Out with Lanterns, page 5
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 Hannah, on the other hand, had the pensive, withdrawn look that Ophelia had come to know meant she was examining something from all sides, assessing the information in front of her.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.”
“What kind of happenstance?” Bess asked eagerly.
“Nothing so exciting as you might be hoping,” Ophelia said with a laugh. She looked to Silas for confirmation and caught a flicker of emotion.
“A misdirected package . . . a book,” he supplied, and Ophelia wondered if she detected a note of wistfulness in his voice.
Bess nodded, and Hannah’s face took on a note of interest. “Hopefully some salacious pamphlet or a truly morbid gothic romance?” she said with a smirk.
Silas laughed, and Ophelia felt the sound spread through her like honey. She had forgotten how lovely and warm his laugh was. “Are you familiar with R. L. Hill’s Animal Husbandry, volume eight?”
Hannah rolled her eyes and Bess cackled. Mrs. Darling, her mouth crooked in a half smile, nodded and said, “I’ve always found that one particularly useful . . . badgers and whatnot.”
Despite the laughter around the table, Ophelia was suddenly conscious of how little she had thought of Silas or the estate since she had left. It was as though the train ride had deposited her in an entirely different realm, and she had been so busy learning and working that she didn’t have the energy or the inclination to give her past much thought. She had been glad to push her father as far from her mind as possible, had been resolute in focusing on the reason she had joined the WLA—so that she might learn how to navigate a life on her own, out from under the influence of men.
While Silas explained the rest of the story to the other women, Ophelia took a long sip of her tea, bumping the cup against the rim of the saucer as she put it down. She felt unaccountably nervous; the arrival of a piece of her past life highlighting how changed she felt. She wondered if she appeared immediately different to Silas. She stole a glance and found him regarding her, a puzzled expression in his eyes. Another thing she had forgotten—what it felt like to have the full weight of his gaze on her, the gentle intensity of his looking. He swallowed, and she watched the column of his throat working and was startled to find herself hungry for every detail of him. She found that he didn’t look exactly the same, as she had first thought. There were subtle, but marked changes everywhere. His hair was the same honey gold that she remembered, a little longer, but his cheekbones cut a little sharper, his lips a little more stern, set in a firm, flat line.
It was his eyes that she noticed most, still the same mossy colour, but flattened somehow, the mischievous twinkle missing. New, fine lines emanated from the corners of his eyes giving his face a quiet, tired air. His hands on the table were calloused, the knuckles marked by healed scars, faded to silver, while a livid red line wound along the inside of his wrist up into his sleeve. She couldn’t remember if he had been quite so broad and muscular, the hard balls of his shoulders snug against the fabric of his linen shirt, his heavy thighs clad in worn work trousers. An urge to reach out and touch him flooded Ophelia’s fingers. It was a feeling she had experienced often during their summer of friendship; he was beautiful and kind and thoughtful, all things she hadn’t ever expected in any man. The sudden awareness, that summer, of how lonely her life had been before Silas only made his friendship dearer, and she had mourned him keenly when he had enlisted. He had informed her of his enlistment in a short note, and she had felt no invitation to write to him in those few lines. She pushed down the squirming giddiness of once again being in Silas’s company, and forced herself to focus on what she had come here to do: remake herself. Independent. Alone.
There was a lull in the conversation, and Mrs. Darling cleared her throat, saying, “So you’re not only a reader, but a farmer then, Mr. Larke?”
“Yes, born and raised in the countryside, for my sins,” Silas said with a smile.
“And now assigned to us by the War Ag, our soldier come to help, as it were.”
Hannah snorted softly, fixing Silas with a challenging look. He acknowledged her disapproval with a nod of his chin, and Mrs. Darling continued. “So what kind of experience have you got then, young man? We’re just lately under a great deal of pressure to increase our wheat yield.”
“Almost anything, ma’am—”
“No need for the ma’am-ing, Mr. Larke, ’tisn’t an audience wi’ the queen. Just Mrs. Darling’ll do,” Mrs. Darling interjected tartly.
“Oh, right, sorry,” Silas said, a little pink rising along his cheeks. “We sowed our fields in wheat and barley, kept milk cows and sheep at various times. There was almost always a horse for ploughing, sometimes a pig for the winter. I’m not bad with machinery, my father saw to that. We didn’t have the most modern equipment, but it was kept in good nick. Oh, and we always had a flock of hens. My sisters mostly tended to those.”
“The cows, here and over at Mr. Bone’s, are my responsibility,” said Bess, “and Ophelia’s been a quick study with the draft horses.”
“You always had a sense for animals, Fee. I remember that,” said Silas, his eyes gentle on her face.
She felt herself blush at the nickname.
“A farmer is good news, indeed,” said Mrs. Darling, pleased. “We’ve only time enough for one beginner, and that’s our Ophelia, so I’m mighty glad you’ll be a help and not a hindr’nce. The County Agricultural Committee have been by with warnings and seem to have a mind to order a temporary repossession of this land, so there’s no time to waste. We’ll need to sow a bigger crop than I’ve ever attempted on my own. The land’s fertile enough, but it’s the time constraint and amount required I’m worried about.”
