He has been milking for over an hour when Gwen finally dashes in, breathless and embarrassed and terribly apologetic. She snatches up her stool and pail and hurries into the neighbouring stall where a cow waits, dragging hay from the iron basket attached to the wall. Within minutes, Jack hears the steady whist of milk. A short time later, she pauses on her way to the scales.

‘Jack …’

He stops and swivels on the stool to better face her.

‘Aye, lass?’

‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t say anything, to Dad … about how you found me last night, about me being with someone.’ Her lashes lower. ‘He’s just a bit … funny … you know, about things like that. Overly protective. I’d just rather we kept it between ourselves.’

‘Your business is your business, Gwen. I’ll not say anything.’

She smiles and says no more.

They are arranging the churns on the milk stand in the lane when Jim finally appears, walking carefully, pulling deeply on the stub of a Woodbine. He coughs, looks sheepish, and never quite manages to hold Jack’s eye as he enquires about the morning’s yield. He nods when Gwen gives him the figures, flicking his cigarette into the long grass of the verge.

‘That’s good.’

Gwen folds her arms. ‘And how are you feeling this morning?’

‘Ah, Gwen …’ The farmer’s weather-beaten cheeks grow ruddy as he has the decency to look abashed. ‘I’m sorry about last night. Jack, lad …’

‘Say no more, Jim,’ Jack says, lifting the final churn onto the platform.

Ringing hooves cut their conversation short. Jack looks up, squinting against the low morning sun which silhouettes the approaching horse and rider. Jim regiments his posture, his brow knitting as Gwen gasps and sweeps off her headscarf, shoving it into her pocket. Jack’s stomach drops as the horse, a sleek hunter with a twitching cropped tail, draws close enough for him to identify its rider.

‘Good morning!’

Gordon Allingham doffs his bowler hat. Gwen’s face breaks into a smile as she pushes past her father, self-consciously brushing at her buff trousers.

‘Good morning.’

‘I came to return this – I believe it’s yours.’ Gwen’s fox stole is draped across his thighs; he lifts it up, displaying it like a trophy from a victorious hunt. ‘Mother was most perturbed when she found it abandoned in the cloakroom this morning, but I noticed your name tag on it.’

‘Oh yes, thank you!’ Pinpricks of pink delicately colour Gwen’s cheeks. She starts forward, but as she reaches the hunter Gordon jumps down from the saddle, landing surefooted before her. He hands her the stole; she clutches it to her chest.

‘I was also going to see if you were free to ride out with me?’ The invitation is delivered in a low voice, but not low enough to escape Jim’s sharp hearing.