Out with Lanterns, page 8
“Morning to you, sir. What it is I can help you with?”
“Morning, ma’am. Apologies for the early hour, but I come on urgent business from the War Agricultural Committee.”
Ophelia hurriedly dressed, pulling her work jacket closed as she descended the stairs, Bess close at her heels, Hannah emerging from the sitting room. Ophelia wondered at the tension in Mrs. Darling’s shoulders, whether it arose from the nature of the visit or her host’s familiarity with being treated as incapable by men in positions of authority. For the moment it was hard to tell. The man at the door, tall and whip thin, produced a sheaf of paperwork, and leaned down to place his leather briefcase at his feet. Ophelia caught sight of Mr. Bone holding the reins of his dogcart out in the farmyard. He feigned nonchalance, but it struck her as odd that the neighbour would appear in tandem with the War Ag. It appeared that Mrs. Darling thought so as well because her back stiffened and she called out to him.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of a visit from you, Casper Bone? ’Tisn’t often you are over on our side of t’hill.”
Mr. Bone shook his head and said, “’Tisn’t a visit, Arabella, only dropping the government man where he asked.” Clearly wanting to end the conversation, he turned to fuss with something on the piebald horse’s bridle. Ophelia could feel Hannah tense behind her while Bess poked her gently in the rib to mouth “What do they want with Mrs. D.?” Ophelia shook her head, wondering the same thing.
“If we could just get back to these papers, ma’am,” said the official. “It’s important that these instructions are communicated to you as soon as possible.” He cleared his throat. “In order that you might take action with all due speed.”
“I don’t even know who ye are, let alone what I’m to do with all due speed, sir. P’raps you’d best explain yourself.”
She motioned him into the kitchen, toward the table. Hannah quickly sat opposite him, eyes darting between him and Mrs. Darling. Bess pulled out a chair for Mrs. Darling before sitting beside her. Ophelia slid in next to Bess and waited to hear what the man had to say.
“In the course of our meetings, it’s come to the attention of the County Agricultural Committee that there are potentially two acres or more of under-utilised land on this farm.” He consulted a map on his clipboard. “At the north end of your property, there is a plot that seems to have been let go wild for some years. A wheat crop might be had there, were it cleared and cultivated. As I’m sure you understand, the government cannot allow the country to go hungry when there is arable land left fallow.” He paused to take a breath, his sandy moustache quivering a little as he prepared to continue, eyes flicking up to Mrs. Darling’s stony face. “The chair of your subcommittee has granted you until the twenty-first of May to have the indicated land prepared for cultivation, which with the help of the soldier seconded to your farm, should be feasible. In the unfortunate event that it is not, the land may be forfeited to the government or potentially reassigned to another landholder who is able to get it sown and harvested.”
Mrs. Darling rose from the table and stood silent in the doorway for a moment, then lifting her chin gracefully, she fixed her eyes on the figure of Mr. Bone, who stood toeing the dirt of the farmyard. Refusing to meet her eyes, he cleared his throat and frowned at something on the footrest of the dogcart.
“So, Casper, ’tis to be this way, is it?” called Mrs. Darling, her voice strong and carrying. “Well, you know I’ve no stomach for games, so I’ll tell you what I’ve always told them. I’ll not be bullied into submission by any man, no matter what committee he serves.”
“Now, Arabella—Mrs. Darling, that’s not the case at all. I’ve naught—”
She turned her back without letting him finish and snapped at the official, who stood awkwardly in the kitchen, “Leave the papers with me. We’ll have the land ready. Good day.” Taking the papers he thrust toward her, she closed the door. She let out a long breath, and reaching out to pat Bess’s shoulder, she said, “Let’s have a cuppa and puzzle this out. Someone on the Agriculture Committee is certainly doing their homework, but I’ll be damned if some snake from that trumped-up band of busybodies gets a single centimetre of land from me. If there’s someone desperate enough to be stirring trouble for us with the Agricultural Committee, they’ll be desperate enough to try anything. Come now, Ophelia, get that kettle on the stove.”
