Becky didn’t go home. She was too confused, too hurt, and also felt all her love for Joseph changing to resentfulness. How could he just go off and leave her? All that talk about doing it for her – what on earth did that mean? And it was no help when she felt like this – sad, angry, at odds with life. Nothing seemed to make sense and so she changed her mind about going to the farm. To trouble Ma with all this stuff about Joseph would make matters worse. And, anyway, how could she explain when she didn’t understand it herself?

So she went to bed, hoping for sleep, which eluded her into the small hours. Images of Joseph and their loving embraces raced through her mind, and even into her dreams. But when, next morning, she awoke, she knew a certain new calmness and feeling of hope. Perhaps he would, after all, return. Perhaps she might try and work out why he had gone. Perhaps….

As it was Sunday, she walked to the farm and joined Ma and Will in the familiar journey to Manaton Church. Dinah and her family came behind them, and along the rough track trotted Nat Briggs, his face a picture of thunder. Becky bent her head and refused to look up as Will and Ma responded to his rough greeting.

The church, with its age old sense of peace and quiet, calmed her a little more. She noticed the half finished pew end on the new installation and thought about Joseph bending over his work, chisel in hand, mallet lifted, and found herself saying a quick prayer for him, where ever he might be.

When the first hymn was announced and the choristers began to sing, she heard the deep baritone voice that she knew so well swelling the sound, and felt her heart start to race. Impossible, then, to stop herself turning slightly, looking back over the pews and finding him, a big man with bright, untidy hair, singing heartily and meeting her impetuous gaze.

Just for a second, that last look, and then she turned back, burying her head in the book she held and willing herself to stop remembering, for all the new hopeful thoughts had long gone. He had left her and yet he was still here…. At the end of the service she found an excuse to hurry Ma out of the church and away, hoping desperately that Joseph would understand and not follow.

‘You’re in a hurry, maid,’ said Thirza, a frown on her pale face. ‘Must be that ole duck I got stewing – smell it, can you?’

Becky saw how her mother’s usual smile was lacking, despite the jolly words. And that palor seemed to emphasize the lines and wrinkles about the unhappy eyes. Ma looked older. Ice touched Becky and she took her mother’s arm, hearing her voice grow taut and high and hoping no one saw Joseph and started wondering. She couldn’t talk about him. Rapidly, she said, ‘Just that I got to get back to High Cross Manor soon after we’ve eaten – lots of things to do.’

‘On a Sunday?’ Will was in step with her. ‘Not right, that. Day off, is Sunday – what’s maister thinkin’ of, then?’

Becky thought hard. ‘He has to rest. So I have extra to see to.’

She was thankful when the meal was finished, enabling her to make her excuses to leave. ‘I’ll be over another evening, Ma.’

She sensed that Thirza fought to produce a smile as she watched her leave the yard, and she felt disturbed because after all Ma didn’t seem to be getting any better. But mostly she was uneasy because of that worried look which didn’t go away. As if Ma had a secret. And now she had secrets from her mother, which was surely wrong, but she knew for certain that for the moment things must be left as they were. Ma would be troubled to hear about Joseph leaving, and Will would probably rekindle his anger about the man whom he suspected of playing with his sister.

At the Manor, the rest of the day was somehow filled. Of course, there was little work to do – Sunday was a day set apart from the rest of the busy week. Ruth had gone back to her family in the village and Nellie Mudge sat in the sun in the yard with a mug of tea, closing her eyes and occasionally dozing. Only Tom and Eddie remained, their voices soft and slow in the stables and linhay, mingling with the horses’ snorts and nickering.

Becky found enough to do to pass the afternoon, but by time dusk started to fall she was at a loss to fill the remaining long hours. Until suddenly, the moor called her. Looking out into the oncoming night a new feeling spread through her, coupled with an instinctive knowledge that she was beginning to find out who she really was. No longer the young, unthinking girl from the farm with no cares. No longer the entranced Becky who had fallen so quickly for strong, rough, Joseph Freeman. Now she was older – if not in countable years, then certainly in experience. She was a housekeeper who gave orders. Someone who understood accounts and household expenses. A young woman who was thought highly of by her employer. She recalled Mr Fielding praising her abilities and lifted her head a little higher. Well, now she must act for herself. Decide what she must do about Joseph, about Nat Briggs and his threats, about finding her own way through life, just as Joseph had said he must do, and those new thoughts brought new understanding.

This comforting knowledge was warm as she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and left the house, gladly stepping out into the approaching dimpsey. She felt a fierce need to be among the moorland valleys and hills, breathing their fragrance, rejoicing in the peace and stillness, finding her way ahead.

As it darkened, a waning moon shone patchily through steepling clouds, but she knew her way. Up the lane, into the rough track, past the grave, beneath Bowerman’s immense grey pile, then out of the shadows and onto the moor itself, strong, bunchy heather beneath her feet, bracken reaching for her hands as she passed; ponies suddenly whickering as she came upon them. She walked steadily to Hound Tor, passed the huge, black rocks, wondering for a moment about the black hound said to haunt the place, then smiled to herself as she started going down the valley. Here, she knew, among these stones, was where Joseph had been working. She wished he was here, but knew that for a foolish, impossible thought. He was on his way, just as, now, she was on hers.

