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
‘His – his name is Matthew Hilton. He’s my husband.’
Thirty-five
IT was a difficult journey home, and without the help of Squire Marshall and his son Arthur, Esther acknowledged she would not have managed. Though the hospital had been thankful to release Matthew into his wife’s care, being one less burden on their dwindling resources and supplies, he was by no means fit to travel or to be in the hands of someone without proper medical experience. He seemed constantly to be running a fever. Every limb in his body seemed plagued by shaking fits, whilst his head nodded continuously in a nervous tic.
‘Whatever’s causing that?’ Esther whispered to Squire Marshall.
‘I think,’ he answered soberly, ‘it’s what they call shell-shock. The continual sound of gunfire and shells exploding all around them for months, years even, finally shatters their nerves.’
He shook his head with infinite sadness. ‘To think I sent my boy into all that. With such pride – with such damned, stupid, ignorant pride.’
As the squire blew his nose noisily and cleared his throat, Esther patted his arm. Out here amongst all this carnage, she felt the squire’s equal in a way she never would back at Fleethaven Point. ‘Don’t blame ya’sen, Squire. They all wanted to go. He’d still have gone, your lad, whatever you’d said.’
He sighed heavily. ‘I suppose you’re right, my dear, but it doesn’t help me to think that I actively encouraged him to go.’ He was silent for a moment, still watching Matthew. With an almost fatherly concern for her, he covered her hand which was still resting upon his arm. ‘I’ll tell you something else, my dear, that I never thought I’d hear myself say. Looking at poor Matthew here, I’m almost glad my son didn’t survive, not if he were to live a life like – like that.’
They watched Matthew’s hands fluttering in the air, uncontrolled and without purpose, watched his nodding head and the saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
‘Oh, my dear, I don’t envy you your task ahead.’ He shook his head. ‘You may have your husband back, but at what cost?’
What cost indeed – more than the squire could ever know! Esther thought, though she said nothing.
Those thoughts must remain her own.
Once they were home and when Matthew was settled in bed and asleep exhausted by the journey, Esther slipped away to the Spit. Despite her frightening experience at the hands of Martha Willoughby and her sister, Esther still loved the place, still found comfort and solace there. She didn’t blame the sea for having almost taken her life – she blamed the people concerned. The Spit was her special place and she wrapped the serenity of it around her like a cloak.