Ophelia crossed the room to fill the kettle, and looking out the window above the sink, saw Silas enter the farmyard from the lane. He must have come from the village, she thought, as he was already dressed in a thick cotton work coat, the shoulders and back faded by the sun. Running his hands through his mussed, golden hair, he looked toward the house and then toward the two men about to depart. Mr. Bone, his shoulders broad from work and without a hint of roundness due to age, despite the grey of his hair, shook Silas’s hand and spoke a few words. Ophelia started as the kettle overflowed, splashing cold water over her hand. Did Silas and Mr. Bone know each other? Was it possible she and Silas’s past wasn’t the only coincidence about his arrival? She couldn’t imagine Silas being involved in anything nefarious, but it was also possible he wasn’t the same person she had known at Wood Grange. She couldn’t ignore that he hadn’t chosen to share much about his current situation. Be fair, Ophelia, there hasn’t been much time for him to explain anything to you, assuming he intends to. But she couldn’t help feeling that something was wrong as she watched Mr. Bone clap Silas on the back before settling himself back into his cart with the irritable-looking official at his side.
Turning from the sink to place the kettle on the stove, she heard the scrape of the door as Silas entered. He looked more rested than the previous day, but Ophelia noted the brevity of his smiles when he greeted the other women and the way he pushed his hands into his pockets, then removed them to run his hands through his hair, the burnished golden strands waving back behind his ears and curling slightly at his temples. He looked worried, Ophelia thought, and that worried her.
CHAPTER 11
Silas could feel the change in Ophelia as soon as he entered the kitchen. Her eyes darted to his face, then away, and she fussed with the cutlery and plates on the sideboard. Mrs. Darling was fuming, head pressed together with Hannah, discussing the papers the khaki-clad man had dropped off. He wondered who the man was and why he had arrived on the farm with Mr. Bone. Perhaps Mrs. Darling was thinking of selling her property? Would be a hell of a thing to run this all by herself under normal circumstances, never mind wartime. Maybe she had run out of steam and thought to find a little cottage somewhere by the sea? But there was something about the tone of her conversation with Hannah that Silas thought seemed unhappy, almost angry. He looked around at Bess forming dough for scones, her nimble fingers flying over the floury surface, one of her front teeth catching her lip in concentration, then again at Hannah, whose face was serious and set in concentration while she carefully looked through the documents Mrs. Darling pushed toward her on the table. Finally, his eyes found Ophelia, a stack of plates held to her chest, one hand full of cutlery. His brain stuttered a moment at her beauty, his body coming instantly to life as he took in her trim breeches and the swell of her breasts under the workaday tunic. The green WLA armband stitched with a crimson crown circled her bicep. He wanted to run his hands over the band, feel the new strength evident in the muscles of her arms. He was stunned, and irritated, if he was honest, by her effect on him. Just seeing her again set him aflame with longing. His body had been a stranger to him since the war, a physical thing that seemed only to feel pain and fear, but being thrust together with Ophelia for only a few days made it thrum with desire, made him aware of himself as a man again. It was inconvenient, but he had found himself noticing the morning air against his face, the brush of shirt against skin, the weight of his braces on his shoulders. He felt alive to his senses as an instrument of pleasure again, after so long.
He realised too late that they stood in awkward silence, that Ophelia’s eyes were on him, as if she had been watching him observe herself and the others. He wondered what she saw. He gave her a tentative smile and gestured toward the plates.
“Like some help with those?” he asked.
“Thank you, no,” Ophelia replied, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he made to move toward her.
“Uh . . . right.”
“How do you know Mr. Bone?” she asked suddenly, two spots of colour high on her cheeks.
Bloody hell. So she had seen him shake hands with the other man and had drawn her own conclusions. No wonder she was watching him like a hawk; God only knew what she thought he was up to. Silas pushed back his hair and met her eyes, trying his best to project open honesty.
“Don’t know him from Adam, actually. But you know how it is with farmers—all the families tangled up in each other’s business. I suppose it didn’t take long for the news to go round that a soldier had arrived to lend a hand.”
