Page 20

T he day after the committee official’s visit, Ophelia made her way along the edge of the top field, Samson and Delilah on either side of her, their heavy hooves denting the softening soil as they plodded along, heads low, harnesses jingling.

The afternoon of his visit, Ophelia had taken a quick walk over to the new field to acquaint herself with its terrain.

She was nervous to plough an uncultivated area; so far, all her practise had been on ground that had been turned over for decades, but this new plot resembled nothing so much as a patch of wildness, covered with crabgrass and dotted with the odd primrose, edged by waist-high blackberry, wild rose bushes, and the remnants of a laid hedge, now gnarled with age.

Having been sown with a cover crop for a number of years, the land had eventually been let to go wild when Mrs. Darling’s workload on the rest of the farm became too much.

It was neither the worst nor the best piece of land, forming a kind of crooked dog leg between Mr. Bone and Mrs. Darling’s farms. It was a little hard to get to, and Ophelia wasn’t entirely sure that she could command the team well enough to get the ground broken with sufficient speed and to the correct tilth, and it preyed on her worry that she wasn’t pulling her weight on the farm.

She didn’t want to let Mrs. Darling down, but she also didn’t want to make more work by doing her job poorly because she was afraid to ask for help.

Cresting the rise, she saw Silas at the far end of the track. He was stacking the unearthed stones at the base of a hedge in his shirtsleeves, back already dotted with sweat, waistcoat hanging from a thick pleach.

“Woah, Samson.” The gelding stopped obediently, the traces jingling gently between he and Delilah. “There’s a good boy, eh?” she murmured, scratching behind his ear and down his neck.

Hearing the horses, Silas straightened and put a hand to his eyes. “What do you think? Can we make something of it?”

Ophelia surveyed the land, noting how much he had already cleared that morning, and nodded. “Not sure we’ll be ready to plough this afternoon, but I brought the horses with me in case. Let me secure them, and I’ll help you finish up this end.”

Silas stepped forward. “I noticed a stout beech a little farther down, we could tie them there until we’re ready.”

“I’ve kept them in their halters so we can graze them for now.

” Ophelia tugged Samson forward and she and the horses fell into step behind Silas.

She took a deep breath and tried not to watch the way his trousers hugged his backside or the way the muscles in the broad expanse of his shoulders moved, smooth and sinuous, under his shirt.

As though he sensed her thoughts, Silas turned, a sly smile on his face.

“Alright back there? You’re awfully quiet.”

“Uh, yes, f-fine,” she stammered, sure her blush could be seen from the other end of the field.

She was tongue-tied and awkward, and what would she say anyways? I suddenly find myself thinking of kissing you, but I am terrified that wanting you means I must give up the independence I am imagining for myself for the first time? The curse of a broad chest and a fine arse, she thought irritably.

“I suppose I’ve been thinking about how strange it is to be here, together. After all this time.”

Up ahead he nodded, then stopped and waited.

“It was lovely to talk with you yesterday ... made me think of that summer, I suppose,” she finished, her voice lifting with uncertainty. “How different it feels not to hide, to just have a conversation.”

“God, yes,” Silas huffed, his mouth hitching up at one corner. “There are some who find subterfuge enticing, but I’ve no stomach for it, myself. I’m a simple man when it comes down to it and prefer my conversations out in the open.”

Ophelia’s mind stuttered to a halt as Silas approached, reaching out to take Samson’s lead rope.

His fingers brushed hers, but when she made to pull away, he slid his hand up to her wrist, circling it with his long fingers.

She could feel her pulse hammering against his fingertips and looked up just as he turned her hand over, running the fingers of his other hand across her palm.

She almost clamped her hand shut, surprised at the tickle of his thick fingers moving across the creases of her skin.

Her breath rushed out, delight and shock filling her when Silas lifted his head, eyes heavy lidded.

He still held her hand, his blunt forefinger circling the flesh of her palm hypnotically.

She pulled away, closed her hand, and rubbed it self-consciously against her thigh.

“I shouldn’t have—” he began, stepping back.

