Had that been an apology? Or at least a show of his acceptance of being struck? When is a blow from a lady welcome? When she strikes you agreeably. 

I stood by the gravel path thinking for a few moments. A cluster of men greeted me, throwing questioning glances at each other as they passed, obviously wondering what I was doing standing in such a strange spot like a piece of misplaced modern sculpture. 

The wind was beginning to pick up and I was not dressed for the out-of-doors. 

When she strikes you agreeably. Was that another indication of his attempt at irritating me? I was most pleasing to him when I was shouting, all red-faced and belligerent? 

Stop mulling it over and get yourself in inside, Olivia, before you catch your death.  

The Hutch office was nearly deserted, but I could hear someone working the typewriter in the main room. The loud clacking echoed hollowly off the walls of the corridor as I approached, still rubbing my shoulders under the light cardigan I had on to warm up.  

An eruption of laughter from one of the smaller working rooms attracted my attention and, peaking only slightly in, I saw Tomkins, Morris and Pritchard sitting around the work table. 

I eavesdropped for a while in the corridor.

They were heatedly discussing football and the possibility of laying out a pitch again in the summer and playing a series of matches like last year.

Oh, that had been a delight. 

Most of the matches had ended nil all, but that had not damped the men's spirits or enthusiasm for the game. Even the less athletic among them had been given a chance to play and we had all cheered them on from the sidelines, shouting encouragement to this or that player.  Even Agatha had come out with a sun parasol and a chair to watch, applauding politely when a rare goal was scored.   

"Hello, gentlemen," I said, walking past the doorframe as if I'd only just arrived. 

"M-miss! Tomkins is here to rep-port on the sowing and you asked for Morris to be summoned."

Had I? I didn't recall. 

"Excellent. Thank you, Pritchard." I joined them at the table. "Tomkins, what do you have for us?"

Pritchard rose and took his leave. Tomkins hunched forward, folding his hands together on the table before drawing a deep breath and launching into his report. 

Everything was going according to schedule, and we'd have all the wheat sown within a day or two. "But, I don't like the look of the sky tonight," he rasped, in his damaged voice. "Storm's a comin'. Hopefully, it won't rain too heavily. We don't have more than one field of corn and two of potatoes in the ground. I won't vouch for what happens if we get too much rain." 

I nodded. "Could we lose what's already been planted?" 

Tomkins shrugged. "Mud's better than flood, as my dad was fond a sayin'. Depends entirely on what mood the sky's in. Same as every year." 

Didn't I know it. 

I thanked him and he unlaced his hands, plucked up his cap, and nodded as he rose to leave. I turned to Morris, who was looking at me with expectantly raised eyebrows. 

"How does a trip to Hertfordshire for a few days sound?" I asked.

"Lovely. Where's Hertfordshire and what doors will I be knocking on when I get there?"

"It's on the other side of London and --."

"London! I've always wanted to see London. I've almost had enough of the Sussex coast, to be wholly honest. I'm sure there are people clamouring for sweets on the other side of London just the same as down Sussex way."

His enthusiasm made me smile and I almost felt bad telling him it wasn't a sales trip he was being sent on. 

Morris had been a Field Rabbit representative for the South Coast for about two years. It was his job to travel from town-to-town and village-to-village, calling in on general goods shops to talk the owners into an order of either hard candy or Christmas items. Preferably both. He was quite good at it, once the shop people got over staring at his missing arm. 

"Not a sales trip. Something else entirely." 

His open expression melted into seriousness as I explained the mission to him, and what job he was to perform in the whole affair. His brows knit together, forming a small crease of concern on his forehead the longer I spoke.

"Sounds risky, if you don't mind me saying. I mean, most new men know one of us already, even if only vaguely. But just to go and choose out strangers? And if there aren't any who fit the bill?" 

"Then concentrate on the ones who look as if they might not last out the summer. But not so bad that they'll give us all dysentery."    

Morris thought for a minute, his gaze dancing over the top of the table as he worked the information over in his mind. Then a sly smile spread across his face. "I'll go gladly enough if I can spend an evening in London along the way, Miss?" 

What could I say to that, other than 'of course, Morris, I wouldn't have expected anything less'? 

Morris took his leave to go and pack a case. I went into the main office to inform Cullen, who kept all the schedules, about Morris' upcoming absence and to ask him to arrange traveling money for the both of them. Cullen had already gone, so I scribbled a note for him and left it on his desk. 

Before I went to ready myself for dinner, I paused at the window and cast a glance at the sky. 

Sure enough, dark clouds were beginning to glide from one side to the other as if on rails, the last rays of sun creating a dramatic lighting effect behind them. The sky looked like something a painter would have created on canvas and I watched the play of light and cloud for a while, my mind thankfully blank.   

But then I made the mistake of looking down.

Four men where standing in a half-circle around none other than Mrs Thrower. 

She'd changed her dress and was now hatless, her long brown hair swept up and arranged on her head with hair needles. She was waving her arms in an animated way, obviously telling them some kind of humorous story. Then she dropped her arms and laughed. 

From what I could see, the men were all grinning.  

I watched for a few minutes, wondering what the devil the woman was up to. She seemed to be engaging them all in a fascinating conversation and they seemed more than willing to be engaged. All of them had squared their shoulders and pushed out their chests a little, standing more broad-legged than normal. I recognised that posture from watching Charlotte work her magic at parties. The men were attempting to show off a little, like cocks in a yard, scratching and strutting for the benefit of a plump hen. 

Well, why not. A number of them so rarely saw women, much less talked to one. Might do them some good. I left the window, going back to my room and washing my hands and face for dinner. 

The house was mostly quiet, but I could hear the faint noise of dinner being prepared, the rattling of crockery and soup pots, as I made my way to the short middle corridor, the two letters of reference in my hand. Better to speak to her now about them than later. 

Agatha used to live in the servant's tract on the third floor. That was closed off now, seeing as there were no other servants besides her and Brooks. I had thought of housing men up there shortly after the war, but with far more comfortable rooms available on the lower floors and their general like of the Infirmary, I'd given up the idea.

Agatha would hardly have stuffed Mrs Thrower between the spider webs and shadows up on the third floor, but I didn't know where she'd thought best to store her for the night as we so rarely had guests.

Wherever it was, she obviously wasn't taking advantage of it, seeing as she was outside chatting up the lads in the shelter of the vegetable garden. 

Agatha had moved down to the second floor and into what had been a lady's bedroom a few years ago. That made it more convenient for her, but it also meant I had company on the second floor and that made me feel a slight bit monitored, even though our rooms were separated by at least six other ones.     

I knocked on her door, but got no answer. 

The main corridor was almost completely dark as I walked back to my room to return the letters to the desk drawer and go down to dinner. 

In the distance, thunder rumbled in the gloom like a brewer's wagon over cobblestone and I crossed my fingers that the coming storm would mostly pass us by.