“Hmm. A surprise from your past,” she said quietly.
“Indeed,” Silas agreed. “I suppose he wanted to get a look at me for himself. In spite of the war, idle chatter still brings people together. P’raps we need it more now, small things to prattle about and all that.”
“It just seems strange,” Ophelia persisted. “You’re assigned here, to help Mrs. Darling, but the War Ag wants to check up on us more, not less.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t orchestrate the visit, if that’s what you mean,” Silas said, feeling defensive. “I don’t even know what the committee man wanted, let alone why he arrived with Mr. Bone.” He pushed his hands into his pockets as they stared at each other. Why would she think he had anything to do with any of this?
“I don’t know what I meant,” Ophelia said with a sigh, putting the stack of plates on the corner of the table. “There’s no shortage of people in the village who have wanted to see Mrs. Darling fail for years . . . I guess I’m beginning to wonder whether all these War Ag visits have something to do with that. And then you arrive in the middle of it all.” She twisted the hem of her tunic around her finger. “It’s just unsettling and made me wonder what your connection to all of it was.”
“None at all, honestly, Ophelia,” Silas said, voice low and urgent. “I was assigned straight from the convalescent home, didn’t even know where I was headed until I arrived. I promise I have nothing to do with any of this.”
She nodded. One up and down of her chin that loosened two silky strands of dark hair at her neck. They slid against the pale skin of her throat and Silas wanted so badly to touch them that his fingers felt aflame. Ophelia watched him, the grey depths of her eyes as cloudy as the seabed on a stormy day.
“Do you know what the inspector wanted of Mrs. Darling?” He cleared his throat, trying in vain to distract himself from his wayward thoughts.
Ophelia sighed. “More wheat. It’s always more wheat.”
He nodded, knowing what it felt like to be under constant pressure to produce more. He had been lucky that his family’s land had been productive and well-managed by his father, but nevertheless, the relentless demand for more wheat, more milk, more food had been ever present.
“I know I’m not a farmer in the traditional sense of the word,” she said, voice a little breathless, as though she were rushing the words, “but I have been working here with these women, my friends, for a year, and I’m starting to feel like one of them. I can’t bear the thought of someone working against us, wanting us to fail.” She continued before he could speak. “It’s not just the war effort, though I know that’s what’s most important. It’s that this is Mrs. Darling’s place, land she has tended to for decades, land that’s seen her through all sorts of things, married and alone. And she’s . . . she’s welcomed me here, made me part of the farm. I will not,” she said, her voice hard on the word, “just stand by while she is pushed around by people who see a chance to benefit themselves.”
She turned away to look at Mrs. Darling and Hannah for a moment, and he could see the tense set of her back, shoulder bones high and sharp against the khaki linen of her WLA tunic. He took a chance and reached out to gently touch her shoulder. When she turned back to him, he said, “I’m no saint, Ophelia, but I promise I’ve nothing to do with any of the War Ag business in the village. I don’t know anyone in these parts, and I’ve no interest in disturbing Mrs. Darling’s farm.” He paused to watch her reaction, silently begging her to feel the truth of his words. “I can see how much you and these women mean to each other, how well you all work together. I would never do anything to endanger that, you have my word.”
She nodded. Her shoulders dropped the tiniest bit, but it was the relief in her eyes that eased Silas’s worry.
“But,” he said, voicing his thoughts as they occurred to him, “something does seem odd about the sudden increase in pressure, doesn’t it? Would they give an assignment that they know is impossible, do you think?”
“I don’t honestly know,” she said wearily. “We’ve followed all the instructions sent out, and at least one of us attends every meeting. I thought we were doing a good job.”
