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“No trouble, Mr.—”

“Garrett.”

“Right. Have a seat then. Tea?” Mrs. Darling reached to refill the kettle on the stove.

“No, thank you, ma’am. Mustn’t tarry. I’ve many stops to make today.

I’ve been directed to give you notice that the War Agricultural Committee requires you to increase your wheat yield this year.

Twofold, ideally, more if at all possible.

” He looked impassively at Mrs. Darling who stood, hand still on the kettle, mouth slack.

“Twofold?” she finally said.

“Aye, your yields have been low year on year and everyone is expected to do more to provide for the shortfalls. This winter may be our worst yet, they’re saying.

” He shuffled restlessly, the defensive jut of his chin practised, mouth ready to press his point.

Likely the result of many conversations like this over the course of the war, Ophelia thought.

The women at the table watched him, Mrs. Darling making no reply.

“Of course, we at the county committee understand the strain you ladies have been under, pressed into doing men’s work.

” He cleared his throat. “Ah—the good news is, the committee’s been given government leave to enlist recovering soldiers to lend a hand wherever possible.

” He transferred his hat from one hand to the other.

“Your farm is in the lucky situation of receiving that help sooner than most, and from a farmer, no less.” Mr. Garrett smiled then, looking around at them, plainly expecting to be thanked for his officiousness.

Bess, Hannah, and Ophelia said nothing, only looked to Mrs. Darling whose face had clouded over as she listened.

“While I do appreciate the position of the committee and kindness of the offer, we’ve no need of help, Mr. Garrett,” Mrs. Darling said.

“Women we may be, feeble we’re not. I’ve accounted for a larger planting, and Ophelia here is well-trained up with the heavy draft team for the sowing and harvest. There’s no call to send us a man, we’re more’n capable of getting the wheat in ourselves. ”

Mr. Garrett cleared his throat again and rolled the brim of his hat between his fingers.

“That’s as may be, but the committee will have a soldier here or your land may come under consideration for repossession.

As I’m sure you’ve attended committee meetings and read the pamphlets, you’ll know that farms with unverified production levels become the concern of the local county committee, and if the situation calls for it, can be run under their supervision or reassigned.

It would be in your best interest to be cooperative about the soldier. ”

When Mrs. Darling said nothing, he replaced his hat and dipping at the waist, bid them good day.

Hannah glared at the door. “Typical government interfering,” she muttered, her cheeks flushed with anger. “You can always count on them to poke their noses in when women are taking charge of their own lives. Lord knows it ruffles men’s feathers to see women succeeding at their work.”

“And work we’ve to do,” said Mrs. Darling after a moment. “Best get on with it. I don’t plan on finding out whether his threats are idle.”

The kettle whistled, high and keen on the stove. Mrs. Darling moved to lift it, automatically pouring it into the waiting teapot. Her normally steady hands shook as she poured, the boiling water spitting as it hit the hot surface of the stove.

“Here, let me,” began Ophelia.

“I’ve got it,” snapped Mrs. Darling, rattling the teapot lid into place.

Ophelia sat down. If the County Agricultural Committee was assigning them help over and above the WLA, it must mean they thought the women unequal to the task.

Even I know being assigned a man to help out is a black mark, she thought.

She couldn’t bear the thought of her work with the horses being the cause of Mrs. Darling losing her farm.

Stop it . You are doing your best and, as every bit helps, your work is useful, a contribution.

Remember how far you’ve come since you arrived.

Hannah’s sharp elbow in her ribs jostled Ophelia from her thoughts and sloshed tea across her plate.

“Thinking up anything useful, or just away with the fairies?” She smirked. “We’ll need some kind of plan to deal with this Ag Committee nonsense on top of everything else.”

“You’re right about that,” said Mrs. Darling, sitting down heavily in her chair.

“This farm is the only thing I’ve ever had of my own, and I’ll be damned if some bean counter from the village is going to take it from me.

