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perhaps our daughter is spending too much time with servants. We should endeavour to help her mix with young people of her own
class.’
    ‘I quite agree, Ambrose,’ Sarah said. ‘We must increase our efforts to arrange for her to be presented at Court. I have heard from Sir William’s wife that she would be
delighted to act as sponsor for Annabel. She has already put Annabel’s name forward. As soon as we hear something, we can begin making arrangements.’
    Sir William Carruthers had been a great supporter of Ambrose when the young man had been fighting his way in the world of business and both he and his wife, Cynthia, were Annabel’s
godparents. Ambrose smiled. ‘And haven’t your parents asked Annabel to stay with them over Easter? Perhaps it would be better for her to go there now since she has nothing better to do
than ride around the countryside in the company of a servant girl and involve herself with one of my employees.’ Annabel gasped and knew that the colour had drained from her face. Had her
father found out about her trysts with Gilbert? But at his next words she breathed more easily. ‘I don’t think a typist is the sort of person you should be encouraging.’
    ‘But, I didn’t, Father. I merely—’
    Ambrose held up his hand to silence her. ‘Enough. The matter is closed.’
    The meal continued without further conversation and Annabel found her appetite had completely deserted her.

Five
    A week later, Billy, driving the brougham, took Annabel to her grandparents’ home in the Lincolnshire wolds. This time, Jane had not been allowed to accompany her.
    Annabel sat rigidly upright, determined not to let her inner misery show. There had been no word from Gilbert and she had been unable to find out any more. All she knew was that he had had a
huge quarrel with his immediate superior at work, had either been dismissed or had walked out, and that, allegedly, he had gone abroad, financed by an unexpected windfall. But she couldn’t
get him out of her mind; his fair curly hair, his merry blue eyes and the sweet promises he had whispered. By the time the carriage drew into the farmyard, Annabel could not stop the tears from
flowing. She fell into her grandfather’s arms.
    ‘There, there, my lovely,’ Edward Armstrong held her close, ‘tell your old gramps what ails you. Come along in. Your granny’s waiting with a nice dinner for you. Les will
bring your trunk into the house and upstairs to your room.’
    Here in the countryside, dinner was the midday meal. Farm labourers who worked from first light needed a substantial meal by then. Tea or supper was taken in the late afternoon or the early
evening. Sometimes both. Tea would be at five o’clock in Edward and Martha Armstrong’s house and maybe a light supper at nine o’clock after which they would soon retire to bed,
for they rose at six every morning, summer and winter.
    Edward Armstrong was in his mid-sixties, a burly, well-built man, still strong and muscular for his age. He had worked hard all his life and continued to do so even now when most folk of his age
would be putting their feet up in front of the fire. And he still had quite a head of hair, though it was grey, turning to white, now.
    Annabel dried her eyes and smiled wanly at Les Tindall. She had played with Les and his younger sister since she’d been a child and now she could see the anxiety in his eyes when he saw
her tears.
    ‘I’m fine,’ she tried to reassure both men, but her voice trembled and she knew she had not convinced either of them. Les said nothing as he started to unload her trunk.
Edward, his arm around her shoulders, led her into the house where her grandmother waited with arms stretched wide in welcome.
    Later, after the evening meal, as they sat together before the roaring fire in the kitchen range, Martha took Annabel’s hand, her look warm and loving. ‘Now, my dear, we can see
you’re troubled. Won’t you tell us? You know we will