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H ours later, Silas watched Ophelia’s head fall back against Bess’s shoulder.

She and Bess had the look of childhood about them, and he imagined Ophelia’s stomach sore from laughing, fingers sticky from iced buns and jam tarts, feet aching from dancing and wandering along the high street and around the village green.

Late afternoon light filtered through the trees turning everything golden and mellow.

She made everything golden. He still wasn’t entirely comfortable out in the village with everyone; he still had a feeling of restless worry that Ophelia’s father might appear, like a storybook villain, to ruin the beauty of it all.

“What a day,” Ophelia was saying. “I can’t remember the last time I ate so much or had such fun.”

“It’s true. My cheeks hurt,” sighed Bess.

“I never imagined one day could feel like such a holiday,” said Ophelia. “I thought it not enough time to truly rest or recuperate, but I feel I’ve packed a week’s worth of merry-making into a few hours.”

Silas watched them making a dent in Mrs. Darling’s fruit tarts, Ophelia’s eyes half-closed with pleasure, her lips slippery with jelly.

He wanted to look away, could feel his cock stirring at the little noises of enjoyment she made.

Finally, rigid with desire, he thrust himself away from the tree where he leaned and gulped down the last of the lemonade from the tin cup Mrs. Darling had produced from her basket.

It was sweet and slightly warm and slid down his throat with a lazy, pleasant feeling.

He paced around the bench where Ophelia and Bess lounged to look out at the green, where earlier they had cheered as the village children wove haphazardly around the Maypole, coloured ribbons fluttering gaily as the tiny heads bobbed and wove.

Proud mothers had stood in clutches around the edge along with elderly women and a few older men, whom Silas assumed were grandparents.

The missing men, away fighting in the trenches, were a conspicuous absence, and Silas had pushed away the nausea that threatened to join the crowd rallying to enjoy the day and celebrate a fruitful sowing season.

The village green was hung with bunting, and small tables in front of the vicarage held plates of biscuits and tarts, cakes, and sandwiches.

A group of Morris dancers, diminished in numbers by missing members, had made their way around the green, jolly and loud, followed by a group of screeching children who scattered at the appearance of the tall figure of the Green Man.

Ophelia and Silas had stood to one side watching the children laughing and pushing each other as the tall figure moved in their direction.

Its face had been covered with leaves and bracken, its body draped in a long forest-green cloak.

Despite the shrieking giggles of the children, it moved slowly along the green and out of sight with no one the wiser as to its identity.

People had fallen out of their clusters and begun chatting or sampling the wares.

Ophelia and Silas had joined Hannah and Bess in wandering among the children’s games, the few boys playing a game of cricket just off the green, and the village ladies gathered, heads together, catching up on news.

Mrs. Darling had found a seat among friends, the easy rhythm of the conversation proof of long acquaintance.

“You okay?” Ophelia had asked quietly, the edge of her little finger brushing his momentarily.

“Hmm?”

“Wondered if the children reminded you of your family, of Sam when he was little,” she said.

“Oh, aye, I suppose. It’s hard for me to think of them. I’m afraid I’ve let them down.”

“I’m sorry, Silas. Have you spoken with your mother lately?” Her face was concerned. “Surely she didn’t tell you that?”

They had wandered, rounding the corner of the green, a little distance from the crowd, and he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

“Not about this, only letters with some news, how I was recovering, where I’d been sent after the hospital.

I don’t ... I don’t know what to say, how to ask her forgiveness for how I’ve involved all of them in this.

I don’t know how I can see them without alerting your father, and that will only make things worse. ”

He could feel anxiety and shame tightening his chest, the memories of the war gathering like a cloud at the back of his head.

He began to wish he hadn’t come to the fete.

Was this going to be his life forever? Every event haunted by ghosts of men who no longer drew breath while he did, the shame of his failure malingering over it all?

The dreams and starting at noises were becoming less intense, but the guilt still appeared, sudden and vicious.

