Rose breathed a sigh of relief. He was a thoroughly unpleasant individual at the best of times but she’d found that when he was in his cups he was worse.

She tidied the kitchen and put the porridge to soak for breakfast in one of the big copper pans. These had been dull and grimy and encrusted with old food when she’d arrived at the house, but now hung in gleaming splendour either side of the fire above the bread ovens. She sighed with pleasure as she glanced around the room. She sometimes pretended that this was her home and that Davey would be walking in from work in the evening, his homely face alight with love for her and Betsy. She had begun to do this when she had realized that the memory of what he looked like was fading. It had panicked her, and she now made a conscious effort to picture him in her mind every day. She was determined that when she left Mill House she would revert to her real name again; she didn’t want Betsy to lose Davey’s surname for good.

Once everything was as it should be she climbed the stairs to bed, checking on Betsy before going into her own room. The little girl was fast asleep and by the moonlight that lit the room as bright as day, Rose could see Betsy’s thick lashes curled like dark smudges on her cheeks, her tumble of chestnut curls spread out on the pillow. She was so bonny, Rose thought, gently stroking a curl or two from the small forehead. So perfect. As long as Betsy continued to be healthy and happy and safe she could endure living in close proximity to Arthur for another few years until her daughter was old enough to start school. Then she would find them a couple of rooms somewhere in a town and work during the day when Betsy was at her lessons. It would all come right, she was sure of it.

Tucking the linen cover more securely round the small shape – Betsy was inclined to fall out of bed – she stood for a moment longer, drinking in the sight of her child. One day she would show Betsy her marriage certificate when the time was appropriate, so her daughter would know for sure that her parents had been married, but for now that didn’t matter. She had been unwilling to produce it for Mrs Harper and then later Arthur Vickers because it stated her real name, and if it was a choice between anonymity or respectability she’d go with the former, certainly until she left this place.