He now saw his attempt at hauling Clem Trenchard off his property in the same light as everyone else, mean and unnecessary. And, as certain others did, despicable and unforgivable.

Trenchard had come out on top.

His attempts at humiliating him had not got under the wretched man’s skin, instead Trenchard had succeeded in getting under his: behaving like a saint in church; a loving husband under the manor roof; pretending he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in Kerensa; eating and drinking like a gentleman; speaking with care; unruffled and proud in his fine clothes; comfortable and composed. And watching and waiting: watching Kerensa without seeming to, waiting for the first opportunity to lay claim on her again, to rekindle their former feelings. Trenchard was no longer a fool, a

loser. He was cunning and sly and dangerous. And what had he, himself, now done? Given Trenchard the respect and sympathy of the county. And with his indefinite presence at Vellanoweth and Kerensa’s regular visits there, he had given them the ideal chance to meet, to be alone, to form a new attachment. And there was nothing he could do about it without sounding exactly the same as he had done on that fateful day. A pathetic, jealous husband. If only he had never come across Kerensa’s secret things.

How much of Kerensa’s loyalty and love did he still have?

The morning after the accident the family were in the great hall; no one had gone to bed, they had kept a vigil of prayer. He, Kerensa, Luke, Kelynen, Olivia, Timothy and Cordelia, dotted under the decorated high ceiling, the rafters, banners and hangings. Oliver had stared at the shields and crossed swords of some of his forebears. The sword he had fought with at the battle of Dettingen many years ago was among them. He should take it down, he had lost his honour.

Only Kerensa had stayed on her feet. Pacing up and down all night, wringing her hands. She had seemed not to want to be close to anyone, certainly not him. He had hardly dared speak to her. There was very little talk at all, only those disturbing whispers that seemed so difficult to get past the throat, only to emerge garbled, needing an invasive repeat. The longer the night had worn on, the more a sense of pessimism and misery had pervaded the house. Every stone and timber seemed weighed down with oppression and accusation.

Oliver had been waiting for the accusations to begin. He deserved them, but when they came he wasn’t prepared for the quietness and dignity of the onslaught. Passion and fury he could have dealt with far better.

Suddenly Kerensa had announced, ‘I’m going over to Vellanoweth. I’ll leave instructions with Cherry about Samuel’s care. And, well, you’re here, Cordelia.’