Such a peace as she had never known before in her young life.

She gave a final sigh of contentment and let her arms fall to her sides. She ran lightly down the slope towards the farm.

Home to Brumbys’ Farm.

Esther had arrived on the last day in April and by the end of May she sensed that Sam was watching for the bloom to appear on his crop of grass. For a small farmer, a good hay harvest together with the corn harvest and root crops which came later meant feed for his stock through the winter.

On the day hay-making began, Esther followed Sam out to the meadow. The morning was bright and clear. Later they would swelter under a hot sun in a clear blue sky.

In one hand Sam carried his scythe and in a holder attached to the back of his leather belt was a honer for sharpening the long, curving blade.

‘You bring the forks and rakes out to the field, wench.’

Esther was amazed at the number of workers who arrived. Men, women and even children, from the neighbouring farms and from the cottages at the Point, came to help Sam Brumby bring in his hay. Then in turn Sam, Esther and Matthew would go to work on the other farms. Esther worked alongside the women and children from dawn to dusk and beyond, shaking and spreading the cut grass out to dry during the day and then just before dusk raking it into long rows down the field so as to collect less dampness through the night.

Esther watched Sam at work as he scythed the long grass with easy rhythmic sweeps, moving steadily down the field. The grass seed flew everywhere; it buried itself in Esther’s hair and even blocked her nose and made her throat dry and husky.

The next day they spread the cut grass out and collected it again at dusk, until the whole field was cut. Then, after the grass had lain in the field for a few days to dry, it was collected into haycocks.

When all Sam’s meadows had been cut into neat rows of haycocks, which were then left to dry in the wind for a while, the time came for loading the hay on to the wagon to be taken to the farmyard. Matthew stood on top of the growing load on the wagon, spreading the grass evenly and expertly as it was thrown up to him on the ends of their long pitchforks by three men below. Under the hot sun Matthew had stripped to the waist, the black hairs on his chest and back glistening with the sweat of his hard work. But he still found time and energy to flirt with the women – young or old, it didn’t seem to matter to Matthew Hilton.

Esther, matching his teasing tone, shaded her eyes as she looked up at him. ‘Fancy ya’sen up there, don’t ya?’