Bruce was puzzled as to why Christine was not yet pregnant. They had been married for a year and a half and there was still no sign of what his mother liked to call ‘a happy event’. In one sense there was all the time in the world because he was only twenty-two and a half years of age, and his wife was twenty-four; the fact of her seniority still niggled at him sometimes when he thought about her deception. At first, after her miscarriage – and that was another thing which he continued to find puzzling – they had been careful to avoid conception. But for the last year or so he had stopped making his weekly visits to the chemist’s or the barber’s shop, and Christine had appeared as willing as he was to start a family.

He knew that she had not settled down to life as an RAF wife as well as he might have wished. She had been more contented, though, since they had moved from their married quarters at the camp and bought a house in the nearby village, which was fast developing into a small town. She had shown the housewifely skills, then, to which he had been looking forward, making the pretty honey-coloured stone house into a comfortable home, to which he enjoyed returning at the end of each day. But the monotony of the chores had proved to be not enough to keep Christine happy, and before long she had taken a part-time job.

The main street of the village, at one time, had contained – in addition to the long row of houses – only the church, the pub, and a few shops; a post office, a general store and a bakery. It was now expanding and some of the houses which opened directly on to the pavement had been converted into shops. One of the first of these to open was a high-class ladies’ gown shop, soon to he followed by a gents’ outfitters, a chemist’s, and a ‘boutique’ selling baby linen and fancy goods. Christine had been employed at the shop which sold ladies’ clothing for several months and, gradually, her working hours had increased from part-time to what amounted now to almost full-time employment. With the appropriate payment, of course, but to Bruce that was of minor importance. He would have liked to have his wife with him when he had his time off, rather than see her working on a Saturday which, she insisted, was the shop’s busiest day. Tourists and day trippers were now finding their way to the quaint little Lincolnshire town and she could not be spared, or so she told him. But he guessed that she was enjoying being indispensable, especially when it meant, as it had done last weekend, that she was unable to accompany him to see his parents in Middlebeck.

It had been good to see Bruce at the weekend, thought Rebecca… She paused from her task of dead-heading for a moment to sniff at a particularly fragrant rose, the pale pink of its petals merging almost to a salmon colour at the centre. The rose beds at the front of Tremaine House had been particularly lovely this summer, and what a joy it was to grow flowers again after so many years of ‘Digging for Victory’; although she had insisted on keeping one or two flower beds to cheer and console them through the depressing war days.

And, though she knew it was wrong of her to admit to the thought, it had been good to see Bruce on his own. He was much more like her own dear son again when he was away from Christine, but Rebecca had not shared her feelings with Archie. He got on quite well with his daughter-in-law and never talked disparagingly about her. Well, men looked at these things differently, she supposed, especially where a pretty girl was concerned.

Bruce appeared to be happy, however, in his marriage. He assured her that he was, and on the one occasion when she and Archie had visited them in their new home she had been able to find no cause for alarm, or even for a slight criticism. Christine had shown herself to be a dutiful and contented wife, unless she had been on her best behaviour in front of his parents.

Rebecca wondered now, though, why the young woman needed to go out to work. She certainly did not need to do so for the money; Bruce was able to provide for her quite adequately, which Rebecca had always believed it was a husband’s place to do. She had always found interest and fulfilment enough in her own home without seeking diversions elsewhere. She could not understand why Christine did not feel the same.

But it was unkind of her to criticise the girl, she rebuked herself. Maybe she was really wanting to start a family and only working until such time as that might happen. Rebecca was surprised that it had not happened already. When the two of them had got married in such a hurry she had waited then for what she had thought would be the inevitable news. But she had been wrong… She had felt remorseful then about the suspicions she had harboured concerning Christine – it was sure to have been her fault, she had decided, for leading him on – and then, in her more realistic moments, about her son as well, because it did take two after all…

The truth, of course, was that she did not like her daughter-in-law very much. It was something she tried to hide because she could not give a logical reason for her dislike. It was a question of

to quote the old rhyme.

She was distracted from her thoughts by the click of the garden gate, and she turned round to see a woman coming up the path. She gave a start… It must be that she had just been thinking about the girl, because for a moment she thought that the person coming towards her was Christine. She was older, though, she could tell as the figure came nearer, but she was most definitely the image of her daughter-in-law. She blinked rapidly and took a deep breath. Pull yourself together, Rebecca, she told herself. You’re imagining things.

