Esther had heard enough. She came out of the sty and slammed the door behind her. Two pairs of startled eyes turned towards her as she crossed the yard, her green gaze spitting fire, her determined chin thrust forward, the pitchfork she still held in her hands pointing aggressively towards them like a fixed bayonet. Miss Flo gave a terrified shriek and clung to her sister.

Sam put up his hand warningly, as if to fend her off. ‘Easy, wench,’ he murmured. ‘They’re naught but a couple of busybodies . . .’

‘I’ll not be called such names, mester. Not by them nor anyone else. I may be poor, an’ I may look like a tramp, but I ain’t one, an’ no one has the right to . . .’ Esther jabbed the fork towards them, and Miss Flo began to wail and even the bolder Mrs Willoughby took hold of her sister and stepped backwards. Esther thrust the pitchfork towards them again, so that the two women jerked away. Mrs Willoughby stumbled and fell heavily, dragging her sister down with her.

‘I work for Mr Brumby on the farm and nothing else. You hear me, missus, nothing else.’

She emphasized her statement by prodding the fork ever nearer to the two quivering women on the ground. For a long moment she glared down at them and then, as if satisfied, she lifted the fork away and stood back a pace. The two women, seizing their chance, scrambled up, clinging to each other. Tripping over their long skirts, they scuttled towards the trap. As they went, Esther’s anger was turned to laughter. Planted neatly on Martha Willoughby’s fat bottom was the perfect brown circle of a cow-pat.

Esther heard Sam’s wheezing and she looked sideways at him. He was bending slightly forward, his hands resting on his knees, his head tilted up to watch the two women and laughing until the tears came into his eyes.

‘Aye, wench,’ he spluttered, ‘you’ll be the death o’ me!’

Seven

‘YOU coming to the Supper tonight, Esther?’ Matthew was grinning at her over the half-door of the cowshed.

Without pausing in her milking, her voice muffled against the beast’s stomach, Esther asked, ‘Supper? What Supper?’

‘Harvest Supper, of course. Ain’t Sam told you about it?’

‘No.’

‘It’s at the Grange. Squire holds a Harvest Supper for all the folks around here. Anyone can go – an’ they do. It’s a grand night. Aw, do come, Esther. Come with me, if you’re frit to go on your own.’

She finished milking Clover and stood up, giving the cow a last gentle pat on her rump. ‘Good girl, there now, there’s a good girl. We’ll have to stop milking you soon, shan’t we? Ya’ll be calving in a few weeks.’

The cow swished her tail but her kicking feet stayed still at Esther’s pacifying tone.