‘My dear Aunt, you are more beautiful than ever. Uncle Oliver, are you not the most fortunate man in all Christendom? And who is this? Samuel! My father’s namesake. I had quite forgotten you’d had another son. A true Pengarron there.’

Bartholomew, informed of Cordelia’s new address by his brothers in London, had hoped to stay the night at Polgissey, but he had brought someone with him, and in view of Alicia Rosevear’s condition, he had travelled on to the manor. Luke’s ill humour with Cordelia for not being present with Mrs Rosevear when she had fainted, had caused her to accept Bartholomew’s invitation to accompany him.

Oliver shook his nephew’s hand. ‘Where have your travels taken you? You’re as dark as a native.’

‘As I’ve written you, to the South Seas mostly, over the years. Fairly recently, I’d been running vital provisions for our troops in the Americas – duty to king and country. Very occasionally, I’ve been in London. Apparently, I’d just missed Luke and Jack.’

Cordelia appeared carrying a child of about a year old, wrapped up in shawls. As she came closer it could be seen the baby had the true skin of a native.

‘Whose is this child, Bartholomew?’ Oliver asked, glancing at Kerensa then at his nephew.

‘Meet my daughter, Uncle. This is Tamara Drannock. Her mother is dead, tragically taken by the smallpox some weeks after her birth. I had to smuggle her away on to a ship to Portsmouth with a wet nurse, and have kept her a secret ever since. Don’t worry, there’s no risk of infection. Beautiful, is she not? Well, Uncle and Aunt, how do you feel about taking over the care of another child?’

Twenty-Three

In the depths of the night, there was a loud battering on the back door of Greystone’s Farm.

Philip Trenchard went downstairs in his nightclothes, a gun hanging over his brawny arm, a staff clutched in his other hand. Catherine, who had slept little in the past weeks, rushed out of bed and followed cautiously after him.

‘Who is it?’ Philip demanded gruffly.

‘Open up!’ came the terse reply.

Philip motioned to Catherine to stand back as he unbolted the door.

‘Can the missus come at once?’ a scruffy, haggard female hissed in a hostile tone. ‘The maid’s gone into labour.’

At the sound of this particular voice, Catherine showed herself. ‘Is Mrs Roach on her way?’

‘She won’t come. You’ll ’ave to ’elp ’er. The maid’s terrified. Won’t let me near ’er. Get a bleddy move on, or you an’ ’e will ’ave a death on your ’ands.’

‘Wait there,’ Philip snarled, thrusting the woman off the doorstep and slamming the door in her face.