26 May 1931

She felt like a fool, a stupid fool, and the feeling followed her around for days after she had said goodnight to Siegfried. Coming back into the farmhouse she had, unsurprisingly, found her father waiting for her, clearly desperate for information as to what had transpired between them. She had told him that she had had a pleasant evening and left it at that, heading up to bed without wishing to divulge anything further about how she felt.

As she had lain in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, she had thought about how it had felt being in Siegfried's company again, how easy the conversation had been. When she then thought about how it had felt being in his arms and being kissed, only to then be rejected…the initial thrill giving way to crushing disappointment…it hurt more than she would have thought and, for that, she felt unreasonable. She barely knew him after all. It wasn't as though he had cast her aside in the midst of a great love affair and yet…

In all her years there had been no-one, no-one who had made her feel the way he had in the few short meetings they had had together. No-one who had given her hope. But she knew she had been stupid to think that anything more would ever come of their acquaintance. Her father would never accept it for one thing, despite her standing up to him on the matter of going for dinner and Siegfried…well if she had ever needed confirmation as to where his heart lay, she had very much received it. He was clearly still so in love with his late wife as to be incapable of seeing anyone else before him and she had been a fool not to listen to her own misgivings when she had had them.

"You'll not be seeing 'im again then?" her father asked her the following evening.

"Who?"

"Mr Farnon."

The mention of his name brought her up short. "I don't suppose so, no."

"I only wonder, as you said you 'ad a nice evening but…"

"But what?" she turned to look at him.

"Well…you 'aven't looked as though you 'ad a nice evening, not at all."

"Let's not pretend that you really 'oped I did 'ave a nice evening," she replied. "Let's not pretend that you're not glad that I've said I probably won't see 'im again. Let's not pretend that you don't want things to stay just as they always 'ave!" Before emotion could completely overtake her, she hurried up to her room, threw herself down on the bed and cried, though she wasn't sure whether she was crying over Siegfried himself, or over the loss of the first shred of hope she had had in so long that there might be more in store for her than life as mistress of Windy Hill. When she had composed herself, she had gone back downstairs to find her father still sitting at the table awaiting his supper and the subject hadn't been mentioned again.

Four days on from the unfortunate event and she found it difficult to rouse herself from bed to begin the day. Despite the warm, bright sunshine and promise of summer, she felt as though there was little point given how she would inevitably spend her time. Even the thought of walking on the hills seemed to hold no pleasure for her anymore. In a way, she couldn't help but think that she would have been better off had she never met Siegfried at all.

As she was preparing breakfast for her father, who was already down in the fields, there was a knock at the door and, opening it, she came face to face with the pleasant face of the local postwoman.

"Morning Joan," she greeted her as brightly as she could.

"Morning Lily," the other woman said, handing over the letters. "Nice day, isn't it?"

"Yes," she agreed, "a lovely day." Once inside, she looked at the two envelopes handed to her and her heart jumped slightly as she saw one addressed to her in what looked suspiciously like Siegfried's handwriting. His previous letter remained in the drawer in her bedside table, though she didn't know why she hadn't discarded it, and she couldn't help but wonder what he would feel the need to write to her about now. Putting the kettle onto the stove to boil, she sat down at the table, taking comfort in the fact that she was alone. For a moment, she considered simply burning the letter without reading it, but curiosity not to mention good manners, got the better of her and she ripped it open.

Inside were two folded sheets of paper and she opened them carefully, almost afraid to read the words he had written.

Dear Lily,

I felt I had to write to try and explain myself, as poor as I am sure any explanation will be. I seem so utterly incapable of making myself understood in the spoken word and can therefore only hope the written word carries more clarity. I want you to know that I have very much enjoyed the times that we have spent together. You have provided the most amiable of company and your taking an interest in veterinary science, and my work in general, has been most flattering. You are a woman with capabilities far beyond those which you ascribe to yourself.

I feel, however, that I must apologise for what happened between us last weekend. Having spent such a pleasant evening with you, regardless of all other factors, it was improper of me to act towards you in the way that I did. Please rest assured that I do not make a habit of bestowing affection upon women and I apologise if any offence was caused by my actions. Further to that, I feel I owe you some further insight into why I could not act further or, indeed, more appropriately.

