The Sea Between

By Carol Thomas

She had dreamed she was sleeping. . . not in her bed but on a stormy sea, her arms wound tightly around her naked body, her hair flying wildly in the wind, waiting for Richard to rescue her. But no ship came, and she woke to find the salty wetness on her cheeks was not sea water, but tears.
Charlotte is a conflicted woman, torn between her love for the handsome sea captain who has stolen her heart, and her passionate beliefs in equal rights for women. In 1860s Canterbury Women's Suffrage is still only a dream, but for Charlotte it is a belief she will not yield, and a position she will not compromise, not even for marriage. But her strong head leads her into an emotional stalemate, the consequences of which will tear her family apart, as thwarted passions take a terrible revenge.the sea between sees the return of historical novelist Carol thomas, whose bestselling first novel Consequences introduced many readers to our fascinating past. Carol is a research librarian, and lives in Canterbury.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Feb 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9780730400202

Carol Thomas

Carol Thomas lives in rural Canterbury and has published two previous historical novels, - Consequences, was published by HarperCollins (NZ) in 2001 and Cost of Courage, in 2003. She has previously had a novel, Dark Talisman, published in the UK by Robert Hale.

Book preview

Chapter 1

September 1864

Bess! Here! Come back here!’

Edwin Blake tightened his lips in annoyance as the black Labrador bitch, ignoring his shouts, disappeared into the forest of flax bushes in the swampy gully higher up the hill. Conscious that his other dog appeared more than a little inclined to follow suit, Edwin leaned over the saddle and said in a commanding voice, ‘Stay, Duke!’

Obediently, Duke stayed.

Looking marginally appeased that at least one dog had heeded his orders, Edwin turned to glare at the gully from whence exuberant barks were issuing, accompanied by the swish and crackle of flax leaves as Bess burst through them.

‘I expect she’s chasing something,’ Charlotte said as she manoeuvred her mare around Duke, who had taken his master’s command to stay quite literally and was now squarely blocking her path. ‘Leave her be. She’ll go home when she’s hungry. She’s just young and high-spirited.’

‘Young, and high-spirited and disobedient,’ Edwin corrected. ‘If she can’t learn to obey commands, she’ll be of little use mustering sheep.’

‘We aren’t mustering sheep today, we’re planting trees.’ Charlotte tossed her brother a cheerful smile. ‘And I don’t imagine Bess will be much help with a spade.’

Edwin laughed. ‘I doubt you will be either.’

She grinned and didn’t contradict him. Digging her knees into her mare’s flanks, she continued up the slope towards the newly fencedoff piece of land in which the young saplings were to be planted. The saplings were currently in the two canvas sacks swinging from her saddle, their slender green tips poking out of the top of the sacks. In time, the trees would provide good shelter for the sheep during the winter months. The winter just gone had been dreadful. One icy gale had followed another. September, however, had brought a sudden burst of warm weather, and within a fortnight the hills had been sporting fresh spring grass, the buds had begun swelling on the trees, and the wintry crust that had brittled the ground for so long was at last starting to soften.

‘I wonder if Captain Steele has arrived yet,’ Edwin remarked as they reached the fence.

Instinctively, Charlotte glanced back over her shoulder. On a clear day she would have been able to see the length of the valley, but there was too much mist hanging around to see very far today.

‘Let’s hope he isn’t a disappointment,’ she said.

‘Disappointment? D’you have hopes that he might be handsome enough to take your fancy, Charlotte?’

Charlotte laughed. ‘You know very well what I was referring to, Edwin. I meant I hope we won’t be disappointed in Captain Steele’s conversational skills. I’m hoping he’ll tell us some interesting stories about his voyages. Still, I suppose whatever he has to say will make a change from the usual conversations about the farm and the weather.’

‘And Sarah’s sore back,’ Edwin added drily.

‘And that,’ Charlotte agreed with a grin. Edwin’s wife, Sarah, was eight months pregnant, carrying her third child, and her sore back came up for mention several times a day. It wasn’t that the family didn’t sympathize with her, but the truth was they were all weary of hearing about her miscellaneous aches and pains.

