Page 4

T he persistent press of sunrise against her eyelids forced Ophelia upward from a dream and into her narrow bed, the chintz eiderdown twisted and heavy around her legs.

The room was as it had been when she first arrived at Mrs. Darling’s, neat and spare, and the longer she woke here, the more beautiful she found it.

The sun filtered through the lace curtain at the small window, picking out the simply carved handle of the wooden dresser, the belly of the floral pitcher beside the wash basin.

When she had first arrived, fresh out of her training, she had wondered what it would feel like to wake up here, alone, in this room.

No servant opening the curtains, tea tray waiting.

No breakfast laid in the dining room below, no one’s nimble fingers to help her dress for the day.

It was exhilarating and, if she was honest, a little frightening.

Her heart had raced and she had felt, for the first time since she had registered, the weight of what she had done.

Was she equal to the task she had set herself?

She remembered feeling unsure of everything that morning, except that at all costs, she must succeed.

Ophelia laid a moment longer, then hearing Mrs. Darling in the kitchen below, swung her legs over the side of the bed.

She stretched, luxuriating in the pull of her muscles, the pang of discomfort from the week’s work.

She revelled in the capability of her body more than she had ever expected; at first, she was overwhelmed by fatigue, the weariness of muscles pushed far past anything she had known, but now when she woke with the faint twinge in her arms or a point of tension in her calves, she leaned into the sensation knowing it meant another day of productivity, of accomplishment.

Standing at the dresser, she splashed a little cool water on her face and pushed her hair back, gathering the thick, dark hanks into a loose braid.

Catching sight of her reflection as she finished the plait, Ophelia catalogued the changes in her face.

Her white skin was tanned from the sun and wind, colour always high on her cheeks now.

The softness around her mouth had faded, leaving a tracery of fine lines around the sharpened outline of her lips.

Her hair could hardly be tamed these days, always flying out from under her hat or the confines of her hair ties.

I’ve become the harridan Father always feared, not a hairpin in sight, breeches instead of a proper dress.

She almost laughed at the thought. But she’d never felt more herself, never imagined feeling this right .

Ophelia slipped her corset over her combination, tugging the laces and adjusting it so she could move easily, donned her loose linen tunic, and reached for the breeches slung over a chair.

Pulling the snug khaki fabric up her calves still felt illicit in the best possible way.

It was new, this sensation of pleasure in one’s body, and not in the socially proscriptive way of being judged fashionable or desirable.

Ophelia had always felt just outside of what was considered attractive, being taller, more substantial than the sylph-like women in the fashion plates.

Her features were not sufficiently soft to be strictly beautiful—her nose being a smidge too long, her lips a little too full, and her dark hair a little too unruly.

In truth, none of this had bothered her a jot, was even a benefit in making her a slightly less marriageable prospect according to her father, but it had left her feeling lonely, an unknown future looming ahead, alone.

A sharp knock at the door drew Ophelia from her thoughts, and kicking out a leg to straighten the lacings on the outside of her calf, she hurried to finish dressing.

Hannah, red hair tamed in a low bun, tunic straight and orderly, offered a quiet “morning” before ducking her head to avoid the old house’s low Tudor beams.

“Morning. Sleep well?” Ophelia said.

“Hmm.”

Emerging into the small sitting room at the bottom of the stairs, Ophelia heard the rumble of Mrs. Darling’s laugh and Bess’s infectious giggle.

“Morning, Bess,” called Ophelia as she rounded the corner. “Ready for another day?”

“After this cuppa I’ll be ready for anything,” the other woman said with a smile, her pale, freckled skin creasing around the bright crescent of her smile. “I’ve a big day ahead. Mr. Bone is going to inspect the dairy today. My dairy ,” she added happily.

“That’s marvelous,” Ophelia said with feeling.

Bess had trained in dairying with the WLA, and as Mrs. Darling had only the single cow, she was also working with the neighbour Casper Bone’s larger herd.

Mr. Bone, one of the larger landholders in the area, had worked for decades as a solicitor, and only returned to running his family’s farm after his retirement from practise.

A tall and craggy white man with tidy greying hair and a serious, observant air, he was lean in stature and even leaner in conversation.

