The market in the nearby town of Church Stretton is awash with noise and bustle.

Fred and Charlie Thompson, Farmer Thompson's boys, run with onions in hand, winding in and out of the crowd, trying to coax buyers to their father's stall. Adelia, the flower-girl – who is little more than a waif, it has to be said – calls out for people to buy her sweet violets and primroses, her voice sounding lyrical and melodic amongst the gruff, deep tones of the mostly male market vendors. Roy Bennett's fruit stall is stacked with a mountain of fresh produce - plump round gooseberries, thick pinkish-red stalks of sour rhubarb and lush, fleshy strawberries bigger than my thumb.

The smells and sounds intoxicate me as they always have. As Marie hands out the baskets of apples from our harvest, and I, the sprigs of lavender that I spent hours diligently tying with ribbon, I fancy I can see William and myself when naught but children, staring at the market vendors with wide, excitable eyes and wishing we could run with Edmund Turner through the crowd, calling people to buy our wares.

Of course, that life was never ours, and I suppose we should be thankful of less toil and for all that Papa has provided for us, but there has always been something about the market which turns my head.

Today, however, there is something else which keeps my head turned, or, I should say, someone, for my gaze has barely left Ebba Cole since we arrived.

Ebba Cole is as old a person as I have ever known. Even in our youth, she seemed positively ancient, and now I am grown and a young woman, Ebba still lives on, although her face is a map of wrinkles that deepen with each passing year and her hair is thin and wispy under her headscarf. No matter the weather, Ebba always wears her crochet headscarf and a thick, knitted shawl wrapped about her shoulders.

From my vantage point on the trap, I have viewed her journey through the market stalls, where she has purchased a basketful of provisions, covering them with a square of linen and barely buckling under the weight of the substantial load she carries. She stops every now and then to take a seat by the roadside, smoking from a small, thin clay pipe she has concealed in a battered old tin inside her apron pocket. In front of the dressmaker's shop, she places the basket by her feet and pulls a small flask from the same apron pocket, taking a long swig and smacking her lips together afterwards as if seeking to hold onto the taste. When she collects the basket again, I realise that she is leaving and now is the time, if I am to see if she will indeed meet with little Stella, as William has told me.

With demand great for our harvest baskets, there are not many that remain, but I take hold of one and start to climb from the trap, allowing Marie to help me down.

'I'll take this to Miss Darby now, Marie,' I say, feeling a sudden stab of shame that I have tricked Marie into thinking I am away now to meet with Lizzie, having regaled her with my woeful tale of a petty quarrel with my friend.

Marie fixes me with a sympathetic look and squeezes my arm warmly. 'I am sure that whatever disagreement you have had will be rectified, Miss,' she says. 'You have been friends too many years and I am certain that Miss Darby seeks to resolve matters too.'

I smile weakly, dearly hoping my guilt has not warmed my pallor too much. While Lizzie and I have not spoken since the funeral at Lutwyche Hall, it is not unusual for days to pass before we speak. Naturally, however, it is definitely not usual for us to end up on such uncomfortable terms, which is how it was left that day after the strange goings-on with Mr. Carver.

I am determined to put things right with Lizzie, yet I can only do that once I am in possession of the facts and can offer a full and perfectly reasonable explanations as to my actions. It has, however, provided me with the perfect cover story to help mask my true intentions today.

'Thank you, Marie, I am sure of it too,' I reply. 'I shall be just a few hours and we shall meet as agreed at the Inn on the High Street.'

'Yes, Miss.' Marie nods with enthusiasm and it is no wonder as I know she is taking advantage of the time my departure allows to go visit her beau, the rather wonderfully named Bram Beddingford. Lizzie always says that someone called Bram Beddingford should be a broad-shouldered gentleman who fences like a fictional hero and grips the saddle of a horse with the strongest thighs from here to Shewsbury, but sadly, dear Bram is none of those things. I am quite certain Marie finds him to be her own fictional hero, but he is a clerk and a rather grey and dull one at that, and he certainly does not look broad of shoulder or strong of thigh.

Bidding Marie a farewell, I set off along the high street, weaving in and out of the crowd and doing my best to keep eyes on Ebba as she reaches the turning by St. Laurence's. I look back once to ensure Marie is not watching me, feeling grateful that it was not Silas who had accompanied me as he would have insisted on chaperoning me directly to Lizzie's door. He is a dearheart, but an old-fashioned soul who does not seem to think women possess the capacity to go anywhere unescorted.

