"Cup of tea, sir?" Stewart asked, poking his head into the dug-out where Anthony was busily scooping up water from the floor with a bucket. Useless, probably - like the Danaides. Still, Anthony had tricked himself into thinking that it would do some good to someone.

"More of a help to see if you can find some duckboards, sergeant," he replied shortly. "Then we'll have half a chance of sleeping with dry feet tonight."

Stewart ducked his head in agreement and set the enamel mug of tea down on the makeshift desk Anthony had set up with a plank and two crates. "Righto, sir. I'll head along to Corporal Davies, sir, he's sure to have something."

"Mmm. I'm sure I should be concerned about the legality of his little store of goods, but just now I can't quite bring myself to care." Anthony dug in his pocket and pulled out his cigarette case. "Take these, too, Stewart, and see if he's got any sugar, would you? Private Harris'll be dead on his feet by the time he gets back from patrol."

Stewart took the cigarettes carefully and tucked them into his pocket. "Of course, sir." Really, the Major himself looked exhausted, let alone poor Private Harris. But that was typical of the Major - always looking out for everyone else before himself. "I'll see what I can do."

Along the trench, in a second dugout, Corporal Davies was crouched around a tiny brazier he'd managed to get going. He hailed Stewart with a cheery wave. "Sergeant Stewart! All right up your end?"

"Right enough, corporal. The Major's sent me along to ask if you've anything we can use as duckboards. Our dugout's three inches deep in water." He dug into his pocket for the cigarettes and offered them to Davies. "And he's looking for any sugar you might have, too."

Davies turned to a little shelf he'd managed to set up behind the brazier and reached down a small packet of sugar, waving off the cigarettes as he did so. "Tell the major he can keep his fags. And I'll keep an eye out for those duckboards - they say some poor sods down the line copped it this morning, so there might be something or other going begging."

Stewart winced and nodded. "Thanks, Davies. 'Night."

"'Night, sergeant."

When he returned to the major, a runner was hovering just inside their dugout, while their commander read through a short message, a frown on his tired face. That couldn't be good.

"Sir?" Stewart asked, and Major Strallan looked up, smiling emptily.

"Orders, sergeant. The ones we've been waiting for." It had been a bloody long wait, too, their small group of experienced trench infiltrators kicking their heels while the top brass made their preparations and waited for the best time to send them in. Their mission would be simple. Simple but highly risky. Infiltrate the enemy trenches, take any useful intelligence and prisoners, and, with any luck, make it back alive.

That last wasn't terribly likely, though. Colonel Larking wasn't the brightest of buttons, and everyone knew that they were far more likely to die - bloodily and brutally - than bring back anything worth having.

Stewart's mouth was dry. "Jolly good, sir," he croaked out. "When are we heading out?"

"Dawn." The Major checked his pocket watch. "That's about six hours off. Go and tell the lads to get some rest and… do whatever needs doing." His eyes were tired. "And… tell Corporal Davies not to bother about those duckboards."


"What exactly," Lady Strallan asked, "am I looking at?"

Beside her, Colin bounced - half-excitement, half-impatience - on the balls of his feet. "Roman mosaic floor, my lady. From some of the reading I've been doing, I think it could be 2nd century!"

"Heavens!" Edith looked across at him in astonishment. "And it's just been… sitting here, in Mr Sanderson's field?"

"Seems so!" Colin's round face shone with enthusiasm.

Anne, on the other side of the small trench, peered down into it. "Phillip always used to say he thought there was a Roman… something or other, along this way. He dug up some pottery fragments when he was a boy - they'll be in the archives, somewhere."

Something tugged at the back of Edith's brain - a late summer day, years ago now, when she and Anthony had been moving boxes around in and out of the archives and the little library. There'd been a box of pottery fragments there, hadn't there? And Anthony had grinned and joked, "Ah, yes, Papa's foray into archaeology."

"Yes, I think I remember seeing something of the sort," Edith agreed. "Well, what ought we to do about it, do you suppose?"

Colin straightened his shoulders. "I really think we ought to tell someone, m lady. Someone who can… well, who can do something about it. Seems an awful… tragedy to just… dig over something like this."

Edith and Anne exchanged smiles. "Goodness, you're really interested in this sort of thing, aren't you, Partridge?"

Colin blushed a touch. "Y-yes, my lady. Always did have a brain for history. I'd have liked to stay on at school a little longer, learn a bit more, but… my father wanted me to learn his line of work, and then the war…" He shrugged. "Still, there's always books."

Anne beamed at him. "Indeed there are. Now, I seem to remember Archie having a university friend who read Classics and stayed on at Cambridge after their degrees. He's part of their new Department of Archaeology now, bit of a specialist in Roman bits and bobs. Why don't I ask him to write, and see if this friend can run up and have a look at what we have?"


"Roman archaeology," Pip offered over dinner, chasing a forkful of potato miserably around his plate. "That sounds… interesting. Do you think Mr Partridge will need any help with what he's found?"

"I don't think so, no," his mother answered crisply. "And even if he did, messing around with archaeological sites does not fall under the categories of schoolwork, chores or sleeping." She checked her watch. "Talking of, time you went to bed."

With a sigh, Pip rose to his feet and left, shutting the dining room quietly behind him. Mary raised her eyebrows into her wineglass and Edith shot her a glare. "Yes, Mary? Something to say?"

Mary shook her head. "Not at all, Edith." Under her breath, she added, "I don't want to get sent to bed, too."

Clearly, Richard had no such qualms. "Really, Edith, for how long are you going to carry on punishing the lad?" he wondered.

Edith set her cutlery down with a firm snap. "Until I stop being so damned angry with him, Richard. When Vicky gets to be seventeen, you'll understand."

Richard shrugged. "No doubt I will. Don't think you'll make him any keener to stay at home, though. Look, when does school finish?"

"Eight days' time - why?"

Richard shared a look with Mary. "Well, why don't we take him back with us, when we go back to London? I could… find him work to do at the office, keep him run ragged enough that he wouldn't have the time or the energy to get into any more trouble. Added to which… the reports we're getting from our correspondents at the Front don't make for pretty reading. With any luck, they'll scare any bravado he has left out of him." He raised his eyebrows. "And… perhaps a month apart will calm you both down."

"And he's meant to view a month in London as a punishment, is he?" Edith scoffed.

Richard shrugged. "I don't know. But I do remember what Sybil was like, before she married Tom, and no punishment I could ever devise seemed to make her behaviour any more palatable to us, now, did it?" A slow smile spread across his face. "That's an idea, actually."

Edith frowned. "What is?"

"Sybil," Richard replied. "Why not ask one firebrand to deal with another? I wonder if she'd mind having him stay with her and Tom, while he works for me?"

Edith pressed a hand to her forehead, overwhelmed. "I don't know. I'll - I'll think about it, at least. And… really, I ought to write to Anthony, if we're sending him anywhere." She rose from the table. "And now I'm going to bed."


My darling Anthony,

I hope this finds you well and safe, as ever. Dearest, I must tell you something important, and when I have, I will need your advice and, I think, your forgiveness….