George’s heir?
She doubted it. Thinking of the future was not one of his habits. She was amazed that he had made out a formal will of his own.
“I am stunned,” she admitted at last.
“You need to come to Beau Cime to look over the property. I have kept an eye on it for nearly two years, but it is not the same as having an owner there.”
“I will arrange to visit next week. We can discuss the future then.”
Amanda sat in thought long after the solicitor had left. It was the answer to a prayer, the solution to all her problems. She must leave Middleford. Now she not only had a place to go, but the means to support herself without help from Thorne. The only question was whether to leave immediately or to discuss the situation with her father first.
Chapter Fifteen
Norwood stared sightlessly at the portrait above the fireplace. The morning room was gloomier than ever this evening, the overcast that had threatened rain all day bringing on dusk an hour early. He ought to be in the drawing room awaiting the summons to dinner, but he had no heart for company.
The house was crawling with people as more and more guests arrived for the ball. Coquettish giggles and young men’s laughter echoed down hallways unaccustomed to merriment. Public rooms overflowed with gossiping ladies and pompous gentlemen.
How had he gotten himself into this coil? A fortnight earlier he had stood in this very spot, offering marriage to a chit he neither knew nor loved. He must have been suffering from brain fever for the last six months. Cutting all emotion from one’s heart might work for someone intrinsically cold like his father or Thorne, but not for him. His life was empty. Acquiring a wife with whom he planned to spend no time would never change that. His stupidity was appalling. And this time he could not claim naïveté or inexperience. Only bad judgment.
The future was daunting. Emily avoided him whenever possible. As Thorne’s very dutiful daughter, he could hardly expect her to become the loving woman her half-sister was. Each lady too closely resembled her own mother. If only he had talked at length with his grandmother before embarking on this expedition. The very fact that she had agreed with the duchess should have warned him that something was wrong.
But it would have made no difference if he had, he reminded himself. There was no deceit. His own ridiculous notions had welcomed Emily’s demeanor.
Running footsteps sounded in the hall, startling him out of his reverie. “Jameson!” shouted a voice.
Norwood could picture the haughty stare that must respond to such disrespect. Jameson was at least as high in the instep as Thorne.
“Falston sent me,” panted the newcomer. “Wilson’s house is on fire. Can you spare two or three footmen to help?”
“I will send Willy and Frank,” agreed Jameson coolly.
Norwood stepped from the morning room as the groom turned to retrace his steps. “Where is the fire?” he demanded sharply.
“A tenant farm about two miles away, your grace.”
“I am coming with you. Did the family get out?”
The groom wore an expression of shock, but he dared not ignore a duke. “I do not know, your grace.”
The stableyard was bustling with activity as horses were harnessed to a wagon into which buckets and tools had been tossed. Two footmen rushed to join half a dozen men in the wagon bed. Norwood climbed onto the box and they were off.
By the time they arrived at the fire, Norwood had gleaned quite a bit of information from Falston. The Wilsons were the most prosperous of the tenant farmers, occupying a stone-walled cottage large enough to qualify as a manor house. The family was extensive, including eight children and two of Mr. Wilson’s brothers.
The house was too involved to save, decided Norwood in a single glance. It was already three quarters ablaze, with little hope of stopping the flames. The farm buildings were another story. Close enough to be endangered by sparks from the fire, and with thatched roofs that made them particularly vulnerable, they needed immediate attention. Falston had reached the same conclusion. “Let’s start with the barn,” he ordered his minions. “The stream is over there..” He pointed beyond a mosaic of pig pens.
Norwood was moving off with the others when a scream rent the air. He froze a moment, then raced toward the house.
“Let go!” demanded Amanda sharply, beating her hands against a man’s shoulder. “Ben is still in there, in the end not yet ablaze. There is no way he can get out by himself. He has a broken leg. You cannot condemn him to die.”
“Be reasonable, Mrs. Morrison,” countered her opponent. “The stairs will go any second. You’ll be trapped, too.”
“Where is he?” asked Norwood.
“Oh, thank God you are here, your grace,” sobbed Amanda. “There is a boy upstairs in that corner room..” She pointed.
“I’ll get him,” he promised.
“The stairs will be in flames soon,” protested the other.
“Get the men to throw water on them,” ordered Norwood. “All I need is two or three minutes..” And he was off.
* * * *
Amanda froze with shock. Everything had happened too quickly. Though she had been on the scene only ten minutes, it seemed more like ten hours.
She had been driving home when she saw the smoke and knew immediately that it came from the Wilson farm. It hadn’t taken her long to reach the site.
Her first action was to gather the women and children together and assure herself that everyone had escaped. It was a difficult task, for the Wilson family was large, with several workers and servants also living in the rambling old building. The men were scrambling to fight the flames, so she could not tell if any were missing. Within minutes, the dry wood had spread the fire far enough to drive them all out.
“The house is a loss!” shouted Mr. Wilson. “Get the animals out of the barn.”
Amanda patiently counted heads. The two oldest boys were with the men. The next two had ridden to get help from other tenants and the Court. Mrs. Wilson had been carried in hysterics to a neighbor’s house, along with the baby and an expectant sister-in-law. Not until Amanda came to the nurse did she discover that Ben had been left behind.
“I got the little ones out,” the woman sobbed, “but I cain’t carry Ben with his leg all done up in splints. I thought one of the men could run up and get him, but they refused.”
The nurse had not asked the right people, but Amanda refrained from voicing the thought. Mr. Wilson or either of his brothers would have been in the house in a flash if they had known, but they were busy trying to keep the blaze from spreading. Neighbors and farm workers were loathe to risk their own necks. And so she had headed in herself.
Entering through the kitchen proved impossible, though the fire was not yet burning there. She got as far as the pantry door when a beam collapsed, raining fiery debris upon her and blocking access to the back stairs. Brushing off the cinders that threatened to ignite her gown, and choking from the heavy smoke, she retreated.
But her determination was firmer than ever. Horror was back, memories swirling through her head in a maelstrom of sights and sounds. The crash of the beam sounded like distant cannon fire. Men scurried around, shouting orders. Jack’s voice echoed through her mind.
Never retreat until all options are exhausted.... There is always a way to achieve victory....
Crackling flames raised the specter of the Blue Boar in the overheated air. And Ben. Poor Ben. He was such an intrepid boy. How could she let him die?
“No!” she screamed, racing to the front entrance. She was pushing her way into the building when Jem grabbed her and dragged her back.
“No!” she shouted again. “Ben is still in there. I must get him.”