“Of course. Your secret is safe with me.”
Betsy hesitated, and then said, “But if he should ask anything about me, you may tell him the truth.”
Lucy smiled.
For some reason, his Grace entered into an intense and drawn-out conversation with Harold. Lucy could only hear snatches of what they were discussing, but it seemed to be all about production goals for the estate, the wool market, and the best use of animal dung for fertilizing fields. George entered into the talk sporadically, and he would occasionally glance Lucy’s way and give her a smile.
Her Grace and the other daughters were separated at the other end of the table and were carrying on their own discussions.
But when the meal had finished, it was decided that the ladies and gentlemen would leave the table together and retire to the drawing room for coffee so that Harold could begin to tell his tale.
Chapter 22
Stevens offered snifters of cognac to the gentlemen and coffee to the ladies. Harold and George stood at the fireplace—the family’s center of attention.
George patted Harold on the back and said, “You have the floor, Mr. Brighton. Are you ready to begin your story?”
Harold nodded. “I would be delighted. However, if you find my story does not interest you, then by all means, stop me. I do not want to bore any of you.”
“Jump in Harold,” Matthew shouted out. “Regale us with your tale.”
“Very well.” Harold settled himself, took a swig of cognac, put the glass on the mantelpiece, and began.
“There was nothing unusual in the house the night of the fire. All I remember of the night was hot—still—restless. Then appeared what the locals call a devil wind. It swept through the valley—dry as autumn grass—making one’s skin feel like it would turn to dust in the dryness.
“I believe I had just fallen asleep. But what woke me was the sound of the baby crying. I was angry at being awakened and turned back into the pillow when I smelled smoke. I immediately sat up on the edge of the bed that I shared with Lucy, Sally, and my two brothers. I looked around the cottage but could not see the source of the smoke. Then I got up and went to rouse Mother and Father when a huge gust of wind hit the house, and the fire exploded downward from the ceiling, igniting the curtains, some of the furniture and even the bed clothing.
“I was unable to reach my parents, and I was horrified to see the children’s bed engulfed in flames. Only Lucy and myself had escaped the bed, and she rushed toward the front door. I was going to follow after her, but when she opened the door a rush of wind fed the fire, and a wall of flames exploded between us. My only recourse was to head for the back door, and as I raced in that direction a beam from the ceiling fell, striking me on the head. I remember falling and then blacked out.”
Harold stopped to take another swig of the cognac. The family sat entranced, except for Betsy who got off her chair and scooted across the floor to sit at Harold’s feet looking up at him in a trance.
“Shall I continue?” Harold asked.
“Yes,” rose up a cry from the family.
“Very well. The next thing I remember was walking along a road. I had no idea where I was. I could not remember what had happened. From this point in time, I still have no idea how I escaped the house. I have no recollection of anything after the bump on the head.
“I walked in a daze. I only had on a nightshirt and was barefoot. I smelled of smoke, and my feet were hurting as well as my head.
“Presently a carriage came along and stopped next to me. A gentleman leaned out the window and asked if I needed assistance. I remember looking up at him, and then I passed out.
“I was told it was an entire week before I regained consciousness. I was in a small bedroom in a bed of my own. The room was sparsely furnished, and I remember hearing a number of carriages passing by and the sounds of voices echoing up from the street below. I was alone and frightened. I called out, and a middle-aged woman appeared and came over to the bed.
“‘You are awake,’ she asked.
“‘Where am I?’
“‘London, my child. Can you tell me your name?’ she asked.
“I thought for a moment and could not remember my name, where I was from, or what had transpired. I could vaguely remember a fire, my panic, and being hit. But I could not remember my family’s name or give any indication of where I was from.
“I soon learned that the lady and gentleman who rescued me were named, Charles and Elizabeth Bartlett. They continued to care for me, and soon I was back on my feet, but still could remember nothing.
“Now remember I was only ten years old at the time—with no memory of who I was and terrified that, once I was well enough, I would be tossed out of the house and find myself on the street and expected to fend for myself. But mercifully that did not happen.
“As it transpired, the gentleman was a successful wool trader with contacts throughout Europe, and the couple decided to raise me as their own once they determined they could not find any family. They had never been able to have children and lavishly doted on me.”
Matthew spoke up. “As it happens, I know of your Mr. Bartlett. I sell my wool to his local representative here in Dorset. Fancy that. What a small world it is.”
