As women yet, who apprehend
Some sudden cause of causeless fear,
Although that seeming cause take end,
And they behold no danger near,
A shaking through their limbs they find,
Like leaves saluted by the wind:

Edmund Waller, 'On the Discovery of a Lady's Painting'

Morning brought with the dawn a pale and irritable Pa, with a querulous tremor in his voice and a slight tremor in his hands. He had slept on a wooden settle downstairs after bidding his fellow-drinkers a merry goodnight, and was full of aches and pains.

It wasn't, perhaps, the best time to broach the subject of a commission to her father; but Lizzie was elated with her success. She had drawn sheet after sheet of fair likenesses. There was Mr Strong's strong brow, and here Mrs Strong's dark eyes – why, she had done half the work for him. All Pa would have needed to do was get out his oils, and Setauket would have been all agog.

But Pa ,alas, was not interested.

'Rubbish!' he sniffed, twitching aside a charcoal sketch with shaking fingers as he reeled over to his bed. 'What absolute poppycock, propitiating a dirty little grubbing fellow like that! Why, his brandy wasn't worth the money-'

'Keep your voice down!' Lizzie hissed. 'Don't you see, Pa? This is – this is strategy. People will hear about it, they'll see you're a man who –'

'-Makes sad little daubs of pasty-faced provincials?'

'Who honours his agreements!' Lizzie snapped, trying not to lose her temper. It was rather hard for Pa to be so fussy. She had already decided she liked the Strongs.

'Oh, don't be such a pettish miss, Bess!' Mr Lowndes said wearily, wincing as he raised one hand to his forehead. 'You don't understand these things, dear. I suppose I can't blame you, but – really, I'm aiming a little higher than innkeepers and their stodgy little wives. I am aiming for gentility-'

'Were the sergeants you were making free with last night so very genteel?'

Infuriatingly, Pa did not take offence at that particular shot. He instead laughed fondly, as though Liz was a child stamping her foot.

'My, what a little scold it is this morning!' he said drowsily, as he dived beneath the covers. 'But see, m'dear, I was the one really playing the strategy game last night. There was a very affable gentleman, Captain Joyce, who assured me of an introduction to the good major. A most agreeable fellow…'

Lizzie said nothing. If Pa's 'strategies' were half as good as he boasted they were, he would certainly have been Royal Court Painter by now – if not redecorating the Sistine Chapel whilst being pelted with roses.

'Unfortunately the poor fellow was rather hard up for silver, so I lent him a trifle,' Pa attempted to wink conspiratorially at her. 'Silver softens up Johnny Redcoat like nothing else, I find! He was most gratified.'

'I'm sure he was,' Lizzie said woodenly.

'Don't look at me like that, child; you don't understand the way the game's played! Commissions require cunning, my dear – cunning and guile. Little bargaining games are no good with gentlemen. And as I don't care to deal with anyone less than gentlemanly…'

'Pa-'

'No. You'll have to make my excuses to your precious Strongs, my dear. I'm not sure I care to know them socially. Now – if you'll excuse me – I feel a trifle …ugh, unwell…'

And with a toss of the blanket, Mr Lowndes huddled beneath the bed-clothes and was lost to the world.

Silently, Lizzie counted to ten inside her head. It didn't make things any better – but it did give her time to pick up Pa's abandoned portfolio and the scorned sketches before leaving.

'Gently, my dear! Oh, my head…'

She was annoyed enough to slam the door on her way out.

It wasn't right. Lizzie was a great believer in things being right; years of trailing after her father had made Elizabeth Lowndes an ardent believer in conviction. Probably because Pa had very few. But…it wasn't right that Pa turned his nose up at people – and good, honest people too. There were a great deal more merchant and trading folk in Setauket than the elusive major, or bloody Captain Joyce – who had clearly sponged off her father with a wink at how he was fiddling the old soak out of his silver… It made Lizzie's blood boil to think of it.

And Pa – knowing her father as well as she did – would simply lord it over his hosts after his flat, discourteous refusal, wearing away any vestige of goodwill, blessedly oblivious to the resentment he would cause as he drank and condescended his way about the place until they were thrown out on their ears. And even then, he would wonder loudly why the 'damned fellow was being so unpardonably rude.'

