Page 7

T he sun was still high, warming the cobbles of the farmyard, the barn cats melted into a ginger and tabby puddle in the corner of the door jamb, when Ophelia pushed open the gate from the lower field a few days after the agricultural office’s visit.

She led the horses to the stone trough near the barn.

They lowered their wide nostrils to the still water, long whiskers breaking the surface, their huffing breaths sending ripples across it.

She dipped an old rag in the trough and squeezed it out over Samson’s back, rivulets running down his withers, and snaking down his dusty legs.

Methodically, as the horses drank, she ran as much water as she could over them, cooling them from the heat of the day and long hours of ploughing.

They were on the skinny side of healthy, but forage was so scarce and money too tight to bring in much extra grain, so she tried to make up for it by taking care to make them comfortable.

When she had first started with Mrs. Darling, she had worried she hadn’t much feel for horsemanship and relied on the big animal basic training she had received from the WLA.

A year out, she felt confident, in tune with her two charges.

Directing them across the expanse of the field was satisfying; she felt powerful walking behind them, breaking the surface of the soil.

She had known, without having to be told, that the way her father had always managed the horses on the estate wasn’t the proper way to treat them.

He had loved big geldings, a stallion, if he could manage it, but he had treated them like an enemy to be conquered, a foe to be subdued, and the horses had responded in kind.

They were wild-eyed creatures, angry and frightened, pawing and racing to get away from the spurs and whip of the creature they couldn’t dislodge from their backs.

Ophelia had felt sick watching him ride and avoided being out when he was in the stables, but consequently, she hadn’t much hands-on experience with horses.

Samson and Delilah had intimidated her at first, the heft of their chests, the weight of their hooves in her hands when she checked them for rocks or signs of thrush, but slowly she had learned their moods, had learned to trust her instincts around them.

“Horses need a master, Ophelia,” Mrs. Darling had said the morning she had taken them out for the first time.

“They want to know that someone is the leader, and that’s to be you.

Even when you feel worried, you mustn’t show it.

” Well, I can do that, Ophelia had thought.

I’ve spent most of my life hiding how I truly feel, surely, I can convince a couple of horses that I’m not afraid of them.

And she had. Samson and Delilah trusted her, and she began to trust herself as well.

In the beginning it had been harder than she expected; doubt assailed her all the time, and the physical exhaustion made it even more difficult to feel like she was capable of what she had started.

Her arms ached after only minutes of holding the reins or the plough, and her legs felt like leaden weights after two lengths of the smallest field on the farm.

On the days when she could take a hot bath, Mrs. Darling passed Ophelia little cheesecloth pouches filled with lavender and peppermint to soothe her aching muscles, saying, “You’ll get stronger soon enough, then we’ll make a real farmer of you. ”

Wringing out the cloth and laying it over the edge of the horse trough to dry, she turned her hands over, examining their fronts and backs.

They were tanned, with a line of dirt under each nail, palms covered with overlapping layers of fresh and healing blisters.

Having read any number of requests for advice on keeping one’s hands nice in The Landswoman , the magazine for WLA members, she knew she was not the only woman surprised, and sometimes dismayed, by the changes their war work had wrought in their bodies.

Something about knowing that there were women all over the country slathering tallow and homemade concoctions on their hands or sharing recipes for sore muscle salves made her feel connected to a network of women in a way nothing else ever had.

Hannah and Bess, having both worked from a very young age, considered her entertainingly spoiled, but were also generous with their own advice.

Hannah swore by rosewater for keeping one’s complexion clear and showed Ophelia how to gather the rose petals from the wild roses along the lane, boil them, and decant the liquid into tiny bottles she had saved.

Using it each morning, Ophelia found it felt even more luxurious than any of the toiletries she had been able to easily afford while living on the estate.

Closing the door to Delilah’s stall, she tidied the bridles on the wall before making her way to the house.

She could murder a cup of tea and wondered hopefully if there might be leftover ham for a sandwich.

Ducking to unlace her boots, she noticed a strange pair of boots by the door, suddenly noting the rumble of a man’s voice under the familiar tones of Hannah and Bess.

