When he tried to get up, nausea and dizziness overwhelmed him. He realised he could not go anywhere in this state. That was when he took out his service revolver and examined it, turning it over in his hand. He could end his life now. That would be the best thing to do, the noble way out. He felt the heaviness of the revolver, pictured how he’d point it at his temple, hold it steady, and click. All over. But he hesitated. Not from fear of ending his life, but because he didn’t want Sofia to find his head blown away. He didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.

“If the leg gets worse,” he told himself, “if gangrene really sets in, then I’ll do it. But I’ll tell her what I’m going to do and why it is the only solution.”

Then he lay back and fell into a restless, fevered sleep.

He wasn’t sure how many days passed this way. He was vaguely aware that she came again, that she cleaned his wound with something that stung so badly he had screamed. He remembered she had held his head, made him swallow some kind of medicine, wiped the sweat from his brow, and tried to make him take some warm soup. But he remembered these things as part of unquiet dreams, not sure they had actually happened.

So it was a surprise for him to open his eyes one bright morning and find that he felt comfortably warm and the fever had departed. As he came back to full consciousness, he realised he had a real pillow under his head, a sheepskin over him, and something tied to his wrist. He held up his arm and saw it was a medal. A religious medal to some kind of saint. Whoever it is, it certainly worked, he thought.

He attempted to extricate himself from the cocoon that had been wound around him. Even that small task was beyond him, and he lay back before attempting again. This time he succeeded. He freed himself, wriggled out of his shelter, and felt the coldness of the stone floor against his body. He tried to stand but gave up when the room swung around him and he felt horribly nauseous. He sipped a little water and took a few bites of the bread that had been left on the bench beside him. When he plucked up the courage to examine his wound, he went to take down his trousers and was astounded to see that they were not his own. They were made of coarse black wool. And he was wearing different underpants, too. She had changed his clothes for him while he’d slept like a baby. He turned his face toward the wall, his cheeks burning, feeling horribly embarrassed and ashamed, even though he’d had no part in this.

Carefully he pulled back the trouser leg until he came to the bandage. It was no longer soaked in blood, which was a good sign. And the wound didn’t smell bad, which was even better. He unwound the bandage and peeled back the pad from the wound. It wasn’t a pretty sight, with part of his flesh blown away, but it wasn’t too awful, either. It was clearly healing. He washed it with the remains of the water, then applied a clean pad and reapplied the bandage.

Then he rearranged himself in his hiding place and waited for Sofia to come. He glanced at his watch but it had stopped. Of course, he hadn’t wound it for days. From the position of the shadows on the wall, he could tell it was still early morning.

In the distance he heard a church bell ringing, followed almost immediately by one closer by. More than the tolling of the hour this time. The bells went on and on until the air echoed with the sound. Sunday, he thought, it must be Sunday, and felt comforted that all around him people were going to church to pray. He had never been much for God himself. Members of the British aristocracy went to church as a display of solidarity with the lower classes around them but didn’t actually believe. At least his father didn’t. He had once said to Hugo, “When you have been in the trenches and watched men blown apart or drowning in mud, you can’t believe that any God would let those things happen and not interfere.”

And yet Sofia had tied the saint’s medal to his wrist and it seemed to have worked. He tried a tentative prayer. “Dear God, if you’re there and you can hear me, keep her safe. Let me get home somehow. Protect Langley Hall and those in it. And, dear God, protect Sofia and her family.” He was going to add, “Let her husband still be alive and come back to her,” but he couldn’t say the words.

The bells died away to silence. He fished for his packet of cigarettes. There were twelve left from the twenty. He lit one, lay back, and smoked it, watching the vapour hanging in the frigid air. The day was quite still. No birdsong, no wind, no dogs barking. Utter stillness. It felt as if he was the only person in the world.

He wondered when she would come. He suspected she wouldn’t go out looking for mushrooms on a Sunday. He remembered from his own time in Italy that Sundays had been times for church and big family meals. Not that she had much food or much of a family, but she’d be obliged to stay with them. He felt empty and hungry, so he finished the bread that was already becoming stale. A pigeon flapped and fluttered across the top of the wall, and he wished he had the strength to get up and set that trap. But he hadn’t.

A watery sun rose higher in the sky. The day passed. The sun sank again and still she didn’t come. He fought with disappointment. Of course she couldn’t come on a Sunday. He’d already realised that. Maybe she’d slip away in the dark again, although he didn’t like the idea of her walking alone through the olive groves when there might be Germans or partisans or black-marketeers prowling around. He lit his candle but eventually blew it out, afraid of wasting it. He lay awake, listening to the night sounds, the hoot of an owl, the sigh of the wind. She won’t come now, he told himself. And then the worries crept in. Had something happened to her? Someone had seen her coming through the olive groves and betrayed her . . . He tried to shut out the dark thoughts, but they would not subside.