“No, I didn’t mind,” she blurted. “I mean ...” But she didn’t know what she meant. She more than didn’t mind, but they needed to work together, needed to secure the harvest and the farm. She worried this strange flame flickering between them could derail it all.

“I’m sorry, Ophelia. I overstepped. I know we need to work together,” Silas said.

His voice was soft and low; from a distance they might be discussing the best place to tie the horses, and Ophelia was grateful for his consideration.

She felt giddy and disappointed. She wanted him to take her hand again, wanted to feel his lips on her skin, instead she only nodded and said, “No need to apologize. Let’s get to work, shall we? ”

Silas smiled, his mossy eyes warm and bright, and she felt her stomach roll unsteadily.

He looked so reassured; she couldn’t tell whether she was glad or disappointed.

She looped the horses’ lead ropes over two thick branches, hurrying through the task so she could move away from Silas’s warm bulk.

The V of skin visible at his throat was distracting, and she was horrified with herself for noticing the sunlight on the dusting of hair that disappeared into his open collar.

She made sure the horses had plenty of room to graze without becoming tangled, and finished, strode after Silas.

He stopped to reach into a wooden trug and handed a sickle to Ophelia, then turned to pick up a scythe.

Spreading out across the new field, they bent to the task of pushing back the brush and thorns.

Ophelia was glad of the mostly silent work, forcing herself to focus on the necessity of working well together.

Surely this fluttering in her belly, the shivery anticipation she felt around him was mere attraction; it was only natural.

He was beautiful, thoughtful, and gentle in his speech.

He had occupied her thoughts since his arrival, if she were being honest. But she had deliberately chosen this path for herself, away from a conventional life, the conventional ties of partnership.

She didn’t see how the two could coexist, and she knew she was not willing to give up on her own liberation.

It wasn’t just that he had appeared in the middle of her new life, like some particularly handsome spectre from her past, his presence threatening to upset the carefully balanced bridge she was building between her old life and a still-unknown new one.

It was, Ophelia discovered to her horror, that she wanted him; his friendship, but also his smile, his kisses, his regard, and she wanted them with a hot, uncomfortable urgency.

She didn’t know how to reconcile this desire for Silas with her desire for a life not circumscribed by marriage to a man chosen by her father, or perhaps marriage at all.

She was upset by the strength of her feelings for him and discomfited by their resistance to her attempts to ignore them.

They worked through the morning and until the sun rose high in the clear sky.

Sweat trickled down Ophelia’s neck and along the dip of her back, slid into the valley of her breasts.

She stood and wiped her brow with the scrap of calico she had learned to carry in her pocket and looked to see where Silas was.

Toward the farther end of the patch of weedy land, he stood and swiped a hand across the back of his neck.

He gestured toward the trug where he had stowed a jug of water and a few apples.

Ophelia nodded and headed toward it. Slumping onto the ground, she tipped backward and let her feet splay out in front of her.

The bright blue dome of the sky extended past her field of vision, filling her with its enormity.

A flight of birds darted and swooped across the blue and then Silas’s shaggy blond head came into view beside her.

“Drink?” he asked.

She sat up, laughing, and nodded. He passed her the heavy earthenware jug and she drank gratefully, the water cool and sharp in her mouth. Taking the jug back and replacing its stopper, Silas handed her an apple and bit into his own.

“God, I missed this,” he said, almost absently.

Ophelia looked at his profile. Aquiline nose a sharp outline against the shrubbery in the background and those obscene lips—almost a pout, in direct contradiction to the masculine planes of his face. She turned away before it became staring.

“When I was in France, it seemed possible I might never see another English summer.”

“God, Silas,” she breathed. Her chest felt tight at the thought of him at the front, the thought of him injured, alone.

Dead, even. She couldn’t imagine a more alive person; even injured, he radiated a kind of generous vitality.

“It must have been horrible.” The words felt useless and trivial even as she said them.

“I’m just so fucking glad I was wrong,” he said. Then, “Pardon my language.”

Impulsively, she grabbed for his hand and squeezed. He froze, and she swore she could see his pulse at his throat when she looked up from their clasped hands.

“I’m glad you were, too.”