‘Maybe it wasn’t your enthusiasm that landed you here, but society’s lack of it,’ she offered after a moment or two. It was a lovely thought. Vivian allowed it to flutter and settle. ‘I do believe that one only earns the right to strong and cherished friendships once one has learnt to stand alone. You have to like yourself very much, Vivian, before you can expect others to.’ She held Vivian’s gaze. Vivian was at a loss as to how to respond to such frankness.

‘Oh.’

‘So I should imagine you’ll very soon find yourself inundated with new friends, because haven’t you done well?’

‘Have I?’

‘Managing the house and the staff. The garden. Mr Pickering says you’ve done a marvellous job, pitching in. There’s something rather wonderful about work, don’t you think?’

Vivian was not sure she did agree in entirety; being idle was nice. She was often cold, dirty and sore. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, having your days filled from start to finish. Purpose followed by bone-aching exhaustion. I like being so weary I can’t worry.’ About Michael, of course. Mothers, wives and sweethearts everywhere wanted to be too busy to think. Vivian didn’t really worry about Aubrey, though she knew she was supposed to. She stayed silent. Enid no doubt assumed she was being stoic. ‘You must be very proud of yourself. Very proud indeed. You are doing extremely well, Vivian.’

‘Do you think so?’ Vivian wasn’t sure she could remember anyone praising her about anything since she first came out in society, when everyone agreed she was brilliant at filling her dance card. Since the Nathaniel incident – which was the only way she could refer to the horror – she’d been nothing but a dumping ground for irritation and disappointment. She’d been out in the cold for so long, it seemed bizarre to be welcomed unconditionally.

Vivian liked Enid so very much in that moment that it took all her nineteen years of training and repression to stop her from saying so. All she did was smile and offer another slice of sponge cake.

MAY 1916

24

HOWARD WAS BRUTALISED. Scar tissue had no feeling and his heart and mind were entirely scarred. He’d seen enough. Too much. The military world, where humanity was crushed under the weight of duty and honour, was not for him. He accepted that most of them, the boys and men who dashed out to kill with such surety and zeal, thought they were doing the right thing, if they thought about it at all, but he was sure they were mistaken. A war would not end a war. Love, peace, a refusal to pick up arms: those were the only things that could make a difference in the end. His experiences with Clarke at the Front had convinced him of the futility of war. No one could win. Wars were for losers. Besides, it was pretty clear that responsibility and dignity were too bloodstained to survive. What a world. What a world.