Nearly a year now, but he’d not forgotten her. She was the sweetest, most beautiful girl he’d ever known. From time to time he toyed with the notion of returning to Granley, seeing if she was still there, still unspoken for. He dreamed there was a chance they could rekindle what his sister’s impetuous temper had doused.

Provided she’s forgiven me for putting Barl ahead of her.

He had to believe he still had the hope of making a family of his own, having a loving, normal life. Because promise or no promise, he couldn’t live the rest of his days in Barl’s restless shadow.

But a wife and children of his own would never happen until his sister found her peace. Until then, no matter what he threatened, no matter how it hurt, he couldn’t leave Barl to fend for herself. He didn’t dare think of the strife she’d fall into if he wasn’t at hand to keep her feet on the ground.

I just hope she finds that peace soon. Before I start resenting her for the promise I made.

Unsettled, he shook himself. It was far too lovely an afternoon to be dwelling on such melancholy thoughts. Besides, here was the poultery. It wouldn’t do to walk in there showing a thundercloud face. Everyone in Batava knew him. Tongues would wag.

With a plump, freshly killed and plucked chicken paid for and wrapped in a length of cheesecloth, he wandered the rest of his way home planning supper. Herbed chicken, yes, with buttery green beans and some baked baby carrots. Strawberries with clotted cream for after. His mouth watered. Oh, he did love to cook.

Gaddie Larken from the top of their lane had let her tamest milch cow out to graze the lush verges. He paused a moment to chat with the beast, rub the nub of bone between her gently waving ears and give her glossy flank a pat. Gaddie sold him butter and cream when she had some to spare. Come to think of it, he was running low. And he needed more eggs, too. But there was no time to duck in to see Gaddie now, he’d have to remember on the morrow.

It wasn’t until he walked into his small, tidy kitchen that he realised he wasn’t the first one home. The bread board, the bread knife and the raggedly remains of a crusty brown loaf had been left on the table. The butter was out, uncovered, with a yellow-smeared knife beside it. The honey pot, too, without its lid, an invitation to flies.

Barl.

Heart thudding, he put the chicken into the sink. She was hours early. And the only time she ever came home early was when there’d been some personal disaster. Fear and grief flooded heat throughout his body. He could feel himself trembling. His fingers were clenched into fists.