There was no point in looking at the farm buildings. He had chosen to leave them and move on with his life. It had become unbearable to dwell any longer under Oliver Pengarron’s sufferance and egotistical, watchful black eyes. Let the new tenant, Bennets was his name, so Jessica had written, keep his privacy. Clem missed Jessica so much. He had seen her only a handful of times since vacating Trecath-en, on brief visits to her home when he was sure Pengarron must have known of his imminent arrival and ensured Kerensa would not be there. Jessica had come only once to his farm, on Catherine’s confinement. Thank God, she had married Kane Pengarron, their baby gave him reason to see Kerensa again, and he liked Kane; he had no Pengarron blood in him.

Heading the stallion back up the valley, he rehearsed what he would say to Kerensa when next they met, in the little stone church at Perranbarvah. For Catherine’s sake and to put Pengarron off his guard, he would be respectful and discreet. Kerensa would know how he felt about her by the secret messages in his eyes.

At the top of the valley, a man on an equally good horse was closing the boundary gate. The stud breeder. The Lord of the Manor. His daughter Kelynen was with him, her black retriever bounding along close behind.

The two men glowered at each other in mutual despite.

‘You are trespassing on my property, Trenchard, and have a care with that horse,’ Sir Oliver Pengarron said coldly.

Clem lifted his tricorn hat, inclined his head a fraction. ‘My humble apologies, Sir Oliver,’ he replied insincerely. ‘Good day to you, Miss Kelynen.’

The girl, whom he had delivered in his and Alice’s bedroom, after Kerensa’s premature labour, following an attack by footpads on her and Jack near Trecath-en, was fully a woman now. Not much like either parent in looks, she bore an air of confidence as befitted her status, but not, Clem was pleased to see, the boorish condescension of her father. He had always been closely interested in the child, baptised with the name Kerensa had asked him to choose for her. Pengarron and Kerensa had been briefly estranged at the time, and Pengarron only ever called her Shelley, derived from the French name Michelle he had chosen for her, on his return from Brittany.

‘Good day, Clem,’ she replied politely, then glanced at her father as if to read his thoughts.

‘Shelley, you go on ahead,’ Oliver said firmly. ‘I shall be but a minute.’

When she had moved out of earshot, he turned his sharp eyes on Clem. ‘Be sure you conduct yourself appropriately under my other daughter’s roof, Trenchard.’ Oliver appraised his old rival’s fine apparel and confident manner. ‘You look well. Moorland air obviously agrees with you. How goes your wife’s and your son’s farm?’