I pick up my pace – albeit doing my utmost to appear utterly casual in my stride – noting that Ebba has now passed into the road by the church and I am keen not to lose sight of her.

It is another warm day, thankfully not as hot as the day of Mr. Hawkstone's funeral, but I can already feel the bothersome confines of my dress around my waist and legs and the heat lays heavy on my head. Cursing myself for not bringing my parasol, I cannot understand how on Earth Ebba does not feel so completely overwhelmed in all her layers. It is hard to tell how much of Ebba is flesh and bone and how much is layers of linen and wool.

Reaching the church where the red tiles blanket the roof in a burning scarlet, I follow Ebba into the turning and stop abruptly when I see that she waits in front of Coopers the Tobacconists, shaking her battered old tin at the proprietor, Franklin Cooper Sr. He goes back into the shop, muttering to himself and soon returns with a small packet of what must be tobacco for her pipe, and probably some snuff, if I know of Ebba Cole.

'Miss Elmes, how utterly lovely to see you here,' a voice squeaks rather too close to my ear and I inwardly wince, for I would know that voice anywhere.

The distinctive weasel tones of Percival Baker have haunted me since the onset of my journey into womanhood, where it seemed he always frequented the periphery of my vision at every dinner party or social gathering of which my parents insisted I attend.

Papa is correct about him being a saddle-goose, and I would add a few more choice words of my own, although none of course in front of Papa. Percy is rather gib of face with a jaw worthy of a horse, and he has a nasty habit of bespawling whenever he talks, which is particularly galling when he stands too near, as he is now.

I fix my face with a polite smile and take a small step back, annoyed that he has engaged me in conversation when I have a mission to attend to.

'Good day, Mr. Baker, are you well?' I say, in my most congenial and yet dismissive of tones. It is always best not to be too welcoming to the likes of the Baker twins, for they both seem to take it as an approval of familiarity, when being unfamiliar is by far the better option.

'All the better now I have seen you,' he replies, leaning forward and for the second time today I dearly wish I had bought my parasol. 'I am surprised to know you have an interest in taxidermy, Miss Elmes. I would have thought needlework was more your area of expertise?'

'Excuse me?' I say, completely baffled.

Percy nods over my shoulder and I turn, looking directly into the rather mad eyes of a stuffed squirrel, its mouth drawn back in what appears to be an eternal screech, its yellowing teeth prominent at the front.

'Goodness,' I utter, realising that the window of Hart & Sons Taxidermist is crammed full of awfully dead critters seemingly brought back to life, by the dubious talents of Messrs Hart, and all of which appear to be looking at me with the same mad beady little eyes.

'They are rather wonderful, are they not? I am particularly fond of this striking fellow,' Percy says, pointing to a preposterously large owl that crowds almost the entire corner of the window display, its huge wings outstretched. 'Do you know that the great taxidermists in London, Nicholay and Son, had an elk, a lion and a wolf at the Great Exhibition and the exuberantly talented Francois Comba of Turin has developed methods that are far beyond anything anyone could have dreamed of? It is said that he stuffs the most real-looking glass eyes beneath the creature's eyelids and the animals look positively petrified in their own skin. Isn't that amazing?'

I stare at him as he speaks, completely flummoxed as to what to say. Who could find such joy in dead things?

'I... I had no idea you had such an interest in taxidermy, Mr. Baker. How utterly riveting.'

If he notes my tone, he appears not to be bothered by it, but that is typical of Percy. He has never been one for acknowledging that I clearly think him to be a total bore and a rather hideous one at that. Lizzie says it's an affliction of the male species that they choose only to hear what they want to hear, and I'm inclined to agree, if the likes of the Baker twins are anything to measure this by.

'I hope to go one day soon and visit the exhibition myself,' he says, as I attempt to turn so that I can keep an eye on Ebba, who is deep in what appears to be a rather heated conversation with Mr. Cooper as she shakes her packet of tobacco at him.

'Really? How wonderful. I am sure you will enjoy London a great deal.'

Percy nods. 'Mayhap I can accompany your Father on his next trip?' he says. 'I have always so enjoyed his tales of the city. I am sure he can guide me to all the most interesting places.'

The last thing I need is for Percival Baker, of all men, to ingratiate himself with Papa in any way whatsoever. This man is about as engaging as the poor stuffed creatures in the Taxidermist's window and has a beady-eyed stare to match. I wonder then what he would look like stuffed and displayed next to the owl he adores so much. I should imagine they would make a striking pair.

