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bald head, his pale blue eyes glinting approvingly as he regarded his son. For one thing, Brook was and always had been good-natured. He was also what he called ‘a damn good shot’, and a good fisherman, too, who made excellent use of the well-stocked trout stream running through the grounds of the estate. Sir Walter had lost his wife and two daughters in an epidemic of smallpox which, miraculously, he and his only son had escaped. As a consequence, he and the boy had become very close – perhaps even more so as he had never remarried.
    ‘Sorry to hear the, er … news, m’boy!’ he said, when Brook told him of the distressing ending of this third pregnancy. His heavy jowls shook as he coughed, clearly embarrassed. ‘Not something to talk about, really, but I recall your mother once saying the same thing had happened to one of her sisters, and that she’d gone on to have five healthy offspring.’ Relieved to have got this attempt at sympathy off his chest, he added more cheerfully: ‘Might be a good idea to tell young Harriet, eh?’
    Without waiting for Brook’s acknowledgement, he went on in a far more convincing tone: ‘Happens with dogs, too, you know! You remember that black Labrador bitch, Jem? Best retriever I ever had, but hopeless breeder. Only litter the old girl had, half of ’em were too weak to survive. Still, you never know, do you? Daisy here …’ He patted the old gun dog lying as always by his feet, ‘she lost her first – same as Harriet – and went on to produce thirteen pups. Good noses, all of ’em.’
    He paused whilst Brook, amused rather than annoyed by the older man’s analogy, refilled his glass. ‘Tell you what, Brook,’ he said, his eyes bright with enthusiasm for the idea which had just come into his head. ‘One of Daisy’s blood line – a nice young bitch – has just whelped. Hitchins told me only last week that we’d have to find a home for one of ’em – gun shy, you see. Now why don’t you give young Harriet a dog? Great comfort dogs, you know, and retrievers are gentle animals – good with youngsters, obedient, that sort of thing.’
    His face grew even redder as he warmed to his idea. He was essentially a very kind man if lacking much in the way of brains – ‘upstairs’ as he was wont to say, tapping his forehead.
    ‘Best thing for a female in her condition. Hitchins is a knowledgeable fellow and he says that when a ewe or a nanny goat throws a dead one, he gives it one from the others that have had two. Something to look after, don’t you know!’
    Brook did not know whether to be insulted by his father’s comparison of his beloved wife to an animal, but he knew he meant it kindly. Besides, giving Harriet a puppy was not such a bad idea – it would keep her busy when he couldn’t be with her. That was not very often but he did spend time assisting his father when their bailiff, Bates, had a problem on the estate. There were, too, the seasonal shooting parties to which Harriet was invited, but he had not thought the bumpy coach ride a good idea whilst she was carrying a child.
    ‘Yes, thank you, sir – splendid idea!’ he told his father. ‘I’ll talk to Harriet about it.’
    Sir Walter looked pleased. ‘I’ll get that stable lad, Billy, to bring the pup for you to see.’ He chuckled. ‘That boy has got a way with animals – he can do anything with horses. Cats like him, too. Can’t stand them m’self but Hitchins said we had to have ’em to keep down the vermin.’
    He broke off, drained his brandy glass and gave Brook a boyish grin as he said, ‘Your mother was always telling me I go on talking so long I forget what I began with. Quite right, too! Now, what was I saying?’
    He took out his watch, and without waiting for Brook’s reply, said, ‘Better get a move on – I mean to go up to London this afternoon and see my banker in the morning. I’d best get off home now.’
    Brook went over to the fireplace and pulled the rope,