I must be boring you senseless, dear Angie, so I’ll leave you there and write again soon with any more news. I know you think I should move on to my next victim, but Alastair is truly the man for me. Even though I’m not exactly sure what kind of man he is. I’ll write again as soon as there’s news.

Much love,

Venetia

Saturday, 13th July, 1940

Today I took the bus to Parnham to give Berkeley’s ring to Carrington. I’ve been putting it off for weeks, and honestly wish I hadn’t been so quick to promise I’d do it. I didn’t even know who Carrington would be, or indeed which Carrington should there happen to be more than one. But I knew I had to go, now that the Nazis have started bombing the ports. Dover was smashed last week, buildings in piles on the ground and people dead. It won’t be long before they’re upon us and we’ll be prisoners in our own country, not allowed to travel and forced to work incredibly long hours. I try not to think of it, as it scares me to death.

On the bus, I thought it all through. I’ve never known any homosexuals, apart from Berkeley, of course. I suppose I’ve always thought it’s a phase or something, some adolescent crush gone on too long. Harold used to say there was something wrong with them, and I wondered what kind of a man I was going to meet. How he would react. I hoped he wasn’t dangerous, as you can never tell, especially if there really was something wrong inside. What ridiculous situations this wretched war has put us in! What was I thinking agreeing to it?

I changed buses at Litchfield, heading out to Parnham, and found myself seated next to an extremely talkative lady who was clearly the village gossip. This was a terrific stroke of luck, if vaguely annoying, and I asked if she knew where I could find Carrington.

“Why, didn’t you know? He lives in Parnham House. Viscount Carrington, if you please,” she joked, putting on a posh accent.

“Oh, I didn’t know,” I said, not finding it the least bit funny. That’s all I needed. A viscount! “Is he a young man?”

“No, but there’s two sons. The eldest is away with the RAF, bit of an upper-class snob. Then there’s the younger one, leg wounded in France, at home recuperating. He’s a nice lad. Doesn’t seem to get on with the Viscount, though.”

“The Viscount is his father, right?”

“Yes,” she sniffed. “Very proud and traditional. Doesn’t like the way the boy hangs about. If you ask me, he can’t stand the sight of him.” She pursed her lips, nodding in a most disparaging manner. “We hear things from the servants, you know.”

Before long, the bus dropped me off in the village, and I only had the walk to the great house to collect myself. My meetings with aristocracy have been few and far between, and even though they don’t have the authority they once did, they still send a wave of panic through me. If only I had been Mrs. B. with her so-called royal connections and indefatigable self-confidence—although I very much doubt Mrs. B. would have agreed to this undertaking, especially since it involves something both unsavory and illegal. Heaven help poor Carrington, as she would have him marched off to Parnham Police Station within the hour.

I was also incredibly nervous that my task was neither pleasant nor straightforward. Which son was I supposed to tell? What if the Viscount was the only one there and insisted on knowing my errand? What was I to say?

After a long walk through the mansion parkland, the main house came into sight, a sprawling Regency fa?ade, a double staircase separating and converging up to the massive front door. I shuddered as I approached, knowing that I was being observed as a shadow disappeared from behind a ground-floor window, my pull on the bell anticipated, my purpose already considered.

Holding the door ajar and waiting for my swift departure, the antiquated butler informed me promptly and pompously that the Viscount was not at home.

“I’ve come to see his son,” I said quickly, snaking around him into the hall. I hadn’t come this far to be palmed off.

“I shall inquire within,” he said snootily, and showed me into a chilly drawing room.

The interior was grand and austere but empty-looking and rather dismal. The faded colors—sage green, dove blue—had become gray with age, and I knew for a certainty that if I saw a duster lying around I wouldn’t have been able to help myself. The smell of wax polish and antique mothballs added to the starchy gloom. I felt completely alien and distinctly uncomfortable.

The door presently opened and a young man entered. Thank goodness, I knew straightaway that he was the one. Still slim from youth, he was medium height and rather dark in complexion and looks, walking in with a self-conscious deliberation, steady, slow, ponderous. One of his legs was obviously wounded, his trouser leg bulking with bandages as he limped forward, and when he looked up at me, his eyes avoided mine, glancing out of the great terrace window, and then at the fireplace. He seemed so vulnerable. There was some deep discomfort in him, an estrangement from everything surrounding him.

“Hello.” I smiled warmly, suddenly conscious that my mission was about to bring me closer to this man than most of the people he knew. “I’m Mrs. Margaret Tilling from Chilbury.”

“Do take a seat,” he said in a very upper-class voice. He didn’t return my smile, which I thought was both painfully understandable yet incredibly rude. Although how was he to know my horrific errand? I perched on the edge of a taut beige brocade settee.