The July day had been a hot one and after she had finished her chores Rose had taken Betsy for a walk in the meadow close to the house, where they’d spent a happy hour or two picking wild flowers which now reposed in a vase on the kitchen windowsill. Arthur, on the other hand, was in a foul mood. The lad who came to help him in the mill had broken his arm some weeks ago, and with the extra work he’d been forced to do Arthur had been unable to pay his usual visits to the brothel in town that he frequented. He was rising before dawn and rarely finishing at the mill before ten at night for his supper, after which he usually drank a bottle or two of home-made blackberry wine and staggered off to bed.

Betsy had been asleep for some hours when Arthur came in that night, and Rose saw immediately that his disposition had not improved. Flinging himself down into his carved armchair at the head of the long kitchen table, he scowled at his supper of meat roll and pease pudding, even though Rose knew it was one of his favourite meals. He always insisted on a hot supper, come winter or summer, along with a hearty cooked breakfast, lunch and dinner, but she didn’t mind the work involved. She enjoyed cooking and although he never paid her any compliments she knew she was a good cook.

For some minutes he shovelled the food into his mouth without speaking, before belching loudly and pushing the empty plate away. Silently she removed it and placed a fruit pudding in front of him before once again busying herself washing dishes. She never ate supper herself and didn’t enjoy any meals in Arthur’s company; his table manners were non-existent and he made her feel sick.

He glared at her when she picked up the empty pudding bowl, gesturing towards the flowers by the kitchen window. ‘If you’ve got time to waste getting them, you’re not doing enough round the house.’

She knew he had been spoiling for a fight for days and regarded him with cool disdain. Remnants of the meal he’d consumed were sticking to the bristles on his chin and round his thick-lipped mouth and he made her inwardly shudder. Calmly, she said, ‘The house is spotless and you know it.’

‘Huh.’ He had drunk most of the bottle of wine she had placed on the table next to his plate and now finished the last of it. Getting to his feet he walked over to the cupboard where he kept his drink and took out the bottle of whisky he’d brought back with him on market day, opening it and pouring a good measure into his glass before picking up the bottle and disappearing into the sitting room, muttering under his breath.