The parson did not want to talk about Bartholomew Drannock. ‘When you came in, Oliver, I was worried you were bringing more sad tidings. It is a month since the last funeral at which I officiated and I hope the last for a very, very long time. In fact on Sunday I have the happy occasion of baptising the infant grandson of Daniel Berryman of Orchard Hill Farm, then in the middle of the week I am to marry the couple who took over Rose Farm. Purely by chance I happened to find out they have never been joined in wedlock and having broached them on the error of their ways they shamefacedly agreed to right their wrong.’

‘Yes, I know all that,’ Oliver said impatiently, drumming his fingertips on the desk top.

‘It is a good thing they have not had any children yet. And how are your dear children? Is Miss Ameline Beswetherick enjoying her stay with you?’

‘The children are all well, thank you, and Ameline has settled in and made herself comfortable.’ Oliver glanced pointedly down at his dark blue frock coat and plucked at a nonexistent piece of fluff. The Reverend knew he had to stop the small talk.

‘Um… you have something in mind for Bartholomew’s future?’ he asked hopefully.

‘His past would be nearer the mark. Since he was a child I’ve intended to ask questions about the boy’s parentage and a conversation I had with Captain Solomon a while ago has prompted me seriously to wonder if there’s any Pengarron blood in the boy’s family. Captain Solomon pointed out that the boy bears a notable resemblance to me. Have you by any chance heard any mumblings in the parish about his parentage?’

This was what Joseph Ivey had feared, the moment he had lived in dread of. He shifted uncomfortably on his chair, taking a long moment to answer. ‘I… cannot say that I have not, Oliver.’

Chapter 10

Oliver’s dark eyes widened and brightened, his strong features sharpened, his bearing dominated the parson’s study.

‘I cannot possibly be the boy’s father,’ he told Reverend Ivey. ‘I have wondered if one of my grandfathers had an affair with one of the boy’s grandmothers and the resemblance has emerged only now. I have also had the thought that my father may have sired the boy but Jenifer Drannock is not the sort of woman to have given herself freely to a middle-aged married man, even of my father’s standing. There could be one explanation, of course. My father may have forced himself upon her. I have no doubt he was capable of such a thing. You usually have your ear to the ground in the parish. Is there anything that you can tell me? I realise of course that it may be difficult for you to speak but rest assured I’ve never been under any illusion as to my father’s true character.’