Edward peered down at the baby. ‘Shooting,’ he said as he looked up.
Dorothea’s gut churned at the word, so jarring in this book-lined room with its paper art and playthings. Francis and his father stared at each other.
‘This time you’re going to learn. Rabbits everywhere. Terrible for the farmers’ crops. We’ll deliver them to Billson and he can have rabbit stew for dinner.’
Francis looked across at Dorothea, a guarded questioning look, but they both knew she had no answers.
‘Get your boots and a jacket. I’ll meet you by the greenhouse. The shotguns are there, waiting.’
They listened to his retreating footsteps.
Dorothea urged Francis out the door, then she picked up Louis’s basket and hurried to the library where she knew Cricket was painting. ‘Could I leave Louis with you? I need to be with Francis. Edward is taking him shooting and Francis is quite nervous about it.’
‘Oh,’ said Cricket, looking perplexed. ‘I was about to head to the stables.’ Dorothea swallowed her desire to scream and hurried to the kitchen, but it was empty. She found Mrs Wilson in the kitchen garden. ‘Could you mind him for a moment?’ She thrust the basket towards her. ‘Edward wants Francis to go shooting, and I thought I should tag along. Francis doesn’t …’ She stopped, unsure what to say, except the last time Edward had tried this it had ended so disastrously that Dorothea knew she needed to be close by. She might be able to urge Francis along. He didn’t need to like it. Just to pretend.
Edith Wilson took Louis without a word. Lately the housekeeper had sought the baby out, keen to take him off Dorothea’s hands at any opportunity. ‘Go, then. Be careful.’ She turned back to the vegetable beds.
Dorothea slipped off her shoes and pulled on her boots and coat, wondering at the woman’s words. She ran out to thegreenhouse, saw two figures ahead, walking across the grass towards the stream. It was cool and damp outside, the wet grass staining the rim of her plaid trousers. What approach should she take when they spotted her? Edward would abhor interference. Could she feign interest in rabbit culls perhaps? Curiosity as to how they were shot, although she had watched her Scottish grandmother dispatch plenty in her childhood, then gut and skin them. Dry the pelt and butcher the meat. An unpleasant thing to see, though her brothers had loved every moment of the blood and gore.
‘Dorothea?’ Francis spotted her and stopped in his tracks. ‘Are you coming too?’
‘Do you mind?’ she called out breathlessly, hurrying to catch them. ‘I could do with the fresh air. I’ve been locked away inside for days.’
Edward ignored her. The boy stepped back towards Dorothea but she shooed him ahead, urging him to keep pace with his father.
‘There are burrows near the woodshed,’ said Edward. ‘We shoot away from the house, only where you can see open ground. Where it’s safe. Good practice there, though. There are dozens of the blighters.’
Francis whispered something to her, but Dorothea couldn’t hear it and didn’t dare ask him to repeat it. She gave an encouraging smile. They walked over a small bridge and stopped beside a brick shed in a clearing. Below, a stream tumbled across pebbles, and to the right the paddocks were fallow, awaiting next year’s crop. Edward placed his shotgun on the timber bench that covered the split log storage outside the shed.
‘A calm mind means steady hands,’ said Edward. ‘Let’s load the gun, but you should always presume it’s loaded. We walkwith it broken, so you can tell if it’s loaded, for safety. And so we can’t accidentally discharge it.’
Francis handed his shotgun to his father and was watching with an air of detached indifference.
‘Now, it’s ready to load, all right?’ he said, waiting for agreement. ‘We insert the cartridge like this.’
Francis was motionless, not peering forward or making any move to take over.
‘Close the gun gently. We don’t want to damage the mechanism.’
Dorothea could see Edward’s frustration rising at his son’s lack of interest. She stepped forward. ‘How does he know the safety is engaged?’ she asked lightly, as if she found it fascinating.
Edward sighed and looked back at Francis. ‘It’s the lever, here. See? Marked with an S when it’s on.’ Edward angled the shotgun away. ‘Come around here, Francis.’ He positioned the butt into Francis’s shoulder. ‘Now, see here, you slide it off, and then you see this red mark. Feel that click?’
Francis nodded feebly.
‘Right, now, lower your cheek onto the comb of the stock and look down the barrel. Let’s pretend you’re going to shoot that post over there, do you see?’ Edward pointed to the remnants of a fence at the edge of the field. ‘No, no. Left hand on the fore-end, right hand on the grip. There. Stock firmly to your shoulder, boy. Don’t wave it around. Legs shoulder-width apart.’ Edward attempted to move Francis into position. ‘You need to stiffen, boy.’ Edward grasped Francis’s skinny forearm. ‘Stiffen up your body for god’s sake. You’re like a wet rag.’
Francis gave Dorothea a look filled with anguish.
‘Look at the target, Francis.’ Edward was losing patience. ‘Aim. Up against your shoulder, there. Comeon.’
Dorothea’s breath felt shallow in the interminable silence. Something bad was coming. She felt the tingle in her gut, through her arms.
Francis wobbled, the gun moving erratically. She waited, barely breathing.
‘Have a go, Francis,’ called Dorothea. ‘Go on. It’s just a post.’
But Francis didn’t move.
