The smile faded quickly. Nieces, and for that matter nephews, might be all very well in their way, but there wasn't a letter from Rowan in the pile –and that outweighed any amount of other cheering or comforting news.

The logical conclusion – logical at least to anyone who did not know Rowan - was that she had found someone else in his absence and simply stopped writing to him. He couldn't believe it though. Roger knew that the rest of his family – except, of course, Nancy – thought he was over -optimistic. He didn't want to believe that it had happened like that. Where would she meet that someone, for one thing? Even if she had, he couldn't bring himself to believe that Rowan would allow herself to shirk the necessary awkward letter.

Rowan had written to him frequently – at least once a week throughout January and the first part of February. Then there had been a fortnight's gap, then one letter. Then, nothing posted from the end of February onwards. She would be busy with lambing of course. Long, cold nights followed by days with much work. He could understand if the letters had become shorter and less frequent.

Had she been ill? Had she had an accident, and broken her right arm? Surely though someone else could write for her?

The RAF wasn't given to losing people's letters for them. Perhaps a bunch of letters had been heading east as he had been heading west. He would get an early night and go to Trennels in the morning.

Roger woke up at midnight, sweating and cold, remembering what Bridget had said about how easy it was for a tractor to topple and kill its driver. If that had happened...

If that had happened, someone – conscientious Ann, sturdy Nicola, someone - would have written, would have told him. It was still too early to set out. He persuaded himself back to sleep.

When Roger woke at 4am he didn't even try to get back to sleep, but set out for Trennels. Crossing the bridge at Wallingford, he remembered that he hadn't checked how much petrol was in the tank. Billington wasn't the sort of fellow to accept the loan of a machine for a couple of months and hand it back running on the vapour, but Roger knew he had no reason to assume a full tank. He was in no mood to peer inside the tank in the dim beginnings of dawn though.

By Newbury he checked – walking a mile or two with a petrol can wouldn't speed up his journey. The contents of the tank would last him well into Dorset at least and perhaps as far as Trennels.

By the time he was approaching Salisbury, Roger decided that he may as well start keeping an eye out for somewhere to buy fuel. He found somewhere for breakfast first – strong tea, eggs and sausages with a couple of thick slices of bread and butter. The eggs were fresh and the sausages weren't too bad. He should have enjoyed them more than he did.

At least Roger could honestly claim to have eaten breakfast if he was asked. There was a fair chance that breakfast would be comfortably over when he arrived. Switching off the petrol feed, he wondered if he was still a backdoor visitor.

Only one way to find out. There was no one human about in the yard.

Mrs Herbert answered the backdoor pretty promptly, sleeves rolled past her elbows. Washing up after breakfast, Roger guessed.

"Mrs Marlow had best speak to you, I reckon," was her response, almost before Roger had finished his request to know if Rowan was about. Roger found himself ushered into the drawing room. There was a chill in the air that was not merely physical. If it was that obvious even to him, Roger thought, whatever the problem was must be serious. This was no mere case of muddy-footmarks-on-nice-clean-floors. (And in any case he had been careful not to.)

"Good morning, Roger." They stood facing each other across the worn but originally good carpet.

"Hello, Mrs Marlow."

There was a pause.

"I was hoping to speak to Rowan." He had never thought that Rowan would shirk seeing him – even if all she had to say to him was "goodbye". Of course, he hadn't announced his arrival in advance either. She could well be on some far flung part of Trennels' many acres.

"Yes, yes of course you are."

The silence lengthened again. The mantelpiece was provided with an especially loud clock, which was doing its utmost to add to the awkward atmosphere. Mrs Marlow seemed to be inwardly flustered. Roger wasn't feeling too calm himself, but he'd be damned if he was going to let it show.

"Yes, of course you are," Mrs Marlow repeated. "You see, the thing is… I don't suppose she has written to you, has she?"

"Not since the end of February. It was quite short – but it didn't say anything to indicate that I would be unwelcome here."

"Of course you're not – unwelcome here I mean." She sounded flustered now. "Only – well – Rowan isn't here anymore."

"Where is she?" Roger kept his voice quiet. He knew he had not managed to hide the tension in it. He wasn't quite sure why this should feel like a battle - of sorts.

"I..."

Roger remained silent. Mrs Marlow dropped her gaze again.

"I don't have an address for her. She… argued with her father and handed her notice in."

More silence.

"So you don't know where she is?"

"No. I don't know where Rowan is. If I did, I wouldn't be asking you." She paused. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No, thank you. I won't trouble you any further. Good morning."

"Good morning," came the automatic response as Roger was already striding from the room. He had a reason for not wanting Mrs Marlow to see him to the door. His luck was in – it generally was; Mrs Herbert was still in the kitchen.

"Is it true?" he demanded in a low voice. "They really don't know where Rowan is? I won't pester her if she doesn't want to see me. It's just…"

"Quite true, Mr Roger. And if…"

A footstep on the quarry-tiled floor. Roger found he didn't give a damn if Mrs Marlow was offended by him checking on her veracity.

"Goodbye"

"Goodbye"

London. That would be the next place to try. That Mrs Herbert, usually so careful to address him by rank, should address him in the same manner she had addressed Jon suggested that something more was amiss than it seemed.

With thanks once again to Fergus for proof-reading.