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Plough the Furrow

Margaret Dickinson
Chapters (53)
  1. Cover
  2. Title page
  3. Dedication page
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-one
  25. Twenty-two
  26. Twenty-three
  27. Twenty-four
  28. Twenty-five
  29. Twenty-six
  30. Twenty-seven
  31. Twenty-eight
  32. Twenty-nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-one
  35. Thirty-two
  36. Thirty-three
  37. Thirty-four
  38. Thirty-five
  39. Thirty-six
  40. Thirty-seven
  41. Thirty-eight
  42. Thirty-nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty-one
  45. Forty-two
  46. Forty-three
  47. Forty-four
  48. Sow the Seed
  49. Reap the Harvest
  50. About the Author
  51. ALSO BY MARGARET DICKINSON
  52. Acknowledgements
  53. Copyright page

Cover

cover

Title page

Dedication page

For Dennis, Mandy and Zoë

One

LINCOLNSHIRE, 1910

‘A GIRL! A chit of a girl is no use to me.’

Esther Everatt stood before the glowering man and ignored his insult. Inside she was quivering, but she wasn’t going to let the old man know that. Her firm chin jutted out resolutely. ‘Well, mester, it looks like I’m all ya’ve got. An’ from what I’ve heard, all ya’re going to get.’

‘Why you cheeky young wench, Ah’ll . . .’ Sam Brumby raised his hand and stepped forward as if to strike her. The girl did not flinch. Her green eyes stared at him steadfastly. Her feet were planted firmly on the cobbles of his farmyard as if already she intended to put her roots down in this place.

‘Aye,’ she said softly now, ‘ya can hit me if ya like. I’m used to it. One more blow’ll mek no difference.’

Sam’s arm sliced the empty air inches from her face. ‘Be off with you,’ he muttered and turned away, but not before she had seen the momentary shame in his eyes. She guessed it was the first time he had ever raised his hand to a woman, but her impertinence had angered him.

‘Ah’ve no use for the likes of you here,’ he was saying gruffly as he went back towards the cowshed. ‘It’s a strong farm lad Ah want – not a lady’s maid!’

Her laughter rang out clear and sweet in the misty, early morning air. ‘Mr Brumby – do I look like a lady’s maid?’ Her mouth softened when she laughed; even so, it was a mouth that could harden into an unyielding line of determination.

Despite his insistence that he had no interest in her, he glanced back over his shoulder. She was still standing there, hands on hips, watching him. There was a feline stillness about her. Her feet were encased in boots which had known better days long before her ownership of them. Dust from the road she had travelled encrusted the hem of her long, coarse skirt. She was slim, yet there was an aura of physical strength about her. Her hair was a dark tangle of curls with strands plastered damply to her forehead. Her hands and face were tanned by wind and sun.

But it was her eyes that caught and held the attention of anyone who dared to meet that bold, green gaze. They were still staring at Sam, willing him to listen to her, holding him from turning away.