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A fter only a few days on the farm gathering around the kitchen table felt almost cozy, familial.

Silas was reminded of family dinners and the waves of conversations happening simultaneously, how the sharing of small things gradually wove people ever closer together.

Mrs. Darling and Bess were discussing a newly broody hen and the possibility of chicks, and Hannah had fresh gossip from the village.

Ophelia seemed quiet, though she laughed about Delilah shying at a rabbit and described how dry the soil had been under the plough.

He watched her as unobtrusively as he could, catching the flick of her wrist when she buttered a slice of bread, the press of her lips, top to plush bottom, when she savoured the tang of salt and potato, the smooth movement of her throat when she drank.

Seeing her, taking her in, was like the first sip of strong cider, fizzing through his veins, followed by a punch to the gut when he remembered he couldn’t afford to be around her, indulge in the old hunger for her.

Silas reached for the pitcher of water in the centre of the table, inadvertently brushing Ophelia’s hand.

He froze, the sizzle of heat singing through his hand and down his arm, shocking in its intensity.

It seemed absence had only intensified his unspoken attraction to her; his want flared like flame in dry tinder.

Her eyes darted to his face as she quickly withdrew her hand, shoving it into her lap.

He wanted to laugh at himself, undone by a touch of her hand like some untried lad.

Hannah cleared her throat, breaking into his thoughts, bringing him back to the table where three sets of assessing eyes watched him carefully.

“Still not much for mixed company, I’m afraid,” he said. “Been a long time...”

“Course it has, my dear,” said Mrs. Darling. “Don’t worry yourself about it, we don’t stand on ceremony here, do we, girls?”

“So long as there’s butter and tea enough to go ’round, we’re a forgiving lot when it comes to manners,” said Hannah with a smile.

“That’s a relief,” said Silas. “Even at their best, my manners aren’t what you’d call ideal. Being a farm lad, and all.” He ducked his head, hoping he’d added a little levity and drawn the attention away from Ophelia.

“They’re just fine, young man,” said Mrs. Darling, patting his hand.

“We’re glad to have you and your strong back here in time for the season.

I’ve an inkling that we’re going to need every square inch of the land this year, and there are those who’d be happy to see us fail.

It’s good to have an extra pair of hands. ”

Silas felt his stomach sink at her words.

He didn’t think it wise to stay on the farm with Ophelia, but could he leave when he had been assigned by the War Office to help them?

Leaving anyone in a situation when they needed help set his teeth on edge, and when he received this post, the letter from his commanding officer had made it clear that the farms receiving soldiers were expected to make significant improvements in production.

So much of farming depended on timing, and if Mrs. Darling lost his labour now it meant losing time, which could mean losing her farm.

Christ, he hadn’t thought things could get any more complicated.

He pushed his hands into his thighs, breathing through his frustration and trying to quiet his mind enough to make a plan.

“Have you family nearby, Silas?” Hannah asked.

“Oh, uh, yes, they’re just outside Wells.”

“You’re practically local, then.” She laughed.

“Aye, I suppose I am. Though I didn’t travel a great deal, mostly at home on the farm.

Basic training was the farthest away I’d been ’til France.

” He paused, not wanting memories of that time to sink their claws into him.

“My father passed away some years ago, and my mother and younger sister and brother and I stayed on at the Wood Grange estate. As you likely know, a tenant farmer can’t afford any disruption in crops or earnings, so my mother relied on me in my father’s stead. It was a hard time.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Hannah. “It’s never easy to lose a parent.”

“No, though it has begun to fade a little as the years pass,” Silas said, thinking about how often he still thought of his father and wished he could speak with him one more time.

“Both my parents had passed by the time I were finished in service,” said Hannah. “I’d not lived with them for many years though, so p’raps not quite the same as your situation.”

Silas nodded, wondering how it would have felt to grow up alone in another family’s house.

He thought of him and his siblings, like a litter of puppies, always tangled up, playing and fighting together.

“I was fortunate to have been born into my family, even with my father’s death.

We all love each other a great deal. I’m sorry you didn’t have the chance to grow up with yours. ”

Hannah waved him away with a casual hand. “And have you a sweetheart or a wife back at the estate? With your mother perhaps?” she asked.

Ophelia’s fork hovered at her mouth.

“No, ’fraid not. I’m on my own,” said Silas.

“My mother and younger brother have stayed on the farm, working it as best they can.” He swallowed the thickness that gathered in his throat every time he thought of them being forced from the house and home they had always known.

Knowing that he had caused this danger for them, in befriending Ophelia, and angering Merritt, made it all the harder to live with.

There was silence around the table for a moment and Silas couldn’t bring himself to look up from his plate.

Then Mrs. Darling said, “We’re not more than a day’s travel from Wells,” her voice kind and low.

“And I see no reason why you shouldn’t have the same free days as the girls.

Perhaps you can take the train up to see them soon.

I’m sure it always does a mother’s heart good to see her children no matter how long it’s been. ”

Ophelia caught his eye, and he knew she was thinking of how sweetly his mother had spoken to her, how they had sometimes sat in her garden for tea, how Ophelia had treasured her care that summer.

It was not only Silas who had been cleaved from his mother, but Ophelia, as well.

When Merritt had confronted him with accusations about their friendship, Silas had been woefully unprepared.

Despite how often Ophelia had warned him about her father’s selfish and erratic behaviour, he hadn’t understood the lengths to which Blackwood would go to try to marry Ophelia off for his own benefit.

Ophelia had known her father far better than he had.

She had been right that he would use anything at his disposal to get his way.

He tried to smile reassuringly at her, but she had already ducked her head back to her dinner.

“Have you settled into your room, then?” Hannah asked.

“Yes,” said Silas. “The room suits me just fine. Being quiet and clean, it’s more than a sight better than where I’ve had to bed down.”

“Were you at a convalescent hospital nearby?”

“I was.” He paused, then said, “It was just south of my home, an estate in the Mendip Hills called Hartwood House.”

Ophelia dropped her knife, her eyes flying to his face.

Hartwood House was only a day’s travel from the farm and even closer to Wood Grange.

He knew she was thinking of him recuperating so close to the estate.

He wondered if she ever spoke with her father or anyone on the estate and felt sick at the thought that she might casually mention Silas’s arrival.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, regaining her composure and placing her knife carefully on her plate. “I had no idea you were so close to home all this time.”

Her chest rose and fell rapidly under the loose fabric of her tunic, and he could see her trying to make sense of what he had revealed.

Bess glanced at Ophelia, and seeing she was unsettled, asked about the nurses at the estate hospital, how long he had stayed, and what the other soldiers had thought of the estate.

Silas felt awkward speaking about his time at Hartwood House, not having truly worked through how he felt about it, nor having yet spoken about it with anyone.

He had, of course, been absurdly grateful to be there, away from the front, and despite the pain of recovery, he had woken each day with a sense of purpose.

It was his duty, he told himself, to recover and be of service in whatever way was possible.

Regaining his strength and fighting to master his body became his all-consuming task.

He didn’t know how else to account for his returning home while so many others, far more deserving than he, languished in hospitals at the front or under the horrible sucking mud of the trenches.

It mattered less that his sense of that duty was fuzzy on the best days, cynical on the worst days; he just knew he had to keep moving forward.

Staying still too long left him open to contemplation, and that led to considering what he had done and for duty to whom.