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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

With the dawn, Matthew set off to fetch Doctor Blair to come to Sam Brumby for the last time.

‘I’ll see the undertaker for you, my dear,’ the kindly doctor told Esther as he left the farm later that morning. ‘Get Matthew to ask Mrs Harris to come and lay him out.’

Esther nodded, not trusting herself to speak for the lump in her throat. She felt suddenly bereft and very much alone again. She had begun to feel secure and had dared to be happy. Sam had given her a home and had shown her a gruff affection.

Now he was gone.

Sadly, she wandered from room to room downstairs, conscious all the time of poor Sam still lying upstairs and that there was nothing more she could do for him. What would happen to all his family possessions now? she thought. Would his things be auctioned off with people prying and poking amongst his treasured memories? She opened the door into the front parlour – a room she had rarely entered and hadnt even liked to clean properly. She moved around the room touching the furniture, the ornaments and pictures until she came to the family Bible lying on a small round table under the window. Now, with reverent fingers, she opened the book.

Written on the first blank page was a list of the births, deaths and marriages of the Brumby family.

Esther read the entries and learnt that the first Brumby to farm here had been Sam’s grandfather, Joseph. One entry stated that he had been granted the tenancy in 1807. The entry of Joseph’s death was in different handwriting, as if the next generation had taken over the duty of recording the history of the family. There was one entry that particularly intrigued her.

‘William Joseph Brumby married Sarah Willoughby 27th May 1833.’ Her finger moved up and down the page working out the relationships. William and Sarah were Sam’s parents. So, she thought, perhaps Sam was some relation to Tom Willoughby.

The next entry was Sam’s birth – ‘Samuel Joseph Brumby born on 24th August 1833.’

Esther allowed herself a wry smile. There was less than nine months between his parents, marriage and his birth. She closed the Bible and turned away, feeling a little guilty for prying into Sam’s secrets. But his parents had married and Sam had been born in wedlock, even if only just! Not like mine, she thought bitterly.

Esther sighed deeply. No doubt she’d soon have to leave Brumbys’ Farm. But where could she go? No one wanted her.

Tears prickled behind her eyes and the lump in her throat seemed to grow bigger.

Eleven

MA Harris came mid-morning. ‘Now then, lass,’ she said to Esther. ‘’Tis all over with the poor old man, then. Aye well, he’s been poorly for a while, ain’t he?’