Hopefully, Richard Steele won’t prove disappointingly dull, Charlotte thought as she swung her leg over the mare’s back and dismounted. She’d been looking forward to meeting him for weeks, ever since his parents, who owned the neighbouring farm, had announced that he’d be visiting them in mid-September. Ben and Letitia Steele were relatively new to the district. They’d originally settled in the North Island, but the land had been less productive than they’d hoped, so when the opportunity to buy three thousand acres of good, fertile grazing land in the Malvern Hills in Canterbury had presented itself, Ben had seized his chance. Richard was their only child, and the last time they’d seen him was almost two years ago so they were understandably looking forward to his visit.

‘Well, I suppose I’d better get these saplings planted,’ Edwin said unenthusiastically as he dismounted. ‘They’ll not plant themselves.’

Lifting the sacks from her saddle, Charlotte dropped them on the ground. Wagging his tail, Duke padded over to inspect the contents, sniffing speculatively.

‘Will you be planting any more saplings this spring or will these be the last?’ she asked.

‘The last if I have any say in it,’ Edwin replied, reaching for the spade, which was slung across his saddle. ‘Have you decided whether you’ll go to live with George and Ann in Lyttelton?’

She glanced up and tossed him a cynical smile. ‘Edwin, you know as well as I do that it’s Father who’ll have the final say, not me. I suppose he’s asked you to talk to me about it, has he?’

Edwin nodded.

‘Well, at least you’re honest,’ she said with a grudging laugh. She got on well with Edwin. He was twenty-eight, six years older than her, and they were as alike as two peas. Both tall, both with the same light brown hair and hazel eyes, the same quick sense of humour and sharp tongue, and both very stubborn. They were like their father in looks, whereas their brother George, who was three years older than Charlotte, took after their late mother. He was a much stockier build, with grey eyes and a thick mop of black hair, and of a slightly more even temperament, which wasn’t to say that George’s feathers never ruffled. But even in that respect George was the odd one out. Whereas Charlotte and Edwin blazed like a hot furnace when they were in a rage, George smouldered like a sulky fire. Different as they were, Charlotte had missed George when he’d left the farm seven years ago to take up a position with an insurance company in Christchurch. He’d eventually moved to Lyttelton, where he’d met his wife, Ann. They were currently visiting. This was their spring visit. They normally travelled out to the farm twice a year; in the early spring, and for Christmas. That was another way in which George differed from his brother and sister—he was predictable in everything he did. Perhaps that was why he’d never shown any liking for sheep farming: farming relied to a large extent upon the weather, and weather was notoriously unpredictable.

‘Why don’t you want to live with them?’ Edwin asked bluntly. ‘You obviously don’t or you’d have gone by now.’

‘If I tell you, will you repeat it to Father, or to George or Ann?’ she asked.

‘I’ll not breathe a word—you have my word on it.’

She nodded, confident that if Edwin gave his word she could trust him to keep it. ‘All right, two reasons. First, I don’t want to intrude on their privacy.’

‘Privacy?’ Edwin repeated. ‘I hardly think that’s a valid reason. If it’s privacy you’re considering, you might like to consider how much privacy Sarah and I have. None at all, save in our bedroom, and even that’s none too private with the thinness of the walls in Father’s house.’

‘Yes, but that’s different, Edwin,’ she said. ‘You and Sarah live in Father’s house, therefore you can’t reasonably expect to enjoy much privacy. George, on the other hand, owns his own house, which is inhabited by just him and Ann. If I go to live with them, I’ll be an intrusion.’

Edwin shrugged, plainly dismissing the argument as valueless. ‘What’s the other reason?’

‘I think I’d find George and Ann very dull company. And don’t raise your brows at me like that,’ she reproached. ‘You asked me why I don’t want to live with them and I’m giving you an honest answer. I love George and Ann dearly, but they’re hardly what one could call entertaining. All George does is read and all Ann does is her needlework.’

