1817
"This is no good, no good at all," William Hundon
muttered, reading a letter which had just been brought to
the breakfast table. "Something must be done."
"My dear, do not frown so," his wife said, glancing up
from the piece of toast she was buttering to look at
him. "You will give yourself wrinkles."
"Wrinkles!" he exclaimed. "If that were all I had to
concern me, I should count myself fortunate..."
"That is a letter from Mr Sparrow, is it not?" she went
on. "Only Mr Sparrow could put you in such an ill humour."
Although an invalid and a martyr to rheumatics, his wife
insisted on coming downstairs in a dressing gown to have
breakfast en famille, which included their daughter,
Charlotte, and her niece, Sophie, who had lived with them
for the last two years.
Sophie, alerted by the mention of Mr Sparrow's name,
looked up at her uncle. "Is there something untoward at
Madderlea, Uncle William?"
"There is always something untoward at Madder-lea." He
stopped speaking to tap at the letter with the back of his
hand. "This time he wants money for repairs to the stable
block, last week it was the roof of the west wing that was
leaking. I do not know whether he is incompetent or
criminal..."
"Surely not criminal?" his wife asked, taken aback by his
vehemence.
"Could you not employ another agent to manage Madderlea?"
Sophie asked.
"And how could I be sure another would be any better? It
is a highly unsatisfactory arrangement. We live too far
from Madderlea for me to be constantly going to and fro to
see that the man is doing his job. Besides, he does not
own the place and one cannot expect him to have the same
care as the family."
"But, Papa, there is no family, except Sophie,' Charlotte
put in, then stopped in confusion when her mother gave her
a look of disapproval. The loss of her family was hardly
ever mentioned in Sophie's hearing to save her pain.
"Precisely," he said.
Madderlea Hall was the home of generations of the Roswell
family. Her father had always referred to it as home, even
when they lived in Brussels, and it was to Madderlea he
had taken her when Napoleon's conquests and tyrannical
rule had made living on the continent too dangerous for an
Englishman. It had been a terrifying journey for a fifteen-
year-old.
Because of the blockade of European ports, they had been
obliged to travel eastwards to Gdansk where British ships
were bringing guns and ammunition to the Russians who were
retreating before Napoleon's march on Moscow, and she had
seen sights which were indelibly printed on her memory.
Troops were left to forage for food from a countryside
laid waste by its people in order not to feed the
invaders. The fields remained untilled or scorched by
fire, the livestock slaughtered. Men and horses starved,
even during the advance.
It had taken all her father's savings and her late
mother's jewellery, everything they possessed, except the
clothes they wore, to buy food and a passage home in a
cargo ship which pitched and tossed on the rough sea until
she was sick as a dog. From London, where they landed,
Papa had taken her to her uncle, the Earl of Peterborough,
and then gone off and got himself killed fighting in Spain.
The experience had made her seem older and wiser than her
years, able to take the ordinary ups and downs of life in
her stride, resourceful and unafraid. Nor was she often
sad; life was too short for that and the serious side of
her nature was balanced by a sense of fun.
Uncle Henry had treated her like the daughter he never had
and she had loved him and his wife as a second set of
parents. It did not diminish the fond memories she had of
her mother, who had died years before, nor of her brave
and loving father, but Madderlea had become her home too,
a safe haven, a beautiful and happy place, the villagers
content because the people at the big house cared about
them. Until...
She didn't want to think of that day, but it would always
be there in the back of her mind, a day in her life she
would never forget, a day which had transformed her from a
bright happy young lady looking forward to her first
Season, into a quiet, withdrawn woman, who was never free
of pain, both physical and mental. Almost two years on,
her body had miraculously healed, but the mental images
were still with her and would be to the day she died. Even
now, sitting at the breakfast table in her Uncle William's
comfortable but unpretentious house, they returned to
haunt her.
They had been on their way to London for the Season and
she was to have a come-out. She had been full of happy
anticipation, making plans, talking about the gowns and
fripperies she was going to buy, confident of finding a
husband among the many beaux who would attend all the
social occasions. Aunt Margaret had assured her she would
be the catch of the Season and she had no reason to doubt
her.