Something about it raised the hairs on her arms. Taking a breath to steady the skitter of her heart, she brushed the worst of the dirt from her coat and breeches before stepping into the cool half-light of the kitchen passage.

“There y’are, girl,” called Mrs. Darling from beside the sink where she reached for a plate from the drying rack. “Sandwich and a cuppa for you?”

“Yes, please,” Ophelia replied, emerging from the hallway to take in the scene before her.

Bess and Hannah sat in their usual places, but there was a strange stiffness to their posture, which Ophelia immediately understood when her she noticed the man sitting with his back to her.

He was tall, his back and shoulders rising above the chair.

Warm golden hair, a little long, curled almost to his shirt collar, and Ophelia could see that he sat with one hand on the table, one resting on a muscular thigh.

His dark worsted work trousers were worn, but clean, and rode up slightly revealing not only the length of his legs, but angry red scars in the space between his trouser leg and his sock.

She glanced across at Hannah and Bess who said nothing but watched her face intently.

This must be the soldier, the one sent by the War Ag .

Then he turned, the graceful movement of muscle under linen momentarily catching her attention so that she didn’t immediately register his face.

The strangled noise he made distracted her from Mrs. Darling, who handed her a plate of bread and cheese, which fell, unnoticed to the floor, smashing loudly.

Ophelia’s heart stuttered in her chest, her mouth open in a small, slack O.

How long had it been since she had seen him?

It felt like yesterday. It felt like a decade.

She tried to remember the disappointment of his leaving, but all she felt was a ridiculous surge of joy.

She remembered every single detail of his face.

The grey-green eyes, the sweep of dark lashes and brows, at this moment pulled tightly together above the line of his patrician nose. His mouth worked silently for a moment.

“Fee?”

Hannah’s eyebrows shot up, eyes darting between Ophelia and Silas, cataloguing every flinch and pause. Bess stared at Silas, blinking slowly. Ophelia tried to marshal her reeling thoughts.

“It’s ... been a long time, Silas,” she said, her hands moving restlessly against her jacket. She struggled to master her breathing, focusing on the clouds moving out the kitchen window, down from the hills, softening the bright summer sun that lay thick on the deep stone sill.

“Sit down, girl,” Mrs. Darling said, tartly. “I’ll make you another plate.”

Ophelia sat woodenly across from Silas, her hands fidgeting in her lap. Her chest felt tight and the back of her neck hot. She pushed ineffectually at the strands of hair that had escaped her kerchief and wondered if it were possible that Silas could hear her heart racing from his seat.

Mrs. Darling turned from the table, picking up the broken crockery on her way, then lifted the kettle from the stove and poured a long stream into the waiting pot, saying, “Well, as you seem to know each other, I’ll not bother with introductions.

Tea then, Mr. Larke?” She plunked the cup and saucer down in front of him and reached around Ophelia to place the small creamer and sugar bowl within his reach.

“And how are you two acquainted?” she asked as she arranged a thick slice of bread and a hunk of cheese on a new plate, placing it in front of Ophelia.

“We—”

“I, yes, w?—”

They both began at once, tripping over each other’s words.

Silas dipped his chin slightly, indicating Ophelia should continue.

Her eyes met his, and she felt the corner of her mouth lift in a smile.

“Mr. Larke and I knew each other when we were younger, Mrs. Darling.” His eyes flicked to hers at her use of his full name.

“It feels like years since we saw each other last,” Silas said.

A lifetime, she thought.

“I suppose it has been,” she said.

Hannah and Bess were practically vibrating in their seats, and Ophelia could tell it was taking every ounce of Bess’s discipline not to blurt out a million questions about the situation unfolding before her.

Hannah, on the other hand, had the pensive, withdrawn look that Ophelia had come to know meant she was examining something from all sides, assessing the information in front of her.

“Mr. Larke’s family have been tenants on my family’s estate for many years, long before either he or I were born,” she said by way of explanation. “But it was really only by happenstance that we met the summer after the war began.”