It may have been necessity that made Lizzie have a sharp eye for a prospective commission, but it was also a genuine desire to give something back. The Strongs had offered her kindness and some little trust. Having Pa snub them wasn't what they deserved.

There was a battered, silvered glass speckled with rust that hung in the narrow passageway. Lizzie glanced in it for a second, tucking a stray wisp of errant hair back behind one ear. She would need her wits about her for this. It would take a cool head to fool Mrs Strong.

This was going to be like that time in Kingston again…

There had been few redcoats in the tavern when Pa and Lizzie had arrived before – or at least, only a few sullen privates off duty amongst the town's heavier drinkers. Mornings in the Strong Tavern were quite a different matter.

Lizzie could smell the heavy scent of soldier's tobacco from the stairs as she descended. And not just that. There was a confused murmur of rowdy male voices from the snuggery. Evidently the army regulars were occupying the bar counter as matter of course.

'Your ales, gentlemen! Now now, no crowding – Selah! Get Amos to fetch another cask, would you? They've nearly drunk us dry…'

'What about the cold bacon, Miss?'

'Have Cicero slice it, will you?' Selah Strong's voice called. 'They'll not be thinking about food whilst they're calling for their ale. That'll be afterwards…'

To Lizzie's eternal regret, it was at that moment that she unthinkingly pushed open the door – and remembered that this was not York City – nor even Boston, where you had all manner of men and women jostling amicably along-side each other in the bake-houses and cook-shops as well as the taverns. But she had been thinking wistfully of the cold bacon.

Twenty pairs of eyes turned one and all to fix on the whisk of petticoat standing squarely in the middle of the inn parlour. A dozen powdered military heads turned in her direction.

It was as though she had wandered into a barracks and pulled up a chair.

Someone gave a low, appreciative wolf-whistle.

Lizzie's first instinct was to bolt –but Pa's line of work had prepared her for moments like this. Smoke and mirrors, she thought quickly. Smoke and mirrors. After her initial pause, she steeled herself to walk forward.

One of Mr Lowndes' patrons in Boston had owned a collection of classical paintings – and one of them depicted 'The Fate of Actaeon'. Most of it had been all agonised posture and leaping hounds, but the goddess Diana in the painting had a cool, 'touch-me-not' smile as she looked on. The smile was belied by the pitiless expression in her eyes.

I am Diana, Lizzie thought, hardening her stare and trying to adopt the painting's cold smile.

'Why, Mrs Strong!' A florid, fat man with a captain's epaulette on one shoulder got up and made a tipsy bow, his wig slightly askew. 'Is this a lovely sister you've been hiding away?'

'This is a gentlewoman, Captain Joyce,' After a horrified pause, Anna Strong bustled forward in a flurry of indignation, 'And a paying guest.'

Lizzie looked again. So this was the good captain who had 'borrowed a trifle' from her father, was it? He looked the sort.

'Only we military men see so little of womankind –to lovely woman, bless 'em!' Captain Joyce raised his glass, to a ragged cheer. 'I meant no disrespect, ma-am – or to you, miss. I presume it is miss?'

'And what business is it -'Mrs Strong began.

'Why - yes, sir,' Lizzie interjected, whilst repressing a quiet smile. She had met men of Captain Joyce's stamp before. Haughty 'Diana' was no longer called for. This needed a... different approach. 'It is Miss. And I was very grateful to hear how you have befriended my father!'

'Y-your father? ' Captain Joyce blinked. 'Eh? Who-'

'Told me how honest and disinterested your friendship was,' Lizzie said, opening her eyes like a trusting child, before dropping them shyly again. 'We have very little money, sir, and few connections – and how we fare in Setauket may make or break us. But my father told me that you volunteered an introduction to your commanding officer – with a view to a commission, too! It is so good to meet a truly good man …' To Captain Joyce's evident discomfort, Lizzie took his hand. 'Please – if there's anything I can do to requite your kindness, sir –'

'Bah!' returned the Captain gruffly, turning turkey-red under the sly grins of his men. 'N-not at all, not at all – the very least I could do…'

His glance was now taking in Miss Lowndes' thrice-patched short jacket with the crewelwork embroidery fraying sadly. And the faded skirt. And Lizzie's wide-eyed, innocent stare. He squirmed, uncomfortably.

