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

Her chin came defiantly higher and she returned his gaze brazenly. ‘So? What if I did? If we dun’t take the farm on, whats going to happen to us, eh?’

‘You – you – scheming whore!’ He was beside himself with rage, and could think of no worse insult to fling at Esther who had always held off his amorous advances with such puritanical, virginal fervour. He pushed her so violently from him that she lost her balance and fell on to the grass verge at the side of the lane. He seemed taller in his fury as he stood over her. As she lay on the grass, she felt completely at the mercy of his menacing power. ‘You used me,’ he spat at her. ‘You knew I was crazy to have you, and you used that to get me to marry ya, just to get the farm.’

‘Matthew – you dun’t understand, t’aint like that . . .’ She scrambled to her feet to face him, but he made no attempt to touch her now.

‘Ain’t it?’ He seemed calmer for the moment, yet his composure was perhaps even more frightening than his white hot anger. ‘You think I’m stupid, dun’t you, Esther, some stupid farm boy . . .’ He emphasized the derisory name she had first used upon him, as if the implied insult still offended him. ‘I ’eard you at the funeral, soon as he’d read the will leaving you everythin’ – everythin’ in that house – an’ still you was after more. “What about the farm? Can I stay on the farm?” you said.’ He raised his voice in high-pitched mimicry of a woman’s tones, mocking and insulting her now. ‘An’ you chased out after the squire as he was leaving to ask him the same thing. Oh, by heck, but you’re grasping, Esther Everatt.’

In his anger he had forgotten that only a few hours previously she had changed her name to his.

Now Esther’s temper was rising to match his own, sweeping away any vestige of fear. ‘What about you, then?’ she demanded, determined that he should accept his part. ‘Why did you marry me? You asked me, remember?’

‘You know why. I wanted you that bad, I’d have agreed to anything . . .’

She stepped nearer to him, her green eyes sparking with fire, her lips parted. Huskily, she said, ‘An’ dun’t you still want me, Matthew? I ain’t one to break my promises either. I’ll be a good wife to you, Matthew Hilton. You’ll not have cause to complain.’