BooksBarbecue
Back Plough the Furrow
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

The manservant had the grace to look ashamed. But when he left her alone in the hall whilst he went in search of his master, some of Esther’s confidence deserted her. She waited nervously, standing first on one foot and then on the other, twisting her fingers together agitatedly as her gaze roamed over the lofty hallway and the elegant sweeping staircase above which hung numerous ancestral pictures of serious-looking men and elegant women. In their company, even in her Sunday best dress, Esther felt like a tramp. The butler emerged from a door to the left of the hallway and beckoned her imperatively. Esther crossed the hall, her boots squeaking on the polished floor. She saw the butler’s look of disgust, but the man stood aside for her to enter and as the door closed softly behind her, Esther found herself standing in a book-lined room. In the centre of the room stood a huge mahogany desk, inlaid with a red leather top. The smell of rich tobacco smoke hung in the air. It was undoubtedly a man’s room. For a moment Esther thought she was alone, then from a leather wing chair near the fire, Mr Marshall rose and turned to greet her.

‘Now, my dear, what is it?’

‘I thought I ought to come and tell you, sir. Mr Brumby died this morning.’

‘Oh dear. Oh dear me. I am sorry.’ Mr Marshall sat down again. ‘Come and sit down, my dear girl.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Esther sat tensely on the edge of the chair set on the opposite side of the fireplace to Mr Marshall.

‘You’ll let me know when old Sam’s funeral is to be, won’t you? I shall attend. As I told you, that farm has been in his family for several generations.’

Esther nodded.

‘Is everything all right on the farm? Do you need any help until I can get things sorted out?’

Esther bit her lip. She desperately wanted to ask him what was to happen to the farm – what was to happen to her. Huskily, she said, ‘I’ve kept things going, all the time he’s been ill . . .’

‘I know you have, my dear, you have done remarkably well. I admire the way you’ve coped.’

Esther opened her mouth, trying to form the right words, but Mr Marshall was standing now and she found herself on her feet and being ushered towards the door.

Mr Marshall gave her shoulder a comforting pat and repeated his offer of help should she need it. Before she had time to say any more she was being shown out of the front door by the butler and the moment was lost.