She’d raised a squad of thirty willing but sporadically available workers. The vineyard had even had the good luck to avoid attack by the phylloxera pestilence which had ravaged production on the great estates to the north. Aline paid her workers with the little cash she could lay hands on, with eggs and milk from the home farm and with promises of a share of the wine production. Well – why not? It was better shared out. If they had to leave it in the cellar before fleeing away again there was every chance it would be drunk by a regiment of swaggering Boches bombing and gassing their way south. And she had devised a scheme to outflank the enemy. If they could just be held at bay until the first cold snap of the winter came, stilling the fermentation, she could arrange to have some of the barrels shipped south to a cousin’s estate to await maturity in a Provençal haven. A mad notion. She could imagine his wry comment: ‘Not, perhaps, one of your more considered ideas, Aline.’ But it was the product of her resolve to preserve a vestige at least of Clovis’s world. And evidence of her own achievement. She would have felt defeated if the one gap in the run of vintages for hundreds of years had occurred during her stewardship.

More practical was her plan to find out from Jean-Paul, while he still had the memory, how to take shoots, samples, cuttings – whatever they were – of the strongest and best of their undiseased crop and to make off with them to safety. Aline hadn’t discussed these plans with Clovis. She hadn’t mentioned them in her letters, fearing she might irritate and distract him from the business of war; anxious also to appear confident and capable. It would be all too easy to make a foolish remark, betraying her ignorance. He had never expected the war to go on for so long or to loom so close. Would he be pleased at her foresight or would he shake his head, pitying her innocence and wild optimism?

A third booming crash had her once again on her bicycle and pedalling fast for the château.

It lay sunning itself in sleepy elegance, ancient and lovely, its two wings extending, she always thought, with their perfect symmetry, to enfold anyone approaching in a welcoming embrace. But it seemed she wasn’t the first person to be welcomed down the carriage-drive this morning. A battered old transporter lorry with army markings was sitting, cocking a rusty snook at the white marble sweep of the staircase up to the double front doors which, unusually, were standing slightly open.

And something else was wrong. She looked for Clovis’s dog. When she left the château and cycled off to do her weekly stint in the military hospital the greyhound always went on watch, positioning itself with bored resignation to cascade elegantly down the top three steps. But today the familiar form was absent from its post.

Aline’s heart began to race as the implications became clear. Of course, he’d been driven home on leave. She slapped away a quick tug of doubt as a more sinister reason for a military presence raised itself: he’d been killed and someone had been sent to report his death. No. That couldn’t be. They always sent a telegram or a letter or even the mayor. To announce the death of someone of Clovis’s standing the Prefect himself might be paraded. She propped her cycle against the wheel of the lorry and ran up the steps. She called out for the housekeeper before remembering that it was Madame Legrand’s afternoon off. The hall was dim and deserted but in a distant back room a door banged and she caught a blast of hearty male laughter. A maid, pink and giggling, hurried shyly towards her, fluttering with the responsibility of taking on the housekeeper’s duty.

‘Madame! Oh, there you are! We’ve been looking out for you for ages! They’ve arrived! A message came to say they were on their way an hour after you’d left. The Captain said not to send after you . . . better to let you go ahead and do your duties. He could wait . . .’

Aline almost collapsed with relief. She was hardly listening as the maid chattered on. ‘We didn’t know quite what to do . . . the state they were in! But it’s all right . . . we’ve managed! They’re all bedded in and we’ve got their mucky uniforms off their backs and into the tub.’

Aline spoke calmly to counter the girl’s gushing excitement. ‘Quite right, Pauline. And – lye? Have you used plenty of lye? You’ll find supplies on the bottom shelf of the pantry. Pay special attention to the seams. I understand that is where the lice gather.’ This was the maîtresse de maison speaking. At last she allowed herself to ask: ‘Now, tell me – where is the Captain?’

‘He’s out the back. Gone to take a stroll round the estate with Master Georges. He said as I was to tell you where he’d be the minute you got home. I put the men in the summer salon. Six of ’em. They’re in there playing cards. Seem glad enough to be under a roof. I hope that was all right, madame?’

‘Yes, of course. Offer them tea, Pauline. There’s a caddy full on the top shelf of the housekeeper’s dresser.’

She dismissed the girl with a nod, turned and managed six stately steps before breaking into a run. As she tore along, she pulled off her bloodstained apron and her auxiliary nurse’s cape and threw them to the floor. Her starched cap followed and she shook her hair loose as she went, weaving her way down cool corridors heading towards the stable yard. She knew where she’d find him. Clovis wouldn’t have wasted time waiting for her to return. He’d be at work already.

At an open door she heard the clank of a pail, a cheerful whistling and a child’s excited squeal. And then, there he was, the familiar tall shape at the end of the corridor, his fair hair freshly washed and gleaming in the sunshine, his dog at his heels. With his uniform discarded and in the tub, he’d put on his old working clothes and yard boots. And, naturally, he’d been out to inspect the cellars; he was returning, carrying a bottle of champagne in each hand.

All hesitations and doubts abandoned, shaking with excitement and caught out by an unexpected rush of affection, she called out his name. He was blinded by the sunlight and it was a moment before he saw her standing in the shadows. She ran to him, hugging him, breathing in the familiar smell of his brown linen shirt, moving her arms up around his neck and teetering on her toes to reach his lips.

The bottles crashed to the marble floor, frothing in scented eddies around their feet as he put both arms around her and lifted her up, swinging her round and laughing with delight.

Chapter Two

The War Office, London, August 1926

‘I’m sorry, sir. Truly. Of course, I would have liked to oblige but . . . no . . . the answer has to be – no. I’m afraid it simply can’t be done. I have to plead a prior engagement.’

Joe Sandilands stirred uncomfortably in his seat. He was unused to refusing to fall in at once with a requirement, order, wish or whim from a superior officer. And Brigadier Sir Douglas Redmayne was a very superior officer. No one ever got into the habit of denying Sir Douglas anything. A second opportunity never presented itself. The Brigadier seemed equally surprised and discomfited by the feeble rejection. He bristled at Joe across the breadth of mahogany desk, bushy eyebrows gathering in attack with moustache coming up in support.

His hand reached out and he pressed a buzzer.

Joe rose to his feet and turned to face the door. He braced himself for the entry of a matched pair of the heavy brigade he’d caught sight of standing on duty in the corridors of the War Office on his way up to the fifth floor and prepared himself for the ceremony of ejection from the premises. It would be embarrassing, of course, but not entirely unwelcome. In fact he’d need an escort to find his way out of this imposing baroque building with its two and a half miles of corridor. Everything around him from the shining white Portland stone cladding on the pillared exterior to the heavy gold and ivory desk furniture was designed to overawe.