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below us to a glittering stream where cattle lazily drank. My former mischievous playfellow had grown into a well-made country lad, with red cheeks brightening his round face, and clear and intelligent blue-grey eyes. His accent was that of the country folk about Greaves: flat and coarse, but his confiding humour made me laugh. I shared my basket of Mother’s biscuits, lovers’ knots, aromatic with aniseed and sticky apricot. We talked all afternoon, of his family’s farm and his desire to leave the small minds of Greaves, of the modern world and its astonishing progress, and of how the young might make the world a better place.
    It grew late, and the first low stars glittered above us in the inky blue sky. We strolled home, falling comfortably into step. When we said our farewells by my gate, I welcomed his gentle touch on my arm and his suggestion that we meet again.
     
    I began to see John Francis almost every day, putting to use my long practice in subterfuge. When necessary, we communicated by exchanging letters in an empty bird’s nest in the branches of our garden’s lilac tree. Only Anne noticed the change in me. When I confided in her, she agreed to keep my secret only with the greatest reluctance.
    ‘John Francis is a good sort of fellow, but is he not rather humble for you, Grace?’ We were sauntering through the town, scrutinising him from under our bonnet brims. John Francis was larking about with his brothers, tossing his cap in the air for his new puppy to catch. The sight of him brought a smile to my face. He was certainly not as stiff and old-mannish as Jacob Greenbeck.
    ‘You are only fifteen, Grace, and rather young even for that age.’ Anne was cultivating a voice I fancied was how she thought the wife of a curate should speak. ‘And when the time comes, you can make a better match than him.’
    I paid no heed to Anne, just as I avoided Mother’s weary questions about where I disappeared all day. I craved freedom; to walk out of doors, to meet John and speak unguardedly, to hold hands, and finally to kiss sweetly, wrapped in each other’s arms. We both knew it was wrong to succumb to sin, and we withstood the worst of the Devil’s temptations. Yet what did Anne and Jacob know of the fever of such pleasure? If they longed for each other as we did, how could they forever delay their marriage?
    One black day Father ordered me into his study and stood over me, crimson-faced, a vein like a worm burrowing at his temple.
    ‘What is this?’ he roared. In his hand was a pencil portrait of John Francis, carelessly left beneath my bed. ‘Well?’
    ‘It is a picture, Father.’
    ‘That Rawdon lad. Think you have an admirer, do you?’ he mocked, in the voice of a stupid girl. ‘I’ll not have it! My daughter will not be thrown away on a Rawdon. He’s got a sniff of your prospects, that is all.’
    I stared mutely at the rug. It was the first time I had heard of my ‘prospects’, but knew better than to make a sound.
    ‘You drew it?’
    I nodded, brimming with tears.
    ‘Pitiful.’ He crumpled up the portrait in a ball and threw it in the corner. In anger, he pushed his huge flat hand against my shoulder. I stumbled backwards against the wall.
    At his growl of dismissal I ran up to my mother, who lay resting in her room with the curtains drawn, suffering from that mysterious affliction I fancied prevented her from bearing Father’s long-awaited son.
    ‘What does he mean – my prospects?’ I whispered.
    She passed a bony hand across her eyes. ‘No pray, not all that, Grace. It will only agitate him. For my sake not a word, my dear.’
    Yet one small matter did cheer me: for all his scorn, my father had recognised John Francis at once, so my portraiture was not so pitiful.
    I know now that my father was frustrated in his occupation. If he had been born in different circumstances, he may have been a remarkable artist. From observing him, I grew to love the Schools of Florence, the Flemish