Make Her Wish Come True Collection

She saw the embarrassment in his eyes.

‘Am I too proud?’

‘Maybe a little,’ she told him, because he had asked. ‘You know what will be the outcome of this—my ignorant half-brother will still be a midshipman when he is my age and blame it on you.’

‘You, my dear Amanda, are a mighty judge of character,’ he said, which made her blush. ‘At your advanced age of…’

‘Twenty-six.’

He made a monumentally faked show of amazement, which suggested that his headache had receded. ‘Foot in the grave,’ he teased. He grew more serious almost at once. ‘Perhaps my continued incarceration in the library might prove useful to someone.’

‘How?’

‘I had finished a sandwich and had another half hour before Thomas told me he would leave his luncheon—must’ve been more than a sandwich for him.’

‘Poor man,’ she teased. ‘I dare say you have gone days and days without food.’

‘Aye to that. Anyway, I thought I might look around in what I was informed was old Lord Kelso’s library—apparently your father barely reads—and I sought out Euclid’s Elements.’

She made a face and Ben’s lips twitched. ‘I have noticed that you’re a bit of a reluctant school miss when I mention mathematics.’

‘I see no evidence that you have delved into that forbidding text on your night table,’ she retorted, then blushed. ‘I tidied your room, so I noticed. The pages aren’t slit.’

He put a hand to his chest. ‘Forbidding? I happen to enjoy the subject, for which everyone on the Albemarle, except your nincompoop half-brother, is supremely grateful.’ He leaned closer. ‘My cabin is invariably tidy. That is a consequence of close quarters at sea.’

She rose to clear away his dishes and he took her wrist in his light grasp. ‘It can wait, Amanda. I just like you to sit with me.’

‘Euclid’s Elements,’ she reminded him. ‘And?’

‘Sure enough, the old boy had a copy of that esteemed work. I opened it and look what was marking Chapter Eight.’

He pulled out a folded paper sealed with the merest dab of wax and held it out to her. ‘Behold.’

‘My goodness.’ She read, ‘“Codicil. In the event of my death, to be given to my solicitor.”’ She handed back the sheet as though it burned.

He took it. ‘“In the event”, indeed,’ he said. ‘We of the Royal Navy know death to be more of a certainty than an earl, evidently.’

‘It’s a turn of phrase,’ she said, happy to defend the old man who had always treated her kindly, once he overcame the initial shock of her birth.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘You have told me he was a good sort.’ He ducked his head like a little boy. ‘Should I apologise?’

‘Don’t be silly.’ She looked at the folded paper. ‘His solicitor is Mr Cooper and you’ll see him tonight, if you feel brave enough to chance the choir practice.’

‘My dear, I served at Trafalgar. I can manage a choir practice, headache or not.’

He gave her such a look then, the kind of look she thought she always wanted some day from a man.

‘If I may escort you?’

She nodded, suddenly too shy to speak.

‘Should I ask your aunt’s permission?’

‘Master Muir, you already know that I am six and twenty. No need for permission.’

‘You’ll point out Mr Cooper, will you?’

‘Certainly. I wonder, sir, were you tempted to break the seal and take a peak?’

‘Tempted, but I wouldn’t. I hope it’s good news for someone.’

‘Lord Kelso died two years ago. I assume the will was read at the time.’

‘Maybe there is a new wrinkle. I do like a mystery,’ the master said as he rubbed his hands together.

Mandy hurried through the rest of dinner, a model of efficiency and speed. She thought Aunt Sal must be having a silent chuckle over her niece’s obvious excitement over something as simple as a walk to the church for choir practice, but she kindly kept her own council.

Mandy hurried up the stairs for one look in front of the mirror, even though she knew the face peering back at her too well. She mourned over her freckles and nose that no poet would ever rhapsodise about, then dismissed the matter. Her figure was tidy, teetering just slightly on the edge of abundance, and Aunt Sal had always seen to a modest wardrobe of good material. ‘You will never shame anyone,’ Mandy said out loud, but softly.

She sat on her bed, thinking about the mother she had never known, but fully aware that without the love, generosity and courage of her maiden aunt, her life would have taken a difficult turn. She owed the Walthans nothing and that knowledge made her wink back tears and know that in church tonight, she could spend a minute just sitting in the pew, thinking of the Babe of Bethlehem and His lucky blessing of two parents—no, three—who loved Him.

‘Some day, dear Lord,’ she whispered, more vow than prayer, ‘some day the same for me.’