Losing my wife has been the single most significant event in my life to date, far greater than anything else. It is a loss that has never left me, and I suspect never shall. I felt, and feel, an overwhelming sense of guilt that I was not with her when she became ill or indeed when she died. In that, I have accepted the blame bestowed upon me by her father for my part in what happened to her. She was the first woman that I ever loved and was the person I saw myself growing old with. Making that journey alone these last fourteen years has proved difficult and in my heart, though she is gone, I consider myself her husband. I still love her as much as I did then and, unlike my father, find the thought of loving another almost incomprehensible.

You stated that you considered me to be like your own father, steeped in mourning and stifling myself of the possibility of a different life, a happier life. Perhaps in that you are right. Perhaps I only hurt myself by my actions and yet I cannot think on how much more hurt could be felt than that which I have already experienced and therefore I believe that I was quite accurate when I told you that I was content with life.

You, however Lily, still have much life ahead of you. If I could be permitted to wish one thing for you it is that you live it for yourself and find someone with whom to share all the affection that I know you have to give. I can only apologise again for misleading and hurting you.

Yours,

Siegfried Farnon.

She read it twice through, the words blurring before her eyes as she started to weep. It was a kind letter and yet she couldn't help but feel the pain that seemed to jump off the pages at her, the pain of his loss and his attempts to live with it. Her father suddenly appeared at the door and, folding it neatly, she placed the letter into the pocket of her apron, resolving to read it again later once she was alone.

"You all right lass?" Tom asked, kicking off his boots.

"Yes," she turned back to the stove, wiping her eyes as she did so. "I'm fine."

4 June 1931

"Right, out with it."

"Out with what?" Siegfried asked, looking up at Mrs Hall, looming over him as he sat down to his breakfast.

"Whatever it is that's bugging you."

"Nothing's bugging me," he replied, irritated at her asking and focusing his attention on the food in front of him. "I'm perfectly fine."

"You 'ave been like a bear with a sore 'ead these last two weeks ever since you came back from 'aving dinner with Lily. So, come on. Out with it."

"There's nothing to get out."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't expect you to think anything."

"Did something 'appen between you?"

He looked at her quickly, wondering how she could have possibly known. "What do you mean? What are you suggesting?"

She looked at him for a long moment and then nodded, sitting down opposite him, "Ah."

"Ah?What does that mean, Mrs Hall, ah?"

"Was it 'er you wrote to, when you came 'ome that night?"

He looked down at his plate. "Perhaps."

"And she 'asn't replied."

"Well I never really expected her to. My letter didn't…didn't seek a reply."

"But you'd ''ave liked one all the same."

"Mrs Hall…" he sighed. "This really is none of your business and even if it was…there is nothing for you to concern yourself about."

"So, will you be seeing 'er again?"

"I shan't think so." He glanced over at her, watching him with one raised eyebrow. "I'm not…that is to say…I don't feel the need to…to…I'm perfectly content as I am."

"Are you?"

"Yes, I am! Not every man is…is desperate to move on to another woman after a loss. Not every man is like…" he paused, knowing he had been about to reference his own father and feeling it would be inappropriate to do so.

"Even after all these years?" she asked softly.

"Mrs Hall, the subject is closed," he replied, lifting his cup as the doorbell rang. "I'd thank you to leave it be."

She sighed, shook her head and got up, making her way to the door and then returning. "This came for you," she said, holding out a package.

"What is it?"

"Well 'ow should I know? You'd do best to open it and see, wouldn't you?"

He took it from and immediately recognised Lily's handwriting. Opening it quickly, he saw that she had returned the book and that there was a letter enclosed. For a moment, he simply stared at it. "I should…" he got to his feet. "I should prepare for morning surgery." Without waiting for her to comment, he hurriedly made his way into the surgery, closing the door firmly behind him and only then opening the envelope.

Dear Siegfried,

Thank you for your letter, although there was no need for explanation on your part. You should not solely blame yourself for the events which occurred. As I said at the time, I was aware of your deep affection for your late wife and I should have had the foresight to refuse your invitation to dine with you. If I had, matters would not have progressed as they did given that, following our afternoon in the hills, I had resolved that we should remain as mere acquaintances in any event.

I would like to thank you, however, for the time that we have spent together. I feel I have learned a great deal about things of which I had no previous knowledge. I return your book to you and thank you for allowing me to read it.

Although I have no experience of the terrible loss that you have suffered, I want to say that you should never feel you have to apologise for loving your wife. Indeed, I would expect no less from a man such as yourself. I only hope that perhaps, one day, I might be allowed to experience some of that kind of affection for myself.

Yours,

Lily Bailey.