She did not consider herself beautiful, being rather too
tall and slim for the current fashion, and her hair was
red-gold at a time when dark locks were favoured, but she
carried herself well and her complexion was good. Her
greeny-grey eyes were her best feature, or so her aunt had
told her. She had been promised a considerable dowry too,
provided her choice met the approval of her aunt and
uncle, but that was only fair and she had no qualms about
it.
The weather had been fine when they set out in the family
coach from Madderlea in Norfolk, but by the time they
reached Newmarket Heath, black clouds had gathered and it
became almost as dark as night. Long before it began to
rain, lightning flashed across the heath and thunder
rumbled ominously. There was nowhere to stop and take
shelter. Her aunt had wanted to turn back but, as Uncle
Henry pointed out, the clouds were moving northwards and
turning back would mean travelling with them instead of
against them; if they kept going they would soon be under
clear skies again.
It was the most terrible storm Sophie had ever witnessed
and the terrified horses, intent on turning away from the
flashes that continually rent the air in front of them,
galloped off the road across the rough heath-land, bumping
the carriage up and down so that the occupants were hard
put to hold onto their seats. They had heard a scream as
the coachman was thrown off and though the groom who sat
beside him on the box tried to retrieve the reins, he
could not. Helplessly, they hung on until a wheel hit a
rock and the whole vehicle turned over to the sound of
rending wood, screaming horses and cries of terror, hers
as well as her aunt's. And then there was black silence.
How long Sophie had been unconscious she did not know. She
had come to her senses when she heard rough
voices. "They're dead, every last one of them."
"Well, we can't leave them here. Best find out who they
are, send for help."
It was then she had cried out, unsure whether she had made
enough sound to alert them, but then a man's head peered
at her over the edge of the mangled vehicle, where she had
been trapped with the dead weight of her aunt on top of
her.
"There's one alive in here. Help me get her out. There,
there, miss, you're safe now."
Safe yes, but badly injured. The rest of that day and the
weeks that had followed were a blur of pain and misery,
but there had come a day when she had woken to find
herself in a pretty bed chamber and the sun shining in
through the window. Aunt Madeleine, her mother's sister,
had been smiling down at her, her pale face full of gentle
concern.
"How did I come to be here?"
"We fetched you, just as soon as we heard the dreadful
news that you were lying at death's door in the infirmary
at Newmarket." Her aunt had lived in England since her
marriage and her English was perfect but there still
remained a trace of a French accent which reminded Sophie
of her mother.
She had a hazy memory of being carried, of being put in a
vehicle of some kind, of groaning at the pain and of
wishing only to be left alone to die in peace. But then
there had been soft sheets and someone stroking her brow
and muted voices, of returning consciousness which was too
painful to bear and of drifting back into sleep. "When?"
"Two months ago."
Two months! "Uncle Henry? Aunt Margaret?"
"I'm sorry, Sophie, you were the only one found alive and
we thought we might lose you too. Now you are going to get
well again. Charlotte will come and sit with you."
Only later, when they thought she was strong enough, did
they tell her that she had inherited Madderlea Hall. "It
is not entailed," Uncle William had told her. "Your
grandfather had a daughter and when it looked as though he
would have no more children, he took steps to break the
entail. The irony of it was that his daughter died and
then, late in life, he had two sons, your Uncle Henry and
your father. Now both are dead and you are a considerable
heiress."
She was mistress of Madderlea! But under the law, being
unmarried and female, she could not have control of her
inheritance, even if she had been well and strong. Until
she married, it had to be administered by a trustee. In
his will, her Uncle Henry had appointed William Hundon
who, besides being her Aunt Madeleine's husband, was also
a lawyer. Uncle William had employed an agent-cum-steward
to live at Madderlea Hall and look after its affairs while
she remained with her uncle and aunt and her cousin
Charlotte at Upper Corbury, growing stronger day by day.
It was an unsatisfactory position. Madderlea needed more
than an agent; it needed someone who cared about it. She
ought to live there herself, but when she suggested it,
her uncle and aunt threw up their hands in horror. "You
know that's not possible, Sophie," her uncle said. "Even
if the law were to allow it, I, as a trustee, certainly
should not. You would be the target of every rake and
fortune hunter in the country."