Chapter 1: A Nasty Business

Major Sir Anthony Strallan was marched to the side of the outbuildings where, surrounded by the seas of French mud, the court martial had found him guilty of desertion and cowardice. His hands were tied behind his back, and he was offered – and refused – a blindfold. He tried to stand straight and hold his chin high, to look them in the eye. He wanted to die like a gentleman.

A gentleman? Pah! I am not a gentleman.

The Captain called out "Ready…"

Oh, Edith!

"Take aim…"

How I loved you! My darling, sweet Edith!

He closed his eyes so that his last vision on this earth should be of her.

"Fire!"


He cried out and sat bolt upright in bed. He was cold and clammy, but he was here at home in Locksley. He was alive. He caught his breath. These nightmares about the War were becoming more violent, realistic, and frequent. This time, before he had woken, he had felt the first few bullets from the firing squad tear into his chest with the same searing pain as the one that really had caught him in the shoulder.

And of course he knew what the dream meant. After deserting Edith as he had done, a firing squad was what he deserved. For the first few days after he'd broken her heart, he had actually expected her father to call him out, and Anthony would have welcomed the chance to let Robert avenge his daughter's humiliation. By putting a bullet in him, Robert would have been doing Anthony a favour, saving him the trouble of doing it himself.

But this was 1920; duels had happened in his youth, he knew, and even twenty years ago it still might have occurred but not now. He had heard nothing from Downton for three months. He knew that he would never hear anything directly from them again.

He had heard nothing from anyone else either. He had expected to be a social pariah but hearing so little news of Edith was so painful. He had asked his staff to be especially vigilant in picking up information in the village, but suddenly everyone had clammed up even around his servants. One maid had not been able to cope with this, and, within a month, had tendered her resignation.

The future? There was none for him. But that was no sacrifice if only he could be sure that Edith had recovered and was getting on with her life. How he could bear all the days left to him was another matter. The nightmares, the heartache…perhaps if he left Yorkshire altogether he could be distracted enough to dull the pain a little? There was nothing left for him here but bitter regrets.