Flora Brown: The Applecross Saga, #7

By Amanda Giorgis

The year is 1880 and cousins John James Mackenzie and Sam Morling set out to make a new life for themselves in Scotland.

 

Having never ventured beyond the shores of New Zealand, they seek adventure and excitement on their journey before settling at the Scottish estate owned by the Mackenzies, where, with John James' farming experience and Sam's desire for landscaping, they hope to restore the house and grounds to their former glory.

 

The estate manager's daughter, Flora Brown, is not only pretty, but clever and determined. She has her own ideas and dreams of a life in New Zealand with the laird's son. She fears she will be overlooked because of her lowly social standing, but intends to try everything she can to make him notice her.

 

Isabella, daughter of the neighbouring estate, shares Sam Morling's passion for plants. As love begins to blossom between them, Isabella finds her way blocked by her cruel and over-bearing brother who considers gentle Sam to be an entirely unsuitable match.

 

Meanwhile, at Applecross sheep station, James and Sophia Mackenzie are growing older, much in need of their son's help. Sophia has always believed that her son would stay in Scotland forever, though James disagrees and expects him to do his duty on the farm. A sudden change of circumstances requires John James' immediate return, bringing with him echoes of his father's past.

 

'Flora Brown' is the 7th book in the Applecross Saga.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda Giorgis
• Release date: Jan 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224621194

Book preview

For Zach

A Māori Prayer

Whakataka te hau ki te uru

Whakataka te hau ki te tonga

Kia mākinakina ki uta

Kia mātaratara ki tai

E hī ake ana te atakura

He tio, he huka, he hau hū

Tīhei mauri ora. Amine.

Cease the winds from the west

Cease the winds from the south

Let the breeze blow over the land

Let the breeze blow over the ocean

Let the red-tipped dawn come with a sharpened air.

A touch of frost, a promise of a glorious day.

Amen

1. Flora

Crawdon Estate, Scottish Borders, April 1880

Flora Brown ran her finger lightly over the neatly written signature at the bottom of the single page letter, tracing out the J in John, then another J in James and finally the M of Mackenzie. John James Mackenzie. Why two forenames? Her father said he had been told that this man was always known as John James, all in one breath, but why? The James must be after his father, who was the laird, and her parents’ employer. But who was John, and why did he come first?

She never used her middle name, barely even her middle initial. Flora Rannoch Brown, nothing romantic about that at all, a middle name inherited from her mother’s side of the family. But John James Mackenzie, now there was romance in that name, for sure. Perhaps she would call him JJ, or Jay, although to begin with she would greet him coyly, from beneath flickering eyelashes, with, Good afternoon, Mr Mackenzie. I am indeed most pleased to make your acquaintance.

She knew that he was only a year or so older than her. Was he as tall and handsome as she had imagined from the tiny photograph? Dashing, that was the word that came into her head. Flora pretended to curtsy to her imaginary dance partner before swirling herself round as if being led by the dashing John James Mackenzie. The full skirt of her day dress followed her with a swoosh as she turned, her woollen shawl sliding down her shoulders and onto the floor as she spun round and round, humming a tune to herself, one hand held out as if resting on an imaginary shoulder, the other around the invisible gentleman’s waist, even though she still held the letter in that hand.

Suddenly she stopped, dizziness causing her to sway on the spot. She put a hand on the table to steady herself. Maybe the photograph she had seen had lied, and he had a nose like the Pastor, long, crooked and pointed, with a drip on the end, or perhaps he was a portly fellow with a red face and jacket buttons popping to conceal a wobbling belly. For all she really knew, he had a false leg and ears that stuck out like cabbages.

She stifled a giggle, glancing towards the door of her father’s office in case she was overheard. She shouldn’t be here. He would be angry if he found her going through the papers on his desk. Although her father was never angry for long. Not with her, anyway. She had always been able to make him smile, always been forgiven for the slightest thing. You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger, sis, her older brother Cameron would say. She giggled again, and this time the sound of approaching footsteps caused her to bend down and pick up her shawl before sidling out of the door. It was only then that she realised she still held the letter. She clutched it to her chest one last time. Then, looking to right and left, she tiptoed back into the office and placed the letter exactly where it had been before she picked it up to read. Flora was back in the kitchen by the time her father sauntered in, helping himself to a cup of tea from the pot.

