Still she said nothing.

He smiled hopefully. “We are to live here in Werlatton with your dear family, so you will not have to leave home. Indeed, no. Your father, alas, gets no younger and he desires assistance with his affairs. Of course, when dear Ebenezer—I think of him already as a brother—is of age then our help may not be needed and then, perhaps, we shall return to London.” He nodded, as if pleased with himself. “We have put all this before the Lord in prayer, my dear, so you may be sure that it is the wisest course.”

He frowned suddenly, shifting his buttocks on the trunk. He kept his concentrated frown and leaned forward in silence. It struck her that he was passing wind and she laughed aloud.

He leaned back, relaxing. “You are happy, my dear?”

She knew she should not have laughed, but she could feel the temptation to be cruel to this man. He waited for her answer which came in a low, modest voice. “Do I have a choice, Mr. Scammell?”

He looked uneasy, unhappy, frowning again at her reply. There seemed small profit to him in answering her. He smiled again. “Your father has been most generous, most generous in his marriage settlement. Indeed and indeed. Most generous.” He looked for a response, but she was still and silent in the sunlight. He blinked. “You know of the Covenant?”

“No.” Against her will her curiosity was touched.

“Ah!” He sounded surprised. “You are a fortunate woman, my dear, to be blessed by the Lord with wealth and, dare I say, beauty?” He chuckled.

Wealthy? Covenant? She wanted to know more, but she could not bring herself to ask. If she had to marry this man then so be it, she had no choice, but she would not force herself to show a happiness and eagerness that she did not feel. She would resist the temptation to be cruel and maybe the love would grow, but she could feel the tears stinging her eyes as she looked over his head at the sunlight carving through the beeches on to the leaves of the previous autumn. By the time the leaves fell again she would be married, sharing a bed with Samuel Scammell.

“No!” She had not meant to speak aloud.

“My dear?” He looked eagerly at her.

“No, no, no!” She could feel the tears now and she rushed her words, hoping the speech would hold them back, as her resolve to submit with silent dignity broke almost as soon as it was born. “I want to marry, sir, and I want to marry in love, and have my children in love, and raise them in love.” She stopped, the tears flowing now, and she knew the futility of her words, the unreality, and her head throbbed with the horror of marriage to this slack-lipped, piss-splashing, wind-passing man. She was angry, not at him, but because she had broken into tears in front of him. “I do not want this marriage, I do not want any marriage, I would rather die…” She stopped. She would rather die than have her children raised in Matthew Slythe’s house, but she could not say so for fear the words would be passed back to him. Despite her incoherence and her tears, she was seething with anger at Scammell.