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 nodded, his breath touching her fingers in a soft sigh. ‘But only after dark. I don’t want the gossip to start.’
‘I don’t care . . .’ she began, but firmly he said, ‘It would hurt you, my dear. You – and Kate. I don’t want that.’
They parted just before the bank of grass bordering the lane, he to turn off towards the rear of the Seagull and Esther to cross the road to her farm.
She walked as if in a dream. All round her the familiar scene seemed unreal and yet suddenly so much more vibrantly alive. The pungent smell of the yard met her. She breathed deeply revelling in the air around her.
How wonderful it was to be alive – and to be loved.
A smile curved her mouth, softening its hard, set line to tenderness. She hummed softly beneath her breath, and every so often she gave a little skip of sheer happiness.
The farm seemed quiet and unusually still as if waiting for her return. There was no sign of Kate. She would be at the Point with Enid – or Danny.
As she pushed open the back door, she saw it.
Lying on the floor, delivered whilst she lay in Jonathan’s arms, was a postcard from Matthew.
Twenty-seven
SHE stood holding the card in her hands, tensing herself against the expected flood of guilt. But it did not come. It was as if the card was from a stranger, or from someone she had known a long time ago – a person from another life.
She moved jerkily into the kitchen, and raised her head slowly to look up at the photograph of Matthew on the mantelpiece. She stared at it, but she could not even summon up memories of the real person; she could not hear his voice in her mind, or feel his touch.
To her, now, Matthew was only a face in a photograph.
It was Jonathan who was real. It was Jonathan’s face she saw in her mind every waking moment; how the laughter lines crinkled round his eyes when he smiled. The way his mouth was a little lopsided, but how his blue eyes sparkled when he looked at her. How the flick of blond hair fell continually over his forehead so that she longed to brush it back and to feel his face beneath her fingers. It was his deep voice she heard, not Matthew’s. It was Jonathan who loved and held her. It was his touch she craved.
Esther tucked the latest card behind the picture at the back of the others. She would tell no one of its arrival, she thought, but then remembered ruefully, doubtless everyone at the Point would already know of its delivery if the postboy had cycled all the way from town.