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loudly strike the hour. As they waited for it to finish, she looked down at her late mother’s likeness, set in its ornate gilt frame on the small oval table beside the sofa. It was an ink sketch of her, done in England just before the family had emigrated eight years ago. The thin clear lines had captured Ellen Blake’s looks perfectly. Charlotte stared at it, thinking how much George resembled her, then with a sigh turned her attention to her father as the last strike finally rang out.
    ‘Well?’ John prompted.
    She looked up, well aware what question her father’s ‘Well?’ was asking. Well, was she going to admit that she was wrong and apologize for her behaviour? Well, no, she wasn’t. ‘Could you have stood by and watched, and done nothing, Father?’ she asked.
    ‘What I would have done is not the issue,’ he returned sharply. ‘You are the issue, Charlotte. You! You could have been killed! You do realize that, do you?’
    She lowered her eyes, uncomfortably aware that her cheeks were filling with heat.
    ‘God, I’ve lost one woman I loved dearly. I’ve no wish to lose you, too, not on account of foolishness such as this.’ John shook his head, frowning.
    Charlotte looked away, feeling her eyes prick with tears. It was seven years since her mother had died. She’d taken ill suddenly one Sunday morning, complaining of severe pains in her stomach. They’d all thought that she’d eaten something that had disagreed with her, all thought she’d be as right as rain the next day. But the next day she was much worse, and two days later they had buried her.
    ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll try to be more sensible in future.’
    ‘You’ll do more than try. You will be,’ he said.
    She glanced up and nodded.
    Seemingly satisfied, John sat down in the armchair opposite her. ‘If the Steeles ask, you’re to say that Edwin shot the boar. I don’t want them to know about your reckless behaviour. Do you understand?’
    She nodded again.
    ‘They’ve invited us for supper tomorrow evening,’ he said.

Chapter 3
    S till doing up the knot in his tie, Richard tacked between the furniture in the parlour, circumnavigating the circular rosewood table with the ornately carved pedestal, a family heirloom that had belonged to his great-grandmother. Used to a spartanly furnished cabin, he always took a few days to adjust to the crush of furniture in his parents’ home. In addition to the rosewood table, two armchairs, a rolled-arm sofa, four upright chairs, a whatnot, a grandfather clock, a piano and a sideboard had somehow been crammed into the parlour. Still, the sideboard had its uses, he conceded as he reached into the left-hand cupboard for the sherry decanter. Stooping, he retrieved some glasses from the lower shelf and set them out on the silver tray, another family heirloom, inherited from his father’s side of the family. ‘Who in God’s name invented heirlooms?’ he murmured. The house was awash with them.
    ‘What else did Mother ask me to do?’ Richard frowned, trying to remember. Light the other oil lamp, that was it. He manoeuvred around the sofa, lit a taper in the fire, then went to light the lamp on top of the piano. He’d just got the flame burning steadily when the door opened.
    ‘Richard.’ Letitia beckoned him over as she ushered their guests into the parlour.
    Smiling, Richard walked over to greet them.
    ‘Mrs Wyatt,’ he said, with a polite nod. He’d been warned aboutIsobel Wyatt. His mother had cautioned him to be wary of the woman, describing her as outspoken and provocative. Not mincing his words, his father had added bluntly, ‘She’s bloody rude!’ Richard had laughed and assured them that he would approach Mrs Wyatt with the same healthy caution that he would use when facing one of his father’s bulls. He had to say she didn’t look particularly formidable. She was small, almost diminutive in stature, and looked as if she would blow over in a strong