Not by Sight (3 page)

“Well, you
are
my friend. And you had better start calling me Grace.” She hugged herself. “Oh, I still can’t believe I’m here. It will be such an adventure!”

“Mrs. Vance said there’s much to do at Roxwood,” Agnes reminded her. “I mean, you weren’t raised on a farm like me. The work’s going to be harder than the chores we did at the practice farm, but with your determination, you’ll catch on quickly.” Her brown eyes shone with sincerity. “And I’ll help you all I can.”

Grace sketched a playful bow. “Then I rely on your experience and good sense to keep me out of trouble.”

Agnes nodded. “Absolutely, miss.”

“
Grace
,” she reminded her.

“Yes . . . Grace,” Agnes repeated with a smile.

Back in the cart, she and Agnes sat beside Mrs. Vance, who drove the team along an uneven dirt track toward the barn. Roxwood Manor came into view, and Grace leaned out from her seat to try to glean a better look. The two-story brick house was set back from the main road by a long graveled drive. Lacking the tall mansard roof and numerous dormers and columns of Lady Bassett’s sumptuous mansion, it resembled more a country squire’s home than a palatial estate.

Grace found the manor’s unpretentious looks comfortable and pleasing. Rounded stone steps led up to a massive oak door, and the white stone pediment supported by two matching white columns seemed modest enough. For a moment she imagined a family picnic on the front lawn or beside the majestic rose garden blooming with vibrant color.

But there was no family, was there? Only Lord Roxwood, whom no one had apparently seen. Who was he . . . and why
was he a mystery? Grace was hard-pressed to contain her curiosity, a natural inclination of writers, she supposed. She couldn’t wait until later when Mrs. Vance had promised to answer her questions.

They soon arrived at the barn. The towering structure stood on a gray cobblestone base, with brownish-red siding and a black-slate roof. As the three of them exited the cart, a tall, slightly stooped man of middling years approached. “Mr. Tillman, these are the two new replacements I told you about,” Mrs. Vance said.

Grace noted Mrs. Vance’s animated tone. “Miss Mabry and Miss Pierpont, meet Mr. George Tillman. He runs the farm for Lord Roxwood and oversees our progress.”

Mr. Tillman doffed his felt cap, revealing a thatch of salt-and-pepper hair. His heavily waxed mustache collided with a pair of gray muttonchop sideburns to form a continuous line. “Ladies.” He gave a curt nod, then frowned. “You two don’t look fit for this kind of work,” he said bluntly. “You’re going to have to prove yourselves.”

Grace stiffened. “We shall,” she said, tipping her chin at him. Perhaps he resented women working his fields and getting paid for it, even though the Army Service Corps took care of their wages. She and Agnes were warned about such men during training. “We know what hard work is.” She glanced at her maid. “Don’t we, Agnes?”

“Indeed,” Agnes said, brow puckered. Grace turned to Mrs. Vance, noting her high color as she smiled and stared at Mr. Tillman.

Did her supervisor harbor an interest in the farmer? Grace wondered if there was a Mr. Vance, perhaps off fighting in the war. Or like Edgar Pierpont, maybe he’d left his wife to flee the country and escape conscription. Grace mulled over the
possibilities, wondering if this might be her next story, one of unrequited love . . .

“Let’s go meet the others.”

Jarred from her musings, she walked alongside Agnes as they followed the older pair toward the barn.

Attached to the structure was a lean-to housing several bicycles, where three women in Women’s Forage Corps uniforms took shade. Seated on overturned milk cans, they each held a tiny mewling kitten. A box filled with straw sat at their feet.

“Lucy Young, Clare Danner, and Becky Simmons, meet Grace Mabry and Agnes Pierpont, our newest recruits,” Mrs. Vance said by way of introduction.

A long moment passed while Grace felt their assessing gazes. She glanced down at her tailored blue traveling suit and wished she’d changed into her uniform before joining them.

A young woman finally rose off her perch and set her kitten in the box. Short, buxom, and apple-cheeked, she was perhaps eighteen years of age and wore her dark hair short beneath her hat. “Hello, I’m Becky, nice to meet you,” she said, approaching. Soft brown eyes the color of oolong tea, Da’s favorite, studied her and Agnes with interest. “Did you really hire a cab to bring you all the way from London?”

When Grace nodded, Becky crossed her arms, looking impressed. Unhampered by shyness, she quickly told them she was the daughter of a local fisherman, who along with his wife and nine other children lived in a coastal village on the outskirts of Margate.

