Years later, Theodora Harris and Lord Edward Ashleigh.

Perhaps it was inevitable… but she should never have encouraged him. She should have listened to reason.

She realises he’s finally pecked up the courage to ask her… just this; just to let him write to her while caught in the hell of the trenches… but his eyes and voice say so much more.

He’d asked her to be at the station to send him off. She expected his entire family to be gathered in vigil and to barely be noticed as she skirted the group.

It’s only him.

He stands there, excluded from the crowd in his solitude. Couples, families, and clusters of soldiers surround him, yet he stands alone, orbited only by his kit and sleeping bag, swamped in his great tawny trench with his Major’s cap perched atop his fair, downy hair.

He faces the west entrance, watching for her arrival with the afternoon commuters. 
Theodora approaches from behind, pulling the clasp of her half-coat tighter around her neck. 
“Edward?” 


“Thee,” he gasps, turning around and immediately shucking the cap from his head. Always, she is shocked by how beautiful he is. “You came.” 


“Of course. You asked me to.”