Edwin gave a reluctant nod. ‘I’ll grant they’re not the best conversationalists, but I think Ann would appreciate some female company during the daytime while George is out. And Ann may be quiet, but at least she’s normal. Unlike Isobel. It’s because of Isobel that Father wants you to leave, you know. He thinks she’s influencing your thinking far more than is good for you. She makes no secret of her dislike of men.’

‘Edwin, Isobel does not dislike men!’ Charlotte defended.

‘Indeed she does. She dislikes men and she’s opposed to marriage. Father thinks she’s a bad influence and, for what it’s worth, I agree with him.’

Charlotte turned crossly away. Isobel was not a bad influence. On the contrary, her aunt had made her think, made her question—and since when had thinking and questioning been a bad thing?

‘If you were my daughter—’

‘But I’m not,’ Charlotte interrupted. ‘And I’m also not a child. I—’ The word stopped short in her throat, and she spun around to face the gully as Bess’s exuberant barking was suddenly replaced by a piercing yelp that made the hairs on the back of Charlotte’s neck lift in fear. A sudden silence cloaked the hillside, then a pitiful whimper drifted eerily on the light breeze. Lifting his head, Duke let out a chilling answering whine.

‘What’s happened?’ Charlotte looked anxiously at Edwin.

Without answering, Edwin walked over to his horse and reached for his rifle. ‘Wait here,’ he ordered quietly. He glanced down at Duke and patted the dog’s back as if to reassure him. ‘Come, Duke,’ he murmured, and strode off towards the gully, with the dog following close at his heel.

Chewing on the nail of her little finger, Charlotte waited by the horses. She could see nothing at all of Edwin. The dense flax bushes had swallowed him completely, but she could hear him clearly enough, pushing his way between them, slowly moving higher up the gully, calling and whistling to Bess to try to locate her position. Impatient to find out what was happening, Charlotte walked up the hill to the edge of the outcrop and called out to him.

‘Edwin—have you found Bess yet?’

‘Not yet,’ he called back, from about halfway up the gully.

‘Can you hear her?’

‘No, but—’ Whatever Edwin had intended to say was drowned out by a sudden outburst of fierce barking from Duke. Loud crashes sounded among the bushes and a moment later the rifle went off. Then a high-pitched cry of pain split the air.

‘Edwin!’ she shrieked. A wave of panic rose up from the pit of her stomach. ‘Edwin, are you all right?’ More loud crashes sounded; more furious barking. ‘Edwin! Edwin!’ she yelled.

At last Edwin’s voice came, rising shrilly above the rest of the noise. ‘Boar! Wild boar!’

Her eyes shot to the flax leaves as they waved violently back and forth, marking the animal’s headlong rush down the gully, with Duke in hot pursuit, barking loudly. ‘Oh God,’ she whispered, gathering up her skirts in preparation to run. A second later she was pounding down the hill towards the waiting horses, her heart hammering against her ribs. In hindsight, it would probably have been wise not to look back, simply to keep running, but she couldn’t help herself. Three times she glanced back, risking tripping, and the third time she saw it, bursting from the flax bushes into the open—a huge, black boar. And, whether by accident or design, it was heading straight for her.

Letting out a shrill scream, which was loud enough to send the waiting horses bolting down the hill, she fixed her sights desperately on the new fence. If she could clamber over it, she would probably be safe. But could she reach it before the boar reached her? Duke’s barks were getting nearer by the second. She glanced over her shoulder again, caught a terrifyingly close glimpse of a viciously curling white tusk and ugly black snout, screamed, tripped, and sprawled full-length on the grass. Somehow sensing the danger she was in, Duke sprinted forward and, with a fierce snarl, hurled himself at the boar’s thick neck and sank his teeth into it, sending the hefty animal veering off to the left with the impact.

Scrambling to her feet, Charlotte watched helplessly as Duke hung grimly on, while the boar violently shook his head from side to side, grunting furiously. What happened next happened so quickly that it was little more than a blur. One minute Duke was hanging on to the boar’s neck for dear life, the next he was lying on the grass a few yards down the hill, blood pouring from a deep gash in his neck. He lifted his head and made a half-hearted attempt to get up, then, with a piteous whine, laid his head resignedly on the grass, his pink tongue hanging from his open mouth as he panted for breath.