The next to greet them was a woman comparable to Becky’s age and completely the opposite in personality. “I’m Lucy, w-welcome.” She spoke so softly, both Grace and Agnes leaned forward to hear her. Pale and oval-faced, Lucy had arresting turquoise eyes, and wisps of mahogany hair peeked out from beneath her hat. As she cuddled her kitten, Grace wondered if
her stammer was due to shyness or the same speech affliction her brother Colin once had.

Clare Danner was the last to come forward—or more accurately, saunter into their midst. Tall, willowy, and near to Grace’s own age, her ebony locks fell about her shoulders like a black shawl. Having set her kitten back in the box, she nodded at Agnes. “Are you one of the Belgian refugees?” she asked, obviously having caught the slight French accent in her maid’s speech.

“Not a refugee,” Agnes said, and Grace sensed her hesitation. “I came to your country just before the war.”

“Well, it’s good to have you helping us.” Clare then turned impenetrable gray eyes on Grace. “Take off your fancy gloves and show me your hands, Duchess.”

Startled by the woman’s rudeness, Grace blinked. Was Clare Danner some woman of rank to make such a demand? Swallowing her retort, she complied and removed her gloves. Holding out her hands, she was conscious of the ink stains on her left hand and the writer’s callus on her middle finger.

“Now turn them over.”

Grace ground her teeth. Why was she being singled out? Glancing toward the others, she saw they all seemed to wait for her compliance.

She flipped her hands over to reveal her palms.

“Just as I thought. Those hands have never seen a day’s work.”

“Enough, Danner.” Mrs. Vance offered Grace an apologetic smile. “You must excuse her, Mabry. She gets in a dander over anyone connected with the upper classes.”

“Well, I’m no aristocrat.” Grace turned back to Clare Danner, a mere co-worker after all. “And I have worked, at my father’s business.” She left off the fact she’d only done paper
work, occasionally greeted Da’s more affluent customers like Lady B.—and of late, packaged tea bags.

“I’ll bet you didn’t get your hands dirty once, Mabry,” Clare said, reading her thoughts. “Aside from the training farm, anyway. You’re a city girl who’s never had to earn a living.”

“Perhaps,” Grace said, struggling for calm. “But I’m here now and ready to do my part.”

Clare flashed a catlike smile. “We’ll see.”

Grace thought the words held more threat than observation.

“All right, ladies. I’m taking Mabry and Pierpont on a quick tour of the farm. When we’re finished, I plan to turn some of those Army rations into a nice hot stew for our supper.”

Her announcement met with smiles and an eager grin from Becky.

“We’ll take a short ride out to the north field first,” Mrs. Vance said once the three of them were back in the cart. She surprised Grace by handing her the reins. “Your file says you’ve signed on to be our horse transport driver, Mabry. Let’s see how you do. Just head Merry and Molly over there through the pasture.” She indicated a stretch of green bordered by forested hills.

Grace took a deep breath, reminding herself she’d guided Nessa and their small trap through London’s streets hundreds of times. She urged the pair of old draft horses forward along a track that cut through an opening in the fence.

The late afternoon sun hovered above the distant tree line by the time they reached the north field. Mrs. Vance called a halt, and they gazed at the endless field of grass shimmering and iridescent in the golden rays of light. Green stalks rustled as they blew against one another, a gentle breeze stirring with the onset of evening.

Seeing the vast acreage, the reality of Agnes’s words about
hard work came back to her. Grace wondered if six women would be able to harvest all that hay.

“The harvest begins next week.” Mrs. Vance turned to Agnes. “Pierpont, you’ll be one of the baling hands.”

“Yes, ma’am. I was raised on a farm and know about raking and hauling bales. I may not look it, but I am quite fit.”

“Good to hear.” To Grace, she said, “You’re in charge of the horse-drawn mower and rake, as well as taking the cart to the field each day once the steam baler is running.” She paused. “And since you’ll be working with the horses, I’m glad to see you’re an able driver.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Vance,” Grace said. “We had a pair of bays stabled in London, before the Army bought them. I can also operate a motorcar—I mean, if there’s ever a need.”