When a heavy, upright shape appeared through the half-darkness she stopped to examine it. A rough stone circle, with an opening at one end. Something suggested this might have been a shelter with tall stones to keep out the wind and the rain when it was perhaps thatched and cosy, but now it was open to the stars. Intuition sent a word flashing through her busy mind – home – and she smiled, knowing this to be so. Someone’s old home, now ruined but in the process of renovation. There were signs of digging, of footmarks and a forgotten earthenware bottle of water. Joseph’s perhaps? No, for she knew enough of him to be aware of his care of his tools. Joseph would never leave anything necessary and important behind him. His tools were part of his life.

Warmth slowly crept through her body as she stood, looking at the stones, and wondering what was happening to her. She walked further down the valley until she heard the singing waters of the Becka Brook and then turned back. There was a peace here among the thick heather stems and the foxy coloured dying bracken, the last sunset colours slowly leaving the vast sky, and she felt it spread through her body and mind. The peace that is necessary to help one live. This is what she needed – not advice from Ma or Mr Fielding, but a sense of the age old living in this calm, still land. Birth and death, tragedies and joys, problems and resolutions – had all been lived out here.

She felt the truth filling her mind as, slowly, she went homeward, and wondered if Joseph, digging here, had discovered the same thoughts as she now had. Perhaps it had started him on a new line of thinking: Was it these old stones which had made him refuse the offer of work at High Cross Manor? So where had he gone now? And was he thinking of her, as she thought of him?

Able now to smile, and feeling a wonderful new sense of understanding, she returned to High Cross, feeling more secure; telling herself that tomorrow was a new day and who knew what might happen then?

Joseph climbed down from the tallat, washed at the pump in the yard, and then waited for Dan’l to appear. He came quickly, stocky and heavily built, striding through the yard, staff in his hand, eyes inspecting the new hand and the expression on his weatherbeaten face stern. ‘Joseph Freeman?’

‘That’s me.’ Joseph waited. He hoped they would get on.

‘Farmer ses you’re not a newtake waller by trade.’ There was doubt in the strong voice.

‘No. A general labourer. But I can work with stones.’

‘We’ll see. Let’s get on then.’ Dan’l led the way out of the yard, collecting tools before leaving the outhouses, and then strode rapidly into the open moorland opening up before them. He didn’t speak until they had crossed two pasture fields where the sheep stared and began to move away, and then, looking at Joseph by his side, he said, ‘You’ll find it hard, I dessay. These ole walls should have been repaired long ago, but Farmer, he lets things go. Now it’s made the job more difficult. You ready for work?’

Joseph nodded, aware that he was being tried out. ‘I’ll match you,’ he said, and met the other man’s speculative gaze. ‘Where do we start, then?’

‘Right here.’ They stopped beside a ruined wall, the stones covered with moss and ferns and needing only a push to drop out. ‘I’ll clear the rubbish off, you collect all the moorstone you can find. Any size’ll do to keep the stock safe.’

Joseph realized in a few minutes that the work was, indeed, hard. Moorstone lay in small heaps and clitters at the edges of the field and it took all his strength to haul the granite blocks towards the wall where Dan’l waited, eyes sharp and assessing. But he nodded. ‘That’s good. Now we’ll start building.’

They worked on as the sun rose and warmth began to build sweat on their labouring bodies. In places the old walls were five feet high and strength was needed to reach up and fix the repairing material into the right spaces. Joseph soon learned how to sort out the stones so that they balanced without the use of mortar, but it was a tricky job and Dan’l was critical. ‘We mustn’t let too much daylight through,’ he said, as he and Joseph regained their breath after heaving a large stone into place. ‘Just try and make a network o’stones.’

At midmorning they stopped for crib which Dan’l took out of his satchel and shared. Sitting with their backs to the wall, they ate bread with chunks of fat bacon and onion and drank cold tea and Joseph felt himself glowing with the sense of work and satisfaction. He looked sideways at his companion and saw the strong face showing a hint of a smile.

‘Well,’ he said, between mouthfuls, ‘will I do?’

‘You’ll do,’ said Dan’l and handed over another onion on the end of his knife.

Breakfast in the kitchen and a knock at the door. Nellie nodded to Ruth, who got up and went to open it. Becky, glancing around, saw Will standing in the doorway, his face dark with anger and his fists tight by his side.

She got to her feet, alarmed, thinking at once of Ma. ‘What is it, Will? What’s the matter?’

He stepped inside, removed his hat and scowled. ‘I got to see the maister. Now. Go and tell him.’

‘But he’s still in his bedroom—’

‘I don’t care, I gotta see him. Go on, tell him, now. Now.’

