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T he terror of Samson’s colic lessened each day as the gelding continued to perk up, back to his old self: friendly and a bit bossy.

Ophelia still felt her heart drop each time she went into the barn and didn’t see both horses eyeing her from their stalls, but she knew it was irrational; the loose screw that had let the latch give under Samson’s fiddling had been fixed and remained so every time she checked.

The other arrhythmia had nothing to do with horses and everything to do with kissing Silas.

She couldn’t help but run her fingers over her lips from time to time, trying to understand the alchemy wrought by two people pressing their mouths together.

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t thought of it during that summer and even afterward, she most definitely had, but it had always been within the context of there being no possibility of she and Silas marrying.

Under her father’s roof, and in her own stilted understanding of class, Silas was considered beneath her socially, and now here on the farm, Ophelia had thought she was certain that marriage, any marriage, was off the table for her.

But just as she had realized that living independently meant taking responsibility for your own beliefs and actions, any relationship was going to have to be something she and Silas would craft from the pieces of their respective lives that spoke to them.

And she was finding herself wondering what a true marriage of equals might look like, never having seen one.

She would need to imagine it with what she was learning about herself and the world.

Leaving the estate had been the first step in not letting other people think for her, but she had discovered that the entire world was this way, that she needed to think for herself all the time.

Drat! Things were significantly easier when you let someone else do your thinking. Easier, but less satisfying.

The days after their conversation at the creek had been so busy with preparations for more sowing, Bess’s work at the dairy, and Hannah’s long days with the forage corps, that Ophelia hadn’t found herself with a moment to spare, to say nothing of a moment alone with Silas.

He continued to work at every task Mrs. Darling set him—mostly construction and repairs on the ancient outbuildings with the occasional day of work at Mr. Bone’s.

One sunny morning, Ophelia ducked out of the house and into the machine shed to prepare the seed drill for the day’s sowing.

Over breakfast, they had discussed the possibility of having the seed in the ground in time for everyone to have a break for May Day.

If they could sow both fields today, they would be in good stead with the wheat crop, and provided they didn’t lose too much to birds or dry weather, Mrs. Darling and Silas both thought they just might make the quota.

The pressure made her jittery, but Ophelia schooled her thoughts and focused her mind on the machine in front of her.

Its long metal tray was dented and the paint chipped, the words Barrow Seed Drills barely visible any longer.

Ophelia ran her fingers lightly along the tray checking the holes and the tiny funnels underneath, moving to check the hinges for the lid and then the mechanism for attaching it to the harness.

Everything looked in order, so she bent her knees and grasped the front end of the machine, preparing to pull it out of the shed and into the yard, ready to be hitched to Delilah and Samson.

“Give ya a hand?” Hannah called from the doorway, Bess beside her in her dairy tunic.

“Ta,” huffed Ophelia gratefully.

They hauled the seed drill out into the sunny yard, and Hannah and Bess held it while Ophelia went to harness the horses.

“No good’ll come of it,” Hannah was saying when Ophelia emerged with Samson and Delilah in tow.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Marriage,” said Bess gloomily. “Hannah’s on her high horse again about women’s rights and the institution of marriage,” she said, her voice a nasally impression of a lecturer.

Hannah swatted at Bess, who laughed and danced out of her way.

“I only said that there was little to justify the romantic veneer that’s often applied to it.

For the pleasure of caring for a husband,” she said in a tone that suggested it was no such thing, “we relinquish our names, our ability to work or own property, even achieve higher education. We’ve no recourse should he do a runner or worse, nor even the custody of our children before the law. ”

Bess’s laughing face clouded over. “Course you’re right, Han.

There’s not a lick of sense in any of it.

I love my da, but he’d be lost without my ma, like a ruddy child himself.

Least he has the sense to admit as much and treats her with respect.

Does make me think hard on the prospect though, especially now that I know I can run a proper dairy on my own.

” She paused and her brow furrowed. “I’ve a real chance at good work, and I’d not really considered what it might feel like to have to let that go before I joined up with you lot.

Doesn’t feel like many men would be happy to countenance a wife who works, and doesn’t that just beggar belief. ”

“A wife who works,” Hannah scoffed. “Are there any that don’t? Just don’t want us out from under their thumb, is the real truth.”

Hannah looked at Ophelia. “What of you, now that your Silas is here?”

“What of me? And he’s not my Silas any more than ... than, well I don’t know what,” she finished, irritated at Hannah and Bess’s knowing smiles.

“If I had to bet, I’d say you’re thinking a great deal about marriage, eh?” Hannah said, nudging Samson forward so Ophelia could attach the traces to the drill. “Am I right?”

Ophelia wanted to cross her arms and pout, but her hands were full of machinery and Hannah was both right and unlikely to let it go. Bess watched her over Delilah’s rump, a smile tucked into the corner of her cheek.

“Suppose I have been,” Ophelia said, not ready to relinquish her mood. “Not marriage exactly, but a relationship or, you know, relations.” She dipped her chin to gesture vaguely at her own body.

“Oh, sex,” said Hannah. “Well, course you are. Marriage is the snare that we end up in when all that’s really wanted is sex.”

“That’s a little harsh?—”

“Isn’t there something?—”

Bess and Ophelia both began at once.

“Romantic notions the both of you have, ’tis preposterous,” crowed Hannah.

“Marriage serves men because women must be faithful no matter their treatment, bearing children with no thought to their health or welfare, with no recourse for ill treatment or the sheer indignity of existing as chattel. We’ve no say in a government that makes decisions regarding our lives.

” She straightened from her position behind Samson, and Ophelia could tell she was getting ready to dig into her arsenal of suffragette talking points.

“You’re right, of course, Hannah ... but what if there were a way for a couple to be partners that didn’t involve subjugation, or perhaps they could simply enjoy each other’s company,” she said this last word with emphasis indicating she didn’t mean tea parties or morning visits.

“Course there is,” Bess said. “Been all kinds of arrangements since the beginning of time, and not just the business kind. Surely, we can all acknowledge that not all the spinsters and bachelors sharing rooms are just good friends,” she said simply.

“I know you’ve said Silas is worried about what people will think or the legality of marriage, but it’s silly to think there aren’t all kinds of ways to be married or support one another.

” She paused, a thoughtful look on her face.

“Hannah’s right; if you and Silas can come to an agreement on a partnership that satisfies you both, you should make it so. ”

“Or not,” interjected Hannah. “There’s nothing wrong with sex, so long as you’re cautious and protect yourself. It needn’t be complicated.”

Ophelia wasn’t sure she agreed with this last bit; everything seemed impossibly complicated.

But they had reached the field now, and Bess and Hannah headed off to their work while she straightened the horses and took a sight line down the field.

It was the section of land the War Ag had insisted be made productive, and she wanted to be sure she had done everything just as instructed; the harvest could well depend on her having sown to the correct spacing and depth.

Blowing out a long breath, Ophelia clicked to the horses and felt them lean into the traces, the metal of the seed drill juddering as they took their first steps.

Hours later, the sun had slunk behind the clouds, and the first drops of rain were soaking her shoulders.

She looked across at the three long rows she had managed.

The rooks were already congregating in the hedgerow and the oaks, shiny, covetous eyes on her freshly scattered seed.

She readied herself for another turn up the long slope and felt the popping sound before she heard it.

The right side of the seed drill tilted and sank to the ground with a metallic grinding.

Letting the reins drop, Ophelia watched as the large metal-rimmed wheel doddered awkwardly off to one side.