“Father.”

“You are betrothed now.”

“Yes, father.”

He stood, big and powerful beside the lectern, Scammell a few paces behind. Light from a stair window slanted on to Matthew Slythe’s dark and ponderous face. “You will no longer work in the dairy. You must prepare yourself for marriage.”

“Yes, father.”

“You will acquaint yourself with the household accounts.” He frowned. “You have the freedom now to walk to the village in Brother Scammell’s company.”

She kept her head low. “Yes, father.”

“You will walk there this morning with him. I have a letter you must give to Brother Hervey.”

They walked between hedgerows heavy with cow parsley and ragwort, away from Werlatton Hall and down the slope to where lady’s smock and meadowsweet grew. Beyond the stream, where a bank climbed toward the beech trees, Campion could see the blaze of pink-red where the campions grew. The sight almost made her cry. She was now to be Dorcas forever, the mother of Samuel Scammell’s children. She wondered if she could ever love children who had his fleshy lips, his lumpen face, his gaping nostrils.

Stepping stones crossed the stream beside the ford and Scammell held a hand toward her. “May I help you?”

“I can manage, Mr. Scammell.”

“Samuel, my dear. You should call me Samuel.”

The water ran fast over the gravel between the stepping stones, flowing north, and she glanced upstream and saw the dark, quick shape of a fish. This was the stream in which she swam. She almost wished that she had drowned, that her body had floated above the long weeds, a white and naked corpse drifting toward Lazen Castle.

The road turned south to negotiate the end of the high ridge. It was another hot day with white clouds far to the west and Campion’s long skirts stirred dust from the track.

Scammell walked heavily, leaning forward into each step. “I want you to know, my dear, that you have made me a very happy man.”

“So you said at prayers, Mr. Scammell.”

“A very happy man. It is my intention that we shall be happy.”

She said nothing in reply. The wheatfield on her left was thick with poppies and she stared at them, blind to what she saw. She had always known this would happen, that her father would marry her to whomsoever he pleased, and she was surprised that he had waited so long. He had said that he would wait until she showed signs of Christ’s redemptive grace working in her, but she did not think that was the only reason. Ebenezer was Matthew Slythe’s heir, but Ebenezer’s survival had never been certain. He had always been weak, sickly and crippled, and Campion had always known that the man her father would choose as her husband might well become the heir to Werlatton. She supposed that Matthew Slythe had taken his time in searching out the right godly merchant.

Scammell cleared his throat. “It is a beautiful day, my dear. Indeed and indeed.”