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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 ifher 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 paperwork, 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