Did I see you over in the stables, lass? asked Hector Brown.

Yes, Papa, I came to find you to tell you that tea was made, she replied, her expression as innocent as she could make it.

Aye, so you will have read Mackenzie’s latest letter, then, said Hector with a twinkle in his eye. Next time you sneak into my office, try to put things back the right way up, eh?

The look of horror on his daughter’s face made him chuckle. No matter, girl, best you know what’s happening, anyway.

Is he really coming to see us? Flora asked, thankful not to be banished from the estate office forever. I am so excited.

I daresay he is, and I have a deal of work to do to make ready for him, Hector Brown replied. He’ll be wanting to see how this place runs, no doubt, and I expect he will report any shortcomings to his father, who, you may remember, pays our wages. After all, he could sell up if he doesn’t like what we do. That would be an end to your fine frocks and fripperies.

Oh father, replied Flora, thinking to herself that, in her opinion, her frocks were far from fine and unadorned with frippery. It won’t come to that, surely. Crawdon does well, does it not, and that’s because of you, isn’t it? She tried to sound confident, but she couldn’t help sharing her father’s doubts. After all, they knew very little about these Mackenzie folk who lived over the oceans in a country called New Zealand. They had never shown any interest in visiting them. Until now, that is. But then, she could not remember a time when anyone lived at the big house. Perhaps it was to be expected that the Mackenzies would want to claim what was theirs in person eventually.

Hector Brown remembered the days when Crawdon was run by Crawdons. As a young boy working in the grounds to pull out weeds or trim a hedge, he had tipped his cap many a time to old Mr Crawdon. When the younger Mr Maxwell Crawdon took over, it had come as a surprise when he brought home a wife, and even more of a shock when she took on the estate after her husband’s death. No heirs could be found on the Crawdon’s side of the family, so Lady Beatrice carried on as a figurehead, living a solitary life in just two or three rooms of the castle. The rest of the place was put to bed, furniture covered in sheets and precious items stored away below stairs. A woman could not be expected to run an estate on the scale of Crawdon, so managers were appointed. Some stayed but a few months, some longer, though in most cases it would have been better had they not done so. The estate rolled on unchanged, slowly going downhill without a consistent hand to guide it on a true path. Only the sheep and cattle kept the place solvent, there being a ready market for wool in these parts, and the meat being of good quality, having been fed on well-established, lush green pastures. As managers came and went, young Hector Brown worked his way quietly up through the hierarchy of the outside staff, from under gardener to head, from estate office junior to senior clerk. He knew now that his meteoric rise had more to do with it being less expensive to keep him on than to employ outsiders. His wages had not grown much with his rise in seniority, but he accepted that for the security of a job for life, and he loved his work just as he loved Crawdon. As the glory of the estate began to fade under Beatrice Crawdon’s care, many of those above him left to find work in a more modern place with better pay, leaving gaps for him to fill until he took on the role of estate manager almost by default. It did his status no harm at all to marry the housekeeper, joining the indoor and outdoor staff together as one. So, when Beatrice Crawdon lay dying, it was Hector and his wife Moira who were summoned to her bedside, where she begged them to continue to manage the place until such time as a suitable successor could be found. The estate, she told them, would be safe in their capable and knowledgeable hands.