“I’m sure you are, all of you. Perhaps it really is a case of the demand for grains increasing suddenly, as the man said.” She looked grateful for his encouragement, and before he could think better of it, he lifted a hand to her shoulder and squeezed gently. The heat from her body and the feel of the firm muscle of her shoulders under his fingers went to his head like a stiff drink. He thought of the telegram he had sent from the village that morning and hoped that a reply from Singer with reassignment details might come quickly. The week he had been on the farm had left him feeling tossed about the open ocean; the rising tide of lust watching Ophelia’s face, animated and happy, followed by the nauseating fall when he recalled that if her father found out they were together, he would evict his mother from her farm. He was almost entirely sure that Ophelia would never have been silent had she known what her father had done, but a small, sibilant voice in the recesses of his mind, hurt and afraid, whispered that he could afford the risk of being together much less than she could.
“You’re fortunate to have landed among a group that suits you so well. Does the WLA give you any choice where you are assigned?”
She shook her head. “I can’t imagine a better farm to have been sent to. I don’t think I really considered where I might be billeted when I filled out the form, but thank heavens I ended up with Mrs. Darling.” She turned to look out the window above the sink. “Sometimes there are letters in The Landswoman that make veiled references to struggles with their billets or the farmers, you know, hours of work, questionable accommodations and so on . . . but I feel like I’ve found . . . I don’t know . . . a family. I’ve been ridiculously fortunate.”
“I’m happy for you, Fee. You deserve it, not having had much of a family for so long.”
She shrugged casually, but her face clouded.
“How did your father take it? Your leaving, I mean?”
“I don’t know,” she said frankly. “He made his disapproval about the WLA abundantly clear, but when I actually left it was under cover of darkness to meet Hannah waiting in a wagon by the side of the road.”
Silas whistled lowly. “Like a highway woman slipping along the moonlit roads, eh?”
“Well, it didn’t feel that glamorous. I thought my nerves would devour me from the inside out. I still can’t believe I actually went through with it, but honestly, leaving Mrs. Greene was the only part that gave me pause.”
He could understand that, knowing both Ophelia and Mrs. Greene. The housekeeper had been as much a mother to Ophelia as she had ever had. Silas remembered hearing bits and pieces of the story from his own mother; Ophelia’s mother, Iris, had died young, only a few years after giving birth to Ophelia. When he was young, he had wondered what it might be like to be an only child growing up in a house bigger than anything he could imagine, thinking as he squeezed round the kitchen table next to a sister and brother that it might be quite nice to grow up alone. No one pushing past you on the stairs or squabbling over who had more covers in the bed, no elbows jostling for the last sausage at breakfast. Sometimes it had seemed bliss to Silas, but when he had finally met Ophelia there was a loneliness to her that never dissipated, despite hints of wildness, rebellion. It was as though she existed entirely unto herself, unlike Silas who existed as son, brother, villager, tenant—cemented firmly into his world by a multitude of roots, generations deep. Ophelia, despite being literally to the manner born, stood alone, untethered to her father, unrooted by siblings or even a mother. Looking at her now, he could see that the loneliness had lifted a little, that she was valued here, that the place was forming itself around her.
As far as Silas could tell, the one and only person who looked out for her in childhood was Mrs. Greene, the Blackwood’s portly, middle-aged cook and housekeeper. Stout, with a fuzz of honeyed grey hair, and kind, sleepy eyes, Mrs. Greene was Ophelia’s champion in all things, clucking and cooing over the “poor wee girly, alone in every way that counts, rattlin’ ’round that big ’ouse on ’er own.”
At his mother’s table, a wedge of cake and a cup of hot black tea in front of her, Silas had often overheard Mrs. Greene and his mother sharing the village gossip. He could still recall their voices and much of what they shared. “She’s a good gel, really, so sweet and thoughtful. Though her father’s left her too much on her own all these years, poor dove,” the cook would murmur to Mrs. Larke before setting her teacup down forcefully, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table in a gesture that indicated she was about to share a particularly important opinion. “Iris was always a means to an end for Merritt Blackwood. Poor woman hadn’t a chance, really. ’Twas nothing but sadness in that house after they married. Mrs. Lyons and I used to mourn somethin’ fierce for the mistress, kept under his thumb with all the shouting and strong armin’. No good’ll ever come o’ this, Mrs. Lyons and I used t’ say, and no good ever did. ’Cept Ophelia, o’ course.”