She looked up at a slight tap on her door. She opened it to see the sailing master, smelling nicely of the lemon soap she had sniffed that morning. She had no mother or father to give her advice or admonition, but Aunt Sal had raised her to think for herself. No one had to tell her she was putting herself into capable hands, even for something as prosaic as a saunter to St Luke’s. She just knew it.

One thing she could certainly say for this navy man: whatever his years at sea, he had a fine instinct for how to treat a lady, if such she could call herself. He helped her into her overcoat, even while she wished, for the first time ever, that the utilitarian garment was more à la mode. He swung on his boat cloak with a certain flair, even though he had probably done just that for years. How else did one don a cloak without flinging it about? But the hat, oh, my. It made him look a foot taller than he already was and more than twice as capable. Did navy men have any idea what dashing figures they cut? Mandy doubted it, especially since Ben seemed so unconcerned.

As usual, the winter mist was in plentiful supply. Years of experience with salt air and mist had trained Mandy to negotiate even the slickest cobblestones. The sailing master had no idea of her ability, evidently. Without a word, he took her arm and tucked it close to his body, until she couldn’t fall down. She almost told him she didn’t require such solicitation, but discovered that she liked being close to him.

‘It gets icy on the blockade,’ he said. ‘You should see the lubbers slip across the deck.’

‘We haven’t seen snow in several years,’ she said, wondering when she had ever resorted to talking about the weather with anyone. Perhaps after the master left, she would have to broaden her acquaintance beyond the poulterer, the butcher and the dairyman. How, she wasn’t sure, but other females did and she could, too.

‘Is Mandy’s Rose open on Christmas Day?’ he asked, slowing down so she could match his stride, a nicety she enjoyed.

‘No, but we’ll fix you a fine dinner,’ she said, surprised at how breathless she felt. Before she realised what she was doing, Mandy leaned into his arm. Her footing was firm and she had no particular reason for her action, except that she wanted to lean. The experience was comforting and she liked it. He offered no objection, except she thought she heard him sigh. Hopefully, she wasn’t pressing on an old wound.

Maybe there was mist, but she thought it highly unfair of St Luke’s Church to loom so quickly out of the dark and fog. She slowed down and the sailing master slowed down, too.

‘Girding your loins for an entrance?’ he teased. ‘Is it that kind of choir?’

She could laugh and tease, but why? He was here three weeks, then gone. ‘The choir is good enough. I just like walking with you.’

He was silent for a long moment and Mandy wondered if she had offended him.

‘Amanda, you need to get out more.’

‘Happen you’re right,’ she replied, honest to the core.

The other choir members were already gathered in the chapel. To a person, they all turned to look at Mandy and her escort. She smiled—these were her friends—and wondered at their uniformly serious expressions.

‘We leave our coats here?’ Ben whispered.

‘Back here in the cloakroom,’ she said and led the way. The glances continued and she wondered about them.

The sailing master didn’t appear to wonder. He hung up his cloak and hat and helped her, then leaned close to whisper, ‘I think I know how the wind blows, Amanda.’

‘What do you mean?’ she whispered back, feeling surprisingly conspiratorial for St Luke’s, where nothing ever happened except boring sermons.

‘If I am not mistaken, those are the very people who ate in Mandy’s Rose yesterday evening.’

She looked at him, a frown on her face, then felt herself grow too warm, not so much because he was standing close, which was giving her stomach a funny feeling, but because she understood. ‘Oh, my,’ she whispered. ‘They are looking you over. Poor, poor Ben.’ She leaned closer until her lips almost touched his ear. ‘Should I just assure them that you’ll be gone after Christmas?’

By the Almighty, she wanted to kiss that ear. An ear? Did people do that? It was probably bad enough that she was breathing in it, because he started to blush. A girl had to breathe, so she backed away.

He surprised her. ‘Amanda, whether you know it or not, you have an entire village looking after your welfare. I’m not certain I would ever measure up. It’s a good thing I’ll be here only three weeks.’

‘Nineteen days now,’ she whispered and couldn’t help tears that welled in her eyes. Thank the Lord the cloakroom was dark.

‘Your coat?’ he asked.

Silent, she handed it over, wishing she had never heard of choir practice, or Venable, or the Royal Navy. Why hadn’t she been born the daughter of an Indian chief in Canada?

