“You have a strong lifeline. Although it is broken in places, suggesting illness, you will nonetheless live to an advanced age.” Marjorie’s tone is seductive. Despite my skepticism, I am curious to know what she will say next.

“You will have one, two, three, four . . . no . . . three children.” My heart skips a beat and I wonder if Marjorie has heard my secret prayer. I look at Duncan, who I see is listening intently to the prediction.

“You will love and be loved passionately, but”—here Marjorie raises my hand even closer to her face, as if to check the accuracy of her forecast—“this will not necessarily be the same person.” I can feel my breath coming hot and fast. Duncan frowns.

“What about her character? Surely there are some clues.” I sense his desire to change the subject. Marjorie peers at my palm again.

“Secretive. Taciturn. Jealous. You are hiding something . . . a wound, perhaps?” I shiver, suddenly exposed. I snatch my hand away and stand up.

“Come on, Duncan. It’s your turn. Let’s hear what secrets you are hiding.”

The war began to make itself felt. Maynard brought terrifying stories of zeppelins from the Treasury; Rupert was killed in the fighting in Turkey. Compulsory conscription edged closer. Duncan’s father agreed to lease him a farm in the hope he might be spared from active service when it came.

We were unprepared for the dereliction we found. The fruit trees had been left unattended, and many of the fields were so clogged with weeds that in places it was difficult to walk. The hencoops were rotten and the hens that remained had taken refuge in a disused barn. A few undernourished sheep huddled in a corner of the farmyard, disconsolately pulling wisps of straw from a disheveled hayrick. The whereabouts of the cows was a mystery we never managed to solve.

While Duncan and Bunny pruned the fruit trees, I set to work on the house. I distempered over the peeling wallpaper, took down the mildewy chintzes left by previous tenants. I dyed curtains and cushion covers and hung our pictures on the walls. I went through each room in turn, creating spaces to live and work in. When things were as comfortable as I could make them, I helped Duncan and Bunny with the farm.

We all agreed that the fields needed plowing, yet though we found a serviceable plow in one of the outbuildings no one would lend us a horse. Day after day Bunny trudged round the adjoining farms. The story was always the same: all the horses were in use. Finally I suggested we try pulling the plow ourselves. It was backbreaking work, and after only a few hours we had to admit defeat. We limped back to the house exhausted.