As Peter came into view, she called out to him, her voice too loud for her own ears, ‘I was sent to tell you – Father wants you at the house!’

Peter’s expression soured. ‘Oh for God’s sake, what now?’

She shrugged.

‘Fine, fine, tell him I’ll be along in a minute. Oh, this is Jack, Ver. He’s an airman at the base. Jack, Verity. My little sister.’

‘I introduced myself,’ said Jack, smiling as if they shared a secret. ‘Will you be coming to the dance we’re holding, Miss Frost?’

‘I don’t know, I hadn’t thought about it.’

‘You said you were dying to go,’ said Peter.

‘I might go,’ she said, wishing her brother dead. She began to stalk away from them, trying not to break into a run.

‘See you there!’ called the American and she turned and gave an awkward wave and saw him wink at her. At least she thought he did, but it was hard to believe.

Fleeing back to the house, a blur of images ran through her head: his mouth breathing into her ear, those strange golden eyes and the bright, red hair. What an oddity he was. It was funny now he was gone. Such a presumptuous, rude young man.

*

Her father grunted at her knock.

His study was in shadow, barely any light coming in from the north-facing bay window, which looked out over the fields to the woods. His chair was turned away from the desk, and he was sitting with his pipe. When she entered he turned to look at her.

‘Father, I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’

He nodded his thanks. She hesitated in the doorway. Once, he had encouraged her, ordered her books from London and boasted about her. He used to call her his little bluestocking, but she was a fool to think he cared now. He seemed bemused by her desire to sit the Oxford entrance although he was an Oxford man himself. She wanted to shout at him, You made me think it was possible. He’d stood up for her against her mother’s wishes when Verity had come home from school glowing with her schoolmistresses’ reports. Her mother had always said ‘Well done, dear’ in that way she had of suggesting that it was just a passing phase, but Father had been proud of his clever girl. Verity was destined to be presented as a debutante, as her mother and her grandmother had been, but he’d seemed relieved when she resisted being a deb after Mother died. This March, she’d not been among the girls in their elaborate frocks and hats trotting through the palace gates towards the very new queen. Thank God. There was no money anyway. She hadn’t realised that it would be her only sanctioned rebellion.