Chapters (53)
- Cover
- Title page
- Dedication page
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Sow the Seed
- Reap the Harvest
- About the Author
- ALSO BY MARGARET DICKINSON
- Acknowledgements
- Copyright page
Grimly, Esther lay still and stared with wide eyes into the blackness.
He gained the top of the stairs and fell into the bedroom, the door thumping back against the bed.
He lay on the floor laughing stupidly. ‘Ya know, I reckon I’ve had – hic – a bit too much.’
Esther said nothing.
She heard him pull himself to his feet and sit heavily on the side of the bed. She listened whilst laboriously he took off his boots. Slowly and with careful deliberation, he took off each item of clothing and laid it across the bottom of the bed. She could feel the heaviness of his clothes across her feet. Then he tugged at the bedclothes and scrambled his way beneath them. For a few moments he lay beside her, breathing heavily. Then suddenly, he rolled over towards her, flung one arm across her, brought up his knee and thrust his right leg over her body.
Although the smell of drink on his breath made her feel sick, she lay rigidly still. He tried to pull himself up to lie astride her, but in his befuddled state the effort was too much. He nuzzled his head against her shoulder and then gave a huge sigh, sending waves of ale fumes into her face.
His breathing became regular and soon he was snoring heavily. After a few minutes she gently eased herself out from under his heavy limbs and pushed him on to his back and on to his side of the bed. She turned her back to him and lay as far to the outside edge of the bed as she could. Her fingers gripped the thin mattress and her eyes stared sleeplessly into the darkness.
What have I done? she asked herself. What have I done?
The New Year brought its own problems. January was one of the wettest that the old farmers could remember. The ploughed fields became a quagmire and the swollen river spilled over its banks on to the fields that bordered it. The bitter winds whipped across the flat land, howling around the exposed farmhouse in the dark of the long nights. The winter ploughing was a long way from being finished, but there was no way they could get on to the land.
‘We ought to have our own ’osses, two at least,’ Matthew said to Esther. ‘When the weather lets up, Tom Willoughby’ll want his ’osses for his own ploughing. I reckon he’s further behind than us.’
Esther nodded. ‘He’s more acreage than us, he’ll not want to be lending us his team when the weather does get better, will he?’ She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Do you think the squire would lend us a couple of his?’