Tossing its snout, the boar backed off a foot or two, watching the injured dog, then purposefully lowered its head and gave a loud grunt. It was preparing to attack again.

Feeling sick at the thought but powerless to prevent it, Charlotte ran for the safety of the fence, still some ten or fifteen yards away. That was when she saw it. The spade, lying on the grass where Edwin had dropped it. If it hadn’t been right in her path, the thought would never have entered her mind. But it was right in her path, and the thought did enter. She glanced back at Duke, lying helpless on the grass, and knew she had no choice.

With no thought for the possible consequences, she stooped, grasped hold of the handle with both hands, then spun towards the boar. ‘Go away! Go away!’ she yelled as loudly as she could, and waved the spade back and forth, praying that it would be sufficiently threatening to make the boar take to its heels. It quickly became obvious, however, that this particular boar didn’t find a waving spade at all threatening. Far from taking to its heels, the boar was standing quite still, watching her. Possibly this was its first encounter with a shrieking, spade-wielding woman, and it appeared to find the spectacle intriguing. Even more disconcerting, it was now walking slowly towards her, as if wanting to get a closer view. Knowing that the one thing she mustn’t do was to make a run for it, because if she did the boar would almost certainly charge, Charlotte did the only thing she could: she held her ground and continued to wildly brandish the spade.

Without warning, a shot rang out.

She jumped so much it was all she could do to keep her grip on the spade. The boar stopped. Jerking its head in the direction from which the shot had come, it raised its snout and sniffed the air, grunting loudly. For the moment its attention was elsewhere. It was a moment of grace.

Swinging the spade high into the air, Charlotte took two swift strides and swung it down again, sending the edge of the solid metal head crashing into the boar’s jaw. There was a sickening, splintering sound as teeth and bones shattered, bright red blood spurted from the boar’s mouth all across the front of her skirt, and the spade landed with a dull thud on the grass at her feet as her fingers flew open with the jarring impact of the blow. Shaking with fear, she stooped to retrieve the spade, well aware that, while the boar was definitely injured, it was far from dead. It was staggering about in dazed circles emitting ear-piercing screams, bloody froth and spittle dribbling from its smashed jaw on to the grass, until suddenly it collapsed on to its knees, less than two yards from her.

Wielding the spade like an axe, she brought it down with all her might. The shrieks ceased abruptly, there was a dull thud as the boar toppled heavily on to the grass, then a terrible silence that unnerved her even more than the shrieks. Trembling uncontrollably, she stared at the prone animal. It was dead, its skull cleft wide open with the force of the last blow.

Dropping the spade, she sank to her knees and burst into tears. Had it not been for Edwin she would have sobbed for much longer, but she could hear all too clearly the panic in his voice as he shouted her name, over and over again.

Still shaking like a leaf, she forced herself to her feet and looked across to the gully. Edwin had made his way into the open and was struggling down the hill, bent double, his gun in his right hand, while his other hand gripped his left calf. She took several deep breaths, then ran up the hill to meet him.

Sinking to her knees in front of him the moment she reached him, she looked from his ashen face to the bloody trickle seeping between his fingers. From the knee down, his trouser leg was soaked. The wound was a deep one.

‘What in God’s name were you thinking of, Charlotte!’ Edwin blurted suddenly. Throwing the gun aside, he grabbed hold of her left shoulder and shook her. ‘Do you have any idea of the danger you placed yourself in, fighting a full-grown boar with a spade? You could have been ripped to pieces, and damned lucky not to have been! What the hell were you thinking of?’

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she had a chance to say anything Edwin fired up again.

‘The boar wasn’t even attacking you! You attacked it! I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you stop and pick up the spade. I saw you, saw it all! Saw you swinging a spade around like a madwoman! Look at you—you’re covered in blood from head to toe! God, I don’t know what Father will say when he hears about your stupidity!’ Edwin finished loudly.

Shaking herself free from his grip, Charlotte returned her brother’s withering glare with a matching one of her own. ‘I was trying to save Duke!’

Edwin stared at her. ‘Save Duke? Are you telling me that you risked your life for a dog?’