And it was. Now Hector’s son, Cam was old enough, he had charge of the farming part of the estate, and he was doing a good job at it too, while Moira ran things indoors with the help of her daughter and a girl from the village. When old Mrs McDuff moved away to live with her sister, Moira took over the role of cooking for the staff, there being little enough to do in the way of housekeeping, apart from sending the girls around the house to do a weekly dust and clean. No more entertaining, no more guests and no more Lady Crawdon to care for. No fires to be lit, other than the kitchen range, nor silver to polish. Meanwhile, the outside staff drifted away from tending to the pleasure gardens, leaving the hedges to grow unkempt and the cutting garden to go wild, concentrating on providing fruit and vegetables for the locals. People in the village respected Hector, grateful for his support and keen to see him do well. He was one of them, after all, growing up in Crawdon and now living in the last cottage at the end of the single street, nearest to the gates of the big house. Many years ago, when he and Moira married, they were gifted the cottage by Lady Crawdon, who even arranged for a path to be cut to make it easier for the two of them to come and go from their work. These days, that route was more often taken than the main driveway, where weeds showed their heads through the gravel, grass had begun to encroach on both sides and the gates lay only partially open, having all but parted company with their hinges.

The rusty iron gates across the drive were not a true reflection of what lay beyond though. It was just a case that Hector had chosen to concentrate on the necessities, keeping the house in good order, making sure that the walled garden was productive and ensuring that the animals were healthy. There was only so much that could be done with a small staff, after all. Meanwhile, other villagers continued to thrive, farming folk with their dairy herds and flocks of white faced sheep, the miller who ground the corn harvested in the home fields, the blacksmith who shod the horses, although he yearned to restore the Crawdon gates to their former glory too. The wives who carded, spun and knitted the locally produced wool into intricate patterns for shawls and hats and mittens, to be sold in Glasgow or even as far away as London, and the older children who helped their parents, growing into the job they were destined to inherit, generation after generation.

Crawdon was a self-sufficient kind of a place, almost entirely unaware of the world beyond the village boundary. It fed itself, shared its wealth out for the benefit of those who could no longer earn a living, accepted the feudal nature of the big house and gratefully received support from its masters. The fact that it, and by association, the people of the village, now belonged to someone they had never seen, no longer bothered them at all. Life went on day by day, season by season, year by year.

When Hector heard from Findlay, the lawyer, that Captain Shepherd had died, he wondered what would become of his home and family. That old unsettling feeling was back, just as it had been when the old lady died. As it turned out, nothing much had changed, with the captain’s only son, James Mackenzie inheriting his title and property by default. It was Flora who had suggested that they needed to know more about their employers, and it was Flora who had written to Findlay herself, asking him to tell them as much as he could about the Mackenzie family. Hamish Findlay had read Flora Brown’s letter with some surprise, although, when he stopped to think about it, it could do no harm at all for the people of Crawdon to make a connection with their masters. When Hamish met James Mackenzie and his sons, Frederick and John James, in Dunedin, he found them to be real gentlemen, kind hearted and intelligent, and that’s what he told Flora in his reply. He had also given details of Mrs Mackenzie and her other children, Heather and Victoria, making mention of Heather being soon to marry a Mr George Latham.

Flora had found out what she could about the part of New Zealand in which the Mackenzies lived, sending for magazines and books about the country on the other side of the world. It sounded a bit like Scotland, with mountains and rivers, and pastures where sheep roamed. She shared this information with the older schoolchildren on one of her regular visits to the village schoolroom. And, as these things do, an enthusiasm for New Zealand and, in particular, the Mackenzies, spread throughout the village. Nobody could quite remember who had first suggested that a wedding present should be sent to Heather Mackenzie, but the idea had grown and spread. Flora had organised the children to collect heather to be tied into bundles for the wedding guests to wear and these were added to the parcel containing a fine shawl made of local wool, knitted by the ladies of the village in squares sewn together. Hector had his doubts that the heather would survive the long journey, but he dutifully packaged it all up, added a note wishing the happy couple well and sent it on its way in time to arrive at Applecross before the ceremony.

From that day forward, letters had gone to and fro quite regularly between the Scottish village and the Applecross community in Mackenzie’s Basin. First, a thank you letter from Heather, now Mrs George Latham, and then a precious letter from Mrs Mackenzie enclosing a copy of the wedding photograph, where each person was to be seen wearing a tiny sprig of heather pinned to their outfits.

