The end of the world, looking back on it, happened on a very ordinary Monday morning in August.
Edith and Molly had dealt with the household accounts, and complained about the rationing together as they'd worked. A full day was planned. After luncheon, Partridge was going to escort Edith up to the dig-site, where Professor Haxton and his small, industrious team had been carrying out their excavations. In the evening, she was going to write to Pip and give him all the news, and then see that Evelyn was bathed and tucked quietly up in bed in the nursery.
And then none of it happened.
"Milady?" Mrs Dale's voice at the door was like nothing Edith had heard before: a dry, choked, reedy sound that made her look up, feeling suddenly very far away.
"What is it, Mrs Dale?" she asked - but it felt as if someone else entirely had taken control of her body and her brain and her voice.
"Telegram, my lady. I thought perhaps you should…"
Edith took it and opened it with fingers that were oddly steady.
Deeply regret to inform you Major Sir Anthony Strallan reported missing, presumed killed in action, 8th August.
The paper fluttered to the floor from her suddenly lifeless hand.
Outside the window, a thrush sang. The tea at her elbow steamed.
Edith closed her eyes. But not a single tear came.