'Eh…my duties- if you'll excuse me, madam…'

'Of course, sir!' Lizzie dropped his hand, inwardly triumphing. You might have thought Captain Joyce the blushing maid who had stumbled unawares into a taproom. See how you like that, sir. She bobbed a meek little curtsey in the direction of the rapidly retreating Captain's back –

And encountered an electric-blue stare from the wooden settle in the corner of the room that made her stomach clench.

Amongst polite society, there is a certain level of eye-contact which is acceptable. To look too intently at one person is, between strangers, both unnerving and insulting – and humanity in general appears to understand this.

The man looking Elizabeth over from behind his small glass of Nantz clearly did not.

He did not drop his gaze when Lizzie looked up; or when she tried to outmatch his stare, trying to shame him into looking away. She might as well have attempted to outstare a statue dressed in regimentals.

But statues, at least, have blind sightless eyes. There was something a little less than sane in that wide-eyed popping blue stare – like the untutored gaze of a very young child…

Or an animal, Lizzie thought with a shudder. More like an animal. Her small victory over pompous Captain suddenly rang very hollow.

'You'll be wanting breakfast, Miss Lowndes?'

Thank God, Mr Strong had emerged, a scowling knight-errant with a cask tucked under one arm. Grateful for an opportunity of graceful retreat, Lizzie allowed Mrs Strong's gentle hand on her sleeve to steer her out of the room.

To her surprise, there was a broad smile on Mrs Strong's handsome features as she turned from shutting the parlour door 'That was well-played,' she said, admiringly. Suddenly, all half-reserve was completely gone from the innkeeper's wife . She gave Lizzie a grin as though they had been bosom friends from childhood.

'I-It was?' It didn't feel like a success to her.

'I've never seen Captain Joyce dosed with his own medicine before,' Mrs Strong said, suppressing a laugh in her throat, 'Why, it does a heart good to see something like that! He turned tail faster than you could count thruppence!'

'Oh… yes,' Lizzie managed a smile at the memory of pink-faced Captain Joyce scuttling away to his ale. She'd almost forgotten about him under the uncomfortable scrutiny of the officer.

'Mrs Strong, I-'

'Call me Anna,' Mrs Strong suggested. There was a warm, approving twinkle in her eye that said: you earned it. 'I tend to avoid the taproom of a morning. Although you seemed to manage very well –'

'I forgot I wasn't in a city inn.' Lizzie confessed. 'It's not thought ill of there.'

'They're well enough, the regiment,' Mrs Strong said confidentially, as she began to set a place at table. 'And they've caused no trouble here with Setauket women. Major Hewlett is very strong on morality; something to be grateful for, I suppose. But I wouldn't answer for breakfasting with the men as a lone woman and a stranger. Get your father by you.'

Lizzie couldn't bear talking of Pa now. 'Are the officers all like Captain Joyce?' she asked, tentatively, hoping to turn the conversation.

Mrs Strong snorted. 'There wouldn't be a much of a war if they were! There's better, I grant you – although Corporal Easton's a weasel. Never pays his tab. And the lieutenants are terrible gamblers. They'd steal the shirts off each other's backs if there's no one else to play whist or piquet. But, apart from the dram-drinking and the saucy pamphlets, there's no harm in most of them.'

'Most?' Lizzie thought back to the officer again. 'What about the one by the fire? On the bench?'

'Who do you mean?'

'The pale one?'

'Him?' The merriment drained out of Anna Strong's face. 'That'll be Lieutenant Simcoe.' For a moment she was once again the grave, guarded innkeeper's wife. 'There's the odd one… enjoys making trouble. Likes it. He's often in here, with the others.'

'Does he start fights?'

