Out with Lanterns, page 7
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you, thought you heard me approaching,” Silas said.
“No, lost in my thoughts,” Ophelia blurted, brushing the dirt of the day from her work jacket. “I, um, shall we go in?”
Silas watched her with disarming frankness. Eyes intent, he seemed to be taking in the sight of her in breeches, and finding it a pleasing revelation judging by the flush of colour in his cheeks. Well, that’s unexpected. Her hands stilled mid-brush. It had been a long time since she had felt Silas’s approving glance, and the reminder filled her with pleasant warmth, quickly doused by the knowledge that these feelings would make working together awkward. She reminded herself that she was dedicated to this farm and the work that needed doing here, and nothing, not even Silas, could come in the way of that.
He cleared his throat again, and meeting her eyes, said, “Right, yes, of course. I s’pose it’ll be dinner shortly.”
“Mhmm,” she agreed, going into the house.
She thought she heard an intake of breath, as though Silas was about to speak, but he said nothing, only stooped to undo his boots before following her into the kitchen.
CHAPTER 9
After only a few days on the farm gathering around the kitchen table felt almost cozy, familial. Silas was reminded of family dinners and the waves of conversations happening simultaneously, how the sharing of small things gradually wove people ever closer together. Mrs. Darling and Bess were discussing a newly broody hen and the possibility of chicks, and Hannah had fresh gossip from the village. Ophelia seemed quiet, though she laughed about Delilah shying at a rabbit and described how dry the soil had been under the plough. He watched her as unobtrusively as he could, catching the flick of her wrist when she buttered a slice of bread, the press of her lips, top to plush bottom, when she savoured the tang of salt and potato, the smooth movement of her throat when she drank. Seeing her, taking her in, was like the first sip of strong cider, fizzing through his veins, followed by a punch to the gut when he remembered he couldn’t afford to be around her, indulge in the old hunger for her.
Silas reached for the pitcher of water in the centre of the table, inadvertently brushing Ophelia’s hand. He froze, the sizzle of heat singing through his hand and down his arm, shocking in its intensity. It seemed absence had only intensified his unspoken attraction to her; his want flared like flame in dry tinder. Her eyes darted to his face as she quickly withdrew her hand, shoving it into her lap. He wanted to laugh at himself, undone by a touch of her hand like some untried lad. Hannah cleared her throat, breaking into his thoughts, bringing him back to the table where three sets of assessing eyes watched him carefully.
“Still not much for mixed company, I’m afraid,” he said. “Been a long time. . .”
“Course it has, my dear,” said Mrs. Darling. “Don’t worry yourself about it, we don’t stand on ceremony here, do we, girls?”
“So long as there’s butter and tea enough to go ’round, we’re a forgiving lot when it comes to manners,” said Hannah with a smile.
“That’s a relief,” said Silas. “Even at their best, my manners aren’t what you’d call ideal. Being a farm lad, and all.” He ducked his head, hoping he’d added a little levity and drawn the attention away from Ophelia.
“They’re just fine, young man,” said Mrs. Darling, patting his hand. “We’re glad to have you and your strong back here in time for the season. I’ve an inkling that we’re going to need every square inch of the land this year, and there are those who’d be happy to see us fail. It’s good to have an extra pair of hands.”
Silas felt his stomach sink at her words. He didn’t think it wise to stay on the farm with Ophelia, but could he leave when he had been assigned by the War Office to help them? Leaving anyone in a situation when they needed help set his teeth on edge, and when he received this post, the letter from his commanding officer had made it clear that the farms receiving soldiers were expected to make significant improvements in production. So much of farming depended on timing, and if Mrs. Darling lost his labour now it meant losing time, which could mean losing her farm. Christ, he hadn’t thought things could get any more complicated. He pushed his hands into his thighs, breathing through his frustration and trying to quiet his mind enough to make a plan.
“Have you family nearby, Silas?” Hannah asked.
