I stood there waiting, all the while knowing how cruel it was even to ask.

A choice between the Colonel Sahib and my mother on one side, and me on the other.

I knew I would remember the expression in his eyes for the rest of my life.

“Bess-” he began, and then choosing his words carefully, he gave me a name. “I make no promises that your appeal to this man will succeed. Your father has more authority than I ever will. But it’s worth a try.”

He turned away from me, looking down the sloping churchyard with its row after row of gravestones under shady trees, and on to the rooftops of the village beyond. “My head tells me you should go back to France. No one will ever know the number of men who owe their lives to you and women like you. At the same time my heart-Bess, call me superstitious, if you like. But I don’t wish to find out if the third time you come close to dying, we will lose you.” He moved his gaze to the window high in the Saxon tower, as if looking for answers there. “When I got to France, I was told you were dying. That there was nothing more to be done.”

And with that he turned on his heel and went to pack up the remains of the picnic basket, folding the rugs neatly and stowing the lot in the boot of the motorcar.

I stayed where I was, blindly looking at the church porch, wishing I could take back the words I’d spoken. Wishing I hadn’t had to make him choose.

And then he was calling to me, and I walked slowly across to the motorcar, and he helped me inside.

We drove in silence all the long distance to Eastbourne.

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN WE ARRIVED at the Grand Hotel, Simon passed the picnic basket to one of the staff, handed me down from the motorcar, and said as I prepared to go inside, “I’ll see what I can discover about Private Wilson. It may take several days.”