They look just like us, young Jack Sprackley blurted out, when Flora showed the photograph to the pupils at Crawdon School.

Well, yes, what did you expect? Flora had replied. Mr and Mrs Mackenzie were born in Scotland, so they are just like us, and they farm sheep, just like your father, Jack.

Flora smiled as she watched the children pass the precious photograph from one to another. Each tiny finger placed on a speck of heather, wondering perhaps if that was the one they had tied with ribbon, wondering who was wearing it. Jack’s sister Ginny hoped it was the tall gentleman at the back.

Who’s this? she asked, pointing and holding the picture up for Flora to see.

Mrs Mackenzie wrote a list of all the names, and if I have counted right, that is Mr John James Mackenzie, said Flora.

She looks pretty, said a shy little girl, placing a grubby finger on the bride’s face.

She does indeed, doesn’t she, Annie? Flora said. Mrs Mackenzie described the dress as being pale green with purple flowers embroidered on it. You can just see them on the sleeves, look. She also said the purple heather we sent went with everything perfectly, and when the evening cooled, the bride wore our lovely shawl over her shoulders. Isn’t that a special thing?

Can you read out the other names, please Miss? Ginny asked.

And so Flora read from Mrs Mackenzie’s letter :-

At the back, left to right, are our sons John James and Freddie, with Freddie’s wife Ngahuia, which you say like ‘na hoo ee-a’. Then on the other side of the bride and groom are George’s aunt and uncle. In the middle row, there are the three bridesmaids, Susannah, Adey Rose and Caroline, in dresses of the palest mauve, my darling daughter Heather and her new husband George, with his parents and best man, Edward. Edward’s parents are to his left. Sitting at the front are my youngest girl, Vicky and the son of a good friend of ours, Saul who was the page boy.

Na hoo ee-a, the girls all tried mouthing the name of Freddie Mackenzie’s wife. Flora wondered if she was a native woman. She had read about the Māori people of New Zealand.

Now children, I wondered if you would like to draw some pictures of yourselves and your family to send back to Mrs Mackenzie? Flora said. I am sure they would like to know what we look like too, but we don’t have a way to make a photograph, so we will have to make do with drawings.

A few days later, Flora laid all the pictures out on the kitchen table to make sure the children had all written their names on them. They were, in her opinion, absolutely delightful. The older children had done their best to draw proper portraits of themselves, while some of the younger ones had drawn their whole family, even though the proportions were sometimes a bit odd. Ginny Sprackley’s family dog was bigger than her father, while her brother was just a tiny dot with stick legs. Annie had drawn her mother and father and her brothers, and added hills and sheep in the background too. She wanted to make Mrs Mackenzie feel at home, she had said, which made Flora smile. Little did she realise that, once they had travelled across the world, Sophia Mackenzie smiled too when she saw the pictures, laughing at Ginny’s dog and Annie’s sheep before proudly showing them all to her friends and neighbours. All the pictures were now on display on the wall of the Applecross schoolroom, although the summer sun had caused them to fade a little over time.

Looking back on it now, Flora thought it was that day at school, the day she showed the photograph to the children, that was the start of her desire to meet John James Mackenzie. He was, in her opinion, the most handsome of the gentlemen in the picture. Freddie was handsome too, but he was spoken for, and his looks were different from the rest of his family. He had a softer face and a curl to his hair, as if perhaps he came from somewhere else. Flora had no way of knowing the details, but she was right, Freddie being Sophia’s firstborn with husband George, who drowned in the swollen river when Freddie was only a small boy.

The image of John James, looking serious and ever so slightly bored with his sister’s wedding, stayed in Flora’s mind. It was with her as she lay in bed, or as she sat in the window darning socks, or took a walk through the woods. Over time, she imagined his personality, building a whole character from the tiny image of head and shoulders. She hoped one day to meet him in person, almost yearned to do so. In her infatuation, she even contemplated running away and finding a ship bound for New Zealand in order to track him down.

