Luke insisted they take a longer route home on the eastern side of Ker-an-Mor Farm where its land verged on the moorland of Lancavel Downs. He wanted to see the foundations of the new meeting house laid by Matthias and his willing band of helpers. Oliver had given permission for it to be built a few yards on Ker-an-Mor land on a spot well drained and sound underfoot and close to the ancient public right of way that ran along the farm’s boundary.

Luke was unimpressed by the foundations and piles of granite slabs waiting to form the four walls, declaring it was no bigger than the servants’ outdoor closet. Jack patiently asked him to wait until the meeting place was finished before he offered his final opinion.

Luke gave Jack a look that inferred he was stupid, and urged his horse on to the right of way. His sharp ears had heard the sounds of laughter and he was eager to investigate. It turned out to be a group of Wheal Ember bal-maidens making their way home. Among them was the precocious, wild-haired Heather Bawden.

‘Well, look ’ee ’ere,’ giggled one girl as she recognised the riders, ‘tes yer sweet’eart, ’eather.’ She ran up to Jack and fell in step beside Meryn, his mount. ‘Jus’ look at un. Don’t ’e look all important like up there on that fine ’orse?’

Luke had not missed the teasing remarks and he shouted across to Jack, ‘Which one is she, Jack? Which one is your sweetheart?’

Jack’s face grew crimson as the other bal-maidens joined in the leg-pulling but Luke had only to follow the women’s eyes to see which one it was.

‘Her?’ The boy pointed his riding crop at Heather. ‘An admirable choice, she’s very pretty. If I was a little older I’d give you a run for your money.’ Luke wasn’t sure what the term meant, it was one he had overheard, but he knew it would provoke the desired shocked reaction.

‘You didn’t oughta talk like that, Master Luke,’ Jack chided, hoping he sounded authoritative.

‘He’s his father’s son all right,’ cackled one of the older women. ‘That one with the dark hair ’n’ eyes.’

Luke pressed his knees into his pony’s sides and manoeuvred closer to the bal-maidens. He smiled at them graciously but not without a hint of ribaldry and bowed from the saddle with a flourish.

Heather moved up to Luke and stroked his pony’s neck then gripped a handful of its flowing brown mane. She looked into the boy’s face and gave a saucy curtsy. ‘I’ll still be ’ere in a few years’ time if you’re still int’rested, Master Luke.’