In view of the other side of their parentage they liked to dress well, eat well and drink even better. They were fiercely loyal to their blood. ‘Cross one Kinver, cross ’em all,’ was a well-used local remark. Aged from mid-twenties to late thirties, none were married, but a scattering of illegitimate like-featured children gave witness to one of their favourite pursuits. A little respect was gained by their ready financial support to the forsaken mothers, and the fact that they had taken in a son of Hal’s, now training as stable boy at the big house, and another of the eldest brother, Branwell.

Harvey Kinver, the most headstrong of the family, spoke in a culled whisper. ‘Made a tidy sum ’night, I do reckon. What about Mr Pengarron and his lot? What if we get trouble off they?’

The brothers looked at Hal for his consideration.

‘Don’t reckon on that. He’s hinted if there’s any free trading going on round here, he’ll turn a blind eye. Don’t come across, he’ll make the same demands our father did. Be up for sport of any kind, if you ask me. Going to put a goodly sum on me any time I get in the wrestling ring, so he said. Besides, Boy Hal can keep an ear open for trouble.’

Morgan, the quietest member in temper and talk, spilled his ale. ‘Oh dear.’

He was slapped on the back by Tom and all the brothers laughed. ‘Did ’ee hear that? Fancy bleddy manners again. Been like this since he fixed eyes on that sweet little Miss Cordelia. The heat’s come over him again sure an’ strong.’

Morgan just smiled and carried on drinking.

‘Nothing wrong in that,’ bawled out Branwell. ‘She’s a comely little piece, will fill out nicely time she gets a first babe in her belly, eh, Morgan? Watching you, she was, more than once. I caught her eyes on you when you was up there building the summerhouse. You’ll be home and dry there, certain, sure.’

Morgan had an unusually well-honed voice. Tonight his tone was slow and melodious. ‘You think so? I mean, you’re sure she was watching me?’

‘Gived ’ee a second look and a third and a fourth,’ Tom broke in heartily. ‘You could find yourself actually living in our father’s house, Morg.’

For a moment the brothers supped their ale in repressed mood. It was something of a sore point to them: while Cecil Doble had adored their mother and lavished her with gifts, he had been indifferent to them, insisting they must never turn up on his doorstep. When Becky died of pneumonia ten years ago, he had grieved openly for her, erecting a fine headstone over her grave, but he had shunned his sons henceforth.