She walked back along the lane towards Brumbys’ Farm, but at the gate she paused and looked up at the shadow of the farmhouse, still and silent in the dusk. Not wanting to go back into the empty house yet, she turned and climbed the bank bordering the lane. Across the marsh, jumping the meandering streams, she climbed the far dunes and came to the beach. She walked out to the very end of the Spit where the sea and the land and the sky all seemed to meet. She sat down on the damp ground, the wind whipping around her. She could taste the salt on her lips. It was lonely and desolate out here, yet she was not afraid. Her eyes scanned the darkening sea and, half turning, her gaze took in the flat land behind her.

She gave a deep sigh of sadness. She felt as if the niche she had deliberately carved for herself in this place had been taken away from her. He had been a strange man, Sam Brumby, yet already she was missing him. She remembered everything that had happened since the morning she had arrived; Sam’s initial rejection of her, then gradually his grudging acceptance and finally his need of her. For the first time in her life she had known real happiness living at Brumbys’ Farm. She hoped she had repaid Sam by caring for him until the end.

Poor Sam, she thought, poor Sam.

‘What happened?’ Matthew demanded, as, back in her working clothes, Esther led the cows out of the byre after evening milking. ‘Did Squire say what was going to happen to the farm?’

‘No,’ Esther snapped. Her moments of reverie out on the Spit were gone. There was work to be done, a funeral to organize. She did not pause in her vigorous sweeping of the cowshed. ‘Tek them cows back to the field, will ya?’

‘Did he say he would come to the funeral?’ Matthew persisted, ignoring her command.

‘Yes.’ She stopped her sweeping and said briskly, ‘Talking of the funeral, I’d best get baking.’ She banged the door of the cowshed shut and walked towards the house.

‘There’ll be a few come, I reckon,’ Matthew said following her. ‘Old Sam Brumby was a funny old boy, but folks respected him. There’ll be Mr Marshall an’ his bailiff for a start . . .’ On his fingers he ticked off the people he thought would attend Sam’s funeral. Esther would be responsible for offering refreshment to them all. It was customary for a spread to be put on at the house following the interment, even if it was over two miles back to the farm from the church. ‘The vicar will probably come; all the folks who live at the Point, Tom Willoughby, of course, and Will, the carrier.’ There was a pause, then Matthew said, ‘What’s up with you, Esther? You’re not listening to a word I’m saying.’