'He finishes them.' Mrs Strong said tightly. 'I don't ever want to see a thing like that again. Your father will do well to steer clear of Simcoe. He's a mad dog.' Her fists had unwittingly bunched in the fabric of her skirt, Lizzie noticed. 'and if he was a dog, I'd have had him shot–'

She broke off abruptly as Selah Strong, looking perplexed, came in from the noise and bustle of the inn.

'Do you ladies know what this is about?' he demanded. 'Only I've just had Captain Joyce give me money "for the poor artist fellow…" '

Anna Strong stared at Lizzie for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

'Now if that isn't a miracle? Getting money out of a redcoat – and Captain Joyce, no less!'

'He owes you money?' Selah said dubiously.

'He borrowed money from my father.' Lizzie said stoutly. ' But I think he was feeling… charitable.'

It wasn't all of it, once they had counted it up. Pa's 'trifle' had been three shillings, and there was now one shilling, an assortment of pennies and an old tinny farthing left. And a horn button.

But Lizzie's appeal to Captain Joyce's conscience had apparently worked. And whilst Selah Strong was not a very demonstrative man when it came to merriment, there was a faint upturn to his mouth once he heard the whole story from his wife.

It was then that Lizzie knew Setauket would be a good place, in spite of Pa and his social snobbery.

She and the Strongs were on different terms now– and somehow, they had become unspoken allies in the face of adversity. It felt right; something Lizzie had not felt since they had left the Three Cripples.

When Pa eventually rose from his slumbers, he found his daughter frowning abstractedly at a small easel she had propped on the linen press, paintbrush in hand.

'What on earth are you doing, child- are those my oils?'

'They're the old set,' Lizzie said firmly. 'And I'm painting the Strongs, Pa. You don't have to. But they've been very kind-

Mr Lowndes sat up, blanket still tangled around his stockinged-feet.

'Dear me, if you insist…' he said, in a bewildered fashion. He squinted critically at the canvas.

Elizabeth had sketched out a crude facsimile of wooden panelling as background – the better to make the subjects stand out larger than life.

Selah Strong was stood half turned towards the viewer, half turned towards the seated figure of his wife. One hand was on her shoulder. Liz had sketched out that rare expression of tenderness whilst it was still fresh in her mind, and it looked very well painted in. She had also painted in the careful, crisp starched frills of Mrs Strong's cap that shadowed her face. She was not quite yet content with the expression there; somehow Anna Strong looked out cautiously from the portrait with dark, unreadable eyes. She looked as though she was the point of leaping up from her chair.

'That arm is a bit out of proportion, dear, isn't it?'

'I haven't painted in the flesh-tones yet, Pa.'

'I'd add a little more sheen to the folds there in the skirts when you have time, Liz. But – on the whole, quite passable.' Pa sounded surprised. 'Well now. It wasn't a waste of time teaching you after all…'

He grabbed at his waistcoat. 'Is there any chance of breakfast?'

'It's past noon, Pa,' Liz said patiently, frowning at the painted arm. Perhaps it was a little out of proportion. But to move it would disturb the line of the table, and ruin the whole composition…

She sighed, and put down her brush.

'Lunch then, dear?' Pa twinkled at her. 'Come; I shall treat my little prentice to the best Setauket has to offer. We shall have oysters, and porter, and completely disgrace ourselves eating them on the street...'

Lizzie smiled. That was Pa, all over. He could be petty, unreasonable, and infuriating when money was tight, but then he'd smile. And Lizzie saw her old Papa again through the drunken stranger; the one who'd let her play with chalks as a very little girl, and who made her and Alexander giggle with his funny stories. For a few hours, it was like having a real father again.

'Why Papa!' Lizzie bobbed a mock-rustic little curtsey and began plucking at her apron-strings, 'Why not? I need a walk. Let's see Setauket!'

Setauket itself as a town was a huddle of small wooden houses perched defensively on the very edge of the sea. There was something of a harbour; a few jetties where the fisher-folk tied up their boats – and if you squinted through the grey sea-mist you could just make out the dim outline of a huge British supply-ship docked far out at sea. Seen so dimly through the autumn fog, it looked like a ghost-ship looming ominously over the small town.