The humour of her situation saved her, because it surfaced and she started to breathe normally again. Three weeks, Royal Navy, her stupid half-brother, sailing masters and blue tattoos: beyond a smile or two over her silliness and a resolve to be smarter, she’d have forgotten the whole matter in a month or two.

‘Choir practice awaits,’ she told him, indicating the chapel. ‘We’re singing our choirmaster’s own version of “O Come All Ye Faithful”, and he does need another low tenor. But not necessarily in the worst way.’

There. That was the right touch. The sailing master chuckled and she knew he had no idea what she had wanted to do in that cloakroom.

Feeling brave, she introduced Benneit Muir to most of the people who had already met him yesterday at Mandy’s Rose. She was casual, she was friendly. It only remained to introduce him to Mr Cooper, the solicitor, when the practice was over.

As it turned out, that wasn’t even necessary. As men will, they had been chatting with each other while the choirmaster laboured with his sopranos on their descant, ‘O come let us adore him’, and the men had nothing to do. Out of the corner of her eye, she had watched Ben hand over that mysterious folded sheet of paper to the solicitor, who stood directly behind him in the bass section.

They walked home with other singers going in the same direction. Again, Ben was quick to take her arm firmly. She knew better than to lean against his arm this time. Something told her that was a gesture best reserved for someone hanging around longer than nineteen more days.

Nineteen days! The thought made her turn solemn and then grumpy, but not until she was upstairs and in her room. She pressed her face into her pillow and resolved to be sensible and sober and mind her manners. After he left, the room across the hall would get dusty and that would be the end of lodgers. Mandy knew she would never suggest the matter again to her aunt.

Chapter Three

Good Lord, I wish you weren’t just across the hall, Ben thought.

Sleep did not come, but the idea of counting sheep just struck him as silly. He had slept through hurricanes and humid tropical nights. Once a battle was over and he had done all he could, he had no difficulty in closing his eyes and not waking until he was needed. The way things were shaping up tonight in this charming room, he was going to still be awake at two bells into the morning watch.

He lay on his side, staring at the door, wishing Amanda would open it. He knew she wouldn’t, not in a million years, but a man could hope. He lay there in utter misery, wondering how pleasant it would be to do nothing more than share a pillow with her. All the man-and-woman thing aside, how pleasant to chat with her in a dark room, talk over a day, plan for the next one. He felt his heart crack around the edges as he remembered the fun of bouncing into his parents’ room and snuggling between them. He wondered now if he had ever disturbed them and that made him chuckle.

Thank the Lord she had no inkling how badly he wanted to kiss her in that cloakroom. But, no, he had reminded her that he was only there for three weeks. She had murmured something after he said that, so soft he couldn’t be sure, into his bad ear. He pounded his pillow into shape and forced himself to consider the matter.

You just want a woman and any woman will do, he told himself. Yes, Amanda is charming, but you know better. She is far too intelligent to care about a seafarer. Where are your manners, Benneit Muir?

He thought of his near escape from the sister of the ship’s carpenter several years ago. True, Polly hadn’t possessed a fraction of Amanda’s charm, which made bidding goodbye an easy matter, when he returned to Plymouth. He had paced the midnight deck off the coast of France a few times, scolding himself, until that was the end of it. This would be no different.

He put on his usual good show over breakfast, even though he couldn’t overlook the smudges under Amanda’s eyes, as though she hadn’t slept much, either. Ben, your imagination borders on the absurd, he told himself as he ate eggs and sausage that might as well have been floor sweepings, for all he cared.

Amanda only made it worse by handing him his cloak and hat, and two sandwiches twisted in coated paper.

‘I think you need more than one sandwich on a tray,’ she said at the door. ‘I put in biscuits, too. Have a good day, Ben.’

He took the sweet gift, bowed to her and left Mandy’s Rose. By the time he reached Walthan Manor, he was in complete control of himself and feeling faintly foolish.

To his surprise, Thomas was ready for him, a frown on his face, but awake, none the less. Ben thought about a cutting remark, but discarded the notion. No sense in being petty and cruel to a weak creature, not when he himself had exhibited his own stupidity. Ben explained charting a course, and explained it again until a tiny light went on somewhere in the back of Thomas Walthan’s brain.

Together, they worked through two course chartings. By the second attempt, Thomas nearly succeeded. A little praise was in order.

‘Tom, I think you could understand this, with sufficient application,’ he said.

