Seething with fury, Esther sat where she was. Not because she was afraid to walk out, far from it, but she was not going to be forced into causing a scene in front of the squire and his family, and the vicar, to say nothing of the Willoughbys. By so doing, she realized, it would be she, Esther, who would be made to look foolish.

When it came to the point in the service where the vicar addressed the parents of the child, Esther felt Matthew make an involuntary movement as if he were about to respond. Now it was her turn to grab his arm and hiss at him, ‘Oh no, ya don’t. Ya sit where you are.’

He shot her an angry, hate-filled glance, but did as she bid.

Just you wait, Matthew Hilton, she thought savagely, till this is all over.

By the time they were half-way along the lane towards home, Matthew did indeed begin to wish he had never thought of attending his son’s baptism uninvited. His wife castigated him, her voice rising shrilly, echoing across the fields until he felt the whole parish must hear her.

‘How dare you, Matthew Hilton? Ya knew, didn’t ya, that it was his christening today? Didn’t ya?’ she insisted until he admitted grudgingly that he had overheard the men talking in the pub and had learnt that Beth Eland’s son was to be christened that Sunday after morning service.

‘I almost changed me mind this morning, when you gave me that watch. But you,’ he added, trying as ever to lay the blame on her, ‘insisted on us going – if you remember.’

‘Whatever possessed you to do such a stupid thing? How could you think you’d be welcome there? Ya’ve made a fool of all of us.’

He stopped and turned to face her. She stopped too and they stood either side of the narrow lane, the wind whipping loose sand from the dunes around them, the sound of the sea in their ears, and the gulls screeching above as if the wheeling, diving birds were joining in their heated quarrel.

‘What d’ya mean?’ he argued belligerently. ‘Ah’ve a right to be there. Daniel’s my son.’

He uttered the name he had heard the boy given with pride in his voice and his tone was not lost on Esther. But it served only to fuel her outrage.

‘Aye, ya bastard son!’ Her country dialect became even more pronounced in her blazing anger. ‘Ya’ve made a fool of ya’sen, and me! An’ if that dun’t mean nothing, did ya stop to think what Beth must feel to see ya there? And what about Robert Eland – what must that poor feller be feelin’?’