“Miss?” Charity was shrinking away from the fluttering moth.

“I know, Charity. You don’t like moths.” Campion smiled. Her back hurt as she bent over, but she cradled the large moth in her hands, feeling its wings flutter on her palms, and then she threw it to the freedom of the dark where the owl and the bats hunted.

She closed the window and knelt beside her bed. She prayed dutifully for her father, for Ebenezer, for Goodwife, for the servants, and then she prayed, a smile on her face, for Toby. The dreams had been given fuel. There was no sense in it and little hope, but she was in love.

Three weeks later, when the corn was the color of Campion’s hair and the summer promised a harvest richer than England had known for years, a guest came to Werlatton Hall.

Guests were few. A travelling preacher, his tongue burdened with hatred for the King and preaching death to the bishops, might be offered hospitality, but Matthew Slythe was not a gregarious man.

The guest, Dorcas was told, was called Samuel Scammell. Brother Samuel Scammell, a Puritan from London, and Charity was excited at the visit. She came to Dorcas in the bedroom as the sun was dying over the valley. “Goodwife says you’re to wear Sunday best, miss. And the rugs are down in the hall!”

Campion smiled at Charity’s excitement. “The rugs?”

“Yes, miss, and master’s ordered three pullets killed! Three! Tobias brought them in. Goodwife’s making pie.” Charity helped Campion dress, then adjusted the white linen collar over her shoulders. “You do look well, miss.”

“Do I?”

“It was your mother’s collar. It mended ever so nice.” Charity twitched at the edge of it. “It looks so much bigger on you!”

Martha Slythe had been fat and tall, her voice competing with Goodwife Baggerlie’s for mastery over the dirt of Werlatton Hall. Campion lifted the edge of the collar. “Wouldn’t it be nice to wear something pretty just once? Do you remember that woman in church two years ago? The one the Reverend Hervey told off for dressing like a harlot?” She laughed. The woman had worn a lace collar, pretty and soft.

Charity frowned. “Miss! That’s a wicked lust!”

Campion sighed inwardly. “I’m sorry, Charity. I spoke without thinking.”

“God will forgive you, miss.”

“I’ll pray for that,” Campion lied. She had long learned that the best way to avoid God’s wrath was to pay Him frequent lip service. If Charity had told Goodwife about Campion’s wish to wear lace, and Goodwife had told her master, then Matthew Slythe would punish Campion. Thus, Campion thought, to avoid punishment she had been taught to lie. Punishment is the best teacher of deceit. “I’m ready.”

Matthew Slythe, his two children and the guest ate their supper at the far end of the great hall. The shutters of the tall windows were left open. Dusk was bringing gloom to the wide lawn and hedge.

Samuel Scammell, Campion guessed, was in his mid-thirties and there was a fleshiness to him that betokened a full diet. His face was not unlike her father’s. It had the same bigness, the same heaviness, but where her father’s face was strong, Scammell’s seemed somehow soft as though the bones were malleable. He had full, wet lips that he licked often. His nostrils were like two huge, dark caves that sprouted black hair. He was ugly, an ugliness not helped by his cropped, dark hair.