Not commenting on Elise’s death, Vicky wondered if she should go to the funeral, aware that as she had met Elise only once it might look rather odd.

‘The funeral is to be private,’ Violet said, admiring the drawing the man in the bed nearest to her was doing. ‘William thinks it’s for the best as Adam won’t be able to attend. That’s an excellent drawing, young man. Absolutely champion.’

The drawing was of the scene before them. The lawns rolling down to the river and the trees beyond.

‘Would you excuse me a moment, Violet?’ Vicky knew she had to be on her own, even if it was only for a few brief minutes. ‘There’s something I’ve remembered I have to do.’

Not waiting for Violet’s response she walked swiftly back into the house, her pulse racing.

Where would Adam be when he received the news? In a trench, knee-deep in mud? On a battlefield? And without the wife he had so deeply loved, would he care any longer if he lived or died?

In the peace and quiet of the nursery she prayed that he would not grow careless. That when the war ended he would return to Keighley and pick up the pieces of his shattered life.

She took in a deep, steadying breath. She would write a letter of condolence that evening to William Priestley. And she would write one that just might find its way to Adam.

She smoothed her skirt and straightened her belt and then, outwardly serene and inwardly in turmoil, went back downstairs to play hostess to Violet.

Though she and her father avoided all mention of the war in front of Hugo, the situation with Max was different. Now that he was attending the preparatory department at St Dunstan’s he was surrounded by boys his own age who could talk of nothing else.

‘Papa isn’t a German pig, is he, Mama?’ he asked her miserably one morning when he was home for the weekend.

She had been rolling bandages. She stopped what she was doing and folded her hands in her lap so that he wouldn’t see they had become unsteady.

‘No, darling. Of course he isn’t. Has someone said he is?’

‘No. I don’t know why, but no one seems to think Remer is a German name. P’raps it’s because they know Paul is my cousin and he’s an American, and the chaps at school just think Remer is the same kind of funny name that lots of Americans have. Everyone says all Germans are pigs, though, and when they say it I don’t know what to do. Because if I don’t do anything, I feel I am being disloyal to Papa. And if I were to say anything—well, I don’t know what would happen, but I do know it would get very sticky. I might even have to leave the school and I don’t want to. I want to go into the Upper School, like Paul.’

He looked so dejected, her heart hurt. She put an arm around his narrow shoulders, saying gently, ‘You must always act with common sense, Max. And until now it has been common sense not to volunteer information about Papa. That doesn’t mean you can’t, though, if your silence is making you feel uncomfortable and disloyal to him.’