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“I don’t know,” she said frankly. “He made his disapproval about the WLA abundantly clear, but when I actually left it was under cover of darkness to meet Hannah waiting in a wagon by the side of the road.”

Silas whistled lowly. “Like a highway woman slipping along the moonlit roads, eh?”

“Well, it didn’t feel that glamorous. I thought my nerves would devour me from the inside out. I still can’t believe I actually went through with it, but honestly, leaving Mrs. Greene was the only part that gave me pause.”

He could understand that, knowing both Ophelia and Mrs. Greene.

The housekeeper had been as much a mother to Ophelia as she had ever had.

Silas remembered hearing bits and pieces of the story from his own mother; Ophelia’s mother, Iris, had died young, only a few years after giving birth to Ophelia.

When he was young, he had wondered what it might be like to be an only child growing up in a house bigger than anything he could imagine, thinking as he squeezed round the kitchen table next to a sister and brother that it might be quite nice to grow up alone.

No one pushing past you on the stairs or squabbling over who had more covers in the bed, no elbows jostling for the last sausage at breakfast. Sometimes it had seemed bliss to Silas, but when he had finally met Ophelia there was a loneliness to her that never dissipated, despite hints of wildness, rebellion.

It was as though she existed entirely unto herself, unlike Silas who existed as son, brother, villager, tenant—cemented firmly into his world by a multitude of roots, generations deep.

Ophelia, despite being literally to the manner born, stood alone, untethered to her father, unrooted by siblings or even a mother.

Looking at her now, he could see that the loneliness had lifted a little, that she was valued here, that the place was forming itself around her.

As far as Silas could tell, the one and only person who looked out for her in childhood was Mrs. Greene, the Blackwood’s portly, middle-aged cook and housekeeper.

Stout, with a fuzz of honeyed grey hair, and kind, sleepy eyes, Mrs. Greene was Ophelia’s champion in all things, clucking and cooing over the “poor wee girly, alone in every way that counts, rattlin’ ’round that big ’ouse on ’er own. ”

At his mother’s table, a wedge of cake and a cup of hot black tea in front of her, Silas had often overheard Mrs. Greene and his mother sharing the village gossip.

He could still recall their voices and much of what they shared.

“She’s a good gel, really, so sweet and thoughtful.

Though her father’s left her too much on her own all these years, poor dove,” the cook would murmur to Mrs. Larke before setting her teacup down forcefully, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table in a gesture that indicated she was about to share a particularly important opinion.

“Iris was always a means to an end for Merritt Blackwood. Poor woman hadn’t a chance, really.

’Twas nothing but sadness in that house after they married.

Mrs. Lyons and I used to mourn somethin’ fierce for the mistress, kept under his thumb with all the shouting and strong armin’.

No good’ll ever come o’ this, Mrs. Lyons and I used t’ say, and no good ever did. ’Cept Ophelia, o’ course.”

Careful not to attract attention, he stepped closer to Ophelia and ran a hand down her arm to her hand.

“I’m sorry. You must miss her a great deal. I know how much she means to you.”

Ophelia smiled a watery smile and nodded.

“Are you able to write to her at all?” Silas asked.

“I am wary of attracting my father’s notice,” Ophelia replied, “so I don’t write often. She writes me when she can, and thankfully, I’ve heard nothing from him.”

Before he could ask anything more, Mrs. Darling cleared her throat and pushed back from the table, her plate still loaded with most of her breakfast. Deep worry lines creased her forehead and her mouth was an unhappy slant.

“Well, everyone, it’s a mighty good thing that Silas arrived when he did, as the committee has well and truly forced my hand.

According to these papers, as Hannah reads them, we’ve to get two and a half acres into cultivation by May, which gives us roughly three weeks.

And that’s on top of the current fields Ophelia’s prepared.

” She rubbed her hands together on her lap and continued.

“We’ll need everyone pulling together to get this done, and even then, it’ll not be a sure thing, the areas the agriculture man has indicated haven’t been ploughed under for years, more hedgerow than field.

I’ve no earthly idea how we’ll do it ..

. I really couldn’t bear to lose the farm,” she added, almost to herself.

Everyone was silent around the table, the weight of the task and the cost of failure as heavy as lead. Then Hannah spoke.

“We’ll do it as we’ve done everything so far, strong backs, chippin’ away at the task,” she said, resolutely.

“As Mrs. Darling says, ’tis a good thing we’ve Silas’s back now.

We’ll put it to good use breaking through the blackberries and crabgrass.

” She looked over at Ophelia, then said with an encouraging smile, “Between that and your work with Samson and Delilah, we’ll have the fields cultivated in time. ”

Silas didn’t miss the grateful smile Ophelia sent Hannah and wondered about it. She seemed relieved by the other woman’s encouragement; did she worry he had come to replace her?

Still pondering this, he nodded, saying, “Ophelia and the team will be invaluable, as I’m not yet sure how my leg will fare on rough ground. But for what it’s worth, you can count on my back to help in any way I can. I’ll have no part in you losing your land, Mrs. Darling.”

“Thank you, Silas,” said Mrs. Darling seriously. “I’m feeling awfully grateful for the lot of you, I must say.”

Ophelia beamed at him, her eyes warm and happy. Hannah and Bess nodded in agreement.

“Alright, then,” Mrs. Darling said, looking around the table. “We’ll take this on together, yes?”

Bess, Hannah, Ophelia, and Silas all nodded. Despite the agreement, the rest of the breakfast was sombre and quiet. Just as Ophelia rose to clear the plates, another knock sounded at the door.

“And who’s that now?” said Mrs. Darling, getting up to answer it. She returned momentarily with a small yellow paper, folded in half. “For you,” she said, passing it to Silas. “From the army, judging by the telegram boy.”

He rose from the table and, standing with his back to the women, read the abbreviated message from his former commanding officer.

Good news re: your recovery. STOP. Regrettably, reassignment not possible. STOP. I, and the army, thank you for continued service. Cpt. L. Singer.

Silas stood stock-still, disappointment warring with relief.

The decision had been made; he had to stay, could not abandon this post, nor his duty to these women and his country.

He would have to find a way to keep his assignment to this farm, and his rising attraction to Ophelia from bringing everything down around his head.

“Everything alright?” Hannah asked.

“Oh, uh, yes, just an update from the regiment I was attached to. Nothing to concern us, really,” Silas said. He shoved the telegram into his pocket and turned to help clear the table.