I walked away, up to my house. I was hungry; I had missed lunch again. As I opened the door I heard Martin Brocket’s voice, shouting from the kitchen. ‘You obey me, young Josephine, not my wife. And you account to me for where you’ve been.’

I stood in the kitchen doorway. Martin was glaring at Josephine, his normally expressionless face red. I remembered how her father used to bully the girl, reduce her to trembling confusion, and was pleased to see Josephine was not intimidated; she stared back at Martin, making him redden further. Agnes stood by, wringing her hands, while Timothy was by the window, pretending to be invisible.

‘No, Martin,’ I said, sharply. ‘Josephine answers to me. She is my servant, as you are.’

Martin looked at me. It was almost comical to watch him compose his face into its usual deferential expression. ‘What makes you nip the girl so sharply?’ I asked.

‘My wife – ’ he waved an arm at Agnes – ‘gave the girl permission to walk out with that young man this afternoon without asking me. And she is late back. She told Agnes she would be back at three and it is nearly four.’

I shrugged. ‘It is Josephine’s day of rest. She can come back when she likes.’

‘If she is seeing a young man, I should be informed.’

‘You were. By your wife. And I saw you watch Josephine leave.’

‘But for decorum’s sake, she should be back when she said.’ Martin was blustering now.

‘She is an adult, she can return when she wishes. Mark this, Josephine. If you are seeing Goodman Brown on your free day, so long as you inform Martin, or Agnes, or me, in advance you may come back any time before curfew.’

Josephine curtsied. ‘Thank you, sir.’ Then she gave Martin a little triumphant look.

‘And no more shouting,’ I added. ‘I will not have a brabble in my house. Josephine, perhaps you could get me some bread and cheese. I missed my lunch.’

I walked out. It was not done to support a junior servant against a steward in his presence, but Martin had annoyed me. I wished I understood what was the matter between him and Josephine. From the window, I saw Timothy leave the kitchen and cross the yard to the stables. On impulse, I followed him out.

THE LAD WAS SITTING in his accustomed place, atop an upturned bucket beside Genesis. He was talking softly to my horse, as he often did. I could not hear the words. As my shadow fell across the doorway he looked up, flicking his black hair from his face.

I spoke casually. ‘Master Brocket seemed much angered with Josephine just now.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he instantly agreed.

‘Has he ever shouted at her like that before?’

‘He – he likes to keep us in order.’ His look was puzzled, as though to say that is the way of things.