‘No – no, I haven’t had a card for months now.’ Esther paused, but she felt Beth was waiting for her to say more. ‘They can’t always write, you know. It dun’t mean that anything awful’s happened to him. Besides, if it had, I’d have heard from the authorities . . .’ She stopped, suddenly aware of the strange circumstance. Here she was standing in a farmyard in the middle of the night whilst the flames of a burning stack leapt and danced and cast eerie shadows and grotesque shapes, trying to comfort Beth of all people! If it hadn’t been so heartrending, it would have been comical.

Beth said nothing. Esther watched her, wondering about her. There was a calmness and a quietness about Beth now. She seemed so much older than the girl who had shaken her fist in Esther’s face and laid a curse upon her for taking the man she loved. It was as if Beth had grown old in the space of a few short years. The promise of beauty that had been in her young, round face had never flowered. She was much thinner than Esther remembered, the high cheekbones and hollowed cheeks giving her a gaunt look, accentuated by the flickering shadows. Her eyes were dark, unfathomable pools of loneliness.

Was that what the loss of true love did to a person? Esther wondered. Would she, Esther, grow old, too, waiting and longing for Jonathan?

There was nothing else Esther could think of to say so they just carried on working side by side to save what they could of Tom’s stack.

By the time dawn was spreading cold fingers of light across the flat land, the fire was out and the helpers were trudging home, smut-faced and weary. Esther turned away, sickened by the sight of the blackened and smouldering hay which the men were still spreading and turning to make sure it would not blow up again into a blaze.

She felt someone grasp her arm and as she began to turn to see who it was, a hand slapped her face hard. Caught off balance by the sudden attack, Esther fell to the ground.

Martha Willoughby stood above her. ‘So, you thought you’d have revenge for your ran-tan-tanning by setting light to our stack, did you?’

Esther opened her mouth to protest, but the tirade was not finished. ‘Well, let me tell you, Esther Hilton. They all know you now round here for exactly what you are. A scheming hussy who tricked a dying man into leaving her everything that rightly belongs to others; who stole another girl’s sweetheart and her baby’s father and then – to cap it all – when he went to fight for his country, took another man, a deserter no less, into her bed. You’re a trollop, Esther Hilton. A whore and—’