Her phone chirped. She glanced at it as a text from Charlie flashed up:
Rosewood’s sent the wrong order. Everything’s got to go back.
“Dammit,” she cursed softly. Any more delays and she was in danger of running so far behind on this project that she’d cut into all of the grace period she’d built into the contract.
“Trouble at work?” Henry asked.
She shoved her phone into her back pocket. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Is the business just you?” he asked.
“Yeah. I started it after I got tired of working for other people.”
He gave a low whistle. “That is impressive going it alone.”
“Thanks, I think,” she said.
He flashed a grin. “It’s a compliment. Want to give me your number? I’ll look around for those sketchbooks this weekend and give you a shout when I find them.”
He grabbed his phone off his desk and held it out. She hesitated. It had been ages since she’d given her number to a man, but they weren’t sitting in a bar or even on the opposite ends of a dating app. This was work.
She tapped in her number, and when he took the phone back, he shot her a quick text.
“Now you can message me if you ever need anything,” he said.
“From a farm?” she asked, a smile tugging at her lips.
“You never know. You might wake up one day and think, ‘I could really use Henry’s hay baler.’ ”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks,” she said when she reached the front door of his office.
“Maybe I’ll see you around at the White Lion. It’s tradition to buy new neighbors a drink.”
“Is it?”
“Sure,” he said.
She found herself considering his offer. A simple drink with a nice man who had an easy way about him sounded appealingly novel, but almost immediately she dismissed the idea. Forming bonds with anyone in Highbury would only make it tougher when she inevitably left.
“Maybe sometime,” she said.
Out in the rainy farmyard, she pulled her collar up closer around her neck. Even though the mud clung to her boots harder than ever, she couldn’t help but feel a little lighter.
• BETH •
19 March 1944
Dearest Beth,
Reading your letters makes me want to be back on the farm again. I’m glad to hear how much you are enjoying your work. It warms this farmer’s heart to know that you’ll soon be as comfortable in the field as anyone.
I have forty-eight hours’ leave coming to me, and I’ll be spending it with Clifton, Macintyre, and Bates. I can’t say yet when I will have enough leave to make the trip back to England. When I do, though, we’ll go anywhere you want: tea, dinner and dancing, whatever. It’s strange to think that it will be our first date.
With all my affection,
Colin
“Now, you’re sure you know where you’re going?” asked Mrs. Penworthy as Beth once again checked the leads on the horse and trap.
“Down the Fosse Way, left at the bridge over the river, and then two miles south until Highbury Road. It will be the big house on the left, half a mile down,” said Beth.
“And don’t forget the grand gates were taken down—”
“For scrap,” Beth finished with a smile.
Mr. Penworthy lugged over the second wooden box bound for Highbury House. “Will you leave her be? The girl’s smart.”
After a little more fussing from Mrs. Penworthy, Beth climbed up onto the seat of the cart, flicked the reins, and turned to wave goodbye.
On the road, she couldn’t help herself from grinning as the cold wind whipped at her hair. Her free time tended to be spent going to the cinema with Ruth and two girls who worked on a dairy farm in Combrook, and she rarely found herself alone. When she did, she felt guilty if she didn’t use it to keep up with the steady stream of letters from Colin every few days. However, with reins in hand, she had nothing to do but enjoy the peace of her own company.
Her good mood carried her all the way to Highbury House. She pulled past the gap in the wall where the iron gates would have once stood and turned into the service entrance, just as Mr. Penworthy had told her she should. She hopped down from the cart and tied up the horse before letting down the gate and stacking the two boxes on top of each other.
Carefully she maneuvered around the cart to the kitchen door. She could hear the clatter of pans and the rush of water. Wedging the boxes between the door and her stomach, she knocked.
A moment later, the door swung open, revealing a woman in an apron with her chestnut hair caught up in a snood. The woman squinted at her and then looked down at the boxes. “No Mr. Penworthy today?”
“No, he couldn’t get away,” she said.
The woman stepped aside. “You’d better come in, then.”
“Where would you like the boxes?” Beth asked.
The woman nodded to the big worktable in the middle of the room. “Right there’s fine. I’ve just put on the kettle. Can you stay a minute?”
Beth hesitated but nodded.
“Good, I’ll fix you a cup of tea.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she said quickly.
“I’ll need to go through the delivery and give you a list for next week. You might as well have your tea while I do it. They’ll be leaves from this morning used again, but at least it’s hot.” The woman began pulling down stoneware mugs. “What’s your name?”
“Beth Pedley,” she said.
“I’m Stella Adderton. How are you liking being a land girl?” Miss Adderton called over her shoulder.
“Oh, I like it very much.”
“The work isn’t too hard, then?” Miss Adderton asked.
“It’s not too bad when you get used to it, but there’s a lot to learn,” she said, rubbing at a chapped spot on her hands absentmindedly.
Miss Adderton placed a mug in front of her. “I don’t suppose you enjoy dried milk, do you? No, of course not. Who does?”
She watched Miss Adderton reach into a delivery box and rummage around before pulling out the bottle. “Ah, here we are.”
“We sent milk?” Milk was meant to be rationed.
“Mr. Penworthy has been supplying Highbury House for so long he never asks Mrs. Symonds to pay for real milk. I don’t think it violates the rationing rules because it’s a gift well before the milk would ever see the market.” Miss Adderton paused. “I haven’t shocked you, have I?”
Beth laughed. “No. It seems to me there are far worse ways that people cheat rations.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Miss Adderton, dropping a tiny dollop of milk into each of their mugs. “What’s your name again?”
“Beth Pedley.”
Miss Adderton passed her a mug. “I like you, Miss Pedley.”
That simple statement tore at Beth, and she stared down at the mug clutched between her hands, afraid that if she looked at Miss Adderton, she would start to cry. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone her age had been this easy with her.
“Please call me Beth,” she managed after a moment.