” She spread her work-roughened hands out on the table and sighed.

“I’ve always thought of it as a kind of reward for making it through my marriage, and I know the war demands something of each of us, some more than others, but the thought of losing this land just doesn’t bear thinking on. ”

Mrs. Darling hardly ever spoke of her late husband, and though her face lit when she mentioned events in the past, she hardly ever spoke of the time before the women had arrived.

Ophelia had pieced together that the late Mr. Darling had been a hard man to live with, not abusive but not kind, and she tried to imagine a younger Mrs. Darling being bent to another’s will.

It was hard to reconcile the woman that she knew with one who was afraid to speak her mind.

When she had first arrived at the farm, Ophelia had been so intimidated by the older woman that she could hardly speak.

Mrs. Darling was a tall white woman, big-boned, with sharp grey eyes and a lion’s mane of silver-grey hair that she wore swept back into a loose bun at the nape of her neck.

Her face, tanned from a life out of doors, was mapped by fine white lines creasing at the corners of her intelligent eyes and mobile mouth.

Ophelia thought that she must laugh a great deal based on the lines at the corners of her lips, even though it took several weeks to see any evidence of that.

“We won’t let them take anything,” Ophelia said. “I’m faster with the horses now than last year ... and I can keep them in a straight line,” she finished with a comic cringe directed at Mrs. Darling.

“Ha!” Mrs. Darling gave a wry laugh. “Lord, remember at the beginning when all three of you got stuck down in the dell?” She cackled and shook her head. “Took us all afternoon to get the plough untangled and turned around.”

Ophelia laughed, realizing she hadn’t thought of the day in a long time, that driving the horses had become almost second nature, that living and working with these women had become an intuitive part of her.

She thought of the first time she had heard Mrs. Darling laugh and had been caught totally off guard by the unselfconscious jangle of it filling the small sitting room.

She had come to learn that Mrs. Darling loved a bawdy song, as well as the odd bit of village gossip, which she would tuck away in her memory for some future use.

Now she kept her ears open for either, so that she might offer these bits up to Mrs. Darling over dinner.

As a result, her repertoire of bawdy songs had increased tenfold, and her ability to read the subtext in a piece of harmless village news had improved by leaps and bounds.

And it wasn’t just Mrs. Darling that she knew; over the months Ophelia had tucked away pieces about each of the other women.

Hannah loved pudding more than the meal, was always in need of a hot water bottle for her cold feet, and was a bear until her first cup of tea.

Bess was happiest in the garden, though better at baking than growing veg, loved novels of romance and piracy, and dreamed of travelling.

Ophelia reached out to rub her hand gently over Mrs. Darling’s.

“We will figure something out, I promise. I can push the horses a little harder, and we can take turns scaring the birds off the seedlings. Anything to improve our chances. We won’t let them take your farm, will we?

” she said, turning to Bess and Hannah who nodded in unison.

“We’ll do what women do best,” Hannah said firmly. “Succeed where no one thinks possible. Pass me the papers, and let’s see what’s expected of us.”

Mrs. Darling slid the papers over to Hannah who began poring over them, Bess’s dark head tucked close to hers, teeth holding her bottom lip.

Ophelia stood and started to clear the breakfast dishes, filling the sink with hot water and a curl of soap from the dish at the edge of the porcelain drainboard.

She sank her hands into the basin and looked out the window over the farmyard and out toward the pasture.

The scrape of a chair on the flagstone floors drew Ophelia back into the room, her hands still in the now-cool dishwater.

Hannah slid her cup and saucer gently into the sink, saying, “Well, it seems we’re between a rock and a ’ard place with this new planting scheme.

Under the War Act, the government says they’ve the right to take control of the land if we can’t produce the required wheat.

” She pushed a hand through the wavy mass of ginger curls around her face and blew out a frustrated sigh.

“Do you think you could push a little harder with the team, Ophelia? Even a half day more of ploughing over a week would mean we might seed another field in time.”