“Oh, uh, yes, they’re just outside Wells.”
“You’re practically local, then.” She laughed.
“Aye, I suppose I am. Though I didn’t travel a great deal, mostly at home on the farm. Basic training was the farthest away I’d been ’til France.” He paused, not wanting memories of that time to sink their claws into him. “My father passed away some years ago, and my mother and younger sister and brother and I stayed on at the Wood Grange estate. As you likely know, a tenant farmer can’t afford any disruption in crops or earnings, so my mother relied on me in my father’s stead. It was a hard time.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Hannah. “It’s never easy to lose a parent.”
“No, though it has begun to fade a little as the years pass,” Silas said, thinking about how often he still thought of his father and wished he could speak with him one more time.
“Both my parents had passed by the time I were finished in service,” said Hannah. “I’d not lived with them for many years though, so p’raps not quite the same as your situation.”
Silas nodded, wondering how it would have felt to grow up alone in another family’s house. He thought of him and his siblings, like a litter of puppies, always tangled up, playing and fighting together. “I was fortunate to have been born into my family, even with my father’s death. We all love each other a great deal. I’m sorry you didn’t have the chance to grow up with yours.”
Hannah waved him away with a casual hand. “And have you a sweetheart or a wife back at the estate? With your mother perhaps?” she asked.
Ophelia’s fork hovered at her mouth.
“No, ’fraid not. I’m on my own,” said Silas. “My mother and younger brother have stayed on the farm, working it as best they can.” He swallowed the thickness that gathered in his throat every time he thought of them being forced from the house and home they had always known. Knowing that he had caused this danger for them, in befriending Ophelia, and angering Merritt, made it all the harder to live with.
There was silence around the table for a moment and Silas couldn’t bring himself to look up from his plate. Then Mrs. Darling said, “We’re not more than a day’s travel from Wells,” her voice kind and low. “And I see no reason why you shouldn’t have the same free days as the girls. Perhaps you can take the train up to see them soon. I’m sure it always does a mother’s heart good to see her children no matter how long it’s been.”
Ophelia caught his eye, and he knew she was thinking of how sweetly his mother had spoken to her, how they had sometimes sat in her garden for tea, how Ophelia had treasured her care that summer. It was not only Silas who had been cleaved from his mother, but Ophelia, as well. When Merritt had confronted him with accusations about their friendship, Silas had been woefully unprepared. Despite how often Ophelia had warned him about her father’s selfish and erratic behaviour, he hadn’t understood the lengths to which Blackwood would go to try to marry Ophelia off for his own benefit. Ophelia had known her father far better than he had. She had been right that he would use anything at his disposal to get his way. He tried to smile reassuringly at her, but she had already ducked her head back to her dinner.
“Have you settled into your room, then?” Hannah asked.
“Yes,” said Silas. “The room suits me just fine. Being quiet and clean, it’s more than a sight better than where I’ve had to bed down.”
“Were you at a convalescent hospital nearby?”
“I was.” He paused, then said, “It was just south of my home, an estate in the Mendip Hills called Hartwood House.”
Ophelia dropped her knife, her eyes flying to his face. Hartwood House was only a day’s travel from the farm and even closer to Wood Grange. He knew she was thinking of him recuperating so close to the estate. He wondered if she ever spoke with her father or anyone on the estate and felt sick at the thought that she might casually mention Silas’s arrival.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, regaining her composure and placing her knife carefully on her plate. “I had no idea you were so close to home all this time.”
Her chest rose and fell rapidly under the loose fabric of her tunic, and he could see her trying to make sense of what he had revealed. Bess glanced at Ophelia, and seeing she was unsettled, asked about the nurses at the estate hospital, how long he had stayed, and what the other soldiers had thought of the estate.