"Oh Lily…" he sighed, reading it again. Her words were kind, forgiving and, in a way, full of self-reproach, as though she were somehow to blame for his own inadequacies. He pondered whether to reply, whether to try and explain to her that she mustn't blame herself. Then he remembered what she had once said about the obligation to reply to letters and wondered if she might then feel she needed to say more, when it really wasn't necessary. "Perhaps best to leave it as it is," he said, folding the letter up and putting it into his pocket. "Least said, soonest mended."

10 June 1931

"I were talking to cousin Joe the other day," Tom said suddenly one evening over supper.

"Oh yes?" Lily replied distractedly, as she poured him some coffee. "What about?"

"Well, you know 'is daughter, Emily."

"Yes…"

"And you know she don't keep too well."

"I do."

"Well…Joe were thinking that it might do 'er some good to get some sea air. Scarborough, maybe. She's always 'ad that bad chest and 'e reckons going somewhere like that might make 'er feel a bit better."

"I suppose it might," Lily said, sitting down opposite him. "Is 'e going to take 'er then?"

"Well…" Tom hesitated. "Actually, 'e were wondering if you might go with 'er?"

Lily paused and stared at him. "Me? I barely know Emily."

"I know that, and so does Joe, but 'e's not that keen to leave the farm and 'e doesn't think she would manage on 'er own. We both reckoned that another lass would be best, someone around Emily's own age."

"I'm five years older."

"Well, that's not much, is it? I reckon Joe would really appreciate it if you said yes."

"But…but where would we stay? What would we do? 'ow long are we even talking for?"

"Couple of weeks?" Tom shrugged.

"A couple of weeks?!" she exclaimed. "Dad, you practically pace the floor if I'm a few minutes late back from church and now you want me to go all the way to Scarborough for a couple of weeks? 'ow the 'eck are you going to manage on your own?"

"I'd manage fine," he replied, slightly huffily. "I'm not completely useless, you know. I could…'ave my tea at the Drovers occasionally and, well, other than that I would manage. World won't stop turning just because you're away on 'oliday."

She stared at him across the table, almost unable to comprehend what he was saying. This, from the man who barely let her out of his sight, who had made it oh so subtly clear that she belonged at Windy Hill and nowhere else and now… "What's this really about, Dad?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You don't really want me to go all the way to Scarborough with Emily, do you? This is about something else, isn't it?"

"It's about me wanting to do something nice for me cousin…and me daughter," he replied. "If you don't want to go, just say and I'll tell Joe it's a non-starter."

"I didn't say that. I just…" she shook her head. "This isn't like you."

"Well…" he looked down at the tabletop. "You've been…I don't know…different of late."

"Different?"

"Aye, ever since you went for dinner with that vet."

"You mean S…Mr Farnon," she looked away.

"Aye, 'im. I don't know what 'appened when you were with 'im. I 'ope to God nothing I need be concerned about. But you went out that door one person and came back another and you've been like that ever since. Perhaps a…a change of scene might…do you good. Bring you back to yourself again."

She got to her feet and turned to the sink, mechanically washing the dishes that were sat there. In a way, he was right. Dinner, Siegfried's letter, her reply…in the last few weeks she knew that she had been different, melancholy, stuck in a circle of embarrassment and self-blame. Every time she thought about how eagerly she had accepted his affection and craved more, she felt stupid. Every time she thought about what he had said, she felt embarrassed. Every time she re-read his letter, though she knew it had been meant by way of explanation, she felt rejected.

"So…what do you say?"

She turned back around to face her father, his expression one of hopeful expectation. Not expectation that she might expand her horizons and become a happier person, but expectation that she return to how she was before she ever laid eyes on Siegfried Farnon. Perhaps, for her own wellbeing, that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

"I say, yes," she replied. "Tell Joe that I'll go to Scarborough."

20 June 1931

"And now for our final hymn, Oh God our Help in Ages Past."

Siegfried jerked slightly as Mrs Hall elbowed him in the side and, to his shame, he realised that for at least the last half hour, he had tuned out of Reverend Thwaite's service. Rising to his feet, he quickly turned his hymn book to the right page but found that he had little notion to sing. The church was warm, the sun outside beating in the window, and his thoughts had been focused on two things quite far away from anything of religious significance.

One was the fact that Tristan would be arriving on the train the following day, freshly out of school for the last time, and looking forward to, no doubt, eight weeks of complete nonsense prior to the next stage in his life which, Siegfried couldn't help but hope, would be university. According to his last phone call, Tristan had said that his exams had gone rather well and that he was expecting to achieve the desired results in August that would allow him to progress to veterinary college.

