There was general surprise to see her returned so soon. She fancied that Cousin Violet might have rather hoped that the move was permanent. People were at least kind in their surprise, though they remained confused. Everyone seemed to be waiting for her to explain something; why she was back so soon, why she was suddenly in altered, arguably better, spirits.

She did not tell them about the letter, and Molesley seemed to understand that it was not something to be mentioned. She did not want them knowing about the note. It had been clear before she left that they saw her hope as a little desperate. She wanted to keep this to herself, and guard it from the sympathetic suspicion that it was something she had invented or fabricated to ease her mind. Matthew, she might have been tempted to tell, had he been there, but he was not.

It was hard, though, not being able to confide in anyone. She had returned in a hurry, expecting something to happen immediately, and when it did not she could not shake the feeling that something was about to happen, some unnamed yet momentous event. She wondered where he was. She wondered if he was alright. She prayed that he was. Every time a new patient was brought into the hospital, a thrill of horror ran through her as she imagined seeing his face at the head of a mangled body. She held her breath for half a second whenever a patient's first name was Richard, dreading the possibility of the surname being Clarkson. Nor could she sleep very easily. Every time she got into bed she would wait hours before sleep overtook her. She would lie in bed and imagine him lying beside her, holding her. She would dream that he was making love to her and wake up in a flushed sweat. She ached for him.

The longer she waited the more she began to think that maybe the family were right, maybe she had made the whole thing up to console herself. Every time those thoughts gathered, she would take his letter out of her inside pocket, and read it as many times as it took. It was his handwriting. It was his brief, but beautifully powerful phrasing. She could not remember waiting for so long and with such intensity for anything in her life.

And then, a telegram;

Have been given leave. Home on next convoy. My love. R.

She could not believe it. A telegram bringing news of life, not death. She wanted to cry. She was overcome.

She must have staggered slightly as she read it, because Mrs Hughes crossed the hall quickly to see if she was alright.

"What is it, Ma'am?" she asked.

Isobel showed her the telegram, her voice failing her.

Mrs Hughes raised an eyebrow, looking at her in bafflement.

"Well," she murmured, sounding more than a little unsettled, "That it a turn up for the books."

It suddenly returned to Isobel that everyone else still though that Richard was dead.

She grinned at her own momentary stupidity, squeezing Mrs Hughes' hand for a second, letting her know it was alright.

"He's coming home," she whispered, "I've been waiting for this for so long."

But as the initial happiness wore off, she began to wonder at how on earth this happening. How was he being sent home, and how soon would he have to leave again? More importantly, how had she come to be told that he had been executed- the word still made her shiver- for cowardice? How had he known, and tried to warn her, that she might receive bad news of him? What was she going to do when a man everyone thought was dead turned up in the village and wanted to marry her?

She wanted an explanation, she wanted several explanations.

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