Lizzie's fingers itched for her sketchbook, left back at the tavern. You couldn't compose scenes like that; sometimes Nature just gave them to you.

I'll come back tomorrow, she vowed, reluctantly turning away from the view of the bay.

The oysters were very good, with a squeeze of vinegar and a pinch of salt – although Lizzie did have to drag her father away from the scowling stall keeper once he began to expound on the recipe for beef, stout and oyster pie. Pa's culinary interests weren't for everyone – although he did delight in sharing.

'Shall we see the church, m'dear?' Mr Lowndes suggested. 'I am sure that now we have made ourselves known to the military gentlemen, there should be no difficulty in obtaining admittance. After all, I did that pretty little piece of diplomacy with Captain Joyce-'

Lizzie said nothing. She had the remains of the 'diplomacy' tucked securely in a small linen pocket sewn into her stays. She glanced dubiously at the bristling breastworks and sharp stakes planted around the white-painted wooden meeting-house.

'Perhaps,' she suggested tentatively, 'Perhaps, Pa – we should wait for the captain to act for us? A formal introduction would be…' she cast around desperately, for something Pa would listen to. 'It would be more proper. And becoming in – in a gentleman, to wait for an introduction to be made…'

'You think so?' Pa sagged, a little disappointed. 'Well. You know best, my dear. I'm sure.' He shivered, glancing up at the grey sky. 'It looks like rain, anyway. I think perhaps some a little warm brandy would do me good…'

Lizzie sighed. The old, good-natured Papa was already gone.

She turned back, wrapping her grey kersey cloak more closely around her as the first few drops of cold rain began to fall.

'Oh, I say – my dear!' Pa gestured with his walking stick towards the distant white spire of Setauket's church. 'Look! I believe we have a diplomatic sortie approaching!'

Sure enough, down the beaten path there marched what looked like a child's notion of a review. A handful of toy soldiers: two men, front and back, and between them, a small figure in a cocked hat with an air of assured dignity.

'I believe, dear,' Pa said, full of glee, 'that the gentleman is Major Hewlett himself!'

'Really?' Lizzie said incredulously. 'He's rather small.'

'No rules for officers, dear.' Mr Lowndes looked down with vague affection on his daughter. At five foot five, Lizzie was a comical sight remarking on height. She was a little doll of a thing in a hand-me-down cap and her threadbare short jacket. 'Of course, I may possibly… equivocate a little when it comes to painting him. Flattery never does any harm...'

'What if he doesn't want a painting, Pa?'

'Nonsense,' Pa murmured, sotto voce. 'Now quiet, Bess. My good sir!' he said, raising his voice in a mellow accent of genial goodwill as the little military party approached. He doffed his hat in an extravagant bow, with a sideways glance at Lizzie – who hastily ducked into a meek little bob herself.

'Are you the portrait-painting gentleman, sirrah?'

Major Hewlett was not, despite his immaculate dress and exquisitely pomaded hair, a particularly imposing man. He was, on close inspection, a little homely under the powdered wig and gold braid – which perhaps explained something of his pompous manner. Reaching up to the full stature of His Majesty's grandeur, Lizzie thought.

'I am indeed, sir,' Mr Lowndes replied heartily. 'Do I have the pleasure of addressing Major Hewlett?

'Business, rather than pleasure, sir.' the major replied, shaking his head. 'I am led to believe that you entered Setauket without presenting your papers?'

Pa took a step back. 'I beg your pardon?'

Lizzie looked up in horror. They had presented papers; to a bored-looking sentry. Why would they have cause to-

And then her gaze snagged on the officer behind Hewlett.

It was the gaunt-looking lieutenant from the tavern. Who, now he was unfolded from a chair, appeared to be a head taller than everyone else. He towered above the little major, directing an evident sneer in the direction of a very flustered Pa.

'I- I can assure you, gentlemen,' Mr Lowndes stammered, 'There was a man posted on the road who we gave all the proper documentation – on my word of honour –'

'I regret to say the soldier claims otherwise, Major.'

