Word had spread. By the end of the year she was earning enough for all their needs and was able to put money by each week. And so it had continued. Apart from customers to the stall, she had a number of other buyers. Mr Hartley always took a regular number of teacakes and gingerbread which he sold in his shop, and a couple of councillors’ wives and one or two other influential dignitaries like a doctor’s wife and the local vicar had a weekly order which Matthew delivered for her. The pigeon-racing club and cricket club were among her regulars and for the last eighteen months, demand had outstripped her ability to supply. Reluctantly she’d had to turn away business.

Rose was thinking about this as she walked with Betsy to the market. An icy wind was cutting the air like a knife and the low grey sky promised that more snow was imminent. She’d had four years of manning the stall in all weathers, and worrying each day that Matthew would tip up the handcart with its deep wicker baskets covered with linen and send the lot into the road, as had happened more than once. She was fond of the majority of the stallholders and most she counted as friends; they supported each other and went out of their way to help one of their number who needed it, as in the case of Adelaide, and it was probably this comforting factor that had delayed her from doing what she knew was the next step. She needed to rent a shop with a flat above so she had her business and home under one roof. It was a big decision – she was the breadwinner and couldn’t afford to fail – but she felt the last four years had laid a foundation that was sufficient to build on if she had her own premises and an assistant to help her.

They had reached the market and there was Matthew waiting by her stall with the baskets intact, thank goodness. Several stallholders were already setting up and the usual cheery banter and greetings ensued with Betsy being made a fuss of.