For men who had shared an onion loft, who had been in the war together, there was nothing in their voices to suggest any warmth between them, any ease of manners. Captain Wood made enquiries about Lacroix’s health. Lacroix offered his assurances, though when Wood suggested there was still some way to go before he was perfectly his old self again he did not disagree. Wood mentioned a name—Clarke?—who was quite wasted away and in appearance like a man of sixty. Another, Lieutenant Vane, had lost the use of a leg and would perhaps lose the leg itself. Lacroix said he was sorry. They were quiet a moment. Wood spoke of the trunk.

“Is that why you’ve come?”

“You must have been eager for it?”

“Eager? I had given it up. All of it.”

“Well, now it has come back to you. You would be astonished at what has come back to us. Even men. A pair from Broadhurst’s lot sauntered in a fortnight ago. Both presumed dead or at least made prisoner. I suspect they had been drinking somewhere on the coast and simply ran out of funds. The colonel, by the way, was wondering when you might return?”

“Am I expected?”

“Let us say they are anxious to have all serving officers”—or did he say “surviving”?—“take up their duties as soon as possible. We’re damn short-handed, Lacroix. They’ve been sending me all over the country to find people.”

“Have you found many?”

“Not enough to keep the old man happy. They also wish to hear all they can about the campaign. You know. Reliable accounts.”

“Why?”

“I imagine as we are a young regiment they are anxious to have a little history. Something to brag about.”

“And is there talk of going back?”

“It’s all the talk there is. Back to Lisbon. We might have our old loft again. No doubt the rats will remember us.” He laughed, though Lacroix did not join him.

The housekeeper left to fetch glasses and a bottle of port. When she took the wine in, Captain Wood, she thought, looked relieved to see her. Lacroix poured for them both, spilling a little on the salver as he did so.

She took a mug of cider out to the soldier. He thanked her.

“Will he have to go?” she asked.

“If he can still sit a horse. They’re in a funk. I had hopes of going home myself soon but home will have to do without me a while yet. Worse luck.”

She asked him where his home was.

“Four Ashes,” he said. “In Buckinghamshire.”

It was as though he had spoken the name of his love.

When they came out of the drawing room they were high-coloured from the wine. Wood ordered the soldier to carry in the trunk. Perhaps he had imagined Lacroix had a man to take the other end but Lacroix took it himself. The trunk was a tin box ribbed with wood, and large enough for someone to curl up inside. It was battered, rusted, though seemingly intact. It was held shut by a pair of broad leather straps.