Silas felt awkward speaking about his time at Hartwood House, not having truly worked through how he felt about it, nor having yet spoken about it with anyone. He had, of course, been absurdly grateful to be there, away from the front, and despite the pain of recovery, he had woken each day with a sense of purpose. It was his duty, he told himself, to recover and be of service in whatever way was possible. Regaining his strength and fighting to master his body became his all-consuming task. He didn’t know how else to account for his returning home while so many others, far more deserving than he, languished in hospitals at the front or under the horrible sucking mud of the trenches. It mattered less that his sense of that duty was fuzzy on the best days, cynical on the worst days; he just knew he had to keep moving forward. Staying still too long left him open to contemplation, and that led to considering what he had done and for duty to whom.
Before France he had held patriotic feeling lightly, considering it more in terms of his love of his community, the place he had been born, and a boyish, far-away sense of doing right for a benevolent sovereign. The reality of basic training and war had been a jarringly ugly awakening. Jeering classism among officers and pat jingoism as a bandage for terrorised men pushed beyond all limit dimmed Silas’s youthful belief. He had acted to protect his family, to keep Blackwood from punishing Ophelia, to defend the home that he feared would disappear in the fog of mortar blasts and gas. In the hospital, he had plenty of time to pick at the memories, to dissect each decision, to wonder whether he might have been better to stand up to Blackwood, take the chance that his threats were all bluster. In the end, no matter which way he turned it, he couldn’t imagine there had been a way to solve the puzzle of protecting the people he loved any differently.
“The nurses were true marvels,” he said, returning to the conversation. “Caring and knowledgeable. I’m one of the lucky ones, really. I roomed with men who were injured beyond anything I could imagine.” He paused, his mind filling with the men still living at Hartwood House, some who might never recover enough to leave. “It was difficult to be there . . . at the estate . . . it, uh, reminded me a great deal of a place where I was once very happy.” He finished abruptly, self-consciousness overtaking him.
Ophelia was watching him, her eyes unreadable, spots of colour high on each cheek. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and Silas wished to be her fingers, caressing the satiny lock.
“I intended to volunteer as a nurse,” Bess said. “But I heard Hannah speak and knew the WLA was for me, and as it turns out, I’ve found me feet with dairying.”
She laughed easily, her dark eyes merry, a small dimple appearing in her chin. Silas liked her and was glad of the good company Ophelia had around her.
“It’s no mean feat to be good with animals,” he said by way of a compliment. “They’ll nose out a false person faster than most humans.”
“True enough, the dairy herd over at Mr. Bone’s are suspicious of anyone who approaches in a rush. A calm mind is the only way to get anything done with them. In a funny way, I’m glad I’ve been working under Mr. Bone; he seems unfriendly, but ’tis really just a very quiet man. He’s gentle as a lamb with the herd.”
“Have you been with him long?” asked Silas.
“About six months, now. He’s agreed to take me on as manager when the war is finished. It’s a chance I never imagined before all this,” Bess said seriously.
“He’s lucky to have you,” Hannah said before scooping another serving of potatoes onto Mrs. Darling’s plate. They finished their dinner slowly, picking away until there was nothing left of the ham and potatoes, and only the smallest crust of bread still on the cutting board. Silas couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so satisfied or sleepy. It reminded him of home, which made him think of the telegram he still needed to send.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have an errand to do in the village first thing tomorrow, so I think I’ll turn in,” Silas said.
“Right you are,” said Mrs. Darling. “Best get things cleaned up here and into bed, everyone.”
Ophelia watched Silas rise from the table, carrying his plate to the sink, speaking quietly to Mrs. Darling and offering to wash the dinner dishes.
“Ah, away with you, now, Silas! A man offering to wash dishes, pssh! That’s a sight more charming than good table manners.” She laughed.
“Just want to lend a hand,” Silas replied quietly. “Only where it’s wanted, of course.”
