Daddy was muttering about Mr. Slater again. “That Slater’s a worthless coward for sitting out the war.”

“Mr. Slater is exempt from fighting as he is flat-footed,” Mrs. B. told him pointedly. She’s taken a fancy to Mr. Slater, imagining him a great artist ready for her to discover. Trying to prove herself frightfully cultured, she’s attempting to take him under her wing, Heaven help him. Although I have no idea whether he’s any good. I don’t think Mrs. B. has the ability to discern a masterpiece from a school art project.

“Slater’s a down-and-out skiver shirking his responsibilities.” Daddy gulped down his sherry. “Cowardly laziness, that’s what it’s all about. He doesn’t realize that it’s fighting that makes a real man.”

I thought of Edmund blown to bits in the North Sea, and poor David on the brink of a bullet in France, and couldn’t help wondering if it had less to do with courage and more to do with common sense. Sending people off to their deaths seems completely ludicrous. I’ve begun imagining what it’s like being blown up in a submarine, the radar blipping warning signals of one’s approaching death, everyone saluting and singing the national anthem, “God save our gracious King.” Then boom. Nothing. Only gnawed pieces of fingers and ears washing up on unsuspecting beaches.

As I watched Mr. Slater, I couldn’t help thinking that he can’t be all bad. He helped Silvie home last week when she came off Amadeus. She should never have tried to clear Bullsend Brook. It was lucky he was there. Although I wonder what he was doing at Bullsend Brook. It’s the other side of Peasepotter Wood—the middle of the countryside.

Daddy’s eyes narrowed on Venetia, who was busy with Mr. Slater, all witty replies and feigned boredom. Even though Daddy will have words with her later, he can’t control Venetia at all. Every time he tells her to leave Slater alone, she simply shrugs and smiles and says she’s “Daddy’s little poppet,” and then carries on as usual. It makes me sick.

Henry was standing close behind Venetia’s shoulder protectively, trying to get into the conversation. He didn’t have to try hard as Mr. Slater seemed pleased to include him, speaking to him directly, making jokes as they both laughed. It was as if he was avoiding Venetia’s attention. Henry put his hand on Venetia’s arm, and I saw his eyes glance at her face, her throat, her cleavage beneath the low-cut dress. She shook off his hand, but he stayed close, and I wondered why he let her play games with him. But then I remembered how clever he is—he must be playing some kind of game himself.

Then I realized I wasn’t the only one watching Venetia. David Tilling was gazing over at her from the window, leaning against the wall, engulfed by her presence. He’s been in love with Venetia since he was in breeches. I never thought it was so serious, but his eyes were like those of a big gulping fish, drinking her up. Venetia needs to watch herself there. David’s become a lot more forthright since army training.

“Let’s get the piano out,” Mrs. Tilling called. “Can I dare Kitty with a song or two?” Mrs. Quail (whose color is a cheery orange) plumped her very ample behind on the piano stool, while Mrs. B. grasped my elbow and marched me up beside her. Everyone knows I plan to be a singer when I grow up, so I’m always the first one called for a song or two. Prim gave me a special smile from the crowd, and I felt determined to make a good impression.

“Come on, Kitty,” everyone cheered, and I must confess I was touched and took the score. Mrs. Quail had given me “Greensleeves,” that beautiful song that was supposedly written by King Henry VIII, although I bet he asked someone to help him as you can’t be king and write lovely music at the same time. Especially if you’re busy beheading wives.

Mrs. Quail began the opening, and I entered with the wonderful tune. It was perfect for showing off my top notes. When I finished, Prim gave me a little nod, as if to say Well done, and I felt a surge of delight. At long last my skills have been noticed!

I glanced over and caught Henry’s eyes, and it was as if the world slowed down as our gaze met across the crowded room. He smiled, his whole face lit with joy and love, until Venetia nudged him with some remark or other. Trust her to interfere.

In the next song, Gilbert and Sullivan’s “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major General,” Mrs. Quail started playing faster to trip me up on purpose. It was hilarious.

“You should be on stage as a comedian, not a singer, Kitty,” Hattie joked. Her color is lilac, pretty and uplifting, and I have no idea why she’s such good friends with vile Venetia and awful Angela Quail. Perhaps she’s trying to rescue them from utter loathsomeness.

The pregnancy is making her tired—I could tell from her big brown eyes sagging with the weight of the evening—and yet she’s always so lively, perking us up with her jokes and smiles. It must be difficult for her with Victor stuck on a ship in the Atlantic. I still can’t get used to them being married. They were friends for years and then, as if someone turned on a giant light, war was about to break out and they fell in love and got married within the week. It’s happening everywhere, apparently. Obviously, it’s all about death. How strange that love and death suddenly become so tightly knit in a time of war.

Why everyone’s getting married in a hurry

If you’re in love, why wait for a tomorrow that never comes?