A beginner, thought Ophelia, her stomach turning sour around her lunch. Mrs. Darling might as well have said she was of no use at all, and in front of Silas, too. It had taken so much work for her to gain confidence; she didn’t want to lose it because she felt inferior to Silas’s experience. She was proud of the gains she had made since her arrival—the strength she could feel building in her body, the knowledge she was beginning to accrue, the contribution she was making to the farm and the war effort. The eager welcome Mrs. Darling had given Silas worried her; perhaps she had not been as helpful as she hoped. Even worse, would Silas’s arrival change things with these women, these friends she had finally drawn close around her? She could feel him looking at her again, but she wouldn’t let herself meet his eyes. Getting up from the table, she blurted, “I’ve work to do cleaning the tack and getting the harrow ready for tomorrow. I should really get started.”
“I’ll lend a hand,” said Hannah, up from her seat before Ophelia could stop her.
From the corner of her eye, Ophelia saw Silas’s shoulders drop as he raised a hand to rake it through his hair. He didn’t turn to look at her, but she felt his awareness like a hand on her back. Damn, she thought, damn, damn, damn! Why does everything have to be so bloody complicated? She worried Silas’s arrival was just going to dredge up everything she had turned her back on. Damn, she thought again, wishing for not the first time, that she knew some more satisfying curses. Ignoring her glare, Hannah linked her arm through Ophelia’s and practically dragged her out of the kitchen. As they left, Ophelia could hear Mrs. Darling and Bess begin to pepper Silas with more questions.
CHAPTER 6
“So,” said Hannah conspiratorially, once they had shoved on their boots and were crossing the farmyard, “what’s the story with you and that fine young man?”
“There’s no story, I knew him . . .” Ophelia began but faltered, not knowing how to explain what she and Silas were to each other. Or had been. Friends for such a short time, a single summer, but they had recognized something in each other, she knew it in her gut.
“Nothing, eh?” Hannah interrupted Ophelia’s thoughts. “Doesn’t seem like nothing to me, what with all the sighing and dark glances. I though he were about to come out of his skin when you marched int’ the room.”
“He wasn’t, Hannah, what tosh,” Ophelia blustered. “We met the summer before he enlisted and became friends, that’s all. My father had no fond feelings for his family and discouraged our friendship at every turn.” It was a gentle term for the war of derision her father had conducted against her friendship with a person he considered ill-bred, inferior, but Hannah already knew what a bully her father could be, how narrow his ideas, so Ophelia didn’t give any further details.
“Ah, so he’s handsome and forbidden, is he?” Hannah said, raising her voice in a sing-song teasing.
Ophelia batted her arm, trying to ignore the skittish happiness at seeing Silas again. “We’re grownups, Hannah, not girls in plaits, and besides, what of your suffragette leanings? Surely a truly independent woman doesn’t let the appearance of one handsome man turn her from the path?” She said it as a joke, but she wanted to hear Hannah’s answer, realized she needed the answer to her own question.
“Ah, so you do think ’e’s handsome!” Hannah crowed, pushing open the door to the equipment storage. The wide empty space was populated with all the farm implements Mrs. Darling could keep in running order with a very small amount of money and a great deal of ingenuity. The harrow, tiller, seed drill, and tedder waited in the low barn light, each needing almost daily tinkering to function and constant monitoring so that parts didn’t wear through or jog loose out in the field. Hannah had shown a preternatural ability for repairing them, and Ophelia had come to rely on her to look them over regularly, so that her work with the horses could make the progress they so desperately needed. “I’m only cheeking,” Hannah said with a smile. “But ’tis true, the tension in there was thick enough t’ cut, and it weren’t anything to do with the rest of us,” Hannah said as she bent over to examine the trough on the seed drill. “And, Ophelia,” Hannah said pointedly, “being independent doesn’t necessarily mean being alone. One can be alone without having chosen independence, remember that.”
“You say as much so often, but I don’t know . . . It feels like a lifetime ago, Hannah. Things are different, I’m different.” Ophelia took a breath to say more, but only let it out as a long sigh.
“It’s no business of mine, I know,” Hannah said. “It’s only that I’ve been around enough gentlemen who were no such thing that I wanted you to know that I’ll not say a thing to Mrs. Darling, nor anyone else, if you were wanting to talk about it. Only wanted you to know that you could talk to me, if you needed.”
Her voice was gruff, but Ophelia heard the kindness in the words and wanted to hug her for it.
“There were times that summer when I wondered if we might be more than friends, but I’d no experience with anyone other than the suitors my father brought ’round. None of them were at all interested in anything I had to say, or who I was, so I suppose I felt special when Silas listened to me, showed interest in my thoughts.” She paused, letting herself remember the summer days when they would happen to meet on the village road and ramble home together chatting. “We didn’t know much about each other despite growing up on the same estate, my father having strong opinions on mixing with the staff or the tenants, so I didn’t really consider it as anything other than curiosity on his part.”