He conducted all his business with as little chatter as possible, but Bess had won him over with her practicality and skill.

Improvements in efficiency and production had been so positive that he had proposed the idea of Bess running his dairy for him, even after the war concluded.

He had no real love for the work, he said and could see the benefit of having a young person running the operation.

No one was more surprised than Mrs. Darling, who had received the news with a quizzical smile.

When Bess had told everyone the news, months ago, they had all questioned her desire to work for such a taciturn man.

Bess brooked no fools, but said she saw something lonely in the man and was determined to win him over.

“He’s not a bad sort, just out of practise with people,” she had said amicably, a hint of her mother’s Irish lilt in her voice.

“I’m impressed, Bess. I have to admit, I didn’t think much of your chances when you first started talking about bringing Mr. Bone around, but I shouldn’t have doubted you. You’re a force of nature,” Ophelia said, smiling at her friend. “I wish I was more like you, able to see the good in everyone.”

“Well, not everyone is worth the time, but sometimes it only takes a bit of kindness to get past all that. Plus, I like to chat more than almost anyone I know, so it’s easy for me to get to know folks.

Even if they’re not entirely willing,” she said with a wink.

“Honestly though, Mr. Bone is a business-minded man, and I think he sees that I can make his dairy profitable again if he’s willing to take a chance on an unusual partner, and I’ve no intention on passing up the chance to run my own dairy. ”

Ophelia nodded, thinking how hard she found it hard not to dwell on the past, to nurture the hurts dealt by those closest to her, a litany of disappointments she couldn’t quite let go of or forgive.

Her father’s total disinterest in her as a person, if she was being honest, sat like a stone in her chest. She hadn’t truly hoped for more from him and wasn’t surprised that he saw her only as a means of ensuring the future of the estate.

That was, after all, what men of his generation thought of women, especially their wives and daughters.

“We’re lucky to have you, Bess. The best kind of friend,” said Hannah from her seat at the heavily scarred wooden table in the centre of the room. “Even Mr. Bone, though I’m sure he’s loathe to admit it.”

“Men usually are,” said Mrs. Darling, deftly pouring tea and sliding plates of toast and bowls of oatmeal in front of each woman.

“No one more than Casper Bone.” She turned to pass Ophelia a cup of tea, indicating the plate waiting at her spot at the table.

“Have a bite afore you have to go, it’ll be a long one today. ”

“Thank you, Mrs. D.,” she said, sliding into her place between Bess warming her hands on her teacup and Hannah methodically tucking into her breakfast.

“Enough about men,” Bess said after a small slurp of tea. “Sleep well? How’re your legs after harrowing yesterday? Lord, I’m sore today.”

“Me, too,” Ophelia said around a mouthful of porridge, “although it’s my arms. I could barely lift them to braid my hair this morning.”

“Makes no difference, always looks as though you’ve been dragged backward through a hedge anyway,” Hannah deadpanned, giving Ophelia a crooked smile.

Mrs. Darling’s laugh filled the room, eyes deeply crinkled, her wide smile revealing a chipped incisor.

Ophelia smiled and rolled her eyes at Hannah.

This easy camaraderie still felt like a gift to her, something she had encountered so little of.

Relationships with women had always been competitive, elbows and teeth bared over whomever seemed like the best marriage material.

There had been acquaintances at Wood Grange, girls and women invited to tea, garden parties, lavish dinners, but the business of social climbing, securing oneself above the others always took precedence over truly getting to know anyone.

Despite all their differences, the women on the farm had taken her in, had welcomed her, not judging her inexperience.

She found their acceptance thrilling, unexpected.

“Enough chatter, ye wee magpies. Get on with your breakfast, we’ve work to get to,” said Mrs. Darling, wedging herself into a spot under the window and pulling a cup and saucer toward herself.

She was almost immediately interrupted by a heavy knock at the door.

Her chair scraped as she rose to answer it, and she was followed back into the kitchen by a tall, thin man wearing a battered trilby and a faded corduroy jacket with an arm band bearing the insignia of the County Agricultural Committee.

“Pardon the intrusion, ladies,” he muttered quietly, swiping his hat off his head.