Frances clutched her dressing gown as if her life depended upon it. ‘Please, Mrs Morgan, Gwyneth, don’t upset him. He’s not feeling his best this morning.’

‘Why? What’s the matter with him?’

‘I’ll deal with this, Frances. Go and finish preparing breakfast.’ The Reverend Baker cut a fine and imperious figure as he came down the stairs in his black suit and highly polished shoes. He was in his late forties and his humourless grey eyes regarded Gwyneth from beneath bushy eyebrows as he plucked the pocket watch from his waistcoat and rather pointedly looked at the time.

‘You can stop putting on airs and graces,’ snapped Gwyneth. ‘I’m not impressed. Are your boys at home?’

The eyes narrowed and there was a hint of something wary in them. ‘Why do you wish to know the whereabouts of my sons?’

‘Are they here or not? It’s not a difficult question.’

‘I have no intention of answering any of your questions, Mrs Morgan, and I would appreciate it if you’d leave immediately.’

‘Did Bob Freeman get in touch with you yesterday?’ she asked abruptly.

‘He did, and I’ll thank you not to meddle in my business again. My sons have not been educated to the highest standard to have them working as farmhands.’

‘So you turned his offer down?’ She didn’t wait for his answer – she could see it in his eyes. ‘You bloody fool,’ she muttered. ‘Those boys are getting out of hand and a good dose of honest labour might have been the making of them. Where are they now?’

‘They’ve gone,’ said Frances timidly from the kitchen doorway. She stood there with her dull hair hanging in wisps about her face as she twisted her hands in the folds of her dressing gown.

‘Hold your tongue, woman,’ roared the reverend.

‘But their beds haven’t been slept in,’ she dared to continue, ‘and with that terrible storm last night, I fear for their lives. We should at least call Jake or—’

Reverend Baker grabbed his wife by the arm, making her wince. ‘Be silent, woman! I will not have our business discussed like this.’

‘There’s no need for that,’ said Gwyneth sharply as she rapped her walking stick on the polished floor. ‘Bullying your wife won’t make things any better for you or your boys.’

He let go of his wife’s arm and turned on Gwyneth. ‘Get out of my house!’ he shouted, two high spots of colour reddening his pale cheeks, his eyes alight with fury.

‘It is not your house,’ she replied calmly. ‘It is owned by the community. And I will leave when I’m good and ready.’ She held his furious gaze. He didn’t frighten her, and if he dared to lay a finger on her, she’d hit him with her walking stick.