The following afternoon – after her morning visit to the lawyers office – found Esther trudging the muddy lane towards the Grange. There was a fine drizzle and by the time she had walked the distance between Brumbys’ Farm and the Grange, the cold dampness was seeping through her cape. Her face and hands were wet and her hair straggled in dripping strands down her face and neck.

‘Have you an appointment?’ the sour-faced butler asked her loftily. Obviously he had forgotten – or would not acknowledge – the discomfort of his last meeting with Esther Everatt.

‘No, but Mr Marshall told me to come and see him.’

‘I see.’ The man looked her up and down, sighed audibly and then said with pained resignation, ‘Then you had better come inside. But please, do wipe your – er – boots.’

She stood just inside the doorway whilst the man walked towards the heavy oak door to the study and knocked. He disappeared inside and closed it behind him.

It seemed an age before the man reappeared, time enough for the rain to seep from Esther’s boots on to the polished wooden floor and leave tell-tale puddles. Returning, the man sighed again and then said, ‘Would you follow me, please?’

Mr Marshall was sitting behind the huge desk. ‘Do sit down.’ With a vague wave of his hand the squire indicated a hard wooden chair which had been placed on the visitor’s side of the desk.

‘Now,’ he leant on his desk and his sharp eyes bored into Esther’s, ‘what was it you wanted to see me about?’ It was an oblique reference to Esther’s impropriety the previous day. Rather than embarrassing the young girl further, it now made the courage flow into her. ‘Mr Marshall, sir, I have come to ask you if you will please grant me the tenancy of Brumbys’ Farm. After all, Mr Brumby put in his will that he wanted me to have everything of his and—’

‘Whoa there, steady, my dear girl!’ The squire put up his hands, palms outward, as if to slow down a galloping horse. ‘Not so fast.’ He sighed and then leant back in his leather chair. ‘The tenancy was not Sam Brumby’s to pass on. It reverted to me on his death, to be reassigned as I think fit.’

Eagerly, Esther leant forward. ‘But, sir, you know Ive managed that farm since Mr Brumby was ill, all this last spring and summer, through haymaking and harvest. You’ve seen for yourself . . .’

The squire spread his hands in mock helplessness. ‘I don’t deny it, my dear, you’ve done a good job, a wonderful job, considering you’re a woman. But you see, that’s the problem, we don’t grant tenancies to women. I have checked with my lawyer and there is a specific clause in the agreement drawn up by my great-grandfather that the tenancy must be in the name of a man.’