T hunk! Thunk! The dropped handfuls of dirt thudded on the coffin containing the final remains of Hugh Galloway. Wet dirt . . . clay, molded by the gripping hand into a solid ball, plastered itself to the rain-splashed box, to melt apart in the downpour and drip back to the earth from which it had been gathered.

Under the circle of umbrellas, Hugh Galloway’s prestigious acquaintances and few friends huddled, eyeing the dead man’s only offspring with varying reactions. A few, knowing how very little Margo understood of the vast Galloway estate, shook their heads; some, envious of the same vast estate and its money, gazed darkly; a few, noting Margo’s isolation—alone except for one supporting male—were touched with sympathy.

But all emotions faded quickly as the dreary words “ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” half-washed away in the smothering rain, signaled the end of the ceremony without additional misery.

Margo, alone, glanced back at the coffin already blurring in the sheeting rain, her anguished tears lost in the rain running down her face. With friends and acquaintances fading from view as they spread out toward their various means of conveyance, with the world around eerily silent except for the slicing downpour, she walked in a world alone it seemed, and she shivered. Then, with Winfield solicitously tucking her hand into his arm and drawing her under his umbrella, she clung, as to life’s last hope, to him. Thank God for Winfield!

“Don’t look back,” he murmured in her ear. “Look ahead. Think of the future—the life we’ll build together, the things we’ll do, the places we’ll go. Why, in one week, darling, you’ll be my wife. Think about that.” Even in the hour of sorrow, even with their feet all but mired in mud, his tones were thrilling. Margo managed a smile. “There, that’s better,” Winfield said, handing her up into the Galloway carriage.

Settling himself beside her, Winfield’s sense of satisfaction in ownership revealed itself as he noted, with disapproval, the soiling of the carpeted floor. “Griffin will need to substitute another carriage to get me home tonight. If this rain continues, it has to be an enclosed one. In a week,” his tones were tender again as he took Margo’s hand, removed the sodden glove and rubbed warmth into her stiff fingers, “I won’t be leaving you—ever. In a week we’ll be together.”

Margo, emotionally drained, couldn’t tell whether her shivers were from the cold and wet or the romance and intimacy Winfield’s tones implied.

With her hair draggled around her face, her hat drooping, rain running down her collar, with Winfield’s arm around her shoulders, Margo found herself wishing for the loving arms of Kezzie Skye. Though it had been many years, she was so wrapped in the loving care of her old nurse, so sure of it still and missing it so fiercely, that her heart filled with longing. Now, with marriage, any trip to see the aging woman would be forever out of the question. Margo found another reason to shiver, another reason to cry.

Winfield tighened his embrace. “Are those tears?” he asked tenderly. “In just a little while, my dear, we’ll be safe and warm by the fire in your father’s study . . . with Fletcher Wren bringing us the good news, the wonderful news, of your inheritance. Now, doesn’t that cheer you? You are free, Margo. At last you are free.”

But was she? Not free to trade the heavily sprung, ornately gilded, comfortable carriage for a lopsided buggy bound for Bliss. Responsibility for the Galloway estate would keep her tethered, richly, plushly tethered but not free. The precious bonds of marriage would keep her tethered.

Years of harboring a secret dream of someday being reunited with Kezzie died painfully. With one last pang Margo laid them aside for the mature role that lay before her.

Even now her letter to Kezzie was on its way, reporting her father’s death—it would shatter Kezzie, who had given a lifetime of devotion to Hugh Galloway—and her forthcoming marriage. For the first time ever, she had concluded her letter without the earnest though childlike pledge, “I’ll see you soon, Granny Kezzie.”

Warm again and dry, her hair—always curly but today riotous and unmanageable—sternly tied back, Margo seated herself in her father’s dark-paneled study, Winfield taking a chair at her side. The rain sliced silently against the windowpanes, and Casper attempted to arrange the drapes to allow for more light. Even so, the lamps were lit against the room’s pressing darkness.

At Fletcher Wren’s request, four members of the staff had been summoned to be on hand for the reading of Hugh Galloway’s last will and testament. Each came separately, emphasizing the difference in status: Bridget, cook, in pristine white, sailed in like a galleon before the winds and took a chair with supreme dignity; Dauphine, housekeeper, scarcely more regal in her black bombazine with white collar and cuffs, nodded stiffly to the lawyer and took a chair; Bailey, Hugh Galloway’s personal attendant and always self-effacing, a wisp of a man in black almost too overpowering for his pale face, entered noiselessly; Casper, butler for Heatherstone, Canada’s, duration, a white-haired, soldierly man of considerable presence, gave Margo a keen look, let his eyes slide over Winfield at her side and, with an audible sigh, seated himself with the others.