And then, one day, one ordinary day without prospect of anything unusual happening, and as if it was an answer to her prayers, John James’ letter arrived.

The days following the arrival of that letter were filled with preparations for the important visitor. Or visitors, as it turned out. The young Mr Mackenzie would be accompanied by his cousin, Mr Samuel Morling, also from New Zealand, who had a particular interest in landscapes and formal gardens.

Flora was grateful that her mind was kept busy with bringing the big house back to life. Though Crawdon was often referred to as a castle, it was no more than a country house, solid and dependable, its only fortification being a decorative castellation along the roof line. None of the locals called it a castle, it being known by all as the big house. In terms of country estates it was not a big house, having only ten bedrooms. Neighbouring estates could lay claim to twenty bedrooms or more, with grand ballrooms, palatial entrance halls and extensive libraries. Flora preferred to think of Crawdon as cosy, and however many rooms it had, it was still a good deal bigger and more grand than any other dwelling in the village.

Moira Brown had decided to open up the two main bedrooms once occupied by Lord Crawdon and his wife, a small drawing room between them, joining the two rooms together. Mr Mackenzie would, of course, take Lord Crawdon’s room while Mr Morling would make do with her ladyship’s room. While the furnishings were rather more feminine than a gentleman might expect, the expansive view of the grounds would be to Mr Morling’s liking, Flora’s mother was certain. Downstairs, the hall and staircase were to be spotless and welcoming, the dining room and front sitting room made comfortable and the kitchen stocked with the provisions necessary to feed two gentlemen and any guests they chose to invite. Flora couldn’t help thinking that her mother was taking it all a bit far. It seemed unlikely that two single gentlemen, travelling from overseas, would have made enough acquaintances to invite guests to Crawdon. But Mrs Brown was determined to be prepared for all eventualities. These days, one never knew with young men. After all, Mr Mackenzie was but one step down from the laird and should be treated with due respect.

Nevertheless, Flora’s head was buzzing as she and the other servants dusted rooms, polished furniture, carried the best china to the kitchen to be washed and dried, and generally did whatever her mother instructed them to do. What would she say at their first meeting? Would he be as handsome as he looked in the photograph? Would he speak to her? She was just a servant, after all, albeit the daughter of the housekeeper and estate manager. Perhaps he would be far too grand to even notice her.

It seemed to Flora that the days crawled by, despite being kept busy. Mr Mackenzie was due to arrive on a Monday, having travelled by railway from London to Glasgow to see to some business before riding to Crawdon. At Sunday’s morning service, Flora was so deep in thought that she forgot to stand for the arrival of the minister and then was left standing as everyone sat down again. She heard not a single word of the sermon and had to borrow some coins for the plate from her mother because she had forgotten to take her usual offering from her purse.

Whatever is the matter? her mother asked as they came out into the spring sunshine.

Hmm, Flora replied before realising that her mother had asked a question. Oh, sorry, I was just wondering if we had everything ready for our guests.

Were you indeed, my lass? Mrs Brown smiled, knowing all too well that her daughter couldn’t wait to catch sight of the young Mr Mackenzie. I think you will find all in order at the big house, thanks to your father and me. No work to do on a Sunday, but perhaps you would like to make sure the two bedrooms are comfortable and welcoming in the morning?

Flora, who couldn’t think of anything else she would rather do, said, Thank you, Ma. I would like that very much indeed.

Sunday afternoons at End Cottage were quiet affairs. Flora and her mother would usually be mending or embroidering while Cam and his father were more likely to be reading. Hector Brown enjoyed catching up on the newspapers on a Sunday, there being little time in the week. He felt it was important for a manager to be aware of local events, as well as keeping abreast of market prices in the area. Cam preferred something a little lighter to read. He was currently re-reading Moby Dick, an old favourite, full of adventure and derring-do. Whatever the Browns were doing, it was done quietly on their only day off together. The odd word, a slight clearing of the throat and the hours ticked off by the wall clock in the hallway, quarter hour by quarter hour, until four strikes indicated that it was time for tea. On the fourth stroke, Mrs Brown would set her sewing aside, rise without a word and head for the kitchen where a cold supper would be prepared and eaten in silence. In the winter, darkness fell early in Crawdon, but now that April was here, there was time for a breath of fresh air after their meal, and they would walk together as a family, meeting other folk along the way, before heading for their beds early, in order to rise with the lark at the start of another week.

