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taste. Defying public opinion, the unconventional Gwendolyn was seen out and about in her condition and set tongues to wagging. She delivered prematurely a daughter that cost both mother and baby their lives. Nate’s fancy then turned to the other end of the spectrum and he married Sophia, a girl barely in her teens. Of this union came Charles Harrington— Harrington in loving memory of Gwendolyn—Lancaster. When it came his turn to produce an heir, Charlie H., as he was called, fathered only one child, Morgan, upon whom the Lancaster clan doted. None of Morgan’s fancies were denied: the finest education abroad, the fastest automobiles, the best barn and corral to house his thoroughbreds. The barn later burned, and it was suspected that Morgan was responsible when he became disenchanted with one of his horses. Morgan came to be considered quite a misfit, preferring to deal with horseflesh to that of a more carnal nature; but he did do his duty long enough to produce an heir for the next generation: Fabian. And, if Janet had the names right, next came Nigel and then Ashton, who begat Lionel Lancaster, Janet’s grandfather.
    At no time in the Lancaster lineage did there seem to be an overabundance of progeny to carry on the family name, and the number of surviving female children was nonexistent. Janet suspected that the Lancasters were not a lusty lot and did not breed sturdy offspring.
    Continuing on her way from the house, Janet’s steps carried her in the direction of the four-sided bench that wrapped itself around the trunk of a crimson and gold-leafed maple. She arched her spine and gave her arms a couple of swings before dropping down on the bench. She glanced back along the upswept lawn toward the house. Box-like in structure, it stood three stories high. An uncovered porch extended the width of the house and was graced with flower boxes and ornate wrought-iron settees and tables. Tall windows, polished to a high sheen, looked out over the grounds and sparkled in the morning light. Off to the left, where she had parked the night before, was the carriage house. The rooms above it had been converted to a small apartment for Lettie and her husband, Duffy. Lettie managed the house and saw to the personal needs of her employer. Duffy served as gardener and chauffeur.
    Janet folded her hands in her lap as a feeling of helplessness pressed down on her. Overhead, the parchment leaves rustled and she whispered a prayer for her grandmother.
    Seized by a spirit of restlessness, Janet rose to continue her morning trek. Sweeping around to the right of the house, she ducked under one of the many grape arbors that circled the rear grounds. The vines had produced many a liter of fine wine for the Lancaster dinner table. Janet crossed the yard, stopped and shaded her eyes against the sun. The back of the house was winged, forming a U-shape around an inner courtyard. Large morning-windows, designed specifically to capture the early sunrise, filled the wall of the dining hall on the first floor.
    At the edge of the yard, a footpath led toward the shot tower and, beyond that, on to the sea. Janet walked in that direction. She could hear the pounding surf on the far side of the tower.
    Jason Lancaster had built the tower when it became evident that a war between the states was imminent. Lead ore was plentiful in the surrounding area, and the enterprising Lancaster saw no good reason not to use it to his advantage. Having made a fortune in land development and the mining of minerals, his offer to the governor to build the structure to supply ammunition to the Union was not from any sense of patriotic duty. Rather, he saw it as a means to help end the war quickly so that the country in general, and the Lancasters in particular, could get back to the business of prosperity. Jason Lancaster considered the Civil War merely a matter of inconvenience.
    The tower had a twenty-foot square base and was constructed like a fortress. The rough