With exaggerated gallantry, Matthew took hold of Beth’s hand and offered her back to Robert. ‘Here’s your partner back safe and sound. Now, Esther, take that mardy look off ya face and let’s see if I can give you a twirl. It’s one way of getting the ladies to cling on to you, ain’t it, Robert?’

Robert had no chance to respond to his saucy remark, before Matthew pushed Esther back on to the ice and away from the other two.

But for Esther the afternoon’s fun was spoilt. She seemed to feel Beth’s gaze following her wherever she and Matthew went and Beth Hanley’s words seemed to ring yet again in her ears.

‘He’ll always come back to me, Esther Everatt.’

Towards the end of January the threshing tackle arrived at Brumbys’ Farm. Soon the yard was hazy with dust and chaff and noisy with another ‘newfangled’ machine that Sam hated so much.

‘I still like flailing mesen,’ he muttered to Esther, but she knew he had accepted the squire’s help for the work was beginning to get too much for the old man.

As winter dragged on and spring seemed reluctant to arrive, Esther began to notice a change in Sam Brumby. He rose later each morning, coming down to sit before the range whilst she bustled about the kitchen, singing softly to herself.

‘Are you all right, mester?’ she asked him finally.

His reply was an ill-tempered sniff. ‘’Tis the cold, wench. Nothing more. I’ll be right as ninepence come the spring.’ So Esther continued to cope with the farm with only Matthew for help.

As she finished the milking one morning she heard a clatter in the yard and looked out to see a gig drawn by a fine horse which pawed at the ground and tossed its head.

‘Whoa, there, whoa.’ The man at the reins was Squire Marshall, whom Esther had seen in church.

Rubbing her hands down the side of her skirt, Esther stepped out into the yard. ‘’Morning, Squire.’

‘Good morning, my dear.’ Mr Marshall climbed down from the gig and looked about him. ‘Sam Brumby – is he – er – about?’

‘He’s in the house, sir. Would you like me to . . . ?’

Mr Marshall put out his hand, palm outward. ‘No, no, my dear girl. Don’t trouble. It was – er . . .’ He cleared his throat as if in embarrassment. ‘I heard Sam Brumby was – er – not well.’ Now he looked keenly at Esther. ‘Is that right?’

Esther licked her lips. ‘Well, he dun’t seem quite his usual self, sir. But he says ’tis only the cold; that he’ll be all right come the warmer weather.’