Rosie was increasingly angered at Clem’s lack of manners. He never called the baronet ‘sir’ or ‘My Lord’, and it seemed even more rude with him standing in their farmhouse as her rescuer. She knew her father would be angry if he was there.

‘Rosie must have had a wasted journey then, I’ve only just parted with Renfree to ride over here. Anyway, she is home safe and sound except for her ankle,’ Oliver said, his voice and demeanour giving no indication whether he was perturbed by Clem’s behaviour. ‘However, it is time something was done about it.’

‘I’ll get some cold water for your ankle, Rosie.’ Clem snatched up an enamelled bowl and went outside.

‘We’ll have to beg your forgiveness for Clem’s lack of manners,’ Kenver said apologetically, but added on a lighter note, ‘I’m afraid they don’t improve with age. Will you take a seat, sir?’

‘Yes, I think I will, for a few moments,’ Oliver replied, sitting on a chair close to the young chair-bound man. ‘I rode over this way to see Ricketty Jim. I have some work for him on Ker-an-Mor if he’s interested. He’s a good worker, I’d offer him permanent work but he wouldn’t take it. I’ll catch up with him another time.’

It was several years since Oliver had seen Kenver, he couldn’t recall seeing him once since he had married Kerensa. Oliver called occasionally on Morley, as he did on all his tenants, but Kenver was never about, either busy in his small bedroom-cum-workshop where he made furniture and crafted ornaments, or taking a rest. Kenver needed a short sleep every few hours. Crippled from birth from the waist down, he tired quickly but it did not impair the excellence of his work, some of which had found its way into some of the wealthier local homes. Rosie or Alice would take the finished articles to sell on market day at Marazion and both Oliver and Kerensa had each brought home a piece that had caught their fancy.

Kenver was now twenty-three and claimed the Trenchard fine blond hair and deep blue eyes. His hair was not tied back and it rested on the front of his green striped waistcoat. Oliver had a great respect for Kenver Trenchard. He could have resigned himself to a life of bitterness and idleness, but he was a gifted man and used his abilities to their capacity with honesty and humour. Oliver wondered if he had a talent for a musical instrument and resolved to mention it at a later date, but for now he leaned over Kenver’s useless legs and glanced at his scrap of paper.

‘What are you writing, Kenver, more poetry?’