“I—” Ophelia began, wiping her hands on the linen towel. “Samson and Delilah know their jobs, and I’m stronger than I was. Yes, I can do it. I will do it.”

She raised her eyes to look at the other women in the kitchen, each here as part of their own story, with all their own cares and worries.

It’s not only the war effort, she thought, though that must come above everything .

I can’t let Mrs. Darling or Bess and Hannah down now, not when they’ve been so kind to me.

I came here thinking I had nothing to offer, but they showed me that I can contribute, and I’ll not falter now when they need me most. She shook out her shoulders and squared her chin, trying to physically embody the confidence she didn’t quite feel.

“Aye, you’ll be fine, Ophelia,” said Mrs. Darling.

“Ye’ve come a long way since you arrived.

” She patted Ophelia brusquely on the shoulder and turned to leave the room.

“I’ve seed to sort out in the barn, you’ve all got your work for the day.

No sense tarrying any longer. That wheat’ll not plant itself. ”

The door off the kitchen scraped shut behind her, and the three women moved to begin their own days.

Following Bess and Hannah out the kitchen door, Ophelia retrieved her wide-brimmed hat from the peg in the hallway, and emerging into the weak light of early spring, unceremoniously jammed it onto her head.

The horses were stabled in one end of the biggest barn on the property, their stalls opening out into a wide hallway opposite the empty calving stalls.

Samson and Delilah were a matched pair of heavy draft horses.

They stood sixteen-hands high with massive hindquarters, high, arching necks ropey with thick muscles, and glossy legs ending in dinner-plate hooves almost hidden by the great wispy feathers at their fetlocks.

Their dark bay coats were rich despite their getting on in years, their manes and tails shot through with russet and white strands.

Two chiselled heads, dark eyes curious, swivelled over the stall doors to take in her approach.

The barn was quiet and dim, the smell of damp hay and animal mingling with the metallic tang of machinery and oil, the wet scent of earth and stone underneath it all.

“Hello, you two,” Ophelia murmured, her hands going to her pockets for the bits of carrot she’d squirrelled away for treats.

Samson, the quieter of the two, snuffled delicately in her palm, the whiskers and velvet of his muzzle a wonderful scrape on her skin.

“And for you, m’lady,” she said, extending a hand for Delilah to burrow into.

The mare’s broad face was emblazoned with a bright slash of white from her right eye to her left nostril, and turning her head, she snorted eagerly into Ophelia’s outstretched hand.

Ophelia laughed and pushed her away when she’d ferreted out the last of the carrot bits, turning to lift their bridles from the rusty hooks on the wall.

Made of leather, worn soft and black with age, each bridle bore the horse’s name on a small plate on the left cheek piece.

A single brass medallion hung from each brow band: Samson’s, a disc punched with a leaf motif, Delilah’s, a bevelled crescent moon.

Ophelia lifted the tack down and began her preparations for the day’s work, the once foreign movements now familiar and comforting in their repetition.

She clucked to Delilah and slid the bit between her teeth, letting the horse lick and chew as she settled the metal in her mouth.

Leading the team out of the barn, she stood, taking in the scent of animals and manure, the staccato of the hens pecking among the cobbles, the warm heft of Delilah and Samson stamping their impatience, massive hooves ringing metallic on the stone.

She ran a hand down Delilah’s silken muzzle, tugged gently at the reins and led them toward the sun, hanging apricot and gold at the far edge of the field.

Sucking a deep breath, she filled her lungs with the scent of damp earth, clicked to the team, and braced as they scrambled to find purchase in the heavy soil.

The brassy music of the harness blended with birdsong, and she lost herself in the rough rhythm of ploughing, each slice in the soil rolling back to reveal the dark underbelly of the field.

Reaching the end of the row, Delilah tossed her head, flared her velvet nostrils, and swung out of Samson’s way to turn.