Dark Harvest by Amy Myers

drawing room. ‘I’m so busy with my committees and—and—lots of things, I rarely have a chance to tackle this farm work before the evening.’ She laughed lightly. ‘You will take a sherry?’
    Amused, Frank Eliot entered into her game—if game it could be called. He owed little to the Swinford-Brownes now. Silly Billy, as he privately termed him, had made it quite plain he intended to sell up the hopgardens at the first opportunity, if not this year then next. As for Robert, he was a nice enough chap but being in the army in Norfolk was hardly like the Western Front—he was near enough to home to be responsible for his own marital affairs.
    ‘You’re too kind.’ He disliked sherry, but sipped it politely.
    ‘The evenings are very long. I am glad to have something so rewarding to do as the hopgarden rotas.’
    ‘What is it you wished to see me about, Mrs Swinford-Browne?’
    ‘The rota for June. Will there still be clearing to do? And can I offer the women work during the hop-picking season as well?’ Isabel was pleased with her businesslike tone.
    ‘I can take all you can offer, Mrs Swinford-Browne.’ Frank’s tone was bland, but Isabel looked at him uncertainly. ‘Your sister is doing sterling work in the fields,’ he continued. ‘Will you be following her example and hop picking?’
    Isabel was taken aback. ‘I’m not quite so strong as Caroline, but perhaps.’
    ‘I shall look forward to it.’
    ‘Will you? It is nice to think I have a friend here.’ Her voice grew soft.
    He rose from his chair, joined her on the sofa, removed the sherry glass she was clutching defensively, turned her to him, and kissed her.
    Her first thought was that his moustache tickled but his lips were warm and confident. She struggled a little, then as his hands soothed her and stroked her face, her hair, she relaxed and her mouth opened under his. Some minutes later she was aware that she was almost lying on the sofa and that his hands were no longer on her hair but on her breasts, pushing aside the dinner gown.
    Panic-stricken, she pulled herself free. ‘Mr Eliot, I am a married woman.’ The indignation in her voice was not feigned.
    He seemed to be breathing heavily but he released her. Then she realised he was shaking with laughter.
    ‘So you are, Isabel, so you are.’ He made as if to rearrange her bodice but she pushed his hands away. ‘Come to me, Isabel, when you’re ready.’
    ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she replied haughtily.
    ‘For the picking of the ripe hops, of course. What else?’
     
    ‘Victoria Station. No one but you and I.’ Caroline was just one of hundreds of people waiting for the Channel train to steam in. She felt sick with excitement, anticipation and tension, and there were a hundred questionsshe wanted to ask but knew she would never dare. The feeling that seemed to fill her up and stop somewhere just under her chin could all be translated into one glorious word: Reggie. In a few moments she would see him. All the letters, all the words, all the emotions they had exchanged would be behind them and they would be together, if only for a few hours. What price chaperones now, she thought. Less than a year ago it would have been impossible for her to have met Reggie alone, even if they were engaged, but now that world was over and done with!
    There was a stirring in the crowd and she saw the smoke of an approaching train. The train. The signal was down, and everyone surged round the platform barrier. Doors opened with the help of khaki-clad arms. She jumped down from the bench she was standing on, changed her mind and climbed back, then jumped down again and surged forward with the rest.
    Reggie was right. There were only the two of them. As she saw him, the crowd seemed to part as easily as the Red Sea. But was it him? He seemed smaller somehow, despite the uniform and cap. How ridiculous. Of course it was Reggie! The same good-looking, almost classical features, the same easy walk,