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D ays on the Darling farm began in a flurry of activity, but for the first few seconds of every morning, Ophelia let her mind sink back into her body, reinhabiting the self she was still getting used to.

On the mornings since Silas’s arrival the knowledge that he was waking up somewhere nearby unsettled her.

She imagined the room she had shown him to, how his lanky frame might be sprawled across the iron bedstead, quilt rumpled around him.

Or perhaps he slept curled in on himself.

She didn’t know. They had seen each other often after meeting over the mistaken book, but almost always outside, on their way to or from somewhere, only rarely seated in the cool cavern of the Wood Grange kitchen while Mrs. Greene worked her culinary magic around them.

Ophelia remembered feeling a little drunk on the intensity of their friendship and the conversations they had had about what it meant for them to continue meeting.

Silas had argued that it was dangerous for her, that his company could only be a negative for her, which she had rebuffed with immediate and, she later realized, na?ve exclamations.

She didn’t know much about the world, how people talked, he had said.

His concern had only made Ophelia dig her heels in harder.

Her father sought her out very rarely, usually only when he required her to be on display for dinners and parties, so prior to meeting Silas, this had meant spending time with Mrs. Greene in the kitchens and the garden, visiting some of the more elderly villagers with goods from the estate, and long hours reading in the library or wandering the grounds.

She knew that this made her odd, a young woman always on the fringes of everything, but she hadn’t had any real desire to change it.

Silas and his friendship, then, were like a treasure to her, something of her own, not tainted by her father or the needs of the estate.

It had seemed worth it to flout her father’s rules at the time, but Ophelia wasn’t sure she felt the same way now that it was Mrs. Darling’s farm on the line.

She worried that somehow the news of a soldier of Silas’s age arrived to help might wind its way along the lines of village communication and that her father would get wind of it.

She hadn’t left a forwarding address for her father, didn’t expect to hear from him, and hadn’t exchanged letters with anyone but Mrs. Greene, but she knew better than to put it past him to act in his own best interest, no matter the consequences to others.

Something had happened between Silas and her father; she was sure of it now.

It occurred to her that she had always suspected this, but something about Silas’s arrival had cemented it in her mind.

She slid out of bed, rubbing her eyes and pushing off her nightgown to dress.

The bite of cool morning air on her skin made Ophelia think of Silas again, dressing for the day in his own small room in the barn.

She conjured an image of him, as best she could, naked to the waist, pulling on his linen shirtsleeves.

She imagined the shift and slide of the muscles down his back as he slipped the shirt over his head, the way his shoulders would bunch and release under the worn fabric, how his hair would fall forward into his eyes as he did up the buttons.

Her mouth was strangely dry, and a thready beat began to throb between her legs.

She realised she was avoiding thinking of his hands moving to the buttons of his trousers or the way the leather of his braces would slide across the palms of his wide hands as he settled them on his shoulders.

Downstairs, there was a loud knock at the door, and Ophelia heard Mrs. Darling hustling through the house to answer it. Her voice, rich and commanding, filtered up the stairs.

“Morning to you, sir. What it is I can help you with?”

“Morning, ma’am. Apologies for the early hour, but I come on urgent business from the War Agricultural Committee.”

Ophelia hurriedly dressed, pulling her work jacket closed as she descended the stairs, Bess close at her heels, Hannah emerging from the sitting room.

Ophelia wondered at the tension in Mrs. Darling’s shoulders, whether it arose from the nature of the visit or her host’s familiarity with being treated as incapable by men in positions of authority.

For the moment it was hard to tell. The man at the door, tall and whip thin, produced a sheaf of paperwork, and leaned down to place his leather briefcase at his feet.

Ophelia caught sight of Mr. Bone holding the reins of his dogcart out in the farmyard.

He feigned nonchalance, but it struck her as odd that the neighbour would appear in tandem with the War Ag.

It appeared that Mrs. Darling thought so as well because her back stiffened and she called out to him.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of a visit from you, Casper Bone? ’Tisn’t often you are over on our side of t’hill.”

Mr. Bone shook his head and said, “’Tisn’t a visit, Arabella, only dropping the government man where he asked.

” Clearly wanting to end the conversation, he turned to fuss with something on the piebald horse’s bridle.

