It is through books that we can find the greatest hope, he had written in his tight, neat script. Words the censor had no cause to cut away. You remain ever in my thoughts.

The letter, as all the ones he’d sent before, were precious to her. But those two lines specifically scored themselves on her mind, repeated multiple times a day.

And truly, South Riding was a book of great inspiration. Set after the Great War as communities came together and a headmistress inspired hope in a place where there was little to be had. It was an empowering tale about people who could overcome whatever life threw at them.

The same as the British did now.

The boy who attended the reading was tall and slim with a cap shoved low over his mussed dark hair. He wore a men’s jacket that hung on his skinny adolescent shoulders and pants that swung about his ankles. All of which were filthy.

He slipped into the reading after it had started, sitting in the shadows of a towering bookshelf. His attempts to not be seen, however, only made him more noticeable. Grace was keenly aware of him, how he’d tucked those long legs beneath him and raised his cap to reveal his dirty, gaunt face while listening intently. He remained where he was all the way up to the last word of the story, then departed as quickly and quietly as he’d arrived, once more tugging his cap low.

It was not the only time Grace had seen him. He showed up every day after, wearing the same ill-fitting attire, just as grimy, just as determined to remain unseen.

But how could one not see a child in such sore need?

She left small gifts of food where he sat, an apple or a bit of bread, but he never so much as looked at it, clearly assuming it belonged to someone else. He required help. And she knew just the one to give it.

She waited until she and Mrs. Weatherford sat down at the kitchen table that evening for a bit of Woolton pie, a vegetable concoction with a potato pastry crust. Mrs. Weatherford had made the meal several times since she’d heard the recipe on The Kitchen Front, which she listened to religiously every morning after the eight o’clock news on the BBC.

Grace poured a bit more gravy on the tasteless crust and decided then was as good a time as any to broach the topic. “I wonder if you’ve thought about doing more work with the WVS?”

Mrs. Weatherford touched the napkin to her lips. “I haven’t.” There was a crispness to her tone Grace had expected. “I cannot say I could do anyone a bit of good in my state.”

“You do a considerable amount for me.” Grace took an appreciative bite of the pie.