On this particular Sunday, Flora felt like she was wading through water to reach bedtime. The usual quarter hours felt as if they had stretched themselves on purpose, just to spite her. She barely touched her supper, sitting impatiently as she waited for Cam to plough through his plate, piled high with food. Her parents’ footsteps seemed to be plodding as they walked to the bridge over the Crawdon river, even the water seemed to have slowed its flow. Then, when she got to bed at last, sleep just would not come. She heard midnight strike, and then a single sound an hour later, though she must have dozed eventually because she counted five before realising that the day she had been waiting for had begun. The day she would meet John James Mackenzie.

Nobody commented on her choice of dress this morning, although mother and father exchanged a knowing look when Flora entered the kitchen for breakfast. She had refrained from her Sunday best, but had felt it appropriate to wear a favourite pale yellow frock with a tight waist and a full skirt, not entirely suitable for a day’s work, especially as the long hem required her to wear her Sunday boots with a higher heel than was usual. The colour matched her long blond hair to perfection, though several other outfits had been discarded on the bed before deciding what to wear on this special day. Having eaten a small breakfast, she twisted a patterned shawl of fine wool around her shoulders before setting off with her mother to the big house, her feet already feeling hot and blistered by the time she got there.

Go on, then, her mother said, as they entered the house. Go and make sure the rooms are ready. She watched her daughter hurry up the stairs. What it is to be young at heart, she thought to herself with a smile.

Flora glanced around the room already prepared for Mr Morling. A plain counterpane had replaced the old lady’s floral bedcover and had done a good job at making it less fussy, along with the removal of a variety of ornaments. It would do fine. Flora slipped through the adjoining room, patting the cushions of the two armchairs as she passed by, and into the main bedroom. She twirled around, checking that all was well, smoothing out the bedcovers, although they didn’t need it, and straightening the curtains which hung perfectly anyway. It was a grand room, but rather plain. A single picture adorned the walls, a hunting scene, and the only ornaments were three small matching but empty glass vases set out evenly across the mantelpiece, where a fire had already been laid to take the chill off. Was it a welcoming room? Flora didn’t think so at all. On the other hand, would a gentleman want decoration? She stood at the window wondering whether she should try to find something more homely, but what? Her gaze took in the formal garden below, symmetrical hedges now run riot, forming shaped gardens where plants had taken their own paths of late, growing into each other and obscuring the intended ordered pattern. Further afield, the lawns lay either side of the driveway, and Flora knew that they dropped away to the right as the drive took its route towards the old iron gates and the village. The lawn on the left formed a steep, grassy bank down, while the right hand side dropped down towards the river, following the path to the Browns’ house.

Primroses! she exclaimed out loud. That’s what we need to cheer it up.

Mrs Brown wondered where her daughter was going as she watched her hurrying down the driveway, an empty basket over her arm, making a turn to the left before she got to the gates. She raised her eyes and shook her head as she saw Flora stumble across the grass in the most unsuitable of boots. What was she up to now?

Flora knew that glorious yellow primroses bloomed on the bank at this time of year. There was time to pick a good handful and share them out between the three vases in Mr Mackenzie’s room. Just enough adornment to make the room welcoming, but not so much as to make it fussy. Perfect. The ground was soft, her boots sinking down in places. She was pleased to see a positive carpet of lovely yellow primroses spreading right across the bank, and she began picking them at once. The trees at the top had cast their shadows in places, and the best blooms were further down, where the sun shone all day. It was slippery going, but she managed to make her way half way down the bank, holding a hand out to an overhanging branch and stretching out the other arm to pick the very best flowers, tossing handfuls into the basket. Birds sang their spring song all around her, a dog barked in the village, she could hear the river’s tinkly sound as she continued to add to her bouquet. It was a lovely morning. Perfect for the arrival of their special guest.

