She scanned the bobbing heads for sight of him and saw him deep in solemn conversation with the squire. She felt Kate’s hand tug itself from her hold.

‘Kate, you . . .’

The child was gone, darting between the dancers to the stack at the end of the barn where several children were playing, sliding down and tumbling each other. At least, thought Esther wryly, I can’t see Danny Eland amongst them. Then forgetting the children, her eyes again sought Jonathan.

Drawn towards him, she threaded her way through the throng, coming to stand a little way off, just watching him. Her gaze roamed over him, drinking in every feature. The flop of golden hair, the smooth skin tanned to a healthy bronze now by all his outdoor work. Reluctantly, she had to admit that he looked the picture of health – not a wounded soldier on sick leave. The realization terrified her.

As if feeling her close by, he lifted his eyes and met her gaze. She saw the fire burn in his eyes, saw the hunger in them as he took in her appearance. He had never seen her in her best dress, for he never accompanied her to church and that was the only time she ever wore it other than for the Harvest Supper. Suddenly, another memory pushed its way unbidden into her mind. She had worn this dress on that last Bank Holiday – when Matthew had taken her on the pier. So long ago, it seemed now. Another world, another life away.

Squire Marshall, following Jonathan’s gaze, greeted her. ‘My dear Mrs Hilton.’ He held out his arm to her as if to draw her closer, to include her in their conversation. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come. Of course you two know each other. I was forgetting – I met you at Brumbys’ Farm the other day, didn’t I?’

Esther looked sharply at the squire but the remark had been made so innocently and without guile. So, she thought, the gossip hasn’t reached the squire’s ears, or at least if it has he’s choosing to ignore it. She glanced at Jonathan and that special look of a secret shared passed between them.

She held her hands clenched at her sides, willing herself to resist the urge to go up to him, to put her hands against his chest and reach up and touch his lips with her own. Instead she said, ‘How is Mrs Marshall, Squire?’

The older man’s face seemed to age before her. ‘Ah, my dear, she’s frail and weak, I fear. She’s never recovered from our great loss, you know.’

Esther’s green eyes filled with genuine sympathy. ‘I am sorry, Squire,’ she said softly.

‘Thank you, my dear, thank you.’ He smiled, making a great effort to play out his self-appointed role as host of the party alone. ‘Ah, there’s Tom Willoughby. Willoughby, over here a moment.’