The midshipman gave Ben a wary look, perhaps wondering if the sailing master was serious. Ben felt a pang at Tom’s expression and an urge to examine his own motives in teaching. Was he trying to flog his own disappointments, show off, or was he trying to teach? The matter bore consideration; maybe now was the time.

Sitting there with Tom Walthan, inept midshipman, Ben took a good, inward look at himself in the library of Walthan Manor, of all places, and didn’t like what he saw. He was proud and probably seemed insufferable to a confused lad. He had a question for the midshipman, a lad from a titled, wealthy family.

‘Tell me something, Thomas, and I speak with total candour. Do you like the Royal Navy? Answer me with equal candour, please.’

Tom’s expression wavered from disbelief to doubt, to a thoughtful demeanour that Ben suspected mirrored his own.

‘I…I am not so certain that I do,’ Tom said finally. He blushed, hesitated and had the temerity to ask the sailing master his own question. ‘Do you, sir?’

Tom’s unexpected courage impressed Ben. He thought a long moment and nodded. ‘I do, lad. The navy was a stepping stone for me. My father was a fisherman and we lived in Kirkcudbright. He lives there still. I wanted more than a fishing smack. I discovered a real facility with mathematics, geometry in particular.’

‘I hate geometry,’ Tom said, with some heat.

‘It shows. Do you like the ocean?’

With no hesitation this time, Tom shook his head. He stared at the ink-smudged paper in front of him. ‘Not even a little.’

‘I do. I love wind in sails and I feel I am greatly needed in this time of national alarm. For all that I am a Scot, I do care for England.’

Tom saw that for the gentle joke it was and relaxed.

‘Then why, lad? Why? Could you find a better way to serve your country? You’ll be an earl some day, I have no doubt. Why the sea?’

Tom said nothing for a long while. ‘He thinks it would make me a man,’ Thomas said with considerable bitterness. ‘I must do as he bids.’

‘Must you?’ Ben asked. He felt suddenly sorry for the miserable young man before him. ‘Could you find the courage to tell your father that the navy will not do for you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I hope you will.’ Ben went to the window, turning deliberately to face Venable. He idly wondered what Mandy was doing, then shook his head, exasperated with himself. He turned back. ‘I could pound this maths into your brain, Thomas, with a little help from you, but here is what I fear—some day you might be a lieutenant on a quarterdeck and you might make a fearsome mistake. Men’s lives, lad, men’s lives.’

Thomas nodded, his lips tight together. ‘I don’t think I can sit here any longer today,’ he said. ‘I need to…’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know what I need, sir.’

‘Do you have a good place to think?’

Tom gave Ben a half-smile. ‘We can agree that I’ve never done much of that before. I’ll find a place, sir.’

‘I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll continue,’ Ben said. ‘Give the matter your attention, because it does make a difference.’

I can give myself the same advice, Ben thought, as the midshipmen closed the door quietly behind him. They were inland here, but Ben had two sandwiches and biscuits. He could walk to higher ground and find a spot to see the ocean he was starting to miss.

He gathered up his charts and tools, then just sat there in the library. The sofa was soft and maybe he could lie down for a nap. No one ever came in the library and his eyes were starting to close. Amanda Mathison, get thee behind me, he thought, with some amusement at his own folly. ‘You’ll forget her in a week,’ he muttered.

Mostly now, he wanted a nap.

Ben woke to the sound of angry voices. He sat up, startled, until the fog cleared and he realised the altercation wasn’t going on there in the library. He tried to remember if there was side door to the manor where he could escape without notice.

He opened the door and peered down the hall. No servants lurked anywhere, which told him they had chosen discretion, too. The voices were so loud that he knew no one would hear him even if he stomped through. He should leave right now.

And he would have, if he hadn’t recognised Mr Cooper’s deep bass voice from the choir last night. The solicitor must have read the folded paper and gone directly to Walthan Manor. Still, the matter wasn’t his business and Ben knew it. He started past the book room, then stopped, when Lord Kelso roared out Mandy Mathison’s name like a curse.

Ben leaned towards the door. He had never eavesdropped in his life, but here he was, with no plans to move until he learned more.

‘You cannot force me to honour this damned codicil!’ Lord Kelso shouted.

‘It is the law, my lord,’ Mr Cooper said, his voice much softer, but distinct.

‘Only you and that damned sailing master know!’

‘The vicar witnessed it. I cannot just ignore a matter of the law, Lord Kelso.’

‘Others do.’

‘My lord, I am not amongst them.’

