They walked along the beach in companionable silence, listening to the sound of the slowly incoming tide. It would be two hours before the waters covered the sand. The heat of the day, oppressive at best, suffocating at worst, in the heavy canvas hospital tents, had sapped Grace's energy. She had sent several of the VADs back to their quarters, rightly thinking that they would be more hindrance than help if they collapsed from heat-stroke over their charges. Her stern tones belied the sympathy and inward admiration she had come to feel for these volunteer girls, for most were little more than that, who had faced & cheerfully met challenges unlike anything Grace had encountered in her nursing career. India and South Africa had been no preparation for the slaughter and maiming of the Western Front. She had stepped in to cover the resulting gaps in the rota & had nearly succumbed to the heat herself, but Roland had unexpectedly appeared to visit the men & suggested that they go for a walk together when both were free.

Over the months since his son's tragic death, Roland had spent an increasing amount of his limited free time with Grace. Her friendship, important to him even before Freddie's death, had since that point, become the only vestige of human comfort in the bleak landscape of war. She was his closest friend & confidante, with whom he could discuss his inmost thoughts. There had been no one else to whom he could turn. As CO he was supposed to set an example of fortitude in the face of the worst the enemy could throw at the British forces and their allies, but he found himself struggling to do so as grief, & then anger at the sheer bloody futility of it all, kicked in. Had it not been for Grace, he would have allowed his feelings to swamp him & that would have done his medical team no good at all. She had kept him grounded through the worst of it through simply listening & counselling him on the best way to cope with his errant emotions. That first Christmas had been one of the worst times, as it hit him that he would never see his son again. Grace had spent as much of the day with him as she could, taking the customary Christmas meal with him and letting him talk. She had let him cry, too; bitter tears of loss rising from deep within, and she had comforted him. In truth, her presence alone was enough to bring him comfort.

Not a day had gone by without them spending time with each other & imperceptibly Roland recognised that his feelings towards Grace had subtly shifted from simple friendship into something altogether deeper. He could not point to a single moment; it had happened gently, mirroring the general tenor of their relationship. Nothing about them was harsh or contrived. Theirs was a true meeting of minds, so much so that he had trusted her enough to explain the arid wasteland that was his marriage. Why he had felt he wanted to do that, heavens alone knew, but deep down he needed her to understand why he didn't speak of his wife to any degree; why he didn't clamour for letters from her & why he didn't turn to her for comfort.

In truth, it was as if Grace already knew. She did not judge him, but took his hand in both hers, squeezed it, and gently stroked it until he felt able to look at her squarely to say, "There is no marriage Grace; in fact I don't think there ever truly has been." He remembered that as if it was yesterday; the feeling of warmth and acceptance he had felt; the small smile which let him know it was alright. It was trust which permeated their relationship as much as the deeper feelings he had acknowledged he had for her. He knew that trust worked both ways for, shortly after his revelation, Grace had trusted him with one of her own. The cost was plain for him to see as her eyes filled with tears. All this time, he had grieved she had helped him and never taken so much as one jot of support to help her in her own loss. He realised that far from being shocked at her account of her relationship with the man he now knew to be called Amar, he was actually filled with admiration for her courage in facing up to the forces of prejudice and pettiness, which he had seen displayed in such quantity during the past two years of conflict.

Never had it hit him with such force than in the case of Sister Livesey. If anyone was going to feel righteous indignation at her love for an enemy soldier, it ought to have been him, coming immediately on the news of Freddie's death, and yet he had felt nothing except pity for the poor woman as she was forced to expose the intimate details of her feelings for the man, who clearly loved her, as much as she loved him. Then, too, Grace had done that which no one else would. He had seen her stand during the Sunday service and move to the edge of the tent as Joan was marched past, facing the open contempt of those gathered, but not Grace's: she had silently nodded to acknowledge her nurse and in that one gesture, Roland had seen the true depth of character which resided in the woman he saw as his dearest friend and whom he secretly hoped would be more, if she would have him. If he had not been in the grip of a grief almost beyond bearing, he would have joined her, but he told her that evening, when she came to sit with him, of his support for her actions. So many things had cumulatively led him to the point where he could, at least inwardly, admit that he loved Grace Carter. Had he known for one second that his feelings were reciprocated, Roland would not have hesitated to outwardly admit it to the woman walking at his side along the smooth tidal sand of this part of the north-west coast of France.