Thanks to Aunt Hannah, it would take more than a temperamental cow for Sam Brumby to rid himself of Esther Everatt.

Half an hour later, Esther tapped on the back door of the house. It opened into Sam Brumby’s back scullery. At least Esther presumed it to be the scullery though it bore no resemblance to her Aunt Hannah’s, always so neat and clean you could see your face in the shining copper pans hanging on the wall. This place was filthy; unwashed pots and pans were piled in the deep sink and bits of mouldy food littered the draining board.

In front of her was the door leading into the main kitchen. This room was no better than the outer one. To her right she noticed another door leading out of the kitchen and down some steps into what she guessed would be the pantry.

Sam Brumby was standing at the cluttered kitchen table hacking at a lump of fat bacon. He glanced up. ‘You still here?’

Esther eyed the food hungrily. She hadn’t eaten since the previous day and even Sam Brumby’s unappetizing fat bacon in his dirty kitchen looked good to her.

‘’Ere, sit down and eat,’ he said grudgingly and almost threw her a wedge of meat and a hunk of coarse, grey bread. ‘Then you can be on your way, wench.’

‘Thank you, Mr Brumby.’ All politeness now, she sat at his table and ate the food he offered. When she had finished she thanked him, stood up and left the house. But she did not leave the farm. If Sam Brumby wanted her gone, he would have to carry her bodily off his land – and even then, there would be nothing to stop her returning.

She had nowhere else to go. Not now. Not since she had bundled her few possessions into a square of cloth, and, tying the corners together, had crept from her pallet bed in the draughty loft and out into the night. Esther had walked away from the only home she had ever known without looking back. Now, as she stood near the wall of the cowshed, watching the back door of the house but ready to dodge out of sight when Sam appeared, she thought briefly of her journey through the previous night, leaving the village on the edge of the Wolds that had been her home for the first sixteen years of her life. She had left without a trace of sorrow. There was no one she would really miss; certainly not her Aunt Hannah nor her seven cousins, from Mary, the eldest – a pudding-faced, sullen girl – right down through boys and girls of varying ages to the youngest girl – a spoilt, whining brat! Taking the lead from their mother, they had alternately ridiculed Esther or used her to do their share of the chores.