Chapters (53)
- Cover
- Title page
- Dedication page
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Sow the Seed
- Reap the Harvest
- About the Author
- ALSO BY MARGARET DICKINSON
- Acknowledgements
- Copyright page
He sniffed and passed the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Well, ’tis a good job someone’s given me a son, ain’t it? What good is a girl to any man?’
He turned and went out of the bedroom.
Esther laid her cheek against the soft ginger-coloured down of her baby girl’s head. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears at his unkindness. Yet suddenly his brusque words reminded her of Sam Brumby on the day of her arrival here, and a smile trembled on her mouth at the memory.
She rubbed her cheek gently against the baby’s head. ‘That’s what I’ll call you, my little one. I’ll name you after old Sam’s sister, Katharine. Though perhaps,’ she added reflectively, ‘Kate would suit you better. Yes, that’s it. Kate Hilton.’
The baby stirred, wriggled a tiny finger in the air, and slept on.
Seventeen
TOWARDS the end of November, a sudden storm blew up. Lightning split the sky and thunder crashed directly overhead. High winds gusted the sea into a fury and the farmers rushed out to tie down their stacks before the wind tore them apart and scattered them. Doors and windows rattled and the cows moved towards the gateway leading from their field into the farmyard as if pleading for shelter.
‘Let ’em in the yard, Matthew,’ Esther said, ‘an’ leave the cowshed door open. Poor things. They don’t like the wind. Neither do I, come to that,’ she added, shuddering. It was the only weather she really didn’t like. She hated the way the wind clattered the roof tiles and shook the doors and windows. It sounded a live, vengeful, relentless being that wrought damage and disaster.
‘Sneck the door and come away in to the fire,’ she begged Matthew at dinner time as the wind howled around the lonely farmhouse. ‘Ya can’t do much out there in this lot until milking time. The bairn won’t stop crying. I reckon the wind is bothering her, too.’
Matthew slapped his hands together and blew on them to warm them, before sitting down on the wooden chair near the range to pull off his boots. He glanced towards the wicker cradle in the corner of the kitchen and then grinned up at Esther. ‘Her wind, or the gales, d’ya mean?’
Esther laughed. ‘Fool!’ she chafed him, but secretly she was pleased. It was the first time he’d made any sort of comment about the baby or taken any notice of her. Ever since her birth, Matthew had ignored her existence, even though the child had played her part in trying to arouse some sort of response from him by crying half the night. Resolutely he always turned over in their bed, pulled the covers over his ears and left the child to Esther.