She ran her fingers over her belly. The soreness between her legs was worse today and she was bleeding slightly from his rough handling of her, but the rape was nothing in comparison to the fear that he might have impregnated her. She kept telling herself this was unlikely – he hadn’t finished what he’d set out to do – but she wouldn’t know for sure until her next monthly. But she couldn’t think of that now, she had to go to the mill as she had planned once the day was over and she could be sure no one would be calling for flour. Somewhere the miller had a hoard of money, she was sure of it, and she needed every penny she was owed.

The day had been as hot as the one before it and even now, at eight in the evening, the air was warm and muggy. She wanted to search as best she could while there was still light, besides which Betsy always slept solidly for the first few hours after she had been put to bed. If the child awoke at all it was always in the middle of the night.

When she was standing in the paved yard of the mill she stared up at the building which had the sails at the back of it. The evening was quiet – even the birds seemed to have stopped singing – and it added to the faintly eerie feeling that had gripped her. She wanted to run back to the house, to where it was familiar, but time was of the essence. Arthur’s lad could return any day now.

Telling herself there was nothing to be frightened of, she walked past the brick piers that supported the mill and then the large cart that was standing near the central post, half full of sacks of flour. Everything was covered in a film of white. After a thorough search of the ground floor she climbed the almost vertical wooden ladder to where the great millstones and other equipment were. Stacks of hessian sacks of raw grain dominated one wall, and as she stood looking around she heard a rustling in one corner and a large rat popped its head out before scurrying away. She shuddered. She didn’t mind mice but rats were altogether different.