How much more astonished Cook would have been to learn that the ‘vagabond’ she had just dismissed from the house of Justice Caleb Crowther was no other than Molly… lost daughter of Emma Grady. Emma, the niece of Caleb Crowther, and now his bitter enemy.

‘Oh, I say… such terrible tempers. And them being gentry and all.’ The words were uttered in a soft and fearful whisper as, afraid yet strangely excited by the fearsome row that was raging inside Justice Crowther’s study, the maid dithered by the door. A petite and plain woman with a thin, worn face and bright round eyes, she was burning with curiosity; yet she was also amazed by her own boldness in lingering here, her mind in turmoil and her ears singing in anticipation of the boxing they would get from Cook if she loitered in her duties.

Oh, but how dare she barge in on such a terrible uproar with the master in as black a mood as ever she’d known, and the mistress giving him as good as she got? Why! The idea of disturbing them was unthinkable, and if a lowly scullery maid such as she were suddenly to show her face with the intention of cleaning out the firegrate, like as not the two wolves at each other’s throats on the other side of that door might just as easily turn on her! The thought was so real and terrifying that Amy clutched at her own throat and turned tail to scurry away. She would have liked to stay a while longer, but no matter; she had discovered enough.

As she went along the corridor and towards the stairs which led down to the kitchen, a wicked and devious smile came to her face. Even now, she could still hear the angry, raised voices behind her. The nearer she came to the narrow stairway, the faster went her thin little legs and the brighter shone her eyes. Oh, but she had such a tale to tell Cook! Such a juicy, satisfying tale!

‘At last we know the worst. Emma Grady wants her pound of flesh right down to the blood and bones!’ Caleb Crowther sank his ageing but still formidable figure into the leather-bound chair behind the desk, his piercing blue eyes marbled with fear as he glared at his wife’s anxious face. ‘Damn the woman!’ he snarled, clenching his teeth and feverishly stroking his long thick fingers over the mass of iron-grey hair which covered the lower half of his ungainly features. ‘When she was transported some twenty-two years ago to the other side of the world, I prayed we’d seen the last of her. But I was a fool. I should have known better. I should have made sure that she was hanged!’ He fell forward on his desk, burying his balding head in the depths of his hands and making low, intermittent sounds that betrayed the hatred simmering inside him. Hatred, and something else… fear. The crippling fear that Emma Grady’s return had wrought in him. ‘Over three years since she set foot on these shores again. Uncertain years… littered with solicitors’ correspondence and mounting fees to be paid at the end of it all.’ He raised his head and began drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk-top. ‘She has deliberately kept me guessing as to her real intentions… toyed with me… no doubt found it amusing to think of me squirming.’ Suddenly he was sitting bolt upright in the chair, his narrowed eyes searching his wife’s face as he judged her reaction to his next words. ‘Now, she’s moving in for the kill!’ Snatching up the offending letter, he flung it across the desk. ‘Read it, woman,’ he snapped at his wife. ‘This affects us all.’