‘You risked your life for Bess,’ she returned sharply, then, dipping her head towards his injured leg, added, ‘and very nearly did lose it. You knew it could be dangerous to go into the gully to find out if Bess was all right, but you didn’t hold back.’

‘I took a rifle with me!’ Edwin roared. ‘I wouldn’t have gone into the gully with nothing but a bloody spade to protect myself!’

‘Well, judging by the good that rifle did you, you might have fared better with a spade!’ she roared back. ‘Duke attacked the boar to save my life! I could do no less for him! I had to do something to try to save him.’ Had her brother’s face not suddenly contorted with pain she’d have said a lot more, but this was no time to be arguing. Scrambling to her feet, she hitched up her skirt and set about ripping strips of cloth from the bottom of her cotton petticoat. Neither of them spoke while she bound up his injured calf. Edwin was furious with her, but she suspected that he was also furious with himself, blaming himself for allowing himself to be injured, which in turn had allowed the rest to eventuate.

‘Wait here. I’ll fetch the horses,’ she muttered, as Edwin struggled to his feet.

‘I’m not crippled. I can walk.’ Edwin winced as he gingerly put his weight on his gashed leg.

‘Suit yourself,’ Charlotte said. If that was the way he wanted it, so be it! Leaving her brother to limp painfully down the hill alone, she strode off to find the two mares.

It would have been difficult to imagine a worse moment to arrive back at the farm. The yard at the rear of the house was full of people. The whole family was there. Her father, Ann and George, Sarah and her two sons, and Isobel were all clustered around Ben and Letitia Steele, who had obviously just arrived and were in the process of introducing everyone to their son, Richard. At least, Charlotte presumed that was who the stranger was.

One by one, people turned casually around as the two horses clipclopped into the yard, then rather less casually took in Charlotte’s bloody dress and Edwin’s crudely bandaged leg. The chatter subsided into a stunned silence. Sarah turned the colour of pastry, Ann clasped her hands to her mouth and let out a muffled squeak, George looked baffled, while Isobel simply arched her brows. As for John Blake, he was eyeing his daughter’s gory appearance with what could only be described as abject horror. For the moment, he seemed not to have noticed Edwin’s injured leg.

It was five-year-old Arthur who was the first to break the silence. ‘Look, Mama,’ he said conversationally, ‘Papa has a sore leg.’

Arthur’s casual comment broke not only the silence, but the inertia.

Pushing past George, John went to help his son from the saddle. ‘How did you do it, Edwin? Did you fall from your horse?’ he asked.

Edwin shook his head, wincing as he eased his injured leg over the horse’s back. ‘No, I crossed paths with a wild boar and came off the worse.’

John threw a quick glance in Charlotte’s direction, obviously wondering how she had managed to get in such a state, then turned his attention back to his son.

‘Will it need suturing, Edwin?’

‘It will,’ Edwin said.

Pulling free from his mother’s hand, Arthur ran over to his father. ‘Can I watch, Papa?’

‘No,’ Edwin said firmly. ‘Go back to your mother.’

‘I feel faint,’ announced the mother in question. There was a scurry of activity as Ben Steele and George deftly grabbed Sarah’s arms and promptly ushered her into the house, with Ann and Letitia following close on their heels.

‘Why can’t I watch?’ demanded Arthur.

‘That’s why not!’ John said and, quick as a striking snake, gave his grandson’s backside a resounding slap. ‘Now get off with you, into the house!’

Sensibly, Arthur took to his heels.

‘Shall I fetch the doctor?’ John asked, turning his attention back to Edwin who was plainly in some pain.

‘I think we’ll manage without him,’ Edwin said.

‘You’re sure?’ John looked at him dubiously.

‘I have some experience in stitching up wounds,’ Richard Steele said matter-of-factly. He held out his hand to Edwin. ‘Richard Steele. I’d be glad to attend to your wound, if you feel you can trust yourself in my hands.’

Edwin clasped his hand briefly and gave a nod of thanks. ‘Thank you, Captain Steele. I’d be glad of your assistance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better see how my wife is,’ he said and hobbled towards the house.

