The Fleethaven Trilogy by Margaret Dickinson Page A

she saw that he had dragged himself to the kitchen window to watch the final wagon load brought home, but this year it was Esther who had to put the last sheaf on top of the stack. As she did so she turned to see Sam watching her from the window and saw him give her a little nod before he turned and went back to his place by the range.
    The following morning when Esther came in from the milking, she found Sam seated in his chair. He was leaning forward, his breathing a rasping, tearing sound.
    ‘Why didn’t you wait till I could help you down the stairs?’ she said hurrying towards him.
    He was seized by a spasm of coughing and waved his hand feebly at her. Helplessly she had to stand and watch as the coughing racked his thin frame. He sat hunched in the chair, growing weaker with every passing day.
    ‘Mester . . .’ she began again, but he lifted his hand as if to silence her.
    ‘Lass, get Mester Thompson . . .’ He could hardly get the words out, and then only in a wheezing whisper.
    Esther bent closer. ‘Who’s Mr Thompson?’
    ‘I – I want to see him.’ He lay back in the chair and closed his eyes. The effort of dressing, coming downstairs and speaking even those few words had exhausted him.
    Esther bit her lip. She must find this man, but she didn’t know who he was. At that moment she heard the familiar whistle heralding the arrival of Will Benson’s carrier’s cart in the yard and she flew out of the house and towards him, her skirt held high, her curls flying. All formality forgotten in her agitation, she called the carrier the name by which she always thought of him in her own mind.
    ‘Will, Will – oh, thank goodness you’ve come . . .’
    ‘Steady, lass, steady. What’s wrong? Is it Sam?’
    She nodded. ‘He’s much worse, Will. And he’s asking for a Mester Thompson. I don’t know who he is, do you?’
    Will Benson nodded. His face was grim. ‘He’s the lawyer in town.’
    They stared at each other.
    ‘Why should he – want a lawyer?’ Esther asked innocently.
    ‘Dun’t you know, lass?’
    Esther could only shake her head for suddenly there was a funny lump in her throat and she could not trust herself to speak.
    ‘I reckon he wants to make a will, lass.’
    ‘A will? But folks like him dun’t make wills . . .’
    The carter nodded his head. ‘They do if they think they haven’t long to go, lass.’
    Esther groaned. ‘Oh no,’ she whispered. ‘You reckon he – he knows?’
    Will nodded. ‘Aye, lass, he knows. He knows all right.’
    They stood for a moment in silence. Then Will patted her shoulder in a kindly gesture. ‘Go and get yar shawl, or whatever, an’ I’ll take you back into town and drop you off outside his office.’
    ‘Will, couldn’t you . . . ?’
    Will was shaking his head. ‘Nay, lass, Sam’s asked you to go, an’ you should do as he’s bid. I’ll go and have a word with him whilst you get ready.’

    She would have enjoyed the ride on Will’s cart into town if she had not been so worried about Sam and nervous of presenting herself at a lawyer’s office.
    ‘What’ll I say, Will?’
    Will almost smiled despite the cloud that hung over both of them. He had never seen Esther so irresolute. It was totally unlike her.
    ‘Just go into the office and ask to see Mester Thompson. If he’s not available then leave a clear message with – well – with whoever is there. Just tell ’em that Sam Brumby is a very sick man and that he’s asked you to fetch a lawyer out to see him. And could he come as quick as possible.’
    ‘Will he take notice of someone like me?’ she asked diffidently.
    Now Will did smile. ‘Esther lass, just go in there and be yourself. They’ll tek notice all right!’
    A small smile touched Esther’s mouth and her confidence returned. Sam was relying on her.

    The young clerk looked her up and down as she entered the office. He moved forward from the tall desk where he was working. ‘Can I help you, miss?’
    Esther repeated