Taking a sheet of paper from the top drawer he refreshed his pen and started to write.

When he came to the end he thought for a moment and signed it.

Be happy, my child, and forgive me.

Your loving father, always.

He smiled, a wry smile. Dorothy would rummage through his drawers, as she always had. She would find the letter; she would find the ring. He looked at its ruby eye for a moment before gently removing it and putting it in a small box which he perched on top of the telescope. It seemed the fitting place. 'Oh Dorothy, how well I know you,' he sighed.

He looked carefully around his study, patted Sophie and went upstairs.

45.

Her brother's voice woke Dorothy.

'Mama, I'm going to Norton. Something is wrong, I can sense it.'

Dorothy ran downstairs. Her mother and Thomas were in the hallway. She was trying her best to pacify him.

'Nothing is wrong, my love.' She pulled back the curtains. A pink tinge lit the sky. 'It's a beautiful night and all is well. I will pour you a brandy, and we will return to bed.'

Lady Keyt had just picked up the decanter when hooves rang on the cobbles a galloping hooves, clattering into the courtyard. Dorothy's heart hammered against the walls of her chest. Shouting followed as someone banged on the door. It was a stable lad.

'Mister Thomas, come quickly!' he yelled. 'Norton is on fire! We need help.'

Her mother dropped the decanter. It shattered, spreading its amber contents across the floor.

'Mama, be brave. Everything will be fine, I promise you. Get Pike to harness the cart and bring the water butts. I will ride on first, but you must stay with Dorothy.'

'I will not stay here!' Dorothy cried, images of her father and Lorenzo vivid in her mind. 'I'm coming. You can't stop me.'

'And William? What of William?'

Thomas put his hands on his mother's shoulders. 'I will do my best, but you must promise not to come.'

Thomas and Dorothy galloped along the track towards Norton. At the end of the drive, they jumped down.

'Go home,' Dorothy yelled, smacking Fidelia's rump. With little encouragement the horses galloped back towards Hidcote.

Taking Dorothy's hand, Thomas led her through the yard, past the hay cart and the feed store, past the stable lads trying to soothe the terrified horses. They were barely through the garden door before a suffocating heat hit them like a wall, burning their throats and stinging their eyes.

Estate workers, servants, men and women formed a chain of black silhouettes against the red sky, passing buckets of water from hand to hand, but it was too late. The magnificent new mansion had blossomed into an inferno. Flames leapt through the roof, and one by one the windows shattered and the columns crashed to the ground. Thomas ran towards the front door.

'Come back!' Dorothy screamed, but he ignored her, pushing his shoulder against the smoking wood.

The door burst open, and the flames exploded, forcing him out.

George Heron ran from the house into Thomas's arms. 'I tried to stop him! I did, sir, but he bolted the door from the inside! We managed to remove a few of the pictures and some small pieces of furniture, but that is all. Come, we must get away, there is nothing we can do.'

Dorothy looked beyond the pictures and the items of furniture discarded on the lawn towards her father's window. There he stood, dark against the fire, his arms raised in supplication as the flames licked around him. She would never forget his face, that mask of agony; she would never blot out his screams as they carried on the smoky air.

Her brother ran forward once more, but Heron blocked his way. 'Sir, I told you, it's too late.'

They stopped at the sound of Sir William's final cry: 'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.'

For minutes Dorothy remained immobile, transfixed by the unspeakable horror in front of her. She wanted to turn away, but she couldn't move. She could only stare at the window above her.

When at last her father had vanished into the flames, Dorothy fled back across the lawn, past the villagers, gawping in shock and amazement, and the estate workers, standing bowed and defeated, until she reached the garden door. She pushed against it and fell into the stable yard beyond. The horses, wide-eyed and restless, snorted and stamped as Dorothy entered. She went to each one, soothing and comforting them as she tried to quell her own rising hysteria. Her father, who had loved her and spoilt her, and who had caused her so much anger and confusion, was dead. Now, when it was too late, she was filled with unbearable sadness.

Finally she entered Apollo's stall. He turned his head and looked at her, bewilderment in his clouded eyes. Did he know? she wondered, wrapping her arms around the horse's neck, her sobs growing as the full horror of her father's death overwhelmed her.

She hadn't realized that Lorenzo had entered the stable until he touched her shoulder. She spun round.

'Lorenzo! You are safe,' she cried. 'Thank God, you are safe.'

'I will take you home, Miss Dorothy; there is nothing you can do here.'

'But I can't leave my brother a I must find Thomas.'

'He is looking for the dog. He'll be fine, I promise you.' She let him lead her away, and as he guided her into the cart she turned to look back; behind her a pall of smoke hung in the night air.