John watched him for a moment, then looked up at his daughter, who was still sitting astride her mare. ‘Judging by the amount of blood on your dress, Edwin’s wound is a good deal worse than he makes out,’ he said softly.

Charlotte shook her head. ‘It isn’t Edwin’s blood. It’s the boar’s.’

John stared at her. ‘You were with Edwin when the boar attacked?’

‘No. Yes. No…That is…’ She closed her eyes. Her head was spinning, her stomach was churning, and all she wanted to do was get out of her horrible bloodied dress and have a good cry. Bess was dead and so was Duke. Edwin had taken one look at the badly injured dog and, despite her pleas, had shot him.

Seeing her sway, John reached up to steady her.

‘I feel sick,’ she said suddenly and slithered inelegantly from the saddle. Then, in full view of her father, Isobel and Richard Steele, she retched up the entire contents of her stomach.

‘Oh dear, not a very good start to things, John,’ Isobel commented, as John took hold of his daughter’s arm.

John threw his sister a black look and said nothing, while Richard stared at her curiously. Not a very good start? What the devil did she mean by that?

Chapter 2

John Blake had acquired a keen nose for sensing when something was amiss in his family. It had taken less than two minutes after Edwin and Charlotte had ridden into the yard for him to sniff the smoking embers of a blazing row. Whatever they’d argued about—and it obviously had had something to do with their encounter with the boar—it had left the two of them seething. He was itching to know what had gone on, but prudence overrode curiosity. John had a distinct feeling that the account of what had happened might be best heard when only family were present, which was why he hadn’t pressed Edwin for details while the Steeles were there. The Steeles had left for home about fifteen minutes ago, declining John’s invitation to stay for dinner, sensibly realizing that the Blakes would probably prefer not to have visitors that evening.

John glanced around the dinner table at which his family were now seated, with the exception of his two young grandsons who’d been fed and put to bed early. Edwin was in some pain, but that was only to be expected. As for Charlotte, she was a mite flushed but other than that she appeared to be her usual self again. Sarah looked slightly strained, worrying about Edwin’s leg no doubt. The risk of infection was always a concern with wounds such as these.

John bowed his head and closed his eyes. ‘For good food and good health, we thank you, Lord. Amen.’

Grace finished, the next few minutes were filled with the usual flurry of activity as Sarah dished out the roast lamb and as the steaming tureens of vegetables were passed from hand to hand.

‘Rosemary again.’ John leaned forward and sniffed disapprovingly at the steam drifting from the meat on his plate. ‘Why is it that Mrs Hall always feels the need to alter the flavour of things? If lamb had been meant to taste of something other than lamb, surely God would have created it that way.’ Shaking his head, he stretched his hand across the table. ‘Pass me the salt, please, Isobel.’

‘Has the Almighty not seasoned the lamb sufficiently for you?’ Isobel enquired drily, passing the glass cellar.

‘I require the salt,’ John returned, matching his sister’s tone, ‘in order to hide the taste of the rosemary.’

‘Salt is said to be beneficial for the blood,’ George remarked.

‘I can’t imagine that rosemary is beneficial for anything,’ John muttered, liberally sprinkling salt over his meat.

‘According to Culpeper, rosemary helps prevent indigestion,’ Isobel stated knowledgeably.

‘I dare say that’s why Mrs Hall added it to the meat,’ Sarah said as she stretched over the table to adjust the lid on the tureen of carrots.

John grunted. ‘I don’t suffer from indigestion.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Sarah replied. ‘But there are others at the table who do. I, for one.’ Sarah’s indigestion, like her aching back, was mentioned at least once a day.

Setting the salt cellar down on the table again, John began to carve up his meat. ‘If the rosemary eases your discomfort, Sarah, I expect I can manage to stomach it,’ he said, and forked some lamb into his mouth.

Silence settled over the table, the only sounds the creak of chairs and the chink and scrape of the cutlery against the china plates. As Charlotte chewed on a piece of potato, she glanced across at her father. Very soon he’d be asking Edwin to give the family a full account of the business with the boar. The reason he was waiting, she assumed, was because a story that involved a certain amount of gore was by and large not the sort of story that people wanted to listen to while eating their dinner. There would be the most terrible fuss when her own part in the proceedings came out. Sarah would gasp, Ann would gape, George would give one of his loud tuts, Isobel would…well, who could say how Isobel would react; she was as unpredictable as spring weather, a woman of extreme likes and dislikes, who held strong opinions on almost everything, and sometimes quite unusual opinions. Her father’s reaction on the other hand was entirely predictable—he’d be furious with her.

For the next quarter of an hour, Charlotte listened with half an ear as her father reported to Edwin the farrier’s findings on the lame mare, after which followed a lengthy discussion on the barn roof, which was in need of repair. Eventually, the moment came.

Seeing everyone had finished eating, John leaned back against his chair and nodded at his son. ‘Come along, Edwin, give us an account of what happened this afternoon, now we’ve leisure to hear it.’

Edwin glanced across the table at Charlotte, then began. ‘Well…as you know, Charlotte and I rode out together to plant some saplings this afternoon. We took Bess and Duke with us to give them some exercise, but as we were nearing the gully Bess bounded off and disappeared into the flax bushes. Charlotte thought she was chasing something, but in fact she’d picked up the scent of a wild boar. Anyway, Bess was doing a lot of barking and crashing around, then all of a sudden she let out a terrible howl of pain. I could tell she was badly hurt, so I told Charlotte to wait by the horses while I went to see what had happened to her. I took Duke with me, and my gun, knowing that I might have to shoot Bess.’ He paused to gingerly shift his injured leg into a more comfortable position, then continued, ‘When I was about halfway up the gully, Duke started to become very agitated. He was growling and the hairs along his back had lifted, and I could see from the way his nose was twitching that he’d smelled something. I stopped and raised my gun. I thought I could hear something moving in the bushes just ahead of me. Then all at once there was a loud crashing sound and a massive boar rushed out. I tried to take aim but it was practically on top of me, so I did the only thing I could—I tried to jump out of its path. The trouble was, there was no clear ground; nowhere to jump, save into the bushes. I thought I’d managed to get clear of it, then I felt its tusk rip my leg and I must have pulled the trigger because the rifle went off. The next I knew I was on the ground with blood pouring from my leg and I could hear Charlotte screaming my name. I shouted to her that it was a wild boar and—’

‘But if you didn’t shoot the boar,’ John interrupted shrewdly, ‘how in God’s name did your sister come to get its blood all over her dress?’ He glanced across at her, frowning.

‘I’ll leave Charlotte to tell you that,’ Edwin said. Charlotte shifted uncomfortably in her seat as everyone’s eyes turned expectantly towards her. Picking up the story where Edwin had left off, she soon came to how Duke had courageously attacked the boar. ‘Duke was no match for a full-grown boar, though,’ she said, grimacing as she recalled the desperate fight the dog had put up. ‘I’d no sooner scrambled to my feet than he was lying on the ground with blood pouring from his neck.’

‘Oh, the poor, brave dog, sacrificing himself for you,’ Sarah murmured.

‘Never mind the dog. What about the boar?’ John leaned across the table, his eyes fixed intently on his daughter.

‘Well, I could see that it meant to attack Duke again, but I knew I couldn’t do anything to stop it so I ran for the fence.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Then I saw the spade. It was lying on the ground, right in my path, so I picked it up and struck the boar with it.’ Ignoring the look of pure astonishment that sprang into her father’s eyes and the strangled gurgle from her aunt, who sounded as if she might be choking, Charlotte finished, ‘I didn’t manage to kill it then but it was injured and dazed so, while I had the chance, I finished it off.’

A stunned silence settled on the room. She couldn’t even hear anyone breathing. Then from the far end of the table came three sharp little claps. ‘Oh, bravo, Charlotte!’ Isobel exclaimed.

Charlotte stared at her aunt in surprise, and suddenly realized that what she’d mistaken for a choking sound had in fact been her aunt stifling a laugh.

‘Bravo?’ John fixed a scandalized eye on his sister. ‘Isobel, I’ll thank you not to applaud