“How do you know how much he gave me?”

“A woman like you wouldn’t have done it for less than twenty thousand.”

I grimaced. I knew I should have asked him for more.

“I’ll give you fifty and that’ll be that. If I hear you’ve told anyone, you’ll have to pay me my dues,” I added, taking a leaf from the Brigadier’s book and looking all menacing. “With your own blood.”

I left the room and got out the large notes. Wretched girl, I knew I should never have trusted her. Anyone capable of fooling around with Edmund Winthrop was bound to be immoral.

I slapped them on her hand, and she leaped up.

“You’ll have no worries from me. I’m heading out of this dingy place as soon as I’ve finished some business here. The Brigadier can stuff his stupid job. No one wants to be a maid these days, and it’s easy to see why. I’ve been slaving for them for pennies, and now I’ve got my chance.” She glanced at the money bulging in her old coat pocket. “Now I’ve got the money, I’m getting a new life. I got myself Edmund, didn’t I? So now I’ll get another one of them toffs. Once one of them gets a taste of Elsie, I’ll have him eating out of my hand. Just you watch! The next time you’ll see me, you’ll hardly recognize me.”

With that she flounced out, and I thought how stupid the girl was. If she couldn’t hold down an idiot like Edmund Winthrop, she’d have no hope with anyone even slightly sensible. Still, I do wonder who she has her eye on.

So, Clara, for now I’m stuck in this village like a splodge of sour tar, unable to move until I get the rest of the money, trying desperately to ensure the nasty secret doesn’t leak out. Burn this after reading it, and I’ll be in touch soon.

Edwina

CHILBURY MANOR,

CHILBURY,

KENT.

Wednesday, 3rd July, 1940

Dear Angela,

You will never guess what happened here yesterday. I’m hoping it won’t cause any commotion, but I think it’s terrifically funny. It all started yesterday evening at Alastair’s house. It was around midnight, just as they were closing up the bar at the Fox & Ferret. I could hear the men’s voices in the square; they’ve become much rowdier since the soldiers came home after Dunkirk. Ralph Gibbs has been causing trouble, I’ve heard, giving someone a bloody nose last week and threatening someone else with a knife. They say he’s become involved in the black market.

When I arrived yesterday evening, Alastair had cooked me dinner, would you believe it? Baked cod, no less. He’d laid the small table and found a pink rose from somewhere, one of those floppy perfumed ones put in a jam jar with water.

“Where did you learn to cook?” I asked.

“Here and there.” He smiled, again not giving anything away. “I’m glad you approve.”

He brought a candle over to the table and watched me in the flickering glow. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could do this every night?”

“Yes,” I said. “But tediously I have to dine with my family most evenings.”

He grinned. “Actually I only know two other dishes. So we’d be out of options by the end of the week.”

We laughed, and he tidied a piece of my hair behind my ear, stroking my cheek and my neck. “I’d love to have you here always,” he said gently. “You could let your hair down, let me see the real you, the real Venetia, not the showy one who pretends to be mischievous and confident.” He smiled, but there was that disarming seriousness about him again, a look of intensity behind his eyes.

I pulled away, uncomfortably. “But that’s who I am,” I said serenely, although I’m not sure if it really is anymore.

After dinner we went to the living room. He’d lit a few candles and dotted them like glowing stars around our dark little studio, their waxy scent filling the air, all warm with velvet cushions and the deep, thick rug. I stripped naked and posed for my portrait as usual. It’s astonishing how one gets used to having no clothes on, baring one’s all for the sake of art. The portrait has been coming on very nicely, even though Alastair stops every few moments to come and whisper sweet nothings in my ear. But tonight, as he was close to putting on the finishing touches, there was a sharp knock at the door, or rather a bang, like someone was using their fist.

“Slater, I know you’re in there,” a rough voice shouted. I knew instantly who it was, as did Alastair, as we both exchanged looks, and I smirked.

“Open this door, Slater,” the voice growled, slurring from drink.

It was David Tilling. He was clearly worse for wear from a few pints at the pub and looking for some kind of retaliation. Since he returned from Dunkirk, he’s been bragging about how he’d made it back as if he were some kind of hero, which of course he’s not when you think about Henry shooting down three Nazi planes in a single day. David has an embryo RAF mustache, which looks ridiculous, and he’s taken up smoking. It’s too hilarious.

He found out about my affair with Alastair after following me around; Alastair and I spend all our free time together, such is our newfound love! Since then, David’s been making these snide little comments, such as “Slater’s not good enough for you, Venetia. What are you doing with a coward?” Or the rather damning: “You’re letting yourself down, Venetia.” I can only conclude that he’s learned a lot more in the army than just fighting; he’d never have come out with something like that before he left.