How will you feel if Lord Kelso flings open the door right now? was Ben’s last thought before he sprinted to the side door. He stood on the lawn, furious at Lord Kelso, then suddenly worried for Amanda.

He wasn’t much of a runner, considering his life spent on the confines of a frigate, but he ran to Venable, passing a surprised carter. He dashed into Mandy’s Rose, then threw himself in one of the chairs, breathing hard and feeling every second of his thirty-one years.

Amanda came out of the kitchen. She took one look at him, snatched up a cloth napkin and pressed it to his sweating forehead. He gasped and took her hand, pulling her into the closest chair.

‘Ben, my goodness. What in the world…?’

He said nothing until his breathing settled into an approximation of normality. Amanda had made no effort to let go of his hand, so he tightened his grip. ‘We need to see the vicar right now,’ he told her.

‘What…why?’

‘It’s that paper I gave to Mr Cooper last night. Lord Kelso, damn his eyes, and Mr Cooper were in the middle of a mighty argument and your name came up. The vicar knows something. Will Aunt Sal mind if I drag you away?’

‘I’ll ask.’

She released his hand then and darted into the kitchen. When she returned, she had taken off her apron and the scarf was gone. She was trying to tie back her hair, with little success because her hands were shaking.

Oh, Lord, he thought, disgusted with himself. Was I using my quarterdeck voice? I’ve frightened her. ‘Amanda, I didn’t mean to shout. Here, let me do that.’

She handed him the tie and turned around promptly. He was almost less successful than she was, because her hair felt like Chinese silk in his hands and she smelled of soap, ordinary soap. He felt himself growing warm and then hot over soap. Good God, indeed. He tied up her hair, grateful he had not removed his cloak.

She threw on her coat and made no objection when he held her close as they hurried to St Luke’s.

* * *

‘He’s in his study,’ Vicar Winslow’s wife said as she opened the door. Ben saw all the curiosity in her eyes, followed by the expression of someone who never pried into clerical matters.

If the vicar was surprised, he didn’t show it. Ben knew they couldn’t be the first couple who had ever burst into his study. The vicar showed them to two seats, then sat behind his desk.

Ben condensed the story as much as he could. ‘I could hear Mr Cooper assuring Lord Kelso that he was not above the law,’ Ben concluded. ‘He said that since you had witnessed the codicil, it was valid.’ He glanced at Amanda, whose eyes looked so troubled now. ‘Would you tell us what is going on? I don’t trust the earl.’

‘Wise of you,’ Winslow said finally. He focused his gaze on Amanda, who leaned forward. ‘My dear, old Lord Kelso summoned me to his bedside the day before he died. Said he wanted to make a little addition to his will.’ He took a deep breath. ‘He was determined to leave you one thousand pounds, to make amends of a sort. I suspect the family’s treatment of you was preying on his soul.’

Amanda gasped and reached for Ben’s hand. He happily obliged her, twining her fingers through his. ‘I…I wouldn’t take it!’ she said.

Why the hell not? Ben wondered to himself. Sounds like the least the old gent could do.

‘And so I told him,’ Winslow said. ‘I knew you would refuse such a sum.’

‘I have to ask why,’ Ben said.

Amanda gave him such a patient look. ‘I neither need nor want money from that family. Aunt Sal and I have a good living without Walthan money.’

‘I’ve been put in my place,’ he said with a shake of his head.

‘No, Ben,’ she said. ‘You’re not the only proud person in the universe.’

And I thought I knew character, he told himself, humbled. Previously a man without a single impulsive bone in his body, Ben took her hand, turned it over and kissed her palm. She blushed, but made no effort to withdraw her hand.

‘I stand corrected, Amanda Mathison,’ he said. He thought about the vicar’s words. ‘What did you do, Vicar?’

‘I convinced the old fellow to leave you one hundred pounds instead,’ Reverend Winslow said to Amanda. His expression hardened. ‘Apparently even that is too much for the new Lord Kelso.’

The three of them sat in silence. ‘What should I do?’ Amanda said finally. ‘I don’t even want one hundred pounds, especially if it comes from Lord Kelso.’

‘Would you allow him to think he can trump the law?’ Ben said.

‘No!’ She shook her head, then did what he had wanted her to do again, since their walk to church. She leaned her forehead against his arm. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought, and put his arm around her.

When she spoke her voice was small and muffled in his cloak. ‘It makes me sad to think that my mother once loved such a hateful man.’