They travelled to Hidcote, the wheels bumping along the rutted track. When they arrived, he helped her down and she leant against his scorched coat.

'Why did he do it, Lorenzo?'

'He died because he wanted to. There was no peace for him in this world; perhaps he hoped to find it in the next. I am so sorry.' He took her by the shoulders. 'You'll be all right?'

She would have fallen into his embrace but her mother ran out of the front door. 'He's dead, isn't he?' she cried. Dorothy nodded silently, her head bowed.

'What will I do without him, Dotty? I love him. I never stopped loving him. If only I had known the depth of his despair, I would have gone to him. Now it's too late.'

Dorothy slept an hour in her mother's bed, and as the early morning sun rose in the sky they drove to Norton together. She held her mother's hand as they entered the courtyard. The new mansion had been reduced to a jagged, smouldering ruin: the elegant windows, the fine stonework, the statues. It was a scene from hell. The passage between the two houses had also been destroyed, but apart from some charring on the external walls, the original house remained unscathed.

'I must look for Thomas,' her mother said at last. 'Where is the poor boy?' They found him beneath the cedar tree with Sophie at his feet.

'She was hiding in the bushes,' he said. 'Thank God she's alive. You know he torched it, Mama? He used the candelabra from the hall table. He piled the curtains into the centre of the room. Heron tried to stop him, but he broke away and locked the bedroom door. I should have gone back with Dorothy. I could have prevented this. He tried to tell me when I went to dinner, but I didn't listen.'

They stood on the bank, staring at the nightmare in front of them. Occasionally small pockets of smoke burst through the rubble, and though most of the internal walls had gone, one fireplace remained intact. Dorothy looked at the blackened skull buried amongst the foliage She called to the workmen. 'Pull that chimney piece down a take it away, every part of it.'

Two days after the inferno, when the ashes had cooled, George Heron put on his best white gloves as a mark of deference and searched amongst the rubble for any remains of his master. Dorothy held her mother back, while Thomas joined him in the search.

'I'm sorry, my lady,' Heron said sadly, his gloves soiled, his breeches covered in the powdery residue, 'but I have found only his hip bone, his gold pocket watch and his keys. Perhaps more will be found as we continue. It's a bad do when all is said and done.' He placed the meagre remains into a small clay casket and they followed him across the courtyard to Sir William's study. Standing in a circle around the fire, her mother led a few short prayers.

'Dear God, take my husband to your side,' she said gently. 'May you give him peace at last.'

George Heron spoke. 'Sir Thomas, my lady, I expect you will no longer need my services.' Dorothy saw uncertainty in his face.

'Mr Heron,' her brother replied, 'your services and your loyalty have been invaluable to this family. As long as I am able, I will continue to keep you in my employment.'

Dorothy was instantly aware of the change in position. Her brother was now head of the house, the new baronet.

'If you will forgive me, Mama,' he continued, 'I must talk to the household. I have asked them to assemble in the hall in ten minutes.'

'Of course, you go, and Dorothy, if you don't mind, I will sit in the library.' Dorothy took her mother's arm and settled her in a chair.

'I'll be back in a minute, Mama. I won't be long; there is something I must do.'

'I'll be fine, don't worry. I'll be fine.'

Dorothy left her mother and returned to the study. She looked at the urn on the mantelpiece, all that remained of her father. If she had gone to him, would things have been different? If she had seen him, could she have prevented this?

'Tell me, Papa,' she whispered, 'was this my fault?' She remembered his diary. She knew the answer would be there. She opened the drawer, but the diary had gone. She was about to search in the bookcase when she saw the letter.

The envelope had her name upon it.

My dearest Dorothy, By the time you read this letter, I will have committed my soul to God.

You will look for my diary as you have before, but this time you will not find it. I have taken it with me, my companion to the grave.

You would ask me how I know. On the day you left Norton with your mother my suspicions were confirmed. I found the comb I had given you on your ninth birthday on the floor of my study. Look in the drawer below and you will find it.

She put the letter down, and opened the drawer; it was empty, save for a small jewelled comb. She turned it over in her fingers, and suddenly it was her ninth birthday once more and her father was handing her the tiny wrapped package. Clutching it tightly she continued reading: I kept it, Dorothy, I couldn't let it go, but there is something else. There is a velvet box. Find it and open it. You always were inquisitive. You love riddles; this shall be your last from me.

She pulled open the other drawers, but they held only papers. She looked around the small panelled room. There was nothing beneath the wing chair in the corner a John's chair. She remembered her brother sitting there, his chubby legs tucked beneath him. Behind the velvet curtains she found nothing. At last she saw the box; it was resting on the telescope. She opened it, and her father's ring fell to the floor. She knelt to pick it up, when a smaller note dropped from the box.

