Dark Harvest by Amy Myers

transparent and laughably selfish, seemed to have given way to a more petulant, determined woman who could no longer laugh at herself.
    Frank Eliot’s eyes flickered in surprise, even as he bowed his head, when he saw Isabel. He ushered them into his parlour.
    ‘I appreciate your taking an interest in the hop gardens, Mrs Swinford-Browne.’
    Caroline never knew what to make of Frank Eliot. He had the reputation of being a hard manager, yet stories of individual kindnesses kept circulating round the village, and Phoebe, curiously, would not hear a word said against him. He had a slightly rakish, ungentlemanly appearance, and dressed gaudily, with a brightly coloured cravat that resembled a costermonger’sscarf. This didn’t help his reputation, Caroline decided, nor did his piercing tawny-brown eyes which had no hesitation in staring at you till they had taken in all they wanted.
    ‘Not at all,’ Isabel replied graciously. ‘I have already told Caroline I’ll be only too happy to help her organise workers for the hopgardens.’
    Caroline tried not to look surprised. It was the first she had heard of it.
    ‘How kind.’ Frank Eliot was staring at Isabel in a way that suggested to Caroline he was echoing her own amazement.
    ‘I’ve agreed daily and piecework rates with Mr Swinford-Browne.’ Caroline decided it was time to establish her position. ‘And now I’ll need a list of your requirements, numbers of workers, how many days and which months.’
    ‘I’ll draw one up, Miss Lilley.’
    ‘My mother will supply you with a copy of the rota as soon as possible after you let us have your list.’
    ‘Give me a few days to sort out my own men. Some are still talking about leaving the land to volunteer or go into munitions. I’ll bring the list down to the Rectory, say next Monday, and you can reckon to have three at work next week.’
    ‘If you let me have the list, Mr Eliot,’ Isabel said quickly, ‘I’ll take it down for you. I could call for it on Sunday, when I’m dining at the Rectory?’
    Such thoughtfulness was rare in Isabel. Curiouser and curiouser! Caroline began to feel the gulf between herself and her sister might be more like Alice in Wonderland’s rabbithole.
     
    ‘Have you seen the Courier, my dear?’
    Laurence put his head round the boudoir door, only to find his wife absent. Surprised by his own annoyance at this departure from routine, he remembered she had said something at breakfast about organising the women assigned to potato planting at Owlers Farm. He went down to the morning room to try to find the newspaper. It was an established rule that he should read the Courier first. It wasn’t there, and so, he deduced, someone was reading it. The Dibbles had their own copy, but he wasn’t going to ask to borrow it when he had one of his own. George was at school. Caroline and Elizabeth were out … He marched upstairs in search of Phoebe.
    ‘And where, young woman, is my Courier?’ he asked as soon as she answered his knock.
    She jumped up guiltily. Not only had she taken his newspaper, but she had been sprawling on the bed. ‘Here,’ she said carelessly. ‘I’m sorry, Father.’ Laurence took the bundled heap of newspaper without comment.
    After he left, Phoebe, who had gleaned all she needed from the Courier, wondered whether she had the courage to go ahead with her plan. She decided she did—only she wouldn’t mention it to anyone just yet.
    Returning to his study, Laurence wondered idly what Phoebe had found so fascinating in the newspaper. Mrs Dibble cornered him in the hall.
    ‘If you please, sir, Mrs Lilley not being here, I’ll have to trouble you for some money. The coalman’s called unexpected.’
    Laurence looked at her sharply. ‘He normally submits his account.’
    ‘I said unexpected, sir.’ Her voice was heavy with meaning, by which he gathered the Rectory was being favoured above other residences during the current coal shortage. ‘That’ll be three pounds