Ophelia could feel Hannah tense behind her while Bess poked her gently in the rib to mouth “What do they want with Mrs. D.?” Ophelia shook her head, wondering the same thing.

“If we could just get back to these papers, ma’am,” said the official. “It’s important that these instructions are communicated to you as soon as possible.” He cleared his throat. “In order that you might take action with all due speed.”

“I don’t even know who ye are, let alone what I’m to do with all due speed, sir. P’raps you’d best explain yourself.”

She motioned him into the kitchen, toward the table. Hannah quickly sat opposite him, eyes darting between him and Mrs. Darling. Bess pulled out a chair for Mrs. Darling before sitting beside her. Ophelia slid in next to Bess and waited to hear what the man had to say.

“In the course of our meetings, it’s come to the attention of the County Agricultural Committee that there are potentially two acres or more of under-utilised land on this farm.

” He consulted a map on his clipboard. “At the north end of your property, there is a plot that seems to have been let go wild for some years. A wheat crop might be had there, were it cleared and cultivated. As I’m sure you understand, the government cannot allow the country to go hungry when there is arable land left fallow.

” He paused to take a breath, his sandy moustache quivering a little as he prepared to continue, eyes flicking up to Mrs. Darling’s stony face.

“The chair of your subcommittee has granted you until the twenty-first of May to have the indicated land prepared for cultivation, which with the help of the soldier seconded to your farm, should be feasible. In the unfortunate event that it is not, the land may be forfeited to the government or potentially reassigned to another landholder who is able to get it sown and harvested.”

Mrs. Darling rose from the table and stood silent in the doorway for a moment, then lifting her chin gracefully, she fixed her eyes on the figure of Mr. Bone, who stood toeing the dirt of the farmyard.

Refusing to meet her eyes, he cleared his throat and frowned at something on the footrest of the dogcart.

“So, Casper, ’tis to be this way, is it?” called Mrs. Darling, her voice strong and carrying. “Well, you know I’ve no stomach for games, so I’ll tell you what I’ve always told them. I’ll not be bullied into submission by any man, no matter what committee he serves.”

“Now, Arabella—Mrs. Darling, that’s not the case at all. I’ve naught?—”

She turned her back without letting him finish and snapped at the official, who stood awkwardly in the kitchen, “Leave the papers with me. We’ll have the land ready.

Good day.” Taking the papers he thrust toward her, she closed the door.

She let out a long breath, and reaching out to pat Bess’s shoulder, she said, “Let’s have a cuppa and puzzle this out.

Someone on the Agriculture Committee is certainly doing their homework, but I’ll be damned if some snake from that trumped-up band of busybodies gets a single centimetre of land from me.

If there’s someone desperate enough to be stirring trouble for us with the Agricultural Committee, they’ll be desperate enough to try anything.

Come now, Ophelia, get that kettle on the stove. ”

Ophelia crossed the room to fill the kettle, and looking out the window above the sink, saw Silas enter the farmyard from the lane.

He must have come from the village, she thought, as he was already dressed in a thick cotton work coat, the shoulders and back faded by the sun.

Running his hands through his mussed, golden hair, he looked toward the house and then toward the two men about to depart.

Mr. Bone, his shoulders broad from work and without a hint of roundness due to age, despite the grey of his hair, shook Silas’s hand and spoke a few words.

Ophelia started as the kettle overflowed, splashing cold water over her hand.

Did Silas and Mr. Bone know each other? Was it possible she and Silas’s past wasn’t the only coincidence about his arrival?

She couldn’t imagine Silas being involved in anything nefarious, but it was also possible he wasn’t the same person she had known at Wood Grange.

She couldn’t ignore that he hadn’t chosen to share much about his current situation.

Be fair, Ophelia, there hasn’t been much time for him to explain anything to you, assuming he intends to .

But she couldn’t help feeling that something was wrong as she watched Mr. Bone clap Silas on the back before settling himself back into his cart with the irritable-looking official at his side.

Turning from the sink to place the kettle on the stove, she heard the scrape of the door as Silas entered.

He looked more rested than the previous day, but Ophelia noted the brevity of his smiles when he greeted the other women and the way he pushed his hands into his pockets, then removed them to run his hands through his hair, the burnished golden strands waving back behind his ears and curling slightly at his temples.

He looked worried, Ophelia thought, and that worried her.