“I wanted to see you off. My mother discouraged my coming to the station with you. We had words about it last night. I decided to ignore her request.” She hesitates before going on. “I wanted to come to the station and say good-bye to you, Charlie. I even brought a handkerchief to wave.”

“I have been wanting to kiss you.” He says it firmly, like it is simply so, a fact like the sunshine around them and the grass at their feet.

Perhaps it is.

They go inside, and the farmer gives them blankets and sits them near the fire. She has stripped the wet things off Thomas and covered him with a bulky feather bed. Livia wishes she had a chance to change out of her own wet clothes. After some hesitation, she slides down from the hard wooden chair and kneels close to the fire, hoping it will dry her out.

Within minutes she is fast asleep.

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When she wakes the men are there. There are three of them, wearing plain fustian suits. They stand around the kitchen table, looking down at Thomas. A father and two sons. The sons have the same build: tall, high-shouldered, loose-limbed, and rangy. Their father is shorter, bigger-boned, holds a pipe clenched between thick, cold-chapped lips. Together, standing elbow to elbow, hip to hip, they make the cottage feel very small.

Livia rises quickly, coming out from beneath the blanket, her hands making sure she is decent. The movement wakes Charlie, slumped over in his chair. He leaps to his feet, sees the men, and immediately steps over to them.

“My name is Charlie Cooper. We thank you for your hospitality.”

He shakes hands in his simple, hearty way. The men seem bemused by the greeting but accept it in silence.

Then their eyes turn to Livia.

She hesitates, aware that it’s impossible to repeat Charlie’s gesture: it is unsuitable for ladies. The men don’t bow and it seems silly to curtsy. She can tell from their faces that they know who she is. The farmer has told them; she is at the stove now, watching the scene in silence. There is no way of putting the men at ease, not with the daughter of the man who owns the very land they stand on.

Livia tries the truth instead.

“I am Livia Naylor. We ran into trouble on the road this morning. Mr. Argyle here was wounded. At present we don’t know who. . That is, we think it best if nobody knows where we are.” She pauses, straightens. “Will you help us?”

The only answer she receives is a nod by the father. It is a thoughtful nod, only given after much contemplation. It seems to take the place of an oath.

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