Her mind in a whirl she led him up the stairs. ‘Stay there, while I knock and see—’

Roughly he handled her aside and threw open the door, pushing his way in. She saw his narrowed eyes, blue as steel, staring into the room. He stopped just inside. ‘I gotta talk to you, Mr Fielding. You gotta tell me what you’ve done, and why, and what you’re gonna do ’bout it now we knows the truth.’

A taut silence shot through the maister’s room, seemingly catching her in it, cold and sinister, spreading throughout the house. They were all listening, she thought wildly, down there in the kitchen, Tom and Eddie coming out of the stables, probably Nat Briggs too, just arriving in the yard. She felt a shiver run though her whole body and without knowing what she did took a step forward into the room, standing just behind Will, and looking over his shoulder.

She saw Mr Fielding standing at the wash basin, soap on his face, holding his razor as he turned at the interruption. He wore riding breeches and a white shirt, open at the neck. His expression, meeting Will’s glare, was tight and aggressive, his voice quiet, but cold.

‘What the hell do you want, coming here like this, Yeo? What are you talking about?’

Suddenly Will turned, found Becky just behind him, took her arm and yanked her forward. ‘This,’ he shouted, breaking the silence and raising an echo down the stairs. ‘My sister, that’s what. That’s who. Only she’s not – this maid you’ve taken in and made a fuss of – well, now we knows why you done it. My poor old mother told me just now ’bout you and Grace. Said she couldn’t keep it to herself any longer, poor soul. Cryin’, she is, ses you must do some’at to help.’ Suddenly he stopped and looked into Becky’s wide, unbelieving eyes.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, thrust his falling hair back over his head, and Becky realized that he had abruptly found himself in an unmanageable situation. He had said his bit, and now – what? Even as her mind swayed and circled, she knew she must help him. If he was any ruder to the maister the tenancy would be ended; they would have to get out of High Cross Cottage, find another job, another cottage…. She must put aside the business of Grace and the maister until Will could be made to go home.

Quickly she looked at Rupert Fielding, standing there brandishing his open razor, eyes like a hawk about to pounce on its prey, and said, somehow making herself smile, ‘What a fuss! I’m sure he doesn’t know what he’s saying, Mr Fielding. I’ll take him downstairs.’

The silence again, only different this time. She felt it was full of strange thoughts and ideas. Facts that must be told. She watched Rupert put down his razor on the washstand, use the towel to wipe his face, and then walk slowly, still limping, across the room to where his jacket hung on a chair. He put it on carefully, brushed a speck from a sleeve, and then looked back at her.

‘No,’ he said at last, the word clipped. ‘Take him into my study. We have to talk.’

‘But Mr Fielding—’ She didn’t want them to talk. She needed Will to go home, to where Ma was crying, to where the work waited.

He stepped closer to her, looked into her anxious eyes. ‘Do as you’re told, Becky.’

She heard something in his voice, something unexpected, raw, almost uncertain, and then felt an answering emotion. Of course she would do what he wanted. Nodding her head, she turned and walked out of the room, looking at Will and silently ordering him to follow.

The study was waiting for them, empty and quiet, with the morning sun filtering through drawn back, faded curtains. They filed in, automatically waiting until Rupert sat down in his big swivel chair at the head of the table, gesturing them to also sit.

Will sprawled, Becky sat upright, her body tense, eyes fixed on Rupert, waiting for him to start. She felt in a dream, a bad one, where nasty things were slyly creeping all around her, making her flesh creep. She wanted this talk, whatever it was about, to be over, for life to return to normal: the accounts; the ordering of the household; the thoughts about Joseph; she and Ma going into Moreton to buy dress material….

‘Go on, then, Yeo, tell me what you know about Grace. What your mother told you.’ Rupert’s voice was short and sharp. He stared at Will who coloured and fidgeted, looking at Becky as if asking for help. But no help came. She was watching Rupert, seeing his eyes slowly shadowing, becoming even darker than normal. Wretchedly, she wondered why the colour in his thin face had died. What on earth was all this about?

Will waited for what seemed a minute or so, and then said, haltingly, ‘Ma ses that Grace worked here in the kitchen, and you took her out one night and she got with child.’

Rupert made a rough noise and then cleared his throat. ‘And what if I did? That sort of thing happens with girls and young men. You know as well as I do—’

‘But this one’s different. She went off to Newton ’cos your dad said she must, an’ she had the baby. Only then she died.’

That terrible silence again. Becky heard it making her heart beat too quickly. It beat like a pump in her ears. Go on, Will … what happened then?

They were staring at each other like dogs in a brawl. Will’s colour returned and he leaned across the table. ‘That baby was Becky,’ he said gruffly. ‘My Ma took her in and brought her up. What I’m saying, Mr Fielding, is that this maid is yours. You an’ Grace’s daughter.’

Breath sucked in, emotions numbed, Becky half rose and then sank back into her chair. She met her father’s dark eyes across the table and saw him sadly smiling at her. ‘I’ll make it up to you, Becky,’ he said, half whispering, holding out a hand towards her. ‘You’ll be my daughter from now on. I promise you….’