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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

‘I’d rather you fancied me, lovely Esther.’ He grinned down at her, but she noticed that he never paused in the rhythmic swinging of his hay fork, deftly catching the hay as it was swung up to him. For the first time since she had met him, Esther found herself admiring his skill.

Esther herself blossomed under the workload that harvest time imposed and now she felt Sam had really accepted her.

From now on this was her home, this was her land.

When the other helpers left the farm in the evening, Esther went into Sam’s kitchen to bake and cook for the next day. Her cheeks were flushed with the heat from the range, her hair straggling in wet wisps around her forehead. Swaying with weariness, late at night she climbed the ladder to her little room.

But the morning found her the first out to bring in the cows and have the milking done before the visiting workers arrived. Mid-morning she would leave the fields and hurry back to the farmhouse to bring out baskets laden with freshly baked meat pies and fruit pasties to the workers in the fields.

All this she did without Sam’s instruction, maybe even without his approval.

‘Eh, we ain’t been fed like this on Brumbys’ Farm afore,’ one of the workers told her, biting into a juicy fruit pasty. ‘This is a rare treat an’ no mistake!’

Not a word of praise to her ever passed Sam’s lips, but there began a subtle change in his attitude towards her. One morning she overheard him talking to the carrier again.

‘She’s a way with her, Will,’ Sam was saying in one of his rare talkative moods to the man who was perhaps the nearest the reclusive, taciturn farmer had to a friend. ‘She laughs and jokes with all the visiting workers, and yet when she wants ’em to do summat, well . . .’ Sam paused, lifting his cap and running the back of his hand across the red, sweating mark the band of his cap left on his forehead. ‘Well, I don’t rightly know ’ow she does it, but she gets t’work out on ’em, and no mistake.’

Will grinned. ‘Bit of her aunt in there somewhere, I’ll warrant, but Esther wouldn’t thank me for saying so. But she’s a nicer way wi’ her than that old shrew.’

Sam Brumby sniffed and settled his cap back on his head. Squinting up at Will he said slyly, ‘Mebbe she teks more after her dad, then?’

‘Aye, mebbe so, mebbe so.’

And Will’s grin broadened.

Six