‘Still alive.’

He looked quite angry about it. But then, Sergeant Trevelyan was remarkably bitter for someone who had been snatched from the jaws of death. His square face was a mask, his mouth a permanently unsmiling line. When he spoke at all, his deep voice was clipped and gruff, as if he could hardly spare the words.

Most of the other men on the ward had lost their anger now, but not Sam Trevelyan. His guard was still up, his gaze cold and watchful under permanently frowning brows.

‘Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?’ Grace said. ‘Now, let’s take a look at you, shall we?’

As she removed the dressings to reveal the wound, she noticed Dulcie out of the corner of her eye, averting her gaze.

Grace couldn’t blame her. Three weeks on, Sergeant Trevelyan’s wound still wasn’t a pretty sight. Even Grace had to brace herself as she carefully peeled away the bloodied gauze that packed the gaping crater in his side. Raw flesh glistened under the hospital lights.

How had he ever survived it? she wondered. Most men would have died on the battlefield.

As tenderly as she could, Grace removed the last of the gauze packing, and started to wash out the wound with saline.

‘Now, you know this is going to sting,’ she warned.

It was an understatement. Usually the men started screaming at this point, unable to stand the agony. But Sergeant Trevelyan endured it in absolute silence. Only his gritted teeth and the sweat standing out on his temples gave him away. Grace could see the powerful muscles bunched in his arms and shoulders, the sinews standing out under his skin as he braced himself against the pain.

‘There, all finished.’ Grace heard Sam Trevelyan’s slow exhalation as she put away the saline and started to repack the wound. ‘How does that feel?’

‘How do you think?’

Grace looked up at his face. He had the flat, broken nose of a prize fighter, his firm jaw bristling with sandy-coloured stubble. He had obviously refused to allow the VAD to shave him again. His obstinacy annoyed Sister no end. She liked all the men under her care to be turned out smartly. But even she did not care to tussle with Sergeant Trevelyan.

‘It’s turned even colder, hasn’t it?’ Grace tried again to make conversation. ‘They say it’s going to be one of the worst winters we’ve ever had. Still, it’s nice and cosy in here, isn’t it? Although I reckon those poor VADs will have their work cut out for them, keeping the fires going …’

She chattered on, trying not to look into his face. Talk to him, Dr Carlyle had said. Try to draw him out.

She would have had more luck getting blood out of a stone.

She tried again. ‘Trevelyan,’ she said. ‘That’s a Cornish name, isn’t it?’ He didn’t reply, but his green gaze sharpened. ‘I thought so. I’m from Devon, you see. The West Country, just like you.’