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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 walked the full length and at the very tip where the water lapped at the edge, she sank down and dug her hands into the shingle and sand, the sharp stones cutting her palms. She didn’t notice the pain. She was so thankful to be home, so grateful that her land and this place were still whole and untarnished. She looked about her, drinking in the tranquillity. The sea lapped softly at her feet. Behind her the land stretched smooth and flat towards the pale gold of the wintry sunset.

Young men had died to keep this land – her land – whole. Perhaps one of them had been Jonathan. Tears blurred her vision and spilled over but she let them run down her cheeks unchecked. They were tears of sorrow for what might have been, and now would never be. For a few moments she allowed herself the luxury of self-pity. Never again would she see Jonathan, yet she still prayed that somewhere he was alive and whole, that he had somehow, by some miracle, survived that slaughter.

The memory of that ravaged land would never leave her. If she closed her eyes she could still see all the horror. She had only been there for minutes; how then had it been for the men who had spent four years there, trapped by circumstance and awaiting inevitable death?

No wonder her husband had come home a broken man.

She knew now what she had to do. She knew where her duty lay. Gone were all her romantic hopes and dreams. Before her lay a lifetime of caring for her sick husband, of running the farm single-handed and bringing up her daughter without the love and support of a robust, healthy man in her life.

She prayed as she had never done before. ‘Dear Lord, give me the strength. And – please – please – let him be alive somewhere. Somewhere in this same world as me, just let Jonathan be alive and well and – and happy.’

If only I could know, she thought, one way or the other, then I could go on. But her reason told her that it was best she did not know, for if she knew that he was somewhere, maybe back home in Lincoln, not all that far away, wouldn’t she want to see him, to meet him secretly? The voice of reason told her that cruel though it was, it was best that she did not know what had happened to Jonathan Godfrey.

Now her duty, her loyalty and her compassion lay with the man who was her husband, for all that he did not truly love her any more than she was in love with him. It was Beth he had been dreaming of, Beth’s name he had whispered in his befuddled state, confusing his dream world of longing with reality.