WHEN she returned to the wedding party, most of the guests, other than those who lived at the Point, had departed. Only Mr and Mrs Maine and Grandad Maine were still there. Old Mr Maine was sitting outside Ma Harris’s cottage watching the sun sinking into the flat horizon, streaking the sky gold and pink. On his knee, her cheek against his silky beard, was Kate.

Esther stood before them and the old man looked up at her with twinkling eyes. ‘We’ve become good friends, yar little lass an’ me. Ya’ll have to bring her to see my cottage. ’Tis only a few miles inland – nowt for that smart pony and trap of yourn.’

Esther smiled. ‘We’d love to come. Thank you.’ Gently, she added, ‘’Tis time you came home now, Kate.’

The child’s eyelids were already heavy with tiredness, but like Esther she didn’t want this lovely day to end.

‘A bit longer, Mam, then I’ll come.’

‘All right, then. Only a few minutes, mind, just whilst I get yar tea ready.’

‘I’ll send her home, missus, in a little while.’

Esther nodded and said, ‘Goodbye, Mr Maine. It’s been lovely to meet you.’

As Esther walked up the lane towards home, she passed the meadow, the rippling grass just ripe for harvest.

‘We’ll be able to start this week,’ she murmured and smiled to herself. ‘My first haymaking as the tenant of Brumbys’ Farm in my own name.’ Shading her eyes, she stood in the lane and looked towards the farmhouse silhouetted against the setting sun, her gaze travelling over the house, the orchard, the barn and other buildings and then beyond to the fields of ripening corn. She sighed. How beautiful it all was and yet that very beauty brought a lump to her throat.

In the distance she heard three shrill, excited blasts on a whistle and the rattle of cart wheels.

Will? But he had only just left an hour or so ago. Was something wrong? Why was he coming back?

Her heart leapt. Three whistles – why three?

As the cart rounded the bend in the road, she could see that there were two figures on the front of it. As it slowed, one jumped down and began to run towards her. A tall man with an unruly lock of fair hair that glinted in the sunlight and fell forward over his forehead . . .

‘Jonathan!’ She couldn’t even take so much as a step towards him, her legs refused to move. ‘Oh Jonathan!’

But he was coming towards her, that dear, familiar smile crinkling his eyes. Then he was taking her face gently between his hands and kissing her forehead, her eyes and at last her mouth.

‘Oh, my love, my dearest love,’ he was murmuring.

And all the time, Esther had not moved. Breathlessly, she whispered, ‘Is it really – really you?’