Chapter 1
The cottage was nestled in a grove of trees not far from a stream used for personal washing, watering the cow, irrigating the vegetable garden, and beating clothes on the rocks on wash day. But now the cottage was silent on this sultry summer’s night—its inhabitants asleep—under the starry night sky. A light, but not cooling, breeze was picking up and fluttering through the willows along the stream and causing the treetops to begin a soulful dance.
It was very early in the morning, and the crickets and frogs seemed to be taking a break when the first tuft of smoke snaked its way skyward from the thatch of the roof over the back door that led to the stable. But soon a second plume appeared, followed by a third—not only at the back of the house but now toward the front.
A burst of hot wind came sweeping along the valley floor and crashed like a wave over the house as the whole roof erupted into a fireball of flame. The house had been constructed of half-timber and mud stucco, and within the blink of an eye, every piece of wood in the house was ignited and set ablaze—fanned by the dry, devil wind. At first, there seemed to be no movement. Then the front door burst open, but that created a backdraft, and the fire intensified, with flames and smoke being sucked in from the top of the house, through the front door, and into the interior.
No one heard the screams. There were no houses close enough, and the nearest road was along a cart trail through a spinney and down a hill. The Manor House was a good mile away out of sight of the cottage and too far away to be of any help even if someone had seen the fire.
By dawn, all that was left was the kitchen garden covered in ash, the stable and a pile of smoldering rubble. By then, the wind had died down, and as the sun began to rise, it was clear it was going to be another blisteringly hot day.
Ben Goodbody, the cartwright, who lived around the bend and downstream from the cottage, had taken his cow to the water’s edge. While she took her morning drink, Ben lifted his head to look at the dawn sky.
“Gonna be another brutal one,” he said to his Maggie, who only swished her tail as she drank. She appeared to have no opinion about the weather.
Ben noticed there was a haze, low along the bank of willows across the stream. He recognized the unmistakable smell of smoke.
“Who be lighting a fire for breakfast in this heat?” he asked himself. “Those crazy Brightons,” he said, even though they were friendly neighbors. He had more than once sought their help for an excavation or to corral them to hold up the axle of his wagon as he slipped on a new wheel. Without the Brighton boys, he could not manage by himself with a house full of daughters and small boys.
He was about to turn and lead Maggie back to the barn when he heard what sounded like the sobbing of a child.
“Huh,” he grunted as he tied his cow to a tree and started walking along the bank of the stream to find where the cry was coming from.
Ben was a sturdy, beefy man in his forties and as he followed the sound, he splashed across the stream to the other bank until he came to a clump of bushes.
“Hello,” he called out. “Hello.”
There was no answer, but the sobbing had now become a whimper, and he ascertained that it was coming from the bushes. He separated the branches between two bushes and looked down to see a young girl child curled up into a ball and seemed to be in a state of shock.
“Eh, what be this?” he called out, reaching down and picking up the girl.
The child flung her arms around his neck and held on for dear life. Ben looked around, smelling the smoke even stronger now. He recognized the girl as the six-year-old daughter of the Brightons and figured he should take her home to her family. Perhaps she had wandered out of the house during the night and become disoriented.
He walked toward the Brighton’s house with the child still whimpering on his shoulder.
“Eh, now, lass. Ye be all right. Get ye home to your mama, and all be well.”
But as he came around the bend of the stream, he came across the horror. The Brighton house had burned to the ground. There were no living souls around anywhere in sight.
He put the child down, even though she tried not to let go of his neck. He ran to the house to see if he might discover any remains, but the coals were still too hot to even get close to the collapsed house.
“Oh, baby, baby…” he moaned, pressing his hands against his head. He went back and picked up the girl. “You got no mommy, no daddy, no brothers or sisters. Ye be an orphan now, lass. May God bew’ye.”
* * *
The Grayson estate took up a large portion of north central Dorset. The Grayson family was descended from a long line reaching back to King Richard the Second. Everard Grayson had thwarted some horrific plot to disgrace His Highness by someone intent on revealing one of his many personal indiscretions. Out of gratitude—and being partially drunk at the time—the King had granted Everard lands in faraway Dorset and bestowed upon him the hereditary title of The Duke of Sutherland—yes, out of gratitude but also to keep him out of the London court so the king might not be reminded of his near, personal humiliation. The Grayson coat of arms thus bore the descriptionOut of Sight – Out of Mindin Latin.
Matthew, the current Duke of Sutherland, considered himself a country gentleman in the truest British sense in this year of 1828. He took great pride in his extensive lands and holdings. His family had thrived over the centuries, expanding the original estate grant to its present size—a vast area of land supporting and being supported by many tenant farmers.
Every morning before breakfast, His Grace would march outside and stand at the front of the Manor and survey his estate stretched out before him, as the Manor was high on a hill—the estate falling away below and spreading across a large valley, surrounded on either side by gently rolling hills.
The Manor house was elegant but not showy. The Graysons generally shied away from ostentation, so the house had been constructed of sturdy local stone with large windows looking out across the valley. The back of the house looked over a modest formal garden bordering a tidy grove of trees.
The Duke stood with his arms akimbo and legs spread apart looking rather like the monarch, Henry the Eighth. He was a sturdy man with thinning hair, a rosy face, and a jolly good laugh.
“Another hot one, Stevens,” he said to his butler, who always accompanied him outside with an umbrella in case the weather turned inclement if he decided to stroll around the property before breakfast—as he often did.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
