“Mr. Penworthy?” she asked, her voice shaking a little despite her false confidence.
He looked over as a man might examine a cow for sale at market. “You’re the land girl then?”
She nodded. “My name is Elizabeth Pedley.”
“That’s a long name for such a little thing,” he observed.
“My parents called me Beth, and I might be little but I’m strong.”
His mouth twitched. “Is that so? The last girl they sent us wasn’t much to write home about.”
“What happened to her?” she asked.
“Still working the farm. We can’t afford to be too picky. It was Mrs. Penworthy’s idea to get a second girl up.” He passed a hand over his head and stuck his cap on. “It’s best to agree with Mrs. Penworthy when she gets an idea into her head. Come on now. It’ll be dark soon.”
He reached out to take Beth’s bag, but she held on to it, resolute.
He grunted. “Suit yourself.”
Beth followed the farmer down the train station’s steps and out to a horse and cart that was tied up on the gate. “Have you ever ridden in a cart?”
“Not in a long time,” she answered honestly. “My parents owned a farm.”
“They don’t have it anymore?”
“They died.” A beat stretched between them as it so often did when she talked about being an orphan. “I lived with my aunt in town until I turned eighteen and joined the Women’s Land Army.”
“Fuel is kept for farmwork now, so a cart it is,” said Mr. Penworthy.
She nodded, grateful he didn’t offer her any platitudes about being so sorry for her loss.
When Mr. Penworthy let down the gate for her, Beth hauled up her bag into the back of the cart.
“Will you be wanting to ride in the back or up front?” he asked.
“Up front, please.”
“Suit yourself,” he said again.
She climbed up and settled herself in. Mr. Penworthy did the same, and then took up the reins. With a click of his tongue, the horse set off.
If Beth had thought they would talk on this journey to the farm, she was mistaken. The road was rutted, and the February air had a wicked bite to it. She spent half the time trying to stop her teeth from chattering and the rest of it with her hand clamped on her cap to keep it from falling off. By the time Mr. Penworthy turned off the road at a sign with “Temple Fosse Farm” painted on it, her fingers felt as though they were about to fall off.
As soon as the horse and cart slowed, the side door of the farmhouse burst open. “Len Penworthy, what are you doing letting that girl ride all the way from the train station in only that thin coat?” demanded a tall woman with a canvas apron tied around her. “She’ll catch her death.”
“That will be Mrs. Penworthy,” murmured Mr. Penworthy.
Beth’s eyes cut to him, but she was surprised to see no annoyance or weariness in his expression, only affection.
“Now, you must be Miss Pedley,” said Mrs. Penworthy, who bustled up to her.
“Please call me Beth,” she said.
“Beth it is, then.”
The older woman steered her by the shoulders straight into the kitchen. A huge black iron stove emanated warmth from one corner, and an array of vegetables midchop rested on the table. The scent of stew, something rich, wafted up to her, and Beth nearly whimpered. It had been so long since she’d had a good homemade meal.
“You sit right down here, and I’ll make you a cup of tea,” said Mrs. Penworthy.
Her husband made to sit down at the other end of the table, but Mrs. Penworthy threw over her shoulder, “You go tell Ruth that she’s to come meet Beth.”
Mr. Penworthy gave a deep sigh. “I’ll see if she’ll come.”
As soon as he was out of the room, Mrs. Penworthy said, “You mustn’t mind him. Farming isn’t for everyone, and Ruth has had a hard adjustment to it. Still, she might make it easier on herself if she realized she wasn’t in Birmingham anymore.”
“I hope that I find it easier. I’ve lived with my widowed aunt Mildred in Dorking since I was ten.”
If Mrs. Penworthy thought anything of Beth living with her aunt rather than her parents, the farmer’s wife didn’t say anything. Instead, she asked, “And will she not miss you back in Dorking?”
Beth hesitated. “I think she is glad to know that I’m doing my bit in the war.”
“Feeding starving Britain?” came a sharp question. Beth looked up as a woman with an hourglass figure and a cloud of perfect red curls floating around her shoulders walked in. Even with clothing coupons rationing what everyone could buy, this woman was well-dressed in a cream ribbed turtleneck and a tweed skirt. On anyone else, it might have seemed dowdy, but she looked as though she was about to serve her guests a round of drinks after a long day’s hunt.
“Be nice, Ruth,” said Mrs. Penworthy.
Ruth’s eyes cut from the farmer’s wife to Beth and back. Then a smile cracked her face. “I’m only teasing, Mrs. P. I’m Ruth Harper-Greene.”
Beth frowned at Ruth’s double-barreled name. Girls like Ruth usually ended up secretaries or worked on switchboards, where their crisp accents would be best shown off.
She shook Ruth’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Let’s all have a cup of tea,” said Mrs. Penworthy cheerfully. “I’m afraid it’s just chamomile, but needs be in war.”
Mr. Penworthy did not rejoin them until dinner, which, though comprising solely root vegetables, was easily the best meal Beth had had in months. Afterward, Ruth showed Beth to their room.
As soon as the door was closed, Ruth flopped on the bed. “What an absolute bore. I swear that if something interesting doesn’t happen soon, I’ll scream.”
“The Penworthys seem very kind. I’m sure I’ll like it here,” Beth said.
Ruth pushed up on her elbow and shot her an assessing look. “Yes, well, you’ve likely never spent time in London. Or even Birmingham. Warwickshire is something of a disappointment, to say the least.”
Beth pursed her lips and set about unpacking her things.
“Oh, I’ve offended you,” said Ruth, getting up to catch Beth’s line of sight.
“You haven’t offended me,” said Beth. “I’m just happy I’ll be of some use.”
“Yes, well, we all have to be useful, don’t we?” snorted Ruth as she reached into a drawer and pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes and a match.
“Please don’t smoke in here,” said Beth, a little sharper than she’d meant.
Ruth looked up, the cigarette hanging from her mouth. “The mouse has a bite.”
“I’m not a mouse. And I would appreciate it if you would not smoke in this room.”
“Why not?” Ruth challenged.
“Because my aunt Mildred smokes, and I never could stand it.” Beth turned around fully to face her roommate, her arms crossed over her chest. “We don’t have to like each other, but we do need to bump along together. It would be easier if we agreed upon that from the beginning.”
Silence stretched between them. Not having had much practice, Beth’d never been very good at gauging this sort of interaction. Maybe she’d gone too far. She didn’t want to make an enemy out of her roommate within the first few hours of meeting her. But then Ruth took the cigarette from her lips and slowly slid it back into the packet.