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Of course he was sure that he had not heard Hobson speak. It had been his father’s voice for certain, come back to repeat his warning. Although, looking around the room, he could see no sign of a spectre. ‘Did you hear a voice?’
    The valet was looking behind him, about the empty room. Then he looked back at his master, struggling to keep the worry from his face. ‘No, sir. Just the two of us conversing.’
    Joseph gave a laugh to mask the awkward moment. ‘I must be more tired than I thought. Pay me no mind. And no wine tonight, please. A few hours’ untroubled rest is all I need.’
    But if there were to be another evening such as this one he doubted that serenity would be a quality it possessed.

Chapter Four
    I n the little corner of the Lampett kitchen set aside as a still room, Barbara inhaled deeply and sighed. After the ruckus of yesterday it was comforting to be home again, immersed in the sights and scents and sounds of Christmas preparation. There were mince pies cooling on a shelf beside the pudding bowl, and the makings for a good bowl of punch set aside against any guests they might have between now and Twelfth Night. Before her she’d arranged what fragrant ingredients she could find—dried rose petals and lavender, cloves, the saved rinds of the year’s oranges and handfuls of pine needles to refill pomanders and refresh sachets in recently tidied closets and drawers.
    She glanced down at her apron, pleased to see that there were few marks on it to reveal the labours of the day. Everything spoke of order, cleanliness and control. She smiled. All was as it should be, and as she liked it.
    Suddenly the back door burst open and her mother rushed into the room, dropping the empty market basket and looking hurriedly around her.
    Barbara stood, fearing the worst. ‘What has happened?’
    ‘Your father? Is he here with you?’
    ‘No. He was in the parlour, reading his paper. I’ve heard nothing unusual.’ Barbara rushed to the kitchen door, opening it and staring into the empty front room.
    ‘On the way to the village I passed Mrs Betts. She had seen him heading towards the mill. He was carrying the axe.’
    Barbara stripped off her apron, pushing past her mother to grab a shawl and bonnet from pegs by the door. ‘I will go. You stay here. Do not worry. Whatever he is up to, I will put a stop to it before any real damage is done.’
    There could be little question as to what he meant to do if he had taken a tool of destruction. The papers were full of reports from other villages of the frame-breakers—followers of Ned Ludd got out of hand—destroying machinery. And of mill owners dead in their beds or at their factories by violence. While there was much that annoyed her about Mr Stratford, he hardly deserved death.
    It might go hard for her family if her father was left unchecked. He could well lose his freedom over this—or his life. She thought of the pistol in Stratford’s hand the previous day. His first shot had been fired into theair. If he felt himself sufficiently threatened he might aim lower, and her father would be the one to suffer for it.
    She ran down the path from the Lampett cottage, forgoing the road and heading cross-country over the patch of moor that separated the mill from the village. She splashed through the shallow stream, feeling the icy water seeping into her shoes and chilling her feet near to freezing, making her stumble as she came up the bank. The thorns in the thicket tore at her skirts and her hem was muddy, the dress practically ruined.
    It was a risky journey. But if she wished to catch her father before he did harm she must trust that the ground was solid enough that she would not be sucked down into the peat before she reached her destination. Even the smallest delay might cost her dearly.
    When she reached the front gate to Stratford’s mill she found it chained and locked. She wondered if Mr Stratford had left it thus, or if her father had gone through and