Lizzie found herself inwardly surprised by the accents of the formidable Lieutenant Simcoe. For such a tall man, he had a surprisingly high, almost delicate voice. Why, it was the voice of a Latin schoolmaster, mincing over declensions and pronouns! Fastidious to a fault, almost a caricature of a correct gentleman. In other circumstances, Lizzie might have laughed.

But as it was, her blood was up. Pa did not need ridicule and bullying. And if she could help it, there would be none.

The major, she decided at once, would be the easier target. Raising her eyes, and assuming the gentle, slightly appealing glance she had thrown at Captain Joyce, Lizzie took a few timid steps forward, like the good little daughter she was.

'Is there some difficulty, gentlemen?' she asked, uncertainly. 'This must be some mistake; My father has our papers if you need to see them. We had them countersigned…'

'Y-yes, indeed-' Pa stuttered, throwing her a grateful glance. 'In my coat-'

Lizzie almost wished she hadn't spoken; for it meant they all turned their eyes on her. And after their encounter in the inn parlour, Lizzie knew there was precious little chance of shaming the Lieutenant into looking away.

The major, however, made her a neat little bow, as brisk as a robin redbreast hopping on a twig.

'I am sure it is a misunderstanding, madam. However, in such troubled times as these – we cannot be too careful. I am sure you understand our need for caution...'

'Of course!' Mr Lowndes said eagerly, in a sweat of anxiety. 'And if I may be permitted to step upstairs to my room…'

'I think the lady should make the retrieval, Major,' interjected the Lieutenant sharply. 'If you please.'

'Well, I hardly think we need be quite so strict here, Lieutenant…' began the little major, darting a look of disapproval over one epauletted shoulder.

'But you said so yourself, Major. In times such as these, there is every need for caution.'

Was that a note of mockery in Lieutenant Simcoe's voice? His face was perfectly solemn as he threw the major's own words back to him, turning that electric-blue stare squarely in his superior's face.

Hewlett's indecision showed in his eyes. To protest on Mr Lowndes' part would show weakness – and on his own ground, no less! To acquiesce was insufferably discourteous; but it was the only way forward.

'If you wouldn't mind, miss?' he said stiffly, casting a look of evident dislike upon his lieutenant.

'As Simcoe is so very zealous -'

Lizzie didn't need asking twice. She turned and hurried away with a dignified little patter of feet – only breaking into an undignified run once she was past the threshold.

God, this was the last thing they needed. Pa had never quite caused a scandal – although he had frequently spent the night cooling his heels with other roisterers if he found drinking companions. Lizzie always kept a supply of money sewn up into her bodice for emergencies like that. But military men…and Pa…

Enjoys making trouble, Mrs Strong had said. Likes it…

Fortunately, Pa's papers (crumpled letters of introduction, commendations, and a bill for breakfast and a glass of port) were not very numerous. Lizzie easily found their permits– and, to her infinite relief, with the right countersignature allowing them to cross into Setauket.

Just try making trouble now, Lizzie thought grimly, as she hurtled down the creaking stairs.

Fortunately, Pa had recovered his composure enough to attempt a little light artistic conversation with Major Hewlett; although Lizzie saw his glance creep furtively sideways from time to time. He had clearly been counting the seconds in agony until she returned.

'Here!' she announced brightly. 'I knew we had them!'

She proffered the papers, gently, with a small dip of her skirts towards the major.

'Well, Lieutenant?' Major Hewlett snapped. 'Are they in order?'

A black-gloved hand pulled the sheaf of thick paper from her hands. Lizzie quickly snatched her fingers away – she did not care to prolong any meeting with Mrs Strong's 'mad dog'.

The 'mad dog', on the other hand, seemed to take a calm enjoyment in nettling the little major. He turned - maddeningly -through every page, peering at the writing with a theatrical air of enquiry.

'Why, so they are.' he said, with an air of mock-surprise. 'Who would have credited it? How very…sloppy of Private Perkins, not to have remembered that. I shall really have to reprove him.'

'Your enthusiasm is to be commended, Lieutenant, but there's really no need,' Hewlett said stiffly – before turning with an apologetic air towards the stupefied Mr Lowndes. 'My most sincere apologies, sir – and – as I was saying – I do believe I would appreciate a little… ahem –'

He coughed, delicately. Was that embarrassment, Lizziewondered? 'Er - Perhaps your young lady had better go inside, sir? The weather is inclement.'