She had the strangest feeling that she was dreaming this moment; Silas standing in the kitchen, plate in hand, the softness of his stockinged feet on the flagstones suddenly unbearably domestic, intimate. Something was amiss though; she had seen it on his face during dinner when, for a second, his eyes had filled with anguish. It was there and gone, his green eyes clear, forehead smooth, but a sad, tight line had bracketed his mouth for the rest of the meal. She felt cross and out of sorts at how his change in mood made her feel; his arrival had already thrown her confidence into disarray. She considered the possibility that what she had said to Bess was untrue; perhaps they would not get used to working together. If Silas’s strength and experience was more than enough to help Mrs. Darling meet the production quota, would she still be of any use on the farm? The thought felt like ice in her chest, but she couldn’t deny that things had suddenly gotten more complicated with his arrival. Working here was the only thing of her own she had ever had, and Silas’s arrival made her want to clutch it harder to prevent it from slipping away, keep it for herself. But the most important thing was securing the harvest; her feelings about the farm, her friends, Silas . . . they couldn’t come into it.
CHAPTER 10
Days on the Darling farm began in a flurry of activity, but for the first few seconds of every morning, Ophelia let her mind sink back into her body, reinhabiting the self she was still getting used to. On the mornings since Silas’s arrival the knowledge that he was waking up somewhere nearby unsettled her. She imagined the room she had shown him to, how his lanky frame might be sprawled across the iron bedstead, quilt rumpled around him. Or perhaps he slept curled in on himself. She didn’t know. They had seen each other often after meeting over the mistaken book, but almost always outside, on their way to or from somewhere, only rarely seated in the cool cavern of the Wood Grange kitchen while Mrs. Greene worked her culinary magic around them. Ophelia remembered feeling a little drunk on the intensity of their friendship and the conversations they had had about what it meant for them to continue meeting. Silas had argued that it was dangerous for her, that his company could only be a negative for her, which she had rebuffed with immediate and, she later realized, naïve exclamations. She didn’t know much about the world, how people talked, he had said. His concern had only made Ophelia dig her heels in harder.
Her father sought her out very rarely, usually only when he required her to be on display for dinners and parties, so prior to meeting Silas, this had meant spending time with Mrs. Greene in the kitchens and the garden, visiting some of the more elderly villagers with goods from the estate, and long hours reading in the library or wandering the grounds. She knew that this made her odd, a young woman always on the fringes of everything, but she hadn’t had any real desire to change it. Silas and his friendship, then, were like a treasure to her, something of her own, not tainted by her father or the needs of the estate. It had seemed worth it to flout her father’s rules at the time, but Ophelia wasn’t sure she felt the same way now that it was Mrs. Darling’s farm on the line. She worried that somehow the news of a soldier of Silas’s age arrived to help might wind its way along the lines of village communication and that her father would get wind of it. She hadn’t left a forwarding address for her father, didn’t expect to hear from him, and hadn’t exchanged letters with anyone but Mrs. Greene, but she knew better than to put it past him to act in his own best interest, no matter the consequences to others. Something had happened between Silas and her father; she was sure of it now. It occurred to her that she had always suspected this, but something about Silas’s arrival had cemented it in her mind.
She slid out of bed, rubbing her eyes and pushing off her nightgown to dress. The bite of cool morning air on her skin made Ophelia think of Silas again, dressing for the day in his own small room in the barn. She conjured an image of him, as best she could, naked to the waist, pulling on his linen shirtsleeves. She imagined the shift and slide of the muscles down his back as he slipped the shirt over his head, the way his shoulders would bunch and release under the worn fabric, how his hair would fall forward into his eyes as he did up the buttons. Her mouth was strangely dry, and a thready beat began to throb between her legs. She realised she was avoiding thinking of his hands moving to the buttons of his trousers or the way the leather of his braces would slide across the palms of his wide hands as he settled them on his shoulders.
Downstairs, there was a loud knock at the door, and Ophelia heard Mrs. Darling hustling through the house to answer it. Her voice, rich and commanding, filtered up the stairs.
