the forge. ‘And she behaves like a child at that. One toy broken, so she needs must have another. That poor mare was drenched with sweat. It took me hours to rub her down and bed her for the night. And she’s that jumpy. I doubt I’ll get near her in the morning to shoe her.’
Susan was standing over the small black iron range, stirring rabbit stew. She straightened, her hands to her back. ‘She’s a spoiled madam. Just because she’s an earl’s daughter! She runs the squire ragged, so they say.’
‘They?’ Dan grinned. ‘You mean that blowbroth sister of yours?’
Susan laughed. Her sister Molly was lady’s maid at the Hall and there wasn’t much gossip around up there that hadn’t reached the home farm within the hour. She blew a strand of hair away from her face and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I felt the baby move again today.’
He grinned. ‘That’s good.’
‘It was my turn on the churn. Betsy says it’s good luck to feel the baby move in the dairy. Means he’ll grow strong and tall.’
Dan nodded. ‘As long as you don’t exert yourself too much.’
‘It’s my job, Daniel! If I can’t work in the dairy what will I do?’ She turned to the dresser and, picking up a jug of cider, poured him some. ‘You drink that down you and I’ll fetch you some more to have with your dinner. It won’t be long till it’s ready.’ She set down the jug again and stood watching him as he pulled up a stool and sat down at the table. ‘Where had she been, do you know?’
‘Lady Emily?’ He shook his head morosely. ‘She just said she was riding alone. And I know for a fact the squire has said she should always have a groom with her, or one of the men. She’s fallen off that mare more than once.’
‘But she was all right when you took her back?’
‘Yes.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘Why are you asking about her, Susan?’
His wife looked smug. ‘Just something Molly said. About her ladyship being sick in the mornings.’
‘You mean she’s expecting?’ Daniel frowned.
‘Maybe. And if so,’ Susan picked up a cloth to pad her hands against the heat of the pan, ‘whose is it, that’s the question.’ She glanced at him coquettishly.
Dan frowned. ‘You shouldn’t be spreading gossip like that, Susan. And nor should Molly. She’d be sent off if anyone heard she’d been talking about the folk at the Hall.’ He stood up and reached for the cider flagon from the dresser. ‘No.’ He held up his hand as his wife opened her mouth to continue. ‘Enough. I don’t want to hear any more.’
He didn’t want even to think about the squire’s new wife. There had been something deeply unsettling in the way Emily Crosby had looked at him as he had stooped to take her foot in his cupped hands and tossed her up onto the squire’s bay cob, and the way she had trailed her fingers across his shoulder and, just for a fraction of a second, across his cheek as she reached down for the rein.
He shod the mare next morning with no trouble, and sent her up to the Hall with one of the farm boys. There was no sign of her ladyship and no word from Molly. Dan straightened his back for a moment, his hands deep in the pocket of his heavy leather apron, eyeing the pair of Suffolk punches awaiting his attention in the yard as two of the men manoeuvred a heavy wagon out of one of the barns. Behind him the boy, Benjamin, was renewing his efforts with the huge pair of bellows. Dan glanced once down at the river where a heavy barge was making its way slowly on the top of the tide towards Woodbridge, then he turned again into the forge and after a moment’s consideration chose a new shoe from the pile in the corner.
Ken Lloyd was sitting in the cockpit of the Lady Grace, a can of lager in one hand and an oily cloth in the other. He had spent all morning working on the engine. He threw down the cloth, wiped his hands on the knees of his overalls and gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. Over his head the halyards were tapping against the mast; he could feel the pull of the tide jerking the boat gently at her mooring. He glanced down at his mobile, lying on the seat. It was switched off. If Zoë wanted anything she could come down and call from the landing stage or get in the car and go into town herself. He looked lazily across at the neighbouring boat. It had sailed in earlier while he was distracted by the engine and he had paid little attention as its skipper had turned into wind, neatly picked up the mooring, then climbed down into the dinghy and rowed towards the shore. He had vaguely noted a tall, dark-haired man, seen the sail bag tossed onto the boards of the small boat, then seen him tie up at the landing stage and stride up through the woods towards the barns. He studied the boat now. Curlew. He saw the name on her stern as she swung to the mooring. A neat, seaworthy little craft with tan sails and, as far as he could see, no engine at all.
Losing interest he scanned the far bank. Slowly the tide was beginning to cover the saltmarsh on the edge of the river. He could see a family walking down the path in the distance, two dogs running ahead of them. It would be perfect for sailing soon. If he could persuade Zoë to come with him they could take the Lady down-river, maybe stop for a bite of lunch at a pub. With a satisfied grin he leaned across and picking up the mobile he switched it on and pressed speed dial.
There was no reply.
Emily Crosby was sitting in the library, writing a letter. Or at least she was seated at a table in front of the window, a pen in her hand, but her eyes were fixed on the distant farm buildings beyond the park and the pasture, where the land sloped down towards the river. The group of old barns clustered in a slight hollow of the gentle hillside where oak and birch woodlands, interspersed here and there with great forest pines, lined the river bank. She could see the blue smoke rising from the chimney of the forge and she smiled. She couldn’t get the image of Daniel Smith out of her head.
She had been transfixed by the beauty of his body, clad only in his leather-patched trousers as he washed at the pump yesterday, the rippling muscles, the tanned skin which betrayed the fact that he was often outside without his shirt and jerkin. She smiled to herself at the memory of his embarrassment at the sight of her as he pulled his shirt from where he had thrown it across the shafts of one of the farm wagons and dragged it on over his head. She could feel her body reacting at the memory and unconsciously her hand strayed to her bodice, stroking the swell of her breasts through the fine muslin of her gown.
‘Emily?’ The door opened and Henry Crosby walked in. He paused for a moment, a slight man, in his early forties, his face pale, his hair already thinning at his temples, and looked at the table, frowning. ‘Who are you writing to?’
She grimaced. ‘Mama. Except I haven’t started yet. It is such a lovely morning and I was staring out across the fields. Look at the colour of the trees, Henry. They are like fire in the sunshine.’
She turned back towards the desk, as he walked across the room towards her. She could smell the pomade he wore on his hair, and the less pleasant mustiness of his shirt. He paused behind her and she could sense him looking down over her shoulder. She had written, ‘Dear Mama, How are you?’ That was all. It seemed to satisfy him, however. ‘How are you feeling, Emily?’ he enquired after a few moments’ silence. ‘Beaton said you were unwell yesterday.’
Her fingers tightened on her pen. She did not look at him. Was it impossible to keep anything to oneself in this damnable house? Molly had seen her vomiting, carried away the chamber pot, and of course she had to have told Mrs Field, the housekeeper, who had wasted no time in telling Beaton, the butler, who had probably relayed it round the village. By now the news had probably reached Ipswich via the carrier and by tomorrow it would be in London. ‘I am well enough today, thank you, Henry. I think I must have eaten something disagreeable. Mrs Davy’s oyster pie has made me sick before.’
‘So, you’re not –’ He paused, unable to proceed or hide the disappointment in his