Fletcher Wren cleared his throat, fiddled with the papers in his hand, ran a finger around his shirt collar, cast a glance at Margo that had all the earmarks of apology, and began to speak.

Watching the rain on the window just over the lawyer’s shoulder, grieving again over the casket that had seemed so . . . abandoned in the desolate cemetery, the trite legal phrases made little impact on Hugh Galloway’s natural heiress.

I, Hugh Cavalier Galloway, being of sound mind . . .

A sound mind, a sharp mind. The mansion in which they sat attested to the man’s abilities, his investments, his taste. By some manner of means Heatherstone, Canada, unlike its mirror-image Heatherstone, Scotland, missed being a mausoleum. Though it had its formal rooms, much of it was comfortable, pleasant, even homelike—except for this particular room. To Margo her father’s private quarters spoke chillingly of the many visits made here to curtsy daintily, to perhaps sit with ankles crossed and skirts neat, to exchange a few words, to be dismissed into the care of the maid who had brought her. Nevertheless, she had resisted Winfield’s plans to lighten and brighten the study and make it his own special retreat; she felt more like sealing it off and leaving it as it had always been.

To my faithful staff . . .

Margo was not surprised at her father’s generosity toward the four seated here, the four who had kept the house running after Sophia’s death as smoothly as when she was alive. Dauphine’s stern face flushed; Bridget’s ready tears brimmed over and needed a quick dab to keep them from splashing the spotless bosom toward which they ran. Bailey looked visibly relieved; Margo had an idea he had not looked happily on Winfield’s wishes to have him stay on as his, Winfield’s, valet. Casper, straight-backed and straight-faced, crumbled in both when his pension, with words of appreciation, was made known to him.

Dear Casper. Margo was certain she could persuade him to stay on, at least until a new routine was established and life was flowing smoothly for the new master and mistress—Mr. and Mrs. Winfield Craven.

Fletcher Wren hesitated. He coughed. He fumbled with his papers. He ran his fingers through his hair, his elbow bumping the prisms of the hanging lamp and setting them to tinkling. Even in the dim light his flush was evident, and he put forth his hand to steady the lamp and quiet the sound whose jubilation, it seemed, was muted along with all else on this dreary occasion. Margo sighed, and Winfield, ever attentive, leaned toward her, drawing her shawl more closely around her shoulders and smiling encouragingly. Almost over, the smile said.

Apparently Fletcher Wren had made up his mind to hurry on. It was the mention of her name that brought Margo’s attention into focus.

“‘To Margaret . . .’” With flushed cheeks Fletcher Wren, in legal terms, outlined Hugh Galloway’s bequest—a stipend or fixed sum to be paid periodically and the privilege of living at Heatherstone until such time as she might marry. “‘To Margaret also,’” Fletcher Wren read, rapidly now, “‘for reasons she may ascertain should she care to do so, I leave my small holdings’” and the lawyer gave the legal description—section, township, range—of a certain piece of property in the district of Bliss, in the Northwest Territory, “‘presently in the care of my old servant and friend, Kezia Skye.’ ”

None of it made sense to Margo. Stipend? Northwest Territory? Kezzie?

Silence reigned, but an electric silence that had routed the dead quality of the room. No one moved; every eye looked at the lawyer.

“‘In order,’” Fletcher Wren hastened on, stumbling a little, “‘that the Galloway holdings remain in the Galloway family and name, I leave the remainder of my possessions to my nephew Wallace Galloway of Kirkcudbright.’”

Through the inventory of Galloway holdings—railroad, shoe factory, mine shares, various buildings, Heatherstone itself—Margo’s mind reeled. Her ears heard and reported, but her brain refused to grasp its message.

Wallace? Heatherstone? Everything to Wallace? Wallace of the pimply face and the cruel hands? Heatherstone to Wallace? Round and round it went until the lamp joined the spin, until the room spun crazily in the desperate dance.

Just before the lamplight blinked out, just before the buzzing in her ears faded and darkness carried her off into oblivion, Margo saw the twisted face and furious eyes of Winfield Craven.