Ah. Nudes, thought Lizzie resignedly, adjusting her cloak. It was probably nudes that the little major wanted . Pa did a furtive trade, under the rose as it were, of classical daubs nominally called 'Hylas and the Nymphs', say, or the 'Judgement of Paris'(and occasionally, for certain aesthetically inclined gentleman, certain heroic friendships in which women were mysteriously absent). It was culture – or at least an excuse to look at groups of pretty women with no clothes on in the guise of classical literature. They paid very well, so Lizzie hardly minded. Oh well. Thank goodness for that…

But as she turned to step inside, an iron scarlet-clad arm stopped her path.

Lizzie stared upwards, alarmed. She had to; the 'mad dog' was head and shoulders above her, and holding out the damned papers, with an offensive little gentleman's smirk towards a lady and an inferior. He probably thought that was winning, Lizzie thought with disgust.

It took some effort, but Lizzie managed to extend a hand and take the crackling bits of official paper from him.

'Thank you,' she said, her voice shaking. Why did it sound like she was afraid?

I'm not afraid, I'm not…

For a moment, his arm still barred her path; but then – thank God! - it dropped. Mercifully, he stepped back and made a very slight bow in her direction.

'Miss Lowndes, isn't it?'

He took the trouble to pronounce her name slowly - as if he hadn't just deliberately read her name, age, birthplace and profession all written down in neat clerk's hand!

It was about all Lizzie could stand. Making a short nod, she fled as quickly as bare civility would let her into the inn like a rabbit to its bolthole.

Mrs Strong was waiting inside the door of the private parlour. One look at Lizzie's angry, mutinous eyes and flushed face was enough.

'Yes,' she said simply. 'That how he always makes me feel, too.' The fellow-feeling in her voice was enough. 'Drink? I find I need something to take the foul taste away...'

'If he tries anything with Pa –' Lizzie said, in a voice choked with rage. 'I'll-'

'Hush now!' Mrs Strong put a hand on her arm. 'Leave that. It does no good to think that way.' She sighed. 'That'll probably do, anyway. It's a power game with the army. They like to mark their territory, like dogs. They'll more than likely leave you alone, now-'

'I think Papa's discussing a commission with Major Hewlett,' Lizzie said, slowly unclenching her fists. 'So… there was some good. I suppose.' She shook her head, calming down. 'I just felt so angry…'

When Mrs Strong looked up, her angular, beautiful face was full of bitterness.

'Aren't we all.' She said briefly. 'Some families here think-'

But whatever Setauket families thought had to wait. In a gust of wind and rain Pa blew in, a little colour returning to his pale cheeks in the warmth of the inn.

'Pa!' Lizzie shot to her feet. 'Are you alright?' she dropped her voice. 'Did the major request anything… classical?'

'Classics be damned,' Mr Lowndes grumbled, shaking his wet cloak onto the newly scrubbed floor. 'Damned odd – the fellow was so secretive about it I couldn't make out what he was asking, at first. Probably that long whey-face streak of piss, putting him off…' He broke off, looking a little affronted.

'Your high-ranking major only wants me to paint a picture of his damn horse!'

Lizzie couldn't help it. After all the tension, just a moment before – and the sight of Pa's baffled, pompous face - she burst into an outrageous fit of whooping laughter. It wasn't ladylike – but it brought a smile to Pa's face, even whilst he reached for a glass of brandy over the counter.

'I don't see what there is to laugh about, you mocking little ninny,' he grumbled. 'Horses are a plaguy difficult thing to paint unless you specialise. But there'll be ten guineas down for it, if I don't addle the foreshortening...'

Mrs Strong nearly dropped the flask of brandy in her shock.

'For a painting?'

'And I have two as a little deposit!' Pa dropped the gold on the counter, making the metal sing. 'I think this calls for a toast, don't you – to the gold of his Blessed Majesty George the Third, Lord love him! And long may he continue to make enough gold pieces for us all!'