“It’s noted on your application, Mabry. Unfortunately, the Army has confiscated many private vehicles for use overseas, in particular the trucks. You won’t be driving around here.” Mrs. Vance smiled. “Still, it’s good to know you’re such a modern young woman. Mr. Vance drove a lorry during the early part of the war, before he broke his hip and got sent home. Once he recovered, the Army deemed him unfit to return. He took a job with the railway, driving a supply truck for the Liverpool Street Station.”

Ah, there was a Mr. Vance. “Where is your husband now?”

Grace could have bit her tongue as grief swept across the woman’s features. “Killed two years ago, the October bombing at Westminster,” Mrs. Vance said softly. “My Robbie liked to stop off for a pint after work at the Old Bell, not far from the theatre.” The hazel eyes welled with tears. “Imagine surviving the war, only to die in a pub.”

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Vance.” Grace turned to Agnes, and they shared a look, each recalling the recent air attacks on London.

“It’s all right.” Mrs. Vance wiped at her face with the back
of her sleeve. “I just miss Mr. Vance, bless his soul.” She smiled through her tears. “I try to take comfort knowing he’s in heaven with our Lord while the rest of us must stay here and get on with the task of living.”

Indeed they must—to win the war, thought Grace fervently. Once the enemy was defeated, London would be safe again, and her brother could come home.

“We should head back now.” Mrs. Vance was composed once more. “It’s getting late and I’ve still more to show you.”

When they returned to the barn, she finished with a walking tour of the farm. “When we’re not haymaking, we perform other tasks for the Army Service Corps,” Mrs. Vance said. “Like mending tarpaulins and making burlap sacks. Before the war, men did it all, but I’m proud to say we ladies are making rather good progress in their absence.”

They walked past the barn and outbuildings to an enormous garden of vegetables. Beyond the garden, a chicken coop held a flock of clucking, squawking hens, and a bit farther was a pigpen with two dozen very rotund pigs and their piglets. “We also help with the farm work when there’s a need, like gardening or animal husbandry.” She turned to them. “Germany’s U-boats have been sinking supply ships coming into Britain, and food is becoming scarce. A few months ago the Women’s Land Army organized to aid in the crisis through farming here at home. But it may be weeks before they arrive to help at Roxwood. Until then, the WFC will help supply Britain with food, both here and abroad.”

“Agnes and I are ready to do our best.” She beamed at her maid. They would feed the nation! Grace felt ready to burst with patriotic pride. “Where shall we start first, Mrs. Vance?”

Mrs. Vance chuckled. “Your enthusiasm does you credit, Mabry. I’ll assign tomorrow’s duties at supper. Speaking of which, let’s make haste before I have a starving mob on my hands.”

———

An hour later, the six women sat around a long wooden table that took up most of the compact kitchen. While they feasted on a stew of rations and the delicious bread Becky Simmons had baked, Mrs. Vance gave out Monday’s assignment. “Miss Young, you and I will go to the village tomorrow and mend tarpaulins the Army has sent,” she said to Lucy. “Danner, you’ll take Pierpont and tighten the fence on the west side of the garden.” Her gaze swept to Clare and Agnes. “Otherwise the rabbits and deer will soon be devouring our food.”

To Becky, she said, “The drainage line along the north field needs to be finished, Simmons. Once we start the harvest, we can’t have the hay soaked by rain runoff. You and Mabry have the detail.”

Clare Danner snorted with laughter. Grace turned to her. “What’s so amusing?”

But the woman ignored her and rose instead to begin clearing the table.

Mrs. Vance scanned the table of women. “Everyone clear on their duties?”

“I very much doubt it.” Clare had leaned close enough so that only Grace could hear. A necklace—a painted white flower on a fine gold chain—escaped her duster to swing inches from Grace’s face before she hastily slipped it back inside her clothes.

Clare straightened and flashed another smug look before she gathered up the rest of the dishes and took them to a washbasin.

Grace decided to ignore her. Clare Danner seemed full of herself, but she’d change her opinion once she saw how hard Grace could work.

With supper finished and the kitchen clean, the women trooped upstairs to ready themselves for bed. As the hour still
felt early to Grace, she chose to remain in her traveling clothes a while longer.

“Are you both from London?” asked Becky, seated on her bed in a white cotton nightgown and eyeing them curiously.

Agnes glanced at Grace.

“We live in Westminster,” Grace said. “On Sterling Street, in Knightsbridge. My father owns Swan’s Tea Room on Coventry Street in the west end.”

“I saw it once, Swan’s
.
” Lucy spoke softly from the far corner of the room. “It’s q-quite a grand place.”