Refreshed after coffee and cake, she left the inn and walked across the road to the broad promenade that ran along the seawall for the length of the expanse of what at high tide was golden sandy beach below. But the tide was out now and the dark rippled sand gave way to mud flats that stretched across the bay to the open sea. The beach here was notorious for its extreme tides, at low tide damp sand and mud seemed to extend to the horizon, stranded boats leaning sideways in the mud. It was a good time to collect the cockles and whelks at the edge of the flats and Petra watched the local folk bent to the ground as they walked, filling their buckets with shellfish as greedy seagulls circled above, looking for an opportunity to raid a bucket or snatch a cockle from an unwary hand. Fearless and threatening, they were considered as bad as rats by the local people with their constant ferocious hunting and continuous screaming.

She strolled along the promenade, the gulls shrieking and swooping overhead, still filled with that deep relaxation, the wonderful feeling of being alone, responsible for nothing and no one, only herself. And now she had the time to think clearly about how to reconcile her own powerful support for universal suffrage with Guy’s equally powerful opposition. After much thought she had decided that her husband was entitled to feel let down that she had not warned him that she would be taking her public support for her cause onto his own ground. And she was resolved that in future she would always inform him of any civil actions the Union was going to take. But what would that do to her marriage?

How was it possible to feel such deep love for a man who held views diametrically opposed to her own? No, stronger than that, views that she now found abhorrent. Views that denigrated her as a person in his world. Guy would deny that, of course, but Petra knew she was right.

She had reached the end of the promenade and turned back toward the pier and the pavilion. Her mind was clear but the answer remained a conundrum. Thrusting her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket she walked the length of the pier, absently noting the stalls that were open, that the puppet show was still performing a vigorous Punch and Judy, and the theatre at the end of the pier was showing a variety show every day until the end of November.

The smell of frying mingled with the pungent aroma of vinegar made her realize that she was hungry and it had to be lunchtime. The smell wafted from a small kiosk located at the beginning of the pier, just where it met the promenade. She increased her speed, walking quickly toward the scent, thinking now only of the delights of vinegar-soaked fried cod and thick chips wrapped in newspaper.