‘I went into town yesterday afternoon an’ bought it.’ His face clouded ominously. ‘Can’t a man buy himself a new suit without being answerable to—?’

‘Don’t fly off the handle,’ Esther snapped back. She glanced down at the old dress which had belonged to the long-dead Katharine Brumby. It was already getting very tight around her expanding waistline. Her head came a little higher and her chin jutted out. ‘If ya can afford a new suit, Matthew Hilton, then I reckon yar wife deserves a new frock, don’t you?’

‘Suit ya’sen.’ He turned back to the mirror, trying to smooth down his unruly curling black hair but without success. He had shaved, but his dark colouring still gave his jawline a blue tinge however sharp his cut-throat razor.

‘I’ve got to admit it, Matthew,’ Esther said, ‘ya look very smart.’

He turned to look at her again and suddenly he grinned and she glimpsed the old Matthew; the Matthew who had pursued her, who had tried to tumble her in the hay.

‘Ya dun’t look so bad ya’sen.’ His eyes roamed over her, taking in her long, glossy hair which she had piled high on her head and fastened with the pearl combs; then down her slender neck and lingered on the generous curves of her bosom. He moved towards her, his eyes glinting wickedly.

‘Matthew . . .’ Esther held out the thing she was carrying in her hands to steer him away from the direction his thoughts were obviously taking. ‘I thought you might like to – to have this. Remember? It was Sam’s. He always wore it to church.’ She held out Sam Brumby’s gold Hunter watch. ‘Would ya like it?’

‘Like it?’ Matthew’s eyes shone. ‘Aw, Esther, it’s a fine watch . . .’ He slipped it into the pocket of his new waistcoat and looped the chain across his chest and stood there proudly, puffed out like a pouter pigeon.

Esther smiled at him. ‘It looks grand, Matthew. Real grand. Well, shall we go?’

The smile faded a little from his mouth and for a moment she thought he looked uncertain.

‘Esther,’ he began, ‘let’s not go to church, let’s . . .’

Remembering the look of desire which had flared in his eyes a few moments ago, Esther tapped his arm sharply, yet with an air of playfulness, and retorted, ‘Oh no you don’t, Mester Hilton. You wanted to go to church, so we’re going!’

‘Esther, mebbe . . .’

‘Matthew, do come on, or we’ll be late.’

She saw him hesitate, give a shrug of resignation and then he offered her his crooked arm and murmured, ‘Very well, but just remember – it was you insisted we go.’