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
He had held out his hands to her, spreading his fingers wide, frowning down at them. ‘How can I – with this shaking?’ he had asked her morosely.
She had sighed and bitten back the retort that sprang to her lips. She had the sneaking feeling that Matthew often played upon his disabilities now; that he wasn’t really as bad as he still liked to make out when it suited him. His hands didn’t shake when he climbed into the squire’s car and bowled away to the town to get drunk, she thought resentfully.
‘You’m quiet, lass.’ Will’s voice broke into her thoughts now and she turned to give him a quick smile.
‘You’ve no need to feel – well – awk’ard, Esther,’ Will went on. ‘Yar Uncle George is looking forward to seeing you again.’ She felt Will take a sly look sideways at her and knew he could not resist adding, ‘Pity it’s taken this to mek you go back to visit.’
Esther said nothing.
Thirty-eight
AS Esther climbed down from Will’s cart in the yard of the low cottage that had been her home for the first sixteen years of her life, time seemed to spin around her. It was all so familiar and yet at the same time so strange.
Little about the place had altered, except the people. When the door opened and Esther found herself staring into the eyes of her uncle, she scarcely recognized him. The huge bulk of the man she remembered seemed to have shrunk away. His clothes hung loosely on his thin frame, and he stooped now, his shoulders hunched. His face, the skin yellow and wrinkled, was drawn and careworn. It seemed he did not recognize her either for it was not until she said tentatively, ‘Uncle? Uncle George?’ that his expression lightened and tears welled in his faded eyes.
‘Esther, oh, Esther. How – how you’ve changed. Come in, come in. The children are all in the parlour.’
Esther followed him through the kitchen she remembered so well. Here she had stood on a stool at the sink to wash the dishes. Here she had blackleaded the range and polished the brass fender. These rugs were the ones she had shaken each week and the red stone flags were the same she had scrubbed. And all the time her aunt had scolded her. She could almost hear her Aunt Hannah’s shrill voice now in this room.
Esther shuddered. She glanced at the empty wooden chair by the range. Her aunt’s crocheted shawl lay across the back, and in front of it was the hassock where she had rested her feet. Esther looked away and followed her uncle into the best parlour.
He held open the door for her and as she stepped into the room, her resolve faltered and she put her hand on the door jamb for support.