Dorothy nodded. ‘We do.’

Three years ago, Anna could never have imagined how much Tom Franklin would mean to her. Up until then, he had been nothing more than her father’s delivery boy, a scowling, surly young man from a bad family. No one else would have given him the time of day, let alone a job, but typically, Papa had seen something in him that none of the rest of them had.

And, as usual, he had been proved right. When someone, supposedly in the name of British patriotism, had decided to set fire to the bakery with Anna and her family inside, it was Tom who had risked his life to rescue them. He had then set about rebuilding the bakery on his own, carefully restoring it to the way it had once been. That Anna, her mother and her sister were alive and had a roof over their heads was all due to him.

So when Tom was called up and asked her to write to him, Anna agreed. Tom had no family of his own – or none who cared about him. The least she could do was to help him feel less alone.

Her mother patted her shoulder. ‘You’re a good girl,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and make that tea.’

She went off, and Anna looked down at the letters in her hand. She wondered what her mother would say if she knew how much Anna looked forward to receiving Tom’s letters. Somehow, over the years, what had started off as a duty had become a pleasure. She and Tom had formed a close friendship through their correspondence. Whether it was the years of war, or just because he found it easier to put his feelings down on paper than to say them out loud, somehow Anna had discovered a different side to Tom through his writing. A warm, genuine, caring, funny side that she had never imagined existed.

Of course, he would never replace Edward in her affections. Edward was her first love, she adored him with all her heart and couldn’t wait for him to come home so that she could spend the rest of her life with him.

But unlike Tom, Edward found writing letters very difficult. His, when they arrived, were short, light-hearted, full of jokes. He complained when Anna was too emotional. ‘It’s depressing,’ he said. ‘Do you think I need to hear how miserable you are? Cheer me up, sweetheart, for heaven’s sake!’

So Anna tried to keep her letters to him light and entertaining. It was only to Tom that she was able to open her heart, to share her deepest, darkest fears. And he did the same.

Anna tested the envelopes. Edward’s was thin, barely substantial. She couldn’t blame him for that, but she dearly wished he would allow her more than a few hastily written lines now and again.

She slipped the letters into her apron pocket and set about her work again.

CHAPTER FOUR

Mixing and kneading the dough, Anna could feel the tension in her shoulders relaxing, and the flutter of fear in her stomach ebbing away. The warm fug of the kitchen, the delicious smell of baking, transported her back to a time when she was young and carefree, when she and Edward worked side by side with her father, learning their trade. How they all used to laugh together, so content in their little world of bread and pastry and sugarwork. Even though her father could be an exacting task master when he wanted to be, he always delivered his lessons with a twinkle in his dark brown eyes. Anna could see him now, busy in the kitchen, his slight figure so precise in his movements, his white toque perched on his sleek dark head.