On entering the forest Rosie had heard sounds of woodsmen but they had lessened and now were silent so she knew she was walking away from them. Knowing that if she did not stray from the course of the stream she would not get lost, she plunged deeper into the trees, putting more distance between herself and the rest of humanity. There were times when she yearned for these occasions to be apart from her family and the never-ending work on the farm. To have time to think for longer than a few minutes before someone interrupted her or another chore beckoned.

Coming to a straight line of seven large, flat, stepping stones across the stream, she hitched up her skirt and hopped nimbly to the other side, taking care not to twist her weak ankle. She followed the stream on this side.

One hour, or was it two, passed and Rosie regretfully decided she would have to turn back; Clem would make a fuss if she was late helping Alice with the supper. It wasn’t that he would accuse her of skimping her work and Alice was only too pleased for her to enjoy a little well-deserved freedom. But Clem worried over her. She knew she was very special to him, even more so since their mother and grandmother had died. He was overly possessive and it seemed he wanted her to stay on the farm for ever judging by his hostility towards any young man who showed the slightest interest in her; he’d even threatened to speak to Jack from the manor for simply passing the time of day with her. Rosie had noticed Clem was the same with Jessica, and although his marriage to Alice was no love match on his part, he was over-protective towards her too. Rosie believed it stemmed from his emptiness at losing Kerensa; she was certain her brother had a dread of losing any more of his womenfolk. Dear Clem. Rosie smiled at thought of him; though quiet and sullen, he was eager to please them and got in a bit of a state if he wasn’t sure of their whereabouts all the time. She must turn back and follow the stream the way she had come.

Rosie was brought to a sudden standstill. She could hear voices. There were two voices, male voices, but whose were they? She was frightened they belonged to poachers; they’d want to silence her if she was seen. But she thought it better to find out who they were before making a hasty retreat.

Creeping forward in and out of the trees she soon made out the owners of the voices. The mellow lyrical tones belonged to Nathan O’Flynn, the other voice, deeper and cultured, was Sir Oliver Pengarron’s. From a hiding place behind a fissured trunk of a mature oak Rosie spied on them.