'I'm afraid I am not certain when Papa will next go,' I say. 'He has much business to attend to here, and besides, I rather think I recall him saying that he would take William on his next visit.'

The whole suggestion of William being allowed to visit London before I did, has been the source of much annoyance on my part, it has to be said. I have wanted to visit the city for as long as I could recall, having too been swayed and intoxicated by Papa's wonderful tales of the museums, architecture and galleries, but of course, Papa would much rather I stayed here and claims that London is too dangerous a place for a young lady such as I.

'Ah, a shame,' Percy says, linking his hands behind his back, allowing him to lean ever so slightly closer. 'So, which creature has been fortunate enough to capture your attention?'

'Excuse me?' I say, with some alarm as I notice Mr. Cooper retreating into his shop and Ebba stooping to retrieve the basket.

'The squirrel, maybe?' Percy points at the critter which is still staring at me in a rather similar way to how Percy is now. 'I should buy you it.'

My mouth drops open. 'Oh, no, Mr. Baker, that is really not necessary.'

'Nonsense, Miss Elmes, it would be my pleasure. A token of my affection.'

I can almost hear Lizzie laughing raucously at this. A token of affection indeed!

Before I can say another word, Percy disappears into the Taxidermist's and I realise it has provided me with the perfect opportunity to make my escape from the droll Mr. Baker and continue after Ebba, who has already reached the end of the street.

On nimble feet, but still doing my utmost to appear as if I am not in pursuit of an elderly lady, I follow her path, keeping a suitable distance, while also wishing to put a very great distance between myself, Percy and his mad stuffed squirrel.

Ahead lies Rectory Wood, and behind it the heather-scarred valley, both unsettling in their untamed wilderness and yet both offering the one thing the young Lillian Elmes had always craved – untempered and limitless adventure.

In my youth, I had many a time walked the hills with Papa and William, marching over the wild uplands and getting the hem of my skirts wet as we danced in the brook. In summer, the sun beats a merciless whip over the landscape, with scant place for shelter and in the winter, the wind howls like a wolf through the valley and you think it might pick you up and throw you halfway to Shrewsbury, such is its strength. Sometimes, if we were fortunate enough to have snow, we would, as children, take the trays from the kitchen – much to Aggie's consternation – and William and I would fly down the hillside, feeling that same wind tangled in our hair, its howl at the nape of our neck and its teeth nip at our faces. We would laugh as we outran it, often reaching the base of the hill in a tangle of limbs, ruddy-skin and uncontrollable giggles.

I am no longer a child, but the need for adventure runs through my veins still, and I feel the thrill of it now, just as I always did when I was younger.

At the edge of the Wood, where the pathway meanders uphill between the thick copse of trees on either side, a child waits, standing so still that she could be a statue, her hand gripping the post of the stile that marks the entrance. When Ebba reaches her, she places the basket directly at the girl's feet and little Stella Turner juts out her chin and holds out her hand. From where I stand, I cannot hear their conversation, but I see Ebba laugh and pull a coin from her apron pocket, placing it in Stella's hand, who quickly pockets it inside a small drawstring purse which hangs from her wrist.

Her job now done, Ebba turns and walks back in this direction and I busy myself with my own basket, glancing at the old woman, the distinct odour of tobacco stirring the air as she walks by. When I am certain she has covered a good distance, I carry on my way, hurrying down towards the Wood, where Stella has already climbed over the stile.

Checking to make sure no one is watching, I lift my basket over and rest it on the ledge, raising my skirts slightly to allow me to master the climb over to the other side, quite sure I didn't accomplish it in the same nimble way of Stella.

As I retrieve the basket, I notice that the girl has stopped just before where the trees link arms overhead in a tunnel of thick, lush foliage, casting their shadows over the path. She is stone-still again, so utterly still that I find it almost unnerving, as if it is a picture frozen in time.

'Who's there?' she says, turning, her voice betraying nothing but a firm directness that stops me in my tracks and freezes my reply in my throat.

Stella's brow tightens and she lifts her chin imperiously.

'I am Stella Turner, daughter of Elmer Turner, and sister of Edmund and Isaac Turner. My da' and brothers will beat the Devil out of anyone who dares steal from me or harm me in any way, so if I were you, I'd speak now or risk the hiding of yer life.'

She takes a step forward, her tiny fists clenched tight.

'Speak now, thief!'