Last night, we talked about poetry, and he made up a poem about his love for me, as beautiful as a summer breeze. I won’t bore you with the details, but honestly, Angie, there’s nothing like hearing the man you love expressing his adoration for you with such eloquence and fervor.

He always has more intellectual matters on his mind, talking about Greek philosophy or medieval politics. The wireless is continually on, sputtering out the latest war news, and once he surprised me by getting quite cross at something they said. The news was about the Nazi invasion of Belgium, which has caught our war chiefs by surprise. They used an indirect route while we were busy guarding the proper way, the one they’d used last time.

“What a military catastrophe!” he muttered under his breath.

“I thought you were a pacifist,” I said nonchalantly.

He picked up his brush again, as if remembering I was there. “Of course I am. But what a dreadful pack of idiots we are to underestimate the Nazis, eh?”

“Why don’t you sign up? See if you can do better?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me, darling?” he replied in a playful singsong way. “Push me out of your life forever?”

He paused and looked at me again, stretched out before him. “Oh, Venetia!” he said with gentle amusement. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

I must have looked at him in such a way, as then something came over him, and he put his brush down and came around the easel and lay next to me on the great red rug, pulling my naked body toward his fully clothed one.

“I need you, Venetia,” he whispered into my ear, so blunt and direct that I was taken aback. “I need you and you need me. We need to be together.” I shifted back and looked into his dark, cavernous eyes, finding an intensity that was disarming but crushingly compelling.

The whole thing was exhilarating, Angie, and in an odd kind of way a little frightening. As I returned his gaze, something new inside me seemed to explode open, like the cherry blossoms bursting open, and everything else seemed to dissolve into nothing, all the messing and the conniving and the boys, all the little games and affairs. I suddenly knew that this is what it’s for. I’ve finally met my match.

Now all I need to do is get to the bottom of him.

Meanwhile, more village news. Hattie named her baby Rose after her poor mother. She invited the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir around to her house to wet the baby’s head with a few glasses of sherry and one or two songs. We’re frightfully worried about the competition on Saturday, so quiet hopefulness rather than the usual squabbling seemed to be the dominant feeling, although Mrs. B. remains adamant that it’s all an embarrassing mistake. Kitty is being incredibly nice for a change, although that’s probably because she’s still gloating about her soloist victory.

Hattie brought the gorgeous baby out of her crib and sat down beside me on the sofa.

“She’s beautiful,” I said. And for once I meant it. Rose is the most gorgeous baby you’d ever see. Even you would think her a gem, with her big blue eyes and gurgling smile. “It’s odd seeing you all grown up with a baby now,” I said to Hattie. “It seems like yesterday the three of us were making that pact in the Pixie Ring, that we would stay together come what may. How funny it seems now.”

“It does seem a long time ago, doesn’t it?” She smiled, and suddenly I felt so very close to her again. “Venetia, I’d like you to be Rose’s Godmother. Victor and I talked about it in our letters over these last few months, and both knew that you were the right choice,” she said. “I know that Rose will grow to love you, as I do.”

“As I do you,” I said hastily, feeling immensely touched and overwhelmed. “Thank you, Hattie. I’d love to be her Godmother. What a wonderful idea. I’ll make sure no harm ever comes to her.”

I looked down at the beautiful child, and I must admit, Angie, that with such an old friend as Hattie producing an angel like Rose, it made me wonder about having a baby myself. I’m sure the magnificent Mr. Slater would make the very best of fathers, don’t you think?

Hattie’s being tremendously brave, but I know she’s terribly worried about Victor. He’s out in the Atlantic until next year, they say, and she hardly gets word from one month to the next. With news of ships torpedoed every week, I know she’s wondering if he’ll get back at all, if little Rose will grow up without a father.

Oh, wouldn’t it have been nice to be born fifty years from now, when all this is over, and we’ll be back to normal. Imagine what the world would look like then! Will we be married and happy, our children grown up with children of their own? Or shall we be famous for something or other, some daring deed or great invention? Obviously, that’s assuming we’ll still be here, and our dear country makes it through in one piece.

I know you think I’m silly to fall in love, but Angie, maybe I’m just not the same as you, busily seducing every man in London. Maybe I need to do my own thing. I’ll write again soon.

Venetia

Thursday, 16th May, 1940

The Litchfield Park bigwig who is billeted to stay in my house arrived this afternoon amid much confusion. He was supposed to come next week, so when I heard the doorbell I thought it was the postman and became flustered (the poor postman is the harbinger of sorrow these days). But when I opened the door, an extremely tall middle-aged man stood on the doorstep, in the pouring rain. His tan raincoat was soaked and clingy around his bulk, and his brown hair clumped wetly when he took off his sodden hat, exposing a big, squashy face with a nose that looked like it had been broken at least once.