On Thursday the farmer and his wife set off for market and Amber sighed with relief when the little pony and cart pulled out of the farmyard. Had Melvin and Harold gone with them it would have been better still, but unfortunately they stayed behind to continue with their chores, although thankfully Amber didn’t see much of them apart from when they came in for their meals and she was heartened to find that as the day progressed Charlotte seemed to be a little more alert.

It was early evening when the farmer got back and both he and his wife were pleased as they’d sold all of their produce.

‘They still ain’t caught the buggers who done fer the old postmistress,’ Mrs Barstow told her over dinner. ‘But Bertie Preston an’ ’is cronies are nowhere to be found. That tells yer somethin’, don’t it? They’re the prime suspects be all accounts an’ the police are offerin’ a reward if anyone can tell ’em where they are.’

Amber kept her eyes on her plate. She saw no reason to tell them that Bertie had once wanted to marry her and that they’d been brought up in the same yard.

‘Some o’ the women that came to the stall was on about the young mistress up at Greenacres an’ all.’ Mrs Barstow went on as she loaded her fork and rammed the food into her mouth. ‘They reckon the poor young bugger is on ’er last legs now. The reverend were called out to see ’er yesterday, apparently, so I doubt it’ll be long now.’ Food was spraying all over the table and Amber averted her eyes, revolted. She was sure the pigs in the sties had better table manners than this family did.

Amber glanced at Charlotte, who was lying quietly on the hearthrug in front of the fire. For some reason over the last few days she had stopped crying. In fact, she seemed to have stopped doing everything and she was worried that she might be sickening for something. She just lay there hour after hour like a little rag doll with a glazed look in her eyes. Amber almost preferred the crying; this wasn’t like Charlotte at all.

‘Do you think I should call the doctor in to take a look at her?’ she’d asked Mrs Barstow before she left for market and after quickly feeling the baby’s forehead the old woman shook her head.

‘Ner, she ain’t ’ot. She’s probably just realised that ’er cryin’ won’t get ’er anywhere.’

And so Amber had reluctantly taken her advice, but she had hardly taken her eyes off Charlotte all day.

Once dinner was over and she had washed and dried all the pots, Mrs Barstow, who had resumed her favourite position in the fireside chair smoking her clay pipe, pointed to the bucket of pig swill by the door.