Scandal at the Dower House by Marina Oliver

science. He must have had experience in the boxing ring.
    Soon a thoroughly defeated Dan was being tossed almost contemptuously into the duckpond and, with a cheer, the invaders disengaged and marched away.
    Mr Lewis went and stood in the doorway, glowering.
    ‘I’ll finish paying you ruffians tomorrow. As for you, Dan,’ he went on, surveying the bedraggled, weed-draped figure who had been pulled from the pond by his friends, ‘this is the end. I’ve warned you several times of late. You’ve not worked well these past months. I’ve tried to make allowances, but I’ll do so no more, if you bring such a rabble here. You can get out of the cottage by tomorrow.’
    There were protests from Dan’s friends when they realized they would be unable to buy ale until the following day, but they clearly held Mr Lewis in awe and, though they grumbled, they gradually drifted away.
    Mr Lewis turned back into the taproom and began to collect his papers. He glanced at Nicholas and shrugged.
    ‘You may think me hard,’ he said, almost apologetically, ‘but I haven’t had a decent day’s work out of him since it happened. And it was his own fault. If he hadn’t been chasing that Ellen from the Dower House, poor Annie wouldn’t have done what she did.’
    ‘What will he do? Has he family?’
    ‘No, he’s a foreigner, from Devon. If I was him I’d want to go back there. The men might have fought for him today, but thatwas local pride. They blame him, and he doesn’t have a pleasant time of it here. Annie was born here, see. Some of them think what she did was justified.’
    ‘We spoke for her, but it didn’t influence the judge. Mr Lewis, I wanted to have a word with you about the drainage scheme. I’ll order some ale and we can talk about it here.’
     
    It was March before Catarina arrived back at the Dower House. She had hired a post chaise in Bristol, refusing to accept Mr Sinclair’s invitation to spend a few days with his family to recover from the voyage, which had been rougher than usual at that time of year.
    ‘I need to get home to the Dower House as soon as possible; I’ve been away far too long,’ she said.
    They had been fortunate in being able to start at daybreak. Having docked late at night, Catarina had decided it was easier for them all to remain on board until morning, rather than move to an inn for just one night.
    Clarice, to her relief, had proved to be a good sailor, and when Catarina herself had to retire to her bunk, she had been thankful the girl could take charge of Maria. The child had thrown off her illness and was growing fast. Making up for being born early, Clarice said with a laugh.
    The coach journey was, Catarina thought, almost as wet as the sea voyage. It rained incessantly, and from the drenched look of the countryside and the pools of water in low-lying fields, it seemed to have been raining for weeks.
    It was dark before they arrived, but the house was ablaze with lights. She had written to tell Staines of her return, but had not been able to predict which day. He had clearly been prepared for her whenever she came and, when they clambered stiffly from the chaise and went into the house, Catarina blessed his efficiency as she almost collapsed, Maria in her arms, into a chair before a roaring fire of sweet-scented apple logs.
    ‘Welcome home, my lady. I’ve sent the post boys round to the stables, and to get some food.’
    He studiously avoided looking at the baby, who was smiling up at him. She was not, like some babies, shy of strangers, and occasionally Catarina felt a twinge of apprehension in case she turned out to be like her mother.
    ‘This little one is Maria de Freitas,’ Catarina said, ‘and this is Clarice, her nurse. She is the child of a cousin, who died when she was born and, as her father had been killed in a hunting accident, the poor thing was orphaned. Her father’s mother was English,’ she added, thinking that this was the only partly truthful thing she