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
‘This land is mine,’ she said aloud to the sea and the sky as if daring them to refute her words. She threw back her head and closed her eyes and swayed with the soft breeze, wrapping the place around her like a cloak or, more to the point, a suit of armour. Nothing and no one mattered to her more than this land.
His face was still before her; she could not blot out the memory of his smile . . .
‘Mrs Hilton – Esther.’
The deep voice spoke so softly behind her that for a moment she thought she had imagined it carried on the wind, brought to her ears by her thoughts.
‘Esther?’ There was uncertainty in his tone now when she did not respond, did not move.
She opened her eyes and slowly turned to face him, tilting her head to look up at him. The wave of hair flopped forward over his forehead on which now there was an anxious furrow. Involuntarily, her fingers fluttered to smooth away his worry, but she fought off the desire, clenching her hands together and squeezing the earth she already held.
‘I – thought you were leaving. Have you come to say goodbye?’
He shook his head slowly, as if he didn’t quite believe it himself. ‘No. No, I’m not going yet.’
For a timeless moment they stood and stared at each other whilst the tiny waves lapped at their feet and the seagulls wheeled and dived and screeched above them.
Slowly she dropped the handful of earth she was holding and brushed the dirt from her fingers.
‘I saw you from my bedroom window in the pub, crossing the marsh, coming this way,’ he was saying. ‘I was all ready to go – to leave, then I saw you walking out here all alone. And I couldn’t go,’ he ended simply.
He held out his hand to steady her as side by side they walked back along the narrow strip of land.
After a moment’s hesitation, for something told her that she was about to take a step from which there would be no turning back, she put her hand into his.
Twenty-five
THEY met every day. At some point in every day, they were together. Sometimes for a few snatched moments, sometimes for an hour. And for the rest of the time, he filled her mind.
‘When must you go?’ she would ask, fearful of the answer yet needing to know. ‘How long can you stay?’
‘A few more days,’ he would answer gently, ‘then I should go.’
The few days stretched into a week and then two and soon she ceased to ask ‘how long?’. She could make him stay, she told herself, she would make him stay. He had no need to go back to France. He’d been wounded, hadn’t he? He’d done his bit in anybody’s book!