Hannah nodded. “Well, you may be different now, but I’d wager so is he. Perhaps you could both still use a friend.”
Ophelia nodded, wondering if Silas had any interest in being her friend. Perhaps he lumped her in with bad memories of the estate and working for her father?
“Perhaps . . . I’m not sure,” she said. “What if his arrival changes things here? Changes me?”
“I can see how you’d worry, but you’re one of us, nothing’ll change that, especially no man,” Hannah said firmly. “No more fretting, we’re losing time. We best get on with this,” she said, gesturing to the machinery. They realigned the seed drill so that the holes were evenly spread along the trough, oiled the springs on the tedder and the blades of the harrow.
By the time they were done, Ophelia had managed to lose herself in the routine of the work and had almost forgotten about Silas’s arrival. The coil of tension that simmered in her belly had relaxed, and she’d allowed herself to catch up on the latest WLA news from Hannah who often went through the village as part of her work with the forage corps. She knew she couldn’t avoid the house forever, that she’d have to speak with Silas eventually, but she felt nervous somehow, wanted to put it off as long as possible. She wondered how he had actually fared in the war, aside from what seemed to be a nasty leg injury, and how his family was faring. The year after his enlistment had been long and, if she was honest, one of her loneliest. Her short friendship with Silas had cemented some unhappiness in Ophelia, a realization that her life might be something other than her father’s to manipulate, and joining the WLA had felt like the answer to a question she hadn’t known to ask.
“I’ve got to meet the forage girls to bring in some nettles from the banks near the bridge, so I’m off,” Hannah said, turning to go. “And don’t forget to ask Mrs. Darling to speak with the blacksmith about the tines on the tedder, a couple are loose enough to need a weld.”
“I will. See you for supper.”
Ophelia heard the door scrape and thinking it was Hannah back for something, called out, “What have you left, Hannah? Surely you’re not back for your, what did you call it, supremely flattering, hat?”
Hannah didn’t reply, and Ophelia turned to find Silas standing in the doorway, hands shoved into his trouser pockets. Her stomach fell, and she had the mad desire to run away, but she forced herself to face him, back straight, chin up. You’ve no reason to shrink just because his arrival is a surprise, she told herself. You’re not the same girl he knew back on the estate, you know yourself better, know more about the world and your place in it. You are doing something good here, something worthwhile. She wiped her greasy hands on a rag. “Hello,” she said, hoping her voice sounded confident.
“Ophelia,” Silas said, ducking his head a little shyly. “I’ve just come to drop my bag. Mrs. Darling has made a room for me; she said it was the old groom’s quarters.”
“Oh, right. I can show you where that is. There’s a door through here.”
Making her way past the implements, she indicated a wooden door in the back wall. It opened into the same hallway as the horse stalls, and she moved down it to a small white-washed room furnished with an iron bedstead, a small desk, and a bentwood chair. An old chest, its leather straps worn through, sat at the foot of the bed. A ewer and washbasin were placed on a stand under the window, whose narrow view looked over the dairy yard. Silas placed his bag on the bed and looked around. He ran his hands through his hair, pushing the longish strands back from his face. He huffed a short sigh, his lips moving, about to speak. Ophelia suddenly felt that she shouldn’t be standing in his bedroom and stammered, “Well, this is it, then,” before turning to go. Silas’s voice caught her at the door.
“I apologize if I seemed short in the house, Fee—I mean, Ophelia. I was just so surprised to see you. It had never occurred to me that we might be in one another’s company again. What are the chances?”
His voice was low, urgent, rough in a way she didn’t remember. It rumbled over her skin, wrapping her in him. He caught her eye and gave a cautious smile. She felt the need to shake her head to clear her thoughts.
“Oh, no need. You were lovely, I mean, just fine,” she blurted, feeling her face flame. “I’m as surprised as you. I had no idea you were home from the front.” The rush of words trailed off as she realized he might not want to be reminded of the war. She pushed her hands into the pockets of her tunic awkwardly. All the questions she had seemed to suddenly push up against her breastbone, threatening to escape the tight lid she was attempting to keep on them. Why he had enlisted so suddenly, and what had happened to his leg, and how were things for his family, still on the estate, and was he married as her father had implied . . . well, none of those things were appropriate to ask at the moment. She had chosen to make her focus this farm and the yield and these women who had helped her find her feet. She was done with the machinations of men, ready to take on a life in which she relied on herself. All the same . . . “God, it is good to see you though,” she said suddenly and against her better judgement.
Silas smiled at her, warm and soft, his eyes crinkling at the corners in just the way she hadn’t let herself remember. Seeming to read her thoughts, he said, “I’ve been away from the farm since I enlisted in 1915, but I’ve been back from the front and recovering in England almost a year.” He gestured vaguely to his leg, and she knew the surprise must have shown on her face when he hurried to continue. “But it’s a long story. Perhaps after I’ve settled in, we can catch up on each other’s news? Most of all, I want to hear how you came to work on the farm, about joining the WLA.”
