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.