The Prodigal Daughter

by Allison Lane

  “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 w
hen 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.”

  “It is useless, Mrs. Morrison,” Jem countered harshly. “The stairs will be burning any second.”

  “You can’t abandon him!” she sobbed, beating against the arms that restrained her.

  They argued for nearly a minute, her desperation growing when she could not break free. Then miraculously, Norwood appeared and headed into the house.

  Now her fear was trebled. With startling clarity, every detail imprinted on her mind. Jem had been right, of course. There was little chance the stairs would remain open long enough for anyone to get upstairs and return. Flames already raged in the sitting room and flickered across the ceiling, burning fiercely through beams that must soon crash down. A glance at the windows showed that most of the upper floor was engulfed.

  Why had he gone in? If he was trapped in there, she would never forgive herself. Nor could she live with the knowledge that her demands had killed him.

  * * * *

  Norwood was reliving his own hell. The blast of hot, choking air that surrounded him the moment he passed through the front door brought back all the terror of the fire at the Blue Boar and every flaming nightmare he had suffered since. What was he doing here?

  It was not a question he could answer without thought, and there was no time for reflection.

  He cast a fearful look at the burning beams overhead and dashed up the stairs. The smoke was even heavier up there. Holding his handkerchief to his mouth, he coughed and turned left. The hallway to the right was fully involved, part of the ceiling already collapsed.

  The boy was in the end bedroom, but he lay as though dead, sprawled on the floor, having apparently tried to crawl to the door. Norwood recognized him instantly – the lad who had fallen in front of his horse. He pressed an ear to that small chest, gasping in relief when he heard a heartbeat. Tossing the boy awkwardly over his shoulder, he headed for the stairs.

  More of the roof collapsed, dropping fire into the hall. He briefly considered going back and jumping from the window, but a glance over his shoulder revealed flames racing up from below.

  “Please, God,” he prayed. “Let the stairs be open.”

  Leaping across a blazing beam, he dodged a burning stretch of wall, weaving his way through the worsening fire. His head swirled dizzily as more and more smoke clogged his lungs. But the stairs were still clear.

  “Watch out!” shouted one of the men who clustered near the door.

  Norwood looked up. The ceiling seemed ready to come down. Increasing his speed, he took the stairs three at a time, slipping when he hit the water that had been thrown on the floor to impede the fire. As he sprawled full-length in the hall, Ben flew forward to smash head first into the wall. The ceiling collapsed, scattering debris across the duke.

  * * * *

  Amanda watched in horror as Norwood tripped. Time screeched to a halt as the ceiling slowly tumbled down to cover him.

  “No!” she screamed. “Dear God, no!”

  It seemed an eternity before Jem reached down and pulled the duke free of the wreckage, slapping out fire on his sleeve.

  “I-is he alive?” she asked haltingly.

  “I s’pect he’s just stunned,” reported the farmer.

  “Thank God. Get someone to help you carry him to the orchard. I’ll bring Ben. If anyone else is hurt, send them there as well.”

  By the time she had carried Ben to the relative coolness under the apple trees, the boy was stirring.

  “How is he?” asked Norwood, again coughing.

  She looked up in surprise. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll live. How is Ben?”

  “A little singed around the edges. Can you get my bag?”

  Her gig was parked close at hand. By the time he had retrieved the bag, she had pulled the torn bedgown from Ben’s shoulders and was examining a scrape.

  “How did you recover so fast?” she asked, smoothing salve into the wound.

  “I wasn’t unconscious,” he replied. “Just stunned and in need of some air. The smoke was rather thick upstairs.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Don’t try. Where are the other children?”

  “At a neighbor’s house. There wasn’t anything they could do here except get in the way.”

  He nodded. “I had best go throw water on the barn.”

  “First let me take a look at your arm..” She finished applying a soothing cream to Ben’s burns, none of which looked to be very serious. He was breathing easier but had slipped back into unconsciousness, the growing knot on his head evidence of his skid into the wall.

  “I am fine,” he protested.

  “Hardly, your grace. You’ve a scrape on your forehead, and that sleeve is burned through to the skin.”

  Norwood looked down in surprise, suddenly aware that there were pains in several parts of his body. “Dear Lord, I never felt a thing.”

  “That is quite normal under the circumstances,” she assured him, pulling off his coat and cutting away the remains of his shirt sleeve. “It happened often on the Peninsula. The mind becomes so engrossed in the job at hand that ordinary pain does not register.”

  “It comes back with a vengeance,” he admitted, gritting his teeth as she applied ointment to his arm and wrapped it in a strip of linen.

  “You’ve changed,” she commented as she treated several other cuts and scrapes. “What happened to the icy arrogance?”

  “You taught me to care about people..” He caught her eyes with his own and held them. Something swelled in his heart at the look in those brown depths. “It’s someth
ing I did as a boy but had grown away from.”

  “It has only just occurred to me to wonder what you are doing here. Oughtn’t you to be at dinner?”

  He shrugged. “I picked up a copy of Donne’s Devotions in Middleford yesterday. You were right, of course. No man is an island. Like him, I must now proclaim that I am involved in mankind. It seemed natural to lend a hand when I heard about the fire.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted. Jem and Frank arrived with a third man suspended between them. Behind them the last of the roof collapsed, sending sparks and flames high into the air. The kitchen wall was down and louder shouting arose from the direction of the barn. Frank raced back to the fire.

  “Rob was kicked by one of the draught horses,” reported Jem. “Part of the barn is burning, but I think we can stop it there.”

  “Is anyone else injured?” asked Amanda, ripping away Rob’s shirt. The blow had hit the shoulder after glancing off the side of his head.

  “Nothing serious..” He left at a run.

  “That shoulder looks dislocated,” commented Norwood, kneeling on the other side of Rob’s inert body.

  “We’ll have to send for Dr. Robinson..” Amanda shook her head. “But not until one of the men can be spared.”

  “In the meantime, let me see if I can do anything for it. A friend had this happen while hunting a couple of years ago..” He was feeling along the bones as he spoke. With a sudden twist, he snapped the shoulder back into position.

  “You’ve a talent for this,” observed Amanda, wrapping Rob tightly to keep it from shifting out of place again. “I hope his head is all right. He is incredibly lucky. A kick there is usually fatal.”

  “It doesn’t look like much,” commented Norwood. “He seems to be breathing normally.”

  Amanda gently prodded the swelling on the side of Rob’s head and nodded. “It is not as bad as the knot you had that day. Or Oliver’s.”

  Another crash was accompanied by a scream. Both of them looked toward the house, but nothing had changed on the near side.

  “Dear Lord,” murmured Amanda. “That sounded like the Blue Boar.”