‘Not her type?’ His mother was knitting. Socks for the men at the Front. Sometimes he helped, although it was not something he would ever admit to. It wasn’t that he was like the conscientious objectors who refused to aid war; it was because it was knitting.

‘Exactly. That’s it. Not her type. Not from what I can see. She could have done . . .’

‘Better?’ Howard shrugged, not sure how to explain what he thought to his mother. ‘At the time, when people in the village heard of the marriage, they gossiped that she must be with child, it was all so hurried.’

‘I can’t imagine that,’ stated Howard.

‘Why not? Do you think she’s too innocent?’

He did not think that. ‘Him. Old Aubrey. He doesn’t seem to have it in him to seduce a woman before her wedding day.’

Enid threw out a glance that confirmed she had nothing other than gentle but disinterested respect for Aubrey Owens. ‘As it turned out, that was all it was: gossip. They were married several months before she caught.’

‘The marriage doesn’t make sense. Vivian is too vivid and full, vivacious, like her name.’ She had such unexpected vitality. More than a dozen ordinary people combined.

‘I’d guess that someone thought she needed to be checked. Society does rather resent women with spirit.’

‘Maybe.’

His mother paused with her knitting, nudged her glasses up her nose. ‘Aubrey Owens is a decent, steady young man.’ Her voice had a note of warning.

‘Dull, actually. From what I remember. Not especially bright, not especially wonderful. Not especially anything.’

‘True, not especially a rotter. Respectable, but not dazzlingly rich; comfortable, not poor.’

‘A society mother’s choice.’

‘Maybe.’

‘It has to be,’ he insisted. He felt his mother’s eyes upon him, wary.

‘Fact is, whether we understand it or not, she’s married, son.’

‘I know.’ The tips of his ears burned.

JULY 1916

29

SHE SCRUTINISED HIM as he strode through the village and across the fields. The clothes Howard Henderson wore were simple, ordinary, like everyone else’s. Just there to keep him warm, dry or cool. Unimportant to him. Yet he seemed particularly tasteful, poised. She was conscious of his height and dignity. She’d noticed that recently he often had a novel or a play shoved into his back pocket. He moved with lithe athleticism and confidence, broad shoulders and loose, narrow hips. He must know he wasn’t welcome here in the village, but he didn’t let that intimidate him. They often spat at him, called him Howard the Coward; if only Enid had named him something that didn’t rhyme with such an irresistible condemnation. She’d seen and heard the taunting for herself and Mrs Rosebend gossiped about it often enough. Enid had never mentioned anything about his reception, so Vivian was not sure if she had any clue as to the extent of the jeers, or even if she was subject to them herself. How could she ask?

Oddly, the two of them didn’t talk of Howard all that much. Vivian had naturally expected that a returning son might become the dominant subject of many of their conversations, for a while at least, but Enid remained largely tight-lipped about him. She’d made it clear she was wholly grateful for Vivian’s successful intervention at Richmond and the position she’d offered him on the farm, but once he arrived in Blackwell, she rarely mentioned him beyond the question of what he might fancy for supper.