The woman was dressed in a black suit, despite the heat of the July sun, with a tiny black hat with an eye veil perched on her platinum blonde hair. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry to trouble you. I don’t know whether I’ve come to the right place, but I’m trying to find a young woman called Christine. Christine Myerscough, she used to be called, but I’m afraid I don’t know her married name.’ Her voice sounded quite refined, but with underlying broad Yorkshire vowels.

‘Christine Myerscough, yes… She is married to my son,’ said Rebecca. ‘She’s called Christine Tremaine now.’ She looked at the woman, who met her gaze unflinchingly; her clear silver-grey eyes were so like those of Christine. ‘May I ask, though, why you want to find her? She isn’t here. They live in Lincolnshire, but I would like to know why…’

‘Why do I want to find her?’ said the woman. ‘Because she’s my daughter, that’s why, and because I have some news for her.’

‘Your…daughter?’ gasped Rebecca. ‘But I understood… That is to say, we thought…’ How could she tell this woman that they had believed her to be dead? Clearly Christine had deceived them – and Bruce as well? – because this person, most obviously, was who she said she was, Christine’s mother.

‘I’m Myrtle Myerscough,’ said the stranger, holding out her hand.

‘How do you do?’ replied Rebecca, rather belatedly. ‘I’m Rebecca Tremaine.’

‘What has that daughter of mine been telling you?’ asked Myrtle. ‘A pack of lies no doubt.’ She gave a sorrowful smile. ‘Happen she told you we were both dead and gone, is that it? I wouldn’t put it past her. Well, as a matter of fact that’s what I’ve come to tell her. Fred, my husband – that’s her father whether she likes it or not – he was killed in a road accident last weekend, and I thought she should know.’

‘Oh, my dear, I am so sorry,’ said Rebecca, instinctively putting an arm around the woman, to whom she found herself warming. ‘Do come in and sit down for a while. I’ll make us a pot of tea, and then you can tell me…whatever you think I should know.’

Myrtle Myerscough did not need much persuading, and she followed Rebecca through the spacious hallway and into the elegant drawing room. ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ she said, looking around with an appreciative glance. ‘Oh aye, that daughter of mine knew what she was doing all right, didn’t she? Had her eye on the main chance, I don’t doubt… I suppose you might say she’s her mother’s daughter,’ she added, almost to herself, ‘but she went about things differently from what I did. I suppose they’ve got a bairn by now an’ all, haven’t they, our Christine and…what did you say your son is called?’

‘I don’t think I did,’ said Rebecca, ‘but he’s called Bruce. No…there is no baby.’

‘Well, blow me down! I was wrong then…’

‘Look, why don’t you sit down and make yourself comfortable, and I’ll go and make the tea, then we can have a chat. I can see there is quite a lot we need to talk about.’ Rebecca quite literally pinched herself as she went into the kitchen. Could she be dreaming this? She had always known, though, that there was something odd about Christine…

‘She told us she was brought up by her grandmother,’ said Rebecca, over a cup of tea, ‘and that when her gran died she was quite alone, and that was why she joined the WAAF.’ Better not to dwell on what Christine had said about being an orphan… But why on earth should she say so when it was a downright lie? Because she was ashamed of them for some reason, Rebecca intuited, as she listened to the tale; ashamed of both her mother and her father. Her sympathy, though, was for Myrtle, who, she guessed, was a rough diamond maybe, but not without some finer feelings.

‘Aye, I’m reading between the lines here, and I can see that Lady Muck was ashamed of us,’ said Myrtle, reverting to a more pronounced Yorkshire accent. ‘Well, I suppose I always knew she was. I was nobbut a mill girl, you see, Mrs Tremaine, but I discovered there were other ways of earning a few bob, if you know what I mean. I was always quite a good looking lass…’ Rebecca thought she understood, although it was hard to take in. ‘And my hubby, too, he didn’t always keep to the right side of the law. Anyroad, my mother took the child away from us to live with her, said we were a bad influence on her, so I reckon if she’s grown up despising us we’ve only got ourselves to blame. But as for Fred, well, he’s dead now and the funeral’s on Friday, so I thought I’d best come and tell her.’ A tear glistened in the corner of her eye and Rebecca’s heart went out to her.

