Matthew shrugged. ‘We could ask, I suppose, but Souters’ Farm always has first call on Mester Marshall’s ’osses. We ought to try to get our own, Esther,’ he persisted. ‘Could we find the money to buy a couple of carthorses?’

Esther pulled a face. ‘We-ell,’ she said slowly as if thinking aloud. ‘Last year’s harvest was good. We’ve enough and more to see us through for winter feed. Then there’s seven pigs almost ready for market, still leaving us a couple for our own use.’

‘What about that money you found under Sam’s bed after he died?’

Esther looked up sharply and her eyes narrowed. ‘I didn’t want to use that. I wanted to hang on to that in case we ever hit a bad time and needed it for the rent and – well – just livin’.’

Matthew appeared to consider. ‘Yes, I suppose that’s sensible.’ There was disappointment in his voice.

Esther looked across at him. It was the first time since their marriage that he had shown positive interest in the running of the farm. Oh, he worked hard, she couldn’t deny that, but he seemed determined to remain the hired hand, rather than take his rightful place as the tenant farmer of Brumbys’ Farm.

It seemed to her as if he was always angry, as if there was a brooding resentment simmering just below the surface ready to flare into anger at the slightest provocation – particularly towards her. His once merry, ready-to-laugh face seemed to have a perpetual frown, where before there had been laughter lines around his brown eyes. Now those same eyes were often resentful and shadowed with bitterness.

The day they had gone to the Grange again to meet the squire and his lawyer, who turned out to be Mr Thompson, Esther had felt that Matthew had been deliberately awkward. As they had entered the squire’s study, Mr Thompson had risen and come towards them, holding out his hand and smiling at Esther. ‘My dear Mrs Hilton, what a pleasure it is to see you again. How are you settling down into married life?’

She had glanced at Matthew in time to see him glowering truculently at the lawyer, and when Mr Thompson had placed the Tenancy Agreement before them, Matthew had pushed it roughly away from him, almost shouting, ‘I can’t read all that complicated stuff. You’d better ask my wife to deal with all this. She’s the “mester”!’

Patiently, Mr Thompson had read the lengthy legal document, pausing to explain the obscure parts in simpler words, at last saying, ‘Despite all the involved legal jargon, Mr Hilton, I can assure you – both – that this is the standard form of Agreement which Mr Marshall has with all his tenants. There are no catches.’ He had beamed across the desk at them.