Since her mother and gran had died she and Alice were rushed off their feet now they were the only women on the farm. Between them they cleaned the farmhouse, cooked, laundered, scrubbed, attended to the dairy, fowls, pigs, goats and garden, drew the water, hoed the weeds in the fields and helped with the harvesting. They prepared for winter by salting and smoking meat and fish and making preserves of all kinds. If they got a minute to sit down, there was always a mountain of darning to finish. Then there was Kenver, her disabled brother; he needed a certain amount of attention every day and Alice was glad of a hand with three boisterous children to rear. Rosie had very little spare time and she was outraged at having this precious commodity wasted by carrying unwanted messages for a half-mad brother.

‘The next time you have a message for Preacher Renfree, or anyone else in the whole parish, Clem Trenchard,’ she spoke crossly as she approached the boundary between Ker-an-Mor and Trecath-en Farms on her way home, ‘you can do it yourself!’

So as not to have an entirely wasted journey Rosie looked about for berries, plants and the wild herbs Beatrice couldn’t cultivate in her garden patch. In return for Rosie’s help, Beatrice was teaching her how to make and bottle many useful potions, poultices, and ointments. The ugly, gin-sodden old woman gave her tiny bottles of her preparations, like oil of rosemary and sage to make her golden hair shine. Clem snorted at this arrangement, infuriating Rosie by asking if she was going into apprenticeship as the next neighbourhood witch.

Rosie came to the hawthorn boundary of the two farms where the ground fell sharply into a valley on both sides leading down to a river. She climbed over the stile on to her father’s land and looked about for Ricketty Jim. He had been there on her way to Ker-an-Mor Farm, boiling river water over a small twig fire. He had received the little packet of tea Rosie had given to him with many polite thank yous.

‘Your brother been free-trading, has he, Rosie?’ he’d asked, sprinkling the green tea leaves on to the bubbling water. ‘I’d ask you to share a dish with me but I’ve only got the one crock.’

‘That’s all right,’ Rosie answered, edging towards the stile. Ricketty Jim, whose name came about because of his bent shaky legs, was long-bearded and his fly-away hair was greying but his sharp brown eyes suggested he was younger than he looked. Although Rosie liked to talk to him, and he was a conversational man, she felt it wasn’t right to spend time alone with him.