‘How far have you travelled, Mrs Myerscough?’ she asked. ‘And how did you know where to come? You said Christine didn’t tell you her husband’s name?’

‘I’ve come from Bradford this morning, and I’ll be going back there tonight. And if you tell me where I can find our Chrissie I’ll try again tomorrow. She came to see me just before she got wed – boasting, of course – but all she let slip was that her fiancé’s folks lived in Middlebeck and that his father was the squire. So when I got here I made some enquiries and Bob’s yer uncle. You’re very well known round here, of course.’

‘Yes, we have been here a long time,’ replied Rebecca. ‘But “squire” is only a courtesy title, I can assure you. It doesn’t mean very much now… My husband should be back shortly, and when you have had a meal with us – yes, I insist that you should – then he can run you back to the station. And of course I will tell you where you can find Christine…’ Rebecca had mixed feelings about this astonishing revelation. She was angry, and sad too, about the way her son – and she and Archie as well – had been deceived. Christine was about to get her comeuppance. But she reminded herself that the girl was about to hear of her father’s death. She, Rebecca, must try to be a little more charitable.

‘They are living in Lincolnshire,’ she told Myrtle. ‘In a village not far from Lincoln…’ She wrote out the address for her on a piece of paper. ‘I believe they are quite happy. Anyway, you will be able to see for yourself. What a shock it must have been for you, my dear, losing your husband so suddenly.’

Myrtle told her, bravely fighting back the tears, that he had been in a head-on collision with another lorry on the main road, returning from Middlesbrough to Bradford. Nobody had really been to blame as the wheels had skidded in the heavy rain. ‘Mind you, he was always in a tearing hurry, dashing to get home on a Saturday night… He wasn’t a bad sort of bloke, all told…’

When Archie returned he insisted that Myrtle should not only stay for a meal but for the night as well, and then make the journey to Lincoln and onwards the following morning. She had no luggage with her, but Rebecca could lend her such personal items as she might require. Whatever the woman’s failings, Rebecca could see that she was as fastidious in her dress and appearance as was her daughter.

Archie was just as shocked and dumbfounded as Rebecca was by the revelations. ‘Aye, it’s a rum do and no mistake,’ he commented, when he returned from running Myrtle to the station on the Wednesday morning. ‘And you reckon she might be a prostitute? I can’t really see that.’

‘I think that is what she was hinting at,’ said Rebecca. ‘But what I can’t get over is the girl deceiving us like that. When all’s said and done they are her parents, no matter what they might have done. It was a wicked thing to do, to tell us they were dead.’

‘Oh well, I dare say Christine had her reasons,’ replied Archie, still unwilling even now to criticise his daughter-in-law. ‘I only hope it doesn’t harm their marriage. They seemed to be getting on very well.’

‘Mmm…yes, of course,’ said Rebecca. ‘They’ll just have to sort things out, won’t they? It’ll put the cat among the pigeons, though, that’s for sure.’ But her hopes for the outcome of this crisis were not the same as her husband’s.

Wednesday afternoon was the only time during the week that ‘Alma’s Fashions’, the shop at which Christine worked, was closed, apart, of course, from all day Sunday. Wednesday was the day when she tidied around and set her little home to rights, and the day on which Bruce tried to get home a little earlier. She would cook a more special meal than usual, then they would go out to the village pub and have a few drinks.

Their house, just off the main street, was only five minutes’ walk from her place of work. It was situated in a secluded little area named Cherry Tree Close. Cherry trees, which in the springtime were a mass of pinkish-white blossoms, lined the pavements. Even now, in the height of summer, they were a pleasant sight with their slender trunks and browny-gold leaves, through which the sun cast dappled shadows on the grass verges.

