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.”

“Go on tell us more,” Charlotte called out.

“It took a number of years before I could recall more details of that night.” He turned to Lucy. “I finally remembered you trying to escape from the open front door. But I never knew whether you made it out alive or not. And my hope that you did was what finally drove me to come looking for you. Mr. Bartlett had told me he found me in Dorset near the small town of Branford. That is where I started my search. But I digress.”

He turned back to his audience and proceeded. “By the time I recollected the circumstance of the fire I was eighteen and well ensconced in my new family and was not able to come back here. My father had taken me into the family business as an apprentice, and I worked my way up to become first his right-hand man and then eventually his partner.”

“Then you are a gentleman!” Betsy cried out.

Harold laughed. “I believe you could say that.”

Betsy clapped, and her Grace took notice.

“And your education, young man?” Her Grace asked.

“Eaton and Cambridge.”

Her Grace nodded and made an entry in her notebook. “Continue.”

“There is not a great deal more to tell. I continued to be haunted by that final image of my sister. I was desperate to know if she survived or not. Hoping that one day I might be free to discover if she survived the fire or not.”

“And here I am,” Lucy said, going over and embracing her brother.

He turned to her and smiled. “And here you are.”

Matthew spoke up, asking, “And the Bartletts? Are they still alive?”

“Alas, they are not. My mother, as I came to call her, was taken with the flu several years ago, and my father succumbed to his advanced age just last year.”

“Then you continue to run the business?” Matthew asked.

“No, I sold the business to pursue other interests—including the search for my darling Lucy.”

“Then you must have a substantial living, Mr. Brighton,” Judith said aloud, not quite realizing she had asked such a rude question.

But Harold was not fazed by the question. “I have, Your Grace.”

“And now that you have found your beloved Lucy, what is next?” George asked.

Lucy and Harold looked at each other. “Yet to be determined,” Harold answered.

“We still have a lot of catching up to do,” Lucy added. “I expect there are many issues to consider. And it will take some time.”

“Well, Mr. Brighton, you are welcome to stay at Grayson as long as needed. Where are you staying now?” Matthew asked.

“Mr. Stevens has, most graciously, allowed me to use a room downstairs.”

Matthew became indignant. “Oh, no. Never. We cannot have a gentleman such as yourself staying in the servant’s quarters.” He turned to Stevens and said, “Transfer his belongings immediately to the Swinton suite.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” and he left.

“And might I have my sister stay with me?” Harold asked.

A silence befell the room. Her Grace looked horrified. Charlotte and Ann looked horrified. Betsy beamed, and George looked perplexed.

His Grace was thoughtful and replied, “Of course, I believe there are two bedrooms in the suite.” Then he asked Lucy, “Where are you staying now, Miss Lucy.”

“I share a room with one of the kitchen maids.”

This news seemed to shock his Grace. “You are with a kitchen maid? I had no idea. And why is that?”

George spoke up, “Because she has been assigned the status of a servant rather than as a member of this family—as I have pointed out many times before. But my objections have always been ignored.” He looked pointedly at his mother. She caught his eye and quickly looked away.

“Please, I do not want to cause any disruption in the family. If it would suit you better for me to stay where I am, I do not object,” Harold said to Matthew.

George again spoke up, “No, Mr. Brighton, you are a welcomed guest and deserve the best accommodation we can offer.” He turned to Lucy. “And Miss Lucy, it is about time you claim the status that you deserve—as one of the family.”

Her Grace flipped open her fan as a protest and said, “But what about me? How am I to do without Lucy’s help?”

“You have Flossy, do you not?” George asked.

“Well, yes… but… well… she is not the same. Lucy understands me,” she wailed.

Matthew stood and came forward. “I believe we best sort this out at another time. Judith, for now, Flossy will attend to you.” He turned to Lucy. “And Miss Lucy, I suggest you take some time to get reacquainted with your brother. I imagine you have a lot to talk about.”

Lucy curtsied. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Matthew then turned to Harold and George. “George, Harold, I should very much like to meet with the two of you sometime tomorrow. I have some thoughts that might interest the both of you. George, what do we have planned during the morning?”

“I believe you wanted us to oversee the work on the south field wall.”

“Then let us meet in my study after lunch. If that is satisfactory to you, Mr. Brighton?”

“It is, Your Grace.”

* * *

“Can you just imagine?” Charlotte said in a whisper as she and Ann headed toward their chambers. “Lucy in the Swinton suite? What is the world coming to? And the son of a tenant farmer… an honored guest!”

Ann threw her hands up in the air in disgust. “I cannot wait to get married and get out of this horrible house. Our father behaves more like a peasant than a Duke. How ever shall we live this down once this news becomes known in society?”

“But what do you think is keeping Mr. Beaumont from asking me to marry?” Charlotte asked. “Do you suppose he is considering other young ladies?”

“There is no one else in the entire county nearly as suitable as we are—well, at least until now. I cannot help but think of the horrible stain that will besmirch this family once it is known we are hosting such unsuitable rabble.”

“Then what do you suggest, Ann? Our Sunday open houses are not working. And if Miss Lucy is now to be included as a guest, instead of as a servant, how can we compete?”

“What do you mean?” Ann asked angrily.

Charlotte turned to her sister. “Oh, Ann, you know very well the way gentlemen look at her. And Beaumont, whenever she is in the room pays us no attention, whatsoever. I am certain the only reason he has not asked her to marry him is that he sees her as a servant. But now, if her status is elevated… who knows what might happen?”

Ann had never wanted to voice these thoughts—even though she had had them—but now that her sister had said them, she needed to acknowledge the threat. “Then we must act.”

“How?”

“We must contrive a situation where we are alone with Mr. Beaumont. Lucy must be nowhere in sight, and we must give him every opportunity to choose one of us. We must make certain he understands the substantial livings we bring with us.”

Charlotte was thoughtful before asking, “And just how do we do this? It is not all that easy to get him alone, with us constantly chaperoned.”

Ann gave a sly smile. “Let me think on it, and I will come up with a plan.”