He took a long slow breath to center himself.

Ophelia stopped and turned sharply to him, brows drawn together in a frown. “Do you mean to say that you haven’t spoken to her about any of this?” She waved vaguely, indicating, Silas thought, that her father had betrayed the Larkes and their tenancy.

He shook his head. “I did write that I was healing well, would be better eventually, and that I would visit when I could, but nothing more.”

“Silas! Don’t be so daft!”

He blinked.

“Men so often seem to think they know how other people feel or what is good for them. My father thought he understood me without ever having to actually speak to me and find out. And though I’m sure you think you have better reasons, you are doing the same thing.

” He watched her fists ball at her sides, ruffling the fine lawn of her dress.

“Don’t assume you know how your mother feels.

Do her the courtesy of letting her tell you, for heaven’s sake.

Let the women in your life tell you how they feel, and stop making choices about what you think they are capable of knowing. ”

He felt her irritation like a slap; it brought him up short.

Had he assumed he knew? He stood looking at her silently for a moment, her cheeks bright with anger, shoulders stiff while she waited for him to speak.

He felt muddled again; protection had gotten tangled up with assumption, and he hadn’t even noticed it happening.

The truth was, his guilt about Blackwood’s betrayal had made him feel small, and he hadn’t wanted to admit that to himself or his mother.

Or Ophelia, if he was honest. It felt more difficult to rebuild his ways of thinking than to rebuild his leg.

“I did assume, Fee, and I didn’t even notice I was doing so.”

“Don’t you think she would want to know everything about your circumstance? She loves you a great deal and surely wouldn’t hold the choice you made against you ... it was impossible and forced upon you. But she’ll not get to tell you that if you don’t give her the chance.”

She reached out to take his hand, threading her fingers in his. “I know it’s hard to change the way you’ve always thought. I don’t mean to be harsh ... I’m still reminding myself of so many things every day.”

He looked down at their hands, then instinctively glanced around to make sure no one was watching them.

He hated having to do it, but he didn’t want to be na?ve about Blackwood, and he was the one who had been banging on about reputations, after all.

Satisfied that the fete carried on without them, Silas caught their clasped hands to his chest and pulled Ophelia in for a kiss.

He slid his free hand around her waist and nipped at her lips.

He drank in her noise of surprise and met her open mouth with his own, tasting lemonade and sugar on her tongue.

As quickly as it had begun, he ended it, afraid to let his body run away with him.

“My word, Silas Larke, you do go to a girl’s head.” Ophelia laughed unsteadily. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and stepped back from him.

“And, you to mine, Miss Blackwood.” He grinned.

They wound their way around the green and back to the stalls and chatter, but Silas kept thinking about his mother and whether he had been missing something all this time.

Perhaps she was no more in need of protection than Ophelia, perhaps what she needed was to know she could count on her son to help her make a plan, to be honest about his situation.

He wondered if he had lost too much time wading through his own guilt.

But he thought of what Ophelia had said about his mother’s love and knew that she was right—Lettie Larke would want to help, but not rescue.

His heart lifted like a bird taking flight in his chest; maybe he could trust himself to find a new way of being.

Maybe he could do more than just react to situations.

The afternoon had crawled by, and everyone had eaten their weight in treats, visited, and spent a good deal of time lolling around on benches or under trees, lazy with sunshine and sugar.

Silas and Ophelia stood in the shade of the tree, and Hannah, stretched out on the picnic quilt, grinned sleepily up at Silas.

“How’re you finding the day, Silas?”

“Ah, lovely, thanks, Hannah. I’ve eaten well and had my ear talked off by Mr. Graves who’s thinking of ordering an Albion binder this year. How about you?”

“Just the same. Have even gotten in a nap,” Hannah mumbled.

“Thought I might begin the walk home, actually,” Silas said, looking at Ophelia. “Care to join me?”

Ophelia nodded and Hannah waved them off, saying that she would join the others when they were ready to return to the farm.