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Back Plough the Furrow Save as PDF
Chapters (53)
  1. Cover
  2. Title page
  3. Dedication page
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-one
  25. Twenty-two
  26. Twenty-three
  27. Twenty-four
  28. Twenty-five
  29. Twenty-six
  30. Twenty-seven
  31. Twenty-eight
  32. Twenty-nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-one
  35. Thirty-two
  36. Thirty-three
  37. Thirty-four
  38. Thirty-five
  39. Thirty-six
  40. Thirty-seven
  41. Thirty-eight
  42. Thirty-nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty-one
  45. Forty-two
  46. Forty-three
  47. Forty-four
  48. Sow the Seed
  49. Reap the Harvest
  50. About the Author
  51. ALSO BY MARGARET DICKINSON
  52. Acknowledgements
  53. Copyright page

She saw his moment of hesitation, could almost read on his face the question that was forming in his mind. Where had a young girl like her come from at this early hour? She saw Sam Brumby open his mouth, then clamp his jaw shut again. He was afraid to show even the slightest interest in such a cheeky baggage – she thought, inwardly amused – in case it gave her more ideas.

But Esther Everatt did not need anyone to give her ideas – she had plenty of her own. As Sam Brumby turned away and disappeared into the cowshed, she picked up the meagre bundle of her belongings she had dropped to the ground and marched after him. Outwardly, she was displaying a confidence she did not feel inside. She was determined that this old man should not guess how desperately she needed work and a place to live. She wanted to tell him that she would work morning, noon and night for him if only he would let her stay. But grovelling was not part of Esther Everatt’s nature, nor, she guessed, would it find favour with this gruff old man. He would see it as weakness and despise her for it.

At this moment she knew far more about Sam Brumby than he did about her. He had never married and had no family to carry on the farm now that his once-strong limbs were painfully misshapen with rheumatism.

‘He needs help,’ Will Benson, the carrier, had told her. ‘But the miserable old devil’s too stubborn to admit it. He needs someone young and strong and not afraid of hard work. Someone like you, lass. And it would get you away from this!’ Will had jerked his head towards the cottage where Esther lived with her aunt and uncle and their large brood of children. She had stared up at Will as he sat on the high seat on the front of his carrier’s cart, hope rising within her. Threading the reins backwards and forwards through his fingers, not looking at her, he had murmured, ‘I’ve always known what a rough life you’ve got, lass, with yar aunt, an’ I’ve often wished I could do summat to help you.’ He had lifted his head and smiled. ‘Then last week when I went on me usual trip out to Fleethaven Point and saw how old Sam’s getting more bent and slow ev’ry time I sees him, well, I thought to mesen, “he needs a young ’un about the place” and, o’ course, I thought of you, lass.’

Now she was here, had walked all through the night to get here, and with all her being she wanted Sam Brumby to need her.