He shook back a lock of honey-coloured hair and reached out to hold her hand. ‘You are a wonderful woman, Rosie. I can’t believe that you got past Sister Mary-Grace. She’s very strict about who may or may not visit patients.’

Hester cleared her throat. ‘We told the nurse on duty that I’m your mother. It was the only way we were allowed to see you.’

‘I have permission to visit Piers, but they warned me that he is very sick. Have you seen him, Alex?’ Rosalind leaned closer, aware of the other men in the ward straining their ears as they tried to catch a word or two of the language that was presumably foreign to them.

‘They tell me that he has a head injury and a lung infection. I haven’t been able to get out of bed to visit him. Thank God you’re here, both of you.’

‘Are they feeding you properly?’ Hester glanced over her shoulder. ‘All the men look very thin and so do you, if it comes to that.’

He pulled a face. ‘The food isn’t wonderful and there’s not much of it. I’ve been dreaming of your Madeira cake, Hester, and pigeon pie, or rabbit stew.’

Rosalind could see the young nun hovering in the background. ‘I have to go now, Alex, or I won’t be allowed to see Piers, but I’ll be back.’

‘Promise me you won’t leave without telling me, Rosie.’

‘Of course not. We’re here and I intend to find somewhere we can stay while you are both in hospital. Hester will tell you what’s been going on at Rockwood, and I’ll come back when I’ve seen Piers.’ Rosalind squeezed his fingers gently. She turned to the nun, who glided off, indicating that she should follow.

Piers was in a small room with a slit window in the stone wall, allowing a single shaft of light onto the pristine white coverlet. The narrow bed, a chest of drawers and a wooden chair were the only furniture in the room, which seemed more like a prison cell than a place to offer comfort or encourage a feeling of wellbeing. His head was bandaged and he lay with his eyes closed and his arms folded on his chest. A shiver of apprehension ran through Rosalind’s whole body. Her much-loved husband looked as though he was already dead and laid out ready for the undertaker. She shot an anxious glance at the nun, who gave her an encouraging smile.

‘Your husband is in a stable condition, Madame.’

‘You speak English?’

‘A little.’

‘May I know your name?’

‘I am Sister Dominique.’

‘Have you seen any improvement, Sister Dominique?’

‘You would have to ask a more senior nursing sister, Madame Blanchard.’

‘Language is a problem,’ Rosalind said with a rueful smile. ‘Is there a doctor present who can tell me more about my husband’s prognosis?’