She recognised the dark curly hair of the figure in the middle: Tom. Seeing him sitting there grinning, made her realise she had never really seen him smile before.

Inside the card, he had scrawled her name and added, ‘I hope you are keeping well. I had a couple of days’ leave after we took Flesquieres, and I found this in the village shop. I hope you don’t mind me sending it to you. Best wishes, your friend Tom.’ Then he’d added, ‘P.S. Thank you for the socks. They were most useful.’

Anna tipped the envelope and a tiny brooch fell into her palm. It was shaped like a bluebell, the petals coloured in deep blue enamel.

Anna stared at it, tears spilling down her cheeks. How typical of Tom to think about her. And how selfish she was, feeling sorry for herself when he and his pals were facing a far worse Christmas than she could ever imagine.

She pinned the brooch to her lapel and set off for the Nightingale.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Grace was looking forward to going home for Christmas.

It was so long since she had been down to Devon, she could feel herself relaxing with every mile as the overnight train passed out of the city and rumbled its way west, the houses giving way to rolling green fields.

It was a pity the train was so crowded. Grace had to spend the whole journey wedged between a large woman who smelled of mothballs, and an elderly man who lolled on her shoulder and snored all the way down to Plymouth.

But it more than made up for it when, on Christmas morning, Grace was able to step down on to the platform and breathe in the fresh country air.

There was no one to meet her at the station, but she wasn’t surprised. With so many children to think about, her parents could hardly be expected to keep track of them all. Besides, it was only a five-mile walk and the weather was fine, brisk and cold and sunny, just the way Grace liked it.

All the same, after a couple of miles she began to wish she had not brought so many presents with her as she struggled with her bags down the country lane.

She heard the slow, steady clop of horse’s hooves on the lane behind her, then a voice called out, ‘Miss Grace?’

She swung round, squinting into the sun. Coming towards her, silhouetted again the morning light, was a swaying cart pulled by an elderly piebald horse. As it drew closer, she recognised the man in the driver’s seat as Noah Wells, a friend of her father’s. He owned the farm that adjoined the Duffields’ land. Their families had farmed next to each other for five generations, so her father said.

‘Good morning, Mr Wells. Merry Christmas,’ Grace called up to him.

‘What? Oh, yes. Merry Christmas to you, too. Back from London, are you?’ he asked in his thick West Country burr.