Dorothy, you must have it. You have always loved it. I probably wouldn't have given it to you yesterday, even if you had come in. Of course I wanted to see you, but I quite understand. You hate me, and quite rightly so.

'I don't hate you, Papa, I don't hate you,' she cried, her tears blotting the paper.

You may now have the perfect wedding, and when you are Lady Paxton-Hooper, I will not be around to embarrass you. But make your choices well, and go where your heart lies, for position is not everything.

Wear the ring, my child, wear it with pride. One day, if Thomas has a son, give it to him; if not, give it to your own. Know that I have loved you especially, for we are quite alike, you and I. We desire things we should not desire, and we both know jealousy.

Tell my beloved wife that I have loved her always. I have never stopped loving her.

Be happy, my child, and forgive me.

Your loving father, always.

PS Please ask Thomas to discharge all outstanding debt. There is a sum of money hidden beneath the floorboards in this room.

Dorothy put the letter down. As she slipped the ring upon her finger, she sank to the floor once more.

'I should have gone to him,' she moaned. 'I should have forgiven him.' Cowardice and pride had prevented her. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

46.

At the end of September, Molly received a letter from her brother.

My Dear Molly, Our mam has asked me to write to you. What I have to say will shock and distress you, for it is news of the gravest nature.

On the ninth of this month, Sir William burnt himself and his new mansion to the ground. The butler tried to save him, but he locked the bedroom door and set fire to the bedclothes. They thankfully managed to save the old house, but that is of little consolation.

They say he was mad when you left, as mad as a raging bull.

Forgive me, my dear sister, for imparting such wretchedness, but I would rather you heard from people who love you, rather than from those who do not. Our father, as you can imagine, is not of good heart. He had great hopes for his daughter, and they are now buried along with Sir William.

Loving you always, Will Post Scriptum Why did you run away? Why did you not talk to me?

I was able to obtain your address from Ruth, but only under duress. Please let us know how you are.

Night and day Molly tortured herself, haunted by images of William's charred and frightened face. She wallowed in guilt, but guilt does not stop an unborn child from growing. In October she made an appointment to visit Captain Coram at the temporary Foundling Hospital in Hatton Garden.

'Your baby will be safe within our care,' Captain Coram assured her, his long silver wig moving with his jaw as he spoke. Although he was of dishevelled appearance, his round belly bursting through his crumpled red coat, his black stockings sagging, she was struck by the compassion and understanding in his eyes.

'Did you know that seventy-four per cent of children born in London die before they are five? In the workhouses the death rate is over ninety per cent. We offer a far safer alternative; we have every intention of giving our foundlings the best start in life.'

She trusted Captain Coram and began to believe wholeheartedly in her decision. The Foundling Hospital would provide for her child's good.

'Come, my dear,' he said. 'I will show you around. Forgive me if I'm a little proud, I have faced many years of struggle. It's only a start. One day every child will have a future, but at least for now, a few children will have a home.'

He ushered her through the long tiled corridors, into the simple accommodation for girls and boys. She was struck both by the cleanliness of the spotless beds and the scrubbed faces, and the longing in the children's eyes.

Do any of them know love? she wondered sadly, then shook the thought from her mind, knowing it was better than the alternative.

They were near the front door when Captain Coram pointed to an architectural plan. 'This,' he said, tapping the wall with his stick, 'is the design for our wonderful new hospital in Bloomsbury Fields. The foundation stone will be laid next year, and it will house up to four hundred children. It will be built almost entirely from private donations, proving that the people of England are finally developing a social conscience. There will be a large garden, giving our children freedom to run and play in safety, and in the glorious chapel they will learn that despite everything, God still watches over us. We shall have choirs chosen from amongst the children. They will learn music, as well as scripture and Bible reading, and the girls will learn needlework and the domestic duties necessary for their future lives. Is it not incredible?'

Molly said goodbye to Captain Coram, certain that within the austere walls of the Foundling Hospital her child had a chance. She walked past the railings, past the desperate women who held out their babies for the weekly selection. That torment, at least, she would not have to endure.

The following week she looked for temporary lodgings near Hatton Garden.

'Don't forget me,' she said, hugging the Misses Hogarth on her final day. 'I can never thank you enough.' She walked up the iron stairs for the last time, and entered her own small room to await the birth of her child. As the baby turned within her body, she worked upon two mementos: a handkerchief for herself, her initials embroidered within the centre of a heart, and a matching tiny stitched heart as a trinket for her child. Even at the Foundling Hospital, her child would know a mother's love.