She moved her arms and legs one by one, a little at a time, overwhelmed with relief to find all in working order apart from the wrenched ankle. It throbbed painfully and was badly swollen. Rosie groaned in anguish when she realised the shoe of her injured foot was missing. She must find that shoe, it was half of the only good pair she owned and there was plenty of wear left in them. She would have to search for the shoe when she was sure the rest of her was not hurt.

To ensure there was no neck injury, she moved her head gingerly from side to side and round in a circle. Then she listened for sounds and gulped with relief at hearing the birds chirping and the gurgles of the river on its progress to the sea. Next she looked up and down the valley; her vision was clearing but tears were threatening to fall as a result of shock and she took a deep breath to forestall them. Grazes and scratches were now beginning to sting; the skin of one elbow had been skimmed off and blood was staining her sleeve. Investigating inside her shift and under her petticoat, she discovered bruises on both shoulders, legs and knees.

Rosie wished Ricketty Jim hadn’t chosen today to wander off, he would almost certainly have seen her fall and could have helped her home. When her breath was a little recovered, she decided to try and hobble for home but even the lightest of pressure on her wrenched ankle made her scream in pain and sink back to the ground. She felt sick, her head swam and her ears buzzed.

When she could think reasonably again she knew there were only two courses open to her. She could either crawl home on her hands and knees or wait for Clem or her father to come looking for her. It made sense to wait for help and this did not worry her overmuch. She was not far from the farm, there was a bright warm autumn sun in a clear sky and she should be discovered before darkness fell.

Rosie had been cradling her swollen foot for over an hour when the snorting of a horse at the top of the valley gave her a rush of hope mixed with tearful emotion. She hoped the rider would see her and raised a feeble hand. She expected to see Matthias Renfree who called regularly to see Kenver, or perhaps Adam, Matthias’s father, calling on estate business, or Nathan O’Flynn, the estate’s gamekeeper, who occasionally paid the family a visit. The horse was a magnificent thoroughbred, as black as night. Its rider dismounted and lowered his great height in front of her.

‘Well, Miss Trenchard,’ Oliver said, his voice softened in the way one employs to comfort the shocked and injured. ‘It seems you have met with an accident. Where are you hurt?’