Good Lord, he still had his hat on. Ben tossed it aside, and moved his chair closer so he could lean his head against hers. He could see Amanda was on the verge of tears and he still wasn’t close enough. She would never be close enough. The thought filled up the bleak shell that war had turned him into and ran over.

‘For all that he is wealthy and titled, I think the years have not been kind to your father,’ the vicar said. ‘Yes, his father annulled the marriage of your parents and pointed him towards the current Lady Kelso.’

‘He’s a weak man,’ Ben said, feeling weak and helpless himself. ‘A stronger man would have stood up to his father, defied him and stayed married to your mother.’

‘You know Lady Kelso,’ the vicar said to Mandy with a shake his head. ‘I try not to speak ill of anyone, but…’ Another shake. ‘And his children seem not to be all that a doting father would want.’

‘That’s sadly true with Thomas,’ Ben said. ‘He’s not promising. I hear he has a sister.’

‘Violet,’ Mandy said, which reminded Ben of the two failed London Seasons. ‘You blame Lord Kelso’s distemper on disappointed hopes?’

‘I do,’ Ben said, thinking of his own kind father in too-distant Scotland. ‘I wish you could meet my father.’

Tears filled her eyes, and filled him with sudden understanding. You want a father, he thought, as wisdom bloomed in a vicar’s parlour, of all places for a seafaring man to get smart. I could hope you might want a husband some day—me, to be specific—but you need a father.

Ben sat back, shocked at his own thoughts. Me? A husband? As the vicar stared at him, Ben considered the matter and realised that he had talked himself out of nothing. War didn’t matter; neither did nonsense about not burdening a wife with fear as she waited for a husband who might never return. He thought of all the brave husbands and wives who took bold chances in a world at war and loved anyway. He was the worst kind of fool, a greater fool than any pathetic midshipman. He had tried to fool himself.

‘So sorry, Amanda. I didn’t mean to make you cry,’ he said. Angry with his ineptitude, he disentangled himself from the weeping woman, picked up his hat and left the study.

‘What do I do, Reverend Winslow?’ Mandy asked.

‘I suggest you go after him.’

‘Indeed, I will,’ she said calmly. ‘I mean the one hundred pounds?’

‘Accept it.’ The vicar gave her his own handkerchief. ‘It will drive Lord Kelso to distraction if you do. Sometimes that is half the fun.’

‘Vicar!’

‘My dear, I am human.’

She strolled along, grateful for the mist because she could keep her hood up and lessen anyone’s view of her teary eyes. She watched the sailing master ahead, moving along at a substantial clip and probably castigating himself because he thought he had made her cry. Maybe he had, but she couldn’t blame him for having a father who took an interest in his son.

‘Sir, you have eighteen days and a visit to Scotland is not out of the question,’ she said softly. Eighteen days. She stood still on the path, feeling hollow all of a sudden. What if he did go to Scotland? What if he gave up on Thomas Walthan and really did go to Scotland?

It hardly mattered. If he went to Scotland, he would not return here, but would go to Plymouth to spend the next three weeks dealing with rigging and ballast and what all. And then the Albemarle would return to the blockade and she would never see Benneit Muir again, end of story. ‘This is most unsatisfactory,’ she said, even as she knew that where he went and what he did must recede from her mind’s eye, just as surely as he was becoming a small figure in the distance.

She sat on one of the benches placed here and there around Venable by some benefactor. She had much to do at Mandy’s Rose and had promised a quick return to help prepare dinner, but suddenly it didn’t matter. The enormity of her upcoming loss rendered her powerless to take one more step.

Sailors only come to go away, she tried to remind herself, but her heart wasn’t having it. She thought he admired her; all signs pointed that way, at least. She was beginning to understand that he would never act on a man’s impulse, because he plied a dangerous trade with no end in sight. Their generation had been born to war and like everyone else—there were no exceptions—it would influence their lives until death and destruction and one man’s ambition ran its course. They were like chips of wood tossed into a stream and driven at random towards the ocean, powerless to change course.

She stared at the ground, then closed her eyes, wondering just when the pleasure of a good night’s sleep had become a distant memory. She yawned and her own cheery nature resurfaced. You are facing a life crisis and you are yawning, she thought as she yawned again.

She heard someone approach. She knew everyone in the village and she didn’t relish explaining her tears. But these were familiar shoes. She had seen them under one or other of the dining tables for the past three days. She looked up at Ben Muir.