"And you're absolutely sure that's what you want to do?" Siegfried had asked him.

"Of course," Tristan had replied. "What else is there?"

"Well…" he had wanted to say that there were a million other things his brother could do if he so wished, but in the same way that he imagined his own father's pleasure at Siegfried himself going to veterinary college and, perhaps, one day joining him in practice, so too did he feel something of the same. It would be quite something for them to practice together in Darrowby. Not that the next six years wouldn't be trying for them both…

The second thing was Lily, or rather the lack of her. He had seen neither hide nor hair of her since they had dined together almost a month earlier. His hope of perhaps seeing her around the village had not come to fruition and, as he had looked around the congregation that morning prior to the service starting, had concluded that, once again, she wasn't to be found at church. Though he knew he had made his feelings quite clear to her in his letter, he often found himself thinking of her. Her eyes, her smile, the way she had felt under his hands…

"Stop it," he said, unaware that the words had come out of his mouth right as the signing had ceased. Glancing to his left, he saw Mrs Hall looking at him and he merely shook his head in response. The minister gave his final benediction and then the service was over.

"I'm just going to 'ave a word with Helen Dinsdale," Mrs Hall said, "then we'll get 'ome for lunch."

"Right you are," he replied, watching her disappear amongst their fellow worshippers. As he was wondering whether or he not he really needed to go to the Rudd farm that afternoon or whether the call could wait until the following morning, he turned suddenly and came face to face with Tom Bailey. "Ah…Mr Bailey."

"Mr Farnon," the other man greeted him sombrely.

"It's a nice day."

"Yes, it is."

"Is uh…is Lily not with you this morning?" he asked casually. "Only I didn't see her inside."

"She's not 'ere," Tom replied.

"Oh…well, that's a shame. Please…uh…pass on my best regards to her when you get home."

"She's not at 'ome neither."

"Oh?" he couldn't help his curiosity being piqued. "Is she…is she all right?"

"She's fine. Gone to Scarborough with me cousin's daughter. Bit of sea air do them both the world of good."

"Well…Scarborough will be lovely this time of year. Is it…a day trip or…?"

"Not sure 'ow long she'll be away for," Tom replied. "Few weeks perhaps."

"I see. And you're managing all right at the farm without her?"

"That's right."

"Well that's…that's encouraging to hear. I hope you enjoy the rest of your day." He made to move away, but Tom stepped in front of him, blocking his path. "Mr Bailey…"

"I don't know what you said to 'er, or what you did to 'er," Tom said. "But I'll be keeping me eye on you, Farnon, mark my words."

"I really…I really don't know what you're suggesting…"

"My lass 'asn't been 'erself since she came back from 'aving dinner with you. I only 'ope when she gets back from 'er 'oliday that she's back to normal."

"You mean, back to being your maid and cook, destined to live the rest of her life with you up at Windy Hill?" The words came out before he could stop them, and he immediately wished he could take them back, for Lily's sake.

Tom's eyes narrowed. "You don't know anything about my daughter, or me, Mr Farnon. I'd thank you to keep your opinions to yourself." He stepped back. "I shall be contacting Mr Trotter if I 'ave any issues with my beasts in future. Good day to you."

Siegfried opened his mouth to say something more, but the other man was gone and, when he turned back around, he saw Mrs Hall behind him.

"What were that all about?"

"Nothing," he replied hurriedly. "Nothing at all."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, quite sure." They started making their way back to Skeldale House. "Mr Bailey was saying that Lily is in Scarborough."

"Oh, 'ow nice. On 'oliday?"

"So it would appear."

"Nice part of the country, Scarborough. Especially at this time of year. She there on 'er own?"

"No, with her cousin's daughter."

"Well I 'ope she 'as a lovely time. Lord knows she deserves a break from Windy Hill."

"Yes…" he mused, "she does."

As Mrs Hall made the final preparations for lunch, he wandered into the sitting room and over to the bookcase, The History of Veterinary Medicine back in its rightful place on the shelf. For a moment, he simply stared at it, seeing in his minds eye the image of her lifting it and flicking through it. She had looked so pretty that evening, so beautiful when they had gone to dinner and when he had kissed her…

"Enough!"

Mrs Hall suddenly appeared in the doorway and looked around as though expecting to find company. "Everything all right?"

"What…? Yes, yes…I'm…I'm fine," he replied. "I'm absolutely fine."

"Mr Farnon…"

"What?!"

She paused and then shook her head, "Nothing."