Clearly, accepting the lie would cause the least amount of trouble for Vivian, and for Howard himself; the least amount of embarrassment and hurt for Aubrey. However he remained silent, unsure if that was the answer. He’d once had principles, morals, ethics by which to live. What did he have now?

Howard was certain he would not survive the war. He had thought as much the moment he made the decision to enlist. He had seen too much to be under any illusion. No one’s odds were favourable, but the conchies in particular had a limited life expectancy. They were always the ones ordered to mend the barbed wire, to accompany the miners digging underground, to crawl across no-man’s-land and haul back the dead and wounded. The officers were more offhand with the lives of those who had caused trouble. Since he’d arrived, there hadn’t been much time to think about anything. The constant bombardment blew apart reason and ideologies. It was hard to stay sure of anything. Was the war wrong or right? Was his involvement either? Was staking claim to this man’s wife brave or insulting? Could these things be both entities at the same time? There was only one thing he was certain of. He would not return to Vivian.

‘Yes, sir. Farm business, sir.’

Aubrey looked relieved. Howard noticed for the first time that his eyes were bloodshot, framed in purple shadows. He didn’t look well. Who did? ‘I trust that your farm business is now concluded and there will be no further reason for you to correspond with Mrs Owens.’ It wasn’t a request, it was an order, but it was politely given. Major Owens waved his hand, dismissing Howard; he sat down at the table and picked up his pen, returning to some other piece of paperwork. Obviously he considered the conversation concluded, the matter dealt with. His next words would be ‘That will be all, Private.’ Howard couldn’t allow those words to be said.

‘No, sir.’ Owens’ head snapped up. Irritated, he glared at Howard. ‘There will be ongoing questions about the farm, sir.’ Howard met Aubrey’s gaze. He was certain his meaning was clear. He would offer the man a reasonable explanation in front of the sergeant as to why they were corresponding, but he would not give her up. He would not abandon her.

‘You can’t imagine you are indispensable to the comings and goings of Blackwell Farm,’ Aubrey snapped.

‘I do think that.’ The sergeant coughed and Howard reluctantly added, ‘Sir.’ Aubrey glared, his fury flickering in the candlelight.

‘You are here now, Private. Under my command.’

‘I’m here, sir, yes.’ It was a perceptible difference of opinion.

‘You understand that it is an officer’s duty to read the letters of his men.’ Aubrey held eye contact, his anger and the sliver of vulnerability now submerged by something more ferocious. This man had lasted years of the war. He’d once been ruthless by necessity; now it was instinct.

‘Yes, sir.’ Howard wondered in that moment exactly how Aubrey would have him killed. It wouldn’t be hard. They’d be moving up the line soon enough, and then the job would be done for him. If he was impatient, he could send Howard on a reconnaissance expedition tonight. If he was vengeful, he could order him not to write the letters, and then have him court-martialled for disobeying a direct order. He’d be executed the day after tomorrow at dawn.