In April came news she had been both praying for and dreading. America entered the war.

‘It will speed up the end,’ her father said as they heard cheers coming from the direction of the wards and knew that the news had already spread. ‘America’s potential force in manpower and material is limitless. Her young men will be fresh and enthusiastic. Perhaps the war really will be over by Christmas.’

‘I hope so.’ Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that the knuckles showed white. ‘And for that reason I’m glad that America has joined the Allies, but there will be no more letters, Papa. Berthold and Zelda won’t be able to send post to America any more. The children’s contact with Berthold and Paul’s contact with his mother will be over completely.’

‘But not for ever, for the day will come when the war will end.’ Arthur Hudson’s voice was gruff, for he, like her, could not imagine quite what was going to happen to her little family when that day finally came. He couldn’t imagine her returning to Berlin any more than he could imagine Paul returning to Berlin, and nor could he imagine Little Ridding’s reaction if Berthold were to come and live with them.

At the knowledge that she and Berthold could have no further contact with each other until hostilities ended, Vicky’s desolation was enormous. Even though the love she felt for him was now purely platonic, he was still her loving companion and dearest friend and the thought of how desperately he must be missing her distressed her deeply.

In June, the King ordered all members of the royal family to drop German names and titles.

‘We’re no longer to be ruled by the House of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha,’ Will Patchett said to her wryly as he pruned a rose growing in a lead urn on the terrace. ‘From now on Saxe-Coburg-Gotha becomes Windsor and Battenberg becomes Mountbatten. What’s this rose called, Mrs Remer? It’s a pretty little thing.’

‘Its botanical name is Rosa Richardii,’ she said, wondering, not too seriously, if she should also change her surname. ‘Its common name is “Holy Rose of Abyssinia”. It’s been grown on Christian tombs in Abyssinia for over fifteen hundred years.’

‘Is that so?’ Will was impressed. ‘And what about our English dog rose. How old is that?’

As he was talking he was expertly continuing to prune, doing so just as well with one hand as her father did with two.

‘I don’t know.’ She tucked a strand of blonde hair back into the bun set low in the nape of her neck. ‘Ancient, I expect. Paul might know. He’s always reading my father’s botanical books.’

‘P’raps he’ll be a gardener, like me.’ He grinned at her, showing a cracked front tooth.

She grinned back, happy that his future was safely assured.

‘I’m sure we can always find enough work for him,’ her father had said, when she’d told him of Will’s ambition. ‘Sister says she’s about to discharge him so he’ll need to find somewhere to live close by.’