She snatched up the florin where it had landed at the foot of the bed. Passing on information to the young gentleman was going to prove more profitable than servicing him.

She delayed her departure to watch him sleeping, creeping closer. His breathing was heavy, unwholesome. Shame he didn’t look after himself properly. He was a skilled lover but he was losing his energy, and, worried for her savings for her old age, Mrs Curnow feared he might start losing his desire. His ardent resort to the bottle most nights might steal his good looks. Shame he had a slightly malformed arm, be a greater shame if he ever returned Miss Cordelia’s love. The girl hated her and would soon have her out of the house.

The cook looked at his writings. It was all a mess of scratchings and ink blots to her. Sheets of expensive paper lay everywhere, in bundles, scattered singly, torn in half, screwed up. The maids weren’t to tidy it up, on pain of death! Shame, such a fine gentleman wasting his time on something so frivolous. Shame, that for so much of the time he was lonely.

An hour later, Jack sought out Luke on a matter of the estate and decided to let him stay asleep.

Bartholomew arrived and had no such resolve.

‘Wake up, Cousin, you have a journey ahead before nightfall. It’s Beatrice’s ninetieth birthday on the morrow, and your father has charged me with summoning you to a party he’s giving for her. All the family will be there, and you can at last meet my daughter. Oh, and he said if you cannot do without Jack and Mrs Rosevear, bring them along too.’

Twenty-Eight

A large bruise stained the greater part of Clem’s chin, made all the more obvious by its few days of healing. He looked down at the cause of the disfigurement, his two-week-old granddaughter.

Content after her early morning feed of goat’s milk, Rebekah Trenchard lay awake and yawning in her cradle.

While a keen wind hugged the corners of their house, Kenver and Kerris Trenchard were proudly showing her off in the well-ordered kitchen. Kerris reluctantly tore herself away from the baby to rescue her washing from a sudden shower of rain.

‘You should’ve told me about her, Kenver,’ Clem huffed over the breakfast Kerris had prepared for them. ‘You’ve learned to write, there’s no excuse.’

‘Not this again, Clem,’ Kenver replied patiently. ‘Can’t you be pleased for me and Kerris? You’ve got five children, you know how empty it’s been for us having none. And Rebekah’s not just anybody’s blow-by, she’s got our blood in her.’

The baby murmured, a soft piping sound, bubbles forming on her tiny lips. Clem’s sternness fell away into a half smile.