Rosie was holding up the bottom of her primrose yellow dress and rough brown cloak well above her shoes, which were saturated and muddied from her long trek. The pattens she wore over her shoes to protect them were practically useless in the long wet grass and mud-laden tracks. She was wearing her Sunday best dress which she had changed into furtively in the barn and had wrapped her cloak tightly about herself so none of her watchful family would know she’d put it on. As it was, Alice had given her a searching look before she left home, wondering why she was so determined to go out for one of her long walks in such cold, miserable weather.

‘You’re getting just like Clem,’ Alice observed, ‘always going off by yourself the minute you get the chance.’ Kenver had stared at her shoes. He must have been curious why she was not doing the sensible thing and wearing the new soft leather boots he had made for her. He made no comment, just grinned warmly and whispered, ‘Enjoy yourself, sis, but take care.’

‘Have we got far to go?’ Rosie asked Oliver. ‘We haven’t got many hours of daylight left.’

‘No, not far. The vixen has chosen her earth close to an old hideout I made years ago with a childhood friend. We can watch for signs of them from there. We’ll be approaching from the right direction regarding the wind and won’t be near to their tracks but we’ll have to tread carefully and avoid making any noise.’

Rosie watched her footing as she tramped behind Oliver, surprised that the tall man was so light on his feet. After a few minutes he slowed down and stopped and pointed out a small shack-like building, well camouflaged with overgrowth between two tall trees. Rosie would not have seen it herself.

‘There it is,’ he whispered.

He led the way, creeping forward to the building which was about eight feet wide and five feet high. Pulling aside a length of thick sacking, green from age and foliage, which was nailed across the top of the opening, he beckoned Rosie into the hideout first then hitched the sacking up to allow in some daylight. Oliver had to keep his head well bent inside the shack.

He grinned at Rosie’s amazed face as she took in the interior. ‘Arthur Beswetherick, Sir Martin’s youngest son, and I were very proud of it,’ he informed her, keeping his voice low. ‘We worked hard to achieve this.’

‘I can see that,’ she breathed in admiration.

‘Let’s sit down and make ourselves comfortable before we get a crick in our necks.’