Altogether, this was an agreeable place in which to live, thought Christine, as she stood at her lounge window, adjusting the curtains of floral chintz and replacing the ornaments she had dusted; her gran’s vase, a cut-glass ashtray, and a posy bowl of china flowers. She was in one of her happier moods that day. She was enjoying working with Alma Copeland in the shop; the woman, some ten years older than herself, was fast becoming a friend as well as her employer. Christine felt, if she played her cards right, that she might before long be offered a partnership in the business, or at least a share of the profits, rather than a weekly wage. One of the perks of working there was that she was able to buy garments at a reduced rate. Only that morning, with Alma’s permission, she had put aside for herself one of the prettiest of their range of summer dresses, which she would pay for at the weekend. Another reason for Christine’s feeling of elation was that she had managed to wriggle out of the visit to Middlebeck the previous weekend, and Bruce would not be pestering her to go there for another month at least. At the moment she was trying to persuade him to take her on a holiday to the south coast. Torquay appeared to be a very nice place from what she had seen in the brochures; an elegant and refined sort of resort; they called it the English Riviera. She felt that Bruce was showing more interest now; she could usually get him round to her way of thinking if she used her most persuasive charms.

She stood still for a few moments, smiling to herself, lost in her reverie. Then she saw a woman coming up the garden path. She gave a start, and the posy bowl slipped out of her fingers and landed on the carpet. Unconsciously, she noticed that one of the flower heads had broken off – hell and damnation! She had paid quite a lot for that piece of china – but there was no time to worry about it now. The woman coming up the path was…her mother! She dodged back behind the curtain, but it was too late; Myrtle had seen her and was raising her hand in greeting. There was nothing she could do. But would she really have pretended there was nobody at home if her mother had not seen her? she wondered.

Trying desperately to compose herself, she went to the door where her mother was waiting. She knew there was no point in being rude to her and telling her to go away, that she wasn’t welcome. She just hoped that Myrtle would say what she had to say and then go, before Bruce returned home. Oh hell, no! That was not very likely; he would be coming home early today. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

‘Hello…’ she said. ‘This is a surprise.’ Her fixed smile did not hold any warmth, neither did her mother’s.

‘Surprise?’ repeated Myrtle. ‘From what I gather it’s more of a bloody great shock than a surprise! It certainly was to your mother-in-law when I turned up on her doorstep. She thought I was pushing up the daisies, didn’t she, me and your dad? Well, that’s what I’ve come to tell you… Aren’t you going to ask me in?’

‘Yes, come in,’ said Christine automatically. Oh, damn and blast and bloody hell! This was dreadful. She must have been to Tremaine House… How else could her mother have found her whereabouts except by seeking out the Tremaines? She was desperately trying to think what she had said. Middlebeck…yes, she had probably mentioned Middlebeck, and her mother, who was no fool, had sorted the rest out for herself. Well, the cat was out of the bag now, and even if Myrtle went away again before Bruce returned there was no way she would he able to prevent him from learning the truth.

Her mother followed her into the lounge and they both sat down on the pink plush armchairs. Myrtle was all in black, Christine noticed, and her eyes looked sad and vacant.

‘Your father’s dead,’ she said suddenly, without any preamble. ‘So what you told them posh in-laws of yours is partly true now; that’s one of us gone…’

Christine felt herself blanch and a spasm of remorse grabbed at her. ‘Oh no!’ she gasped. ‘That’s dreadful! I know it was wrong, what I said, but I thought it was for the best. I didn’t mean to… How did it happen, my dad…?’

‘Road accident,’ said Myrtle, ‘a head-on collision; he was killed outright, or so I believe. The police came to tell me on Saturday night. The funeral’s on Friday, if you want to come. You’ll please yerself, of course, you always do, but if you want to show your respects…’ She gave a cynical laugh. ‘That’s a joke, isn’t it? You never had any respect for him while he was alive, did you? Nor for me, neither, so I can’t expect you to show any now.’

‘Don’t be like that, please…Mum,’ said Christine. For the first time for years she felt genuine tears of regret filling her eyes. ‘I am sorry, really I am… But you know as well as I do that we drifted apart ages ago, and I wanted to make a fresh start, that was all.’

‘And so you have, haven’t you?’ Myrtle nodded. ‘You’ve done very well for yerself, our Chrissie. I’m very impressed with your in-laws. She’s a bit lah-di-dah, mind, but she’s a kind-hearted woman, and that Archie’s as nice a chap as you could wish to meet. Treated me like royalty, they did. I even stayed the night with them. What d’you think about that, eh? You wouldn’t find him, the squire, treating folk as though they’re summat the cat’s dragged in. He’s a proper gentleman.’

