‘But we’re not at war. You said yourself, it’s all those others.’

‘Nice is in France, Vivian.’

‘I know that.’ That’s why she’d wanted to go so badly. ‘But the Peterson-Smythes went there just last week. Lots of my friends are there right now.’ Everyone who was anyone was on the Riviera, dripping in sunshine and diamonds. She couldn’t wait to join them.

‘Well, I can only hope they have managed to secure swift passages home. Do let me know if you hear from any of them, if there is anything I can do to help.’ What could he do? She’d stared at him blankly. ‘I thought we might go to Northumbria for a few days. I have an aunt there who has a marvellous house. Or we could consider going up to Scotland, I suppose, since it’s almost the hunting season. I expect I’ll get most of my money back from the boat trip, although I don’t know about the hotel. Can’t imagine holiday refunds are going to be top of the agenda for the French right now. Still, hang the expense.’

‘Northumbria?’

‘Vivian, we may declare any hour now. You understand that, don’t you?’

Declare? War? Britain? How awful. She’d had no idea.

But Northumbria for her honeymoon?

Tears had threatened to show her inanity. Going to Northumbria would be deadly, but she instinctively knew that saying so outright to her new husband would be unpopular. They didn’t, as yet, think as one. She’d have to get by as best she could. ‘Oughtn’t we to stay close by, then? In case there’s news. Our families would appreciate that, I think, and besides, I don’t believe we ought to inconvenience your aunt, not at a time like this.’

‘Well, if you don’t mind.’ Aubrey had looked pleased with her; noticing as much caused Vivian to admit that it was the first occasion she’d ever felt he was especially so. ‘Shall we stay here?’

Here, the place they’d had their wedding breakfast, was a very lovely but modest hotel in Highgate. Mrs Foster had chosen it because of its convenient location to the church and their home. The thought of her mother being a stone’s throw away from her on her wedding night sent shudders. ‘Let’s stay at the Savoy; that way we’ll be able to walk to Downing Street and Buckingham Palace if there is news.’

London was usually quiet in August, but on their journey from Highgate to the Strand the streets had been busier than usual, jam-packed with a definite sense of expectation and animation. Children ran alongside the carriage waving flags that had been hastily bought or dug out of the cupboard, last used at the Coronation. Landlords had draped bunting outside their public houses from one street to the next. It was like New Year’s Eve but it wasn’t a new year that was coming, it was war.

‘How marvellous to be here at this historic moment, something to tell our grandchildren.’ She’d linked her arm in his and he’d tentatively patted her finger ends.