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
‘I shouldn’t let it worry you none, lass. They’re only bairns. No harm can come of it.’
‘Mebbe, mebbe not. I still don’t like it, though. They – they seem drawn to each other, Will. She thinks he’s wonderful. Its all “Danny says”, and “Danny did this” with her.’
Will shrugged. ‘Well, they are brother and sister . . .’
‘Half brother and sister,’ she corrected.
‘Half brother and sister, then. Perhaps there’s a kind of closeness – kinship, if ya like – that won’t be denied.’
‘Yes – and it worries me,’ Esther said, heaving herself up from the table. She gathered up the empty plates and took them out to the scullery. ‘Though there’s not a lot I can do about it, I suppose.’
‘You’ll find the more you try to stop ’em playing together, the more they’ll want to. Even at this age, they’ll rebel against you, given half the chance. I’d let them be, lass. Really I would.’
‘I expect you’re right, Will.’ She grinned at him with affection. ‘You usually are. I should listen to your wisdom sometimes.’
He stood up and laughed wheezily. ‘Mebbe you should, me lass, mebbe you should.’
They exchanged a knowing glance, but still the words she would have liked to hear him say were not forthcoming.
The months dragged on and it was only the needs of the animals and the land that kept Esther going. She was saddened to think that Matthew was dead, for, three months after the telegram, another official form arrived. The words were just as informal and impersonal:
It is my painful duty to inform you that no further news having been received relative to Sgt Matthew Hilton, the Army Council have been regretfully constrained to conclude that he is dead.
This letter was not such a shock as the telegram had been for despite what the squire had said, she had not thought that the War Office would send such a telegram unless they really believed that there was little hope of Matthew still being alive.
Poor Matthew. He hadn’t wanted to die. He hadn’t even expected to die, like many of them had done when they volunteered for the glory of it all.