‘Yes, so he is,’ agreed Christine. ‘He’s been very kind to me.’

‘And she hasn’t, I take it? Well, if the lady of the manor has been less than welcoming to you it’s no more than you deserve. Happen she can see you for what you are; there’s no flies on Rebecca Tremaine, I’m sure o’ that. Well, she won’t be very delighted with you now, will she, trying to pull the wool over their eyes, the way you’ve done.’

‘I wanted them to think that I came from a nice respectable background…’

‘Respectable, eh? You know what? I think that woman would have admired you more if you’d told the truth, well, some of it at any rate. Did you really think you could fool her that you were out o’ t’ top drawer? That’s the difference between you and me, Chrissie. I don’t pretend to be what I’m not. Oh aye, I’ve tried to better meself and climb a bit higher up the ladder, y’might say. I like having nice clothes and a nice home to live in, same as other folks have. OK, yer father’s been inside a few times, and I’ve earned me money in a way you don’t approve of. But I’ve never lied about meself. I can’t say that folk respect me – happen they don’t – but at least I know that some of ’em genuinely like me. Maybe I don’t look up to folks as I should, but I don’t look down on ’em neither.’

Myrtle was silent for a few moments and so was Christine. She did not know how to answer; all that her mother was saying was painfully true. ‘If this marriage of yours is what you want,’ she went on, ‘then I’m glad for you. If it continues to be what you want, of course. How is your husband going to react when he finds out about the lies you’ve told? I reckon he must have been a gullible young fool in the first place, not to see what you were up to.’

‘He’s not a fool!’ retorted Christine. ‘He’s very trusting, though, I must admit.’ At least he used to be, she thought; too trusting; but she was not so sure that he was always taken in by her now. ‘But I didn’t really mean to deceive him, or his parents. We fell in love, Bruce and me; we really love one another. And I wanted it to work out, that’s all.’

‘And so you tricked him into an early marriage by pretending you were up the duff, is that it?’

‘How did you…? I wasn’t! All I told you when I came to see you was that we were getting married. If you imagine that Bruce had to marry me, then you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’ve told you; he loves me…’

‘Shut up, Chrissie,’ said her mother, not unkindly. ‘I can read you like a book. Well, he sounds worth hanging on to, this fellow of yours. I just hope it keeps fine for you. Am I going to meet him then? Are you expecting him home soon? I can smell summat good cooking in the oven.’

‘It’s a chicken,’ Christine replied tonelessly. ‘He comes home early on a Wednesday.’ She had decided that she must bow to the inevitable. Her mother was not showing any sign of departing and she could not throw her bodily out of the door. Even if she did go, there was no way she could stop Bruce from finding out. She might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, she supposed… ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked meekly. ‘I’m sorry; I should have asked you sooner…’

‘Better late then never,’ said her mother. ‘Thank you, Christine; that would be lovely.’

And that was how Bruce found them when he arrived home some twenty minutes later, sipping tea from the best china cups as though they were bosom pals.

‘Hello, darling,’ he called as he opened the front door. ‘Something smells good…’ He stopped dead on the threshold of the lounge. ‘Oh… I’m sorry; I didn’t realise you had company… How do you do?’ He held out his hand to the woman who was a stranger to him, but Christine could tell from his half smile, half frown that he was puzzled. ‘I don’t think I have had the pleasure…’ he said.

‘Bruce,’ said his wife. ‘This is my mother…’

‘Your…mother?’ He let go of the woman’s hand, but he was still looking at her intently. ‘Yes; I can see… But I don’t understand… I thought… You told me…’

‘Yes, you thought I was dead, didn’t you, lad?’ said Myrtle, ‘and my husband an’ all. Well, as you can see, I’m very much alive and kicking, but my husband died last weekend; killed in a road accident. So I’ve come to tell our Chrissie. Such a job I had to find her, though, but I got here in the end, thanks to your mam and dad. She’ll have a lot of explaining to do, won’t she?’ She nodded towards Christine. ‘But you’d perhaps better leave it