Excerpt of Fifth Daughter by Elaine Coffman

PROLOGUE

In the spring of 1795, Mother Nature was especially
benevolent and her obsession with everything green left
England exploding with color. Masses of flowers in every
hue proliferated the countryside from sparsely populated
woodlands to the orderly chaos of vicarage gardens.

Soon, purple swathes of summer heather would cover the
Northern Yorkshire moors, sweeping around crosses and
standing stones, to cover ancient ground, steeped in
history.

The blush of May had arrived. Winter was finally over.

It was a time for jubilation, for long-awaited spring was
here at last. But there was no rejoicing at Hampton
Manor. The Viscountess of Strathmore was dead.

Buffeted by the winds of an approaching spring rain,
shutters banged against the windows of the house, almost
drowning out the wails of Lady Strathmore’s newborn
babe.

It should have been a time for gaiety and celebration, but
within the walls of the great stone house, sadness and
grief closed in.

Inside Lady Strathmore’s chamber, the viscount stared down
at his dead wife. The lines of agony that etched his face
were not those of grief, but of guilt.

The viscount wondered how it had all happened, where it had
all gone wrong.

Only a few weeks ago, he encountered that gypsy woman in
London, who looked at his expectant wife and said, “Buy a
posy for the mother of yer son.”

“Hold your tongue, you foolish old crone,” he said. “I am
a man cursed with nothing but daughters.”
“’Tis a son ye will be having this time, milord,” the old
woman said.

He dared not hope, but he tossed the old hag a coin and
presented his wife with a posy, as he hoped she would
present him with a son, a few weeks hence.

After four daughters, and no male to carry on the family
name, Lord Strathmore was elated at the prospect of having
an heir at last. Even his lady wife thought the child
would be a boy, and up to the moment she had her first
pains, she was in high spirits as she finished knitting a
tiny blue sweater. But something went wrong.

For eighteen hours his poor wife labored, unable to bring
the child into the world. When the physician, Dr. Dudley
came out of his wife’s room at last, the viscount could
tell the news was not good, but he had no idea the doctors
words and the decision he would be forced to eventually
make, would shatter his world and change his life.

“There are complications, your lordship. I cannot save
both your wife and the child. You must choose one of them.”

“I cannot.”

“Refuse, and you will surely lose them both.”

“How can I choose between my wife and my son? How?”

“I cannot answer that for you, your lordship. I can only
say, your wife has lost a great deal of blood. In my
opinion, the child has the better chance of survival.”

The viscount threw back his head with an agonized groan. A
moment later, composed, he spoke with a low voice, wiped
clean of all emotion. “Save my son.”

For the first few years, Viscount Strathmore returned to
Hampton Manor for Christmas and Maresa’s birthday, but as
the years began to pass, his visits became less and less
frequent, until he was hardly coming at all.

To anyone who knew the family, and that included the staff,
the viscount’s actions were understandable, for it was a
well-known fact that the older Maresa became, the more she
looked like her mother, Teresa. Sadly, each time the
viscount saw Maresa, he was reminded of the fateful
decision he made the day she was born.