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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 abouthard 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 backof 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