She had hoped that their reunion would soon be fruitful, but one month passed and then another, each bringing a little sting of dismay that this was not yet so. If her husband also was regretful of the fact, he made no sign of it. William was in any case much preoccupied: there were estate matters to see to and the taking in hand of a parcel of land which had been given, along with a house, to his late brother. The land was tenanted and it was William’s wish to bring it under his own stewardship, while the house was empty and an occupant for it had to be found. Then too everyone for miles about was desirous of seeing the returning hero: each post brought a handful of invitations which it fell to Alice’s lot to accept or to decline.

To begin with William had been quite content to give some small accounts of the recent war and the long siege of Sebastopol. Of the local flora and fauna he discoursed a little, describing the terrain as not so very unlike that around and about them: Leckhampton Hill, perhaps, or Cleeve Common; only the far-distant valleys were filled with vines and soft fruit and the tinkling of goat bells, instead of with plump English sheep.

He omitted from his descriptions some of the bloodier aspects of the engagement, although many details had been made common knowledge by the Times correspondent. The ladies of the county, when seated beside William, were astonished to learn that the Russians had been so sure of victory at Alma that they had invited numbers of the fairer sex to picnic on the heights, so as to witness the spectacle. Why yes, William assured them: baskets had been brought up by donkey and parasols and rugs besides; champagne corks were pulled and cold legs of chicken produced from folded cloths, while below was carnage. Many pressed him to divulge the details of the action which had won him the Queen’s new Cross there, but always he demurred.

‘And were you present at the Charge of the Light Brigade?’ came the invariable question.

To which William gave the terse reply that he was not. He himself never referred to that day by this name, but always called it Balaklava. Undeterred, his interlocutor would press on: ‘What a dreadful thing that was! So many killed.’

Dreadful indeed, he would answer.

‘And yet may it not have been avoided altogether, had the order been better given and relayed?’

At which it was his custom to mumble dully in the hope of closing the subject altogether.