All of a sudden, she heard another sound. The sound of men’s voices.

This way, I think, she heard someone say, accompanied by the sound of horses’ hooves, trotting along quite slowly.

Do you think they will mind that we are early? another deep voice replied.

Shouldn’t think so, the first voice replied, before adding, It’s our house anyway, so I can arrive when I want. She heard both men laugh, realising all at once that, if the voices belonged to Mr Mackenzie and Mr Morling, and it seemed fairly certain from the words spoken, she had better get back to the big house fast.

In her haste to scramble back up the bank, she found one of her boots well and truly stuck in a muddy patch, and as she turned, she lost her balance entirely, tried to grab the branch above her, missed and found herself falling. The boot refused to move until the last moment, causing her to twist round, a movement that tipped her onto her side and left her rolling down the bank. Over and over, the poor yellow dress torn and covered in mud, one of her boots parting company with its sole and her pinned up hair coming free of its ribbons. The basket of carefully selected flowers came tumbling down too, its contents strewn across the bank.

Only when she reached the driveway did she and the basket come to a halt, poor Flora in a disheveled heap, blood oozing out of a cut on her forehead and intense pain coursing down her right arm. Looking up, she was mortified to find herself lying in front of two astonished riders who had only just managed to pull their mounts to a stop in time to avoid trampling her to death.

Good grief. Poor girl, exclaimed Sam, as both men hurriedly dismounted. Not quite the welcome we expected!

2. Travel plans

Mackenzie’s Basin, New Zealand, 6 months earlier

John James gave his usual low whistle to bring Wren and Lark to heel. Wren gave a deep bark before loping across Combe’s top field towards him, while Lark merely sat down and waited for her master to catch up.

That’ll do, laughed John James as he reached the young female dog, patting her head in an absent-minded way. Wren had taken up his usual position on the left hand side of his master and was standing still and panting, his sides heaving and his tongue hanging out so far it almost touched the ground.

John James was going to miss his dogs. He had grown to love the black and tan coloured huntaway breed since being introduced to them by his friend, Henry Frobisher. It was one of the many changes he and Jakob had made since they took over the running of Combe Station at the start of 1878. His father preferred the old collie breeds, similar to the dogs used in England and Australia, but John James had been enthusiastic about the newly bred huntaways as soon as he saw them working at the Frobishers’ place, Teedale. In his youth, John James hadn’t shared his father’s passion for dogs, but he had to admit that these two had not only proven to be good working dogs, they had stolen his heart too. They would be in safe hands with Jakob, of course, but he couldn’t rid himself of the the feeling that he may never see them again.

Jakob Heutinck leaned on the gate and watched his good friend from afar, one hand resting gently behind his dog, Leda’s right ear. His other dog, Ted had the scent of something and was coursing up and down the fence line, nose to the ground. Jakob had discreetly left John James to his own devices so far today, to allow him the opportunity to visit every corner of Combe and neighbouring Applecross for the last time. There was plenty of work to be done, but Jakob had better get used to being a man short, and in truth John James had been away more often than at home over the past year or so. Anyway, young Zach Finch had stepped up to the mark and Jakob now counted him as a worthy deputy. Between the two of them, with help from Applecross when necessary, they could run Combe efficiently. Jakob was sure of it.

Come on, Leda, he said, and his faithful old collie dutifully got to her feet. Slower than she was in her youth, but just as obedient as ever. We’ve work to do while these folk go gadding around the globe.

Though he may sound it by his words, Jakob was not jealous at all of John James going away. Since he settled in the Basin, he had no desire to be anywhere else, and certainly not over the seas. He loved Combe, and loved being in charge of it all, but most of all he loved his new wife, Anna and his adopted son, Ellis.

If a disastrous event could ever be said to have a silver lining, he supposed you could say that the fire at Combe was the beginning of his turn of fortune. One could not forget that Anna