It was rare he let his feelings show – he was invariably cheerful and positive in his letters – so she knew how angry he must be feeling and ached to be able to see him, to hold him and comfort him, but there was a sea between them. All she could do was pray, and she did, constantly. Men were dying in their thousands and still the government called for more to enlist; the world had gone mad and might seemed to be winning over right, but she had to be strong. For her babies and Betsy, for Arabella who was making herself ill worrying about her only child in the thick of it, even for William who was walking around as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, but especially, especially for her love, her Alexander.

Chapter Thirty-Three

‘Well, sir.’ Hopkins’s voice was bright and cheery. ‘It looks like this is it. We’ve been waiting for it long enough.’

‘You’re right, we have.’ Alexander smiled at his batman, who had been busy brushing him down.

Hopkins took a step backwards to inspect his handiwork and make sure there wasn’t a speck of dust on Alexander’s uniform. He prided himself that his officer was the best turned out in the regiment, and the major was a fine figure of a man to boot. ‘Strange it should happen today, sir, it being my birthday. I think that’s a good omen.’

‘I’m sure it is.’ And they would need all the luck they could get. The long-prepared British and French offensive on the Western Front, coordinated with Russian and Italian assaults, was about to begin, astride the River Somme in Picardy. They had come up to the front during the night in Alexander’s staff car, passing endless lines of heavily laden soldiers marching at a smart pace, some of them singing music-hall tunes accompanied here and there by a mouth organ. Numerous other staff cars and motorcycles of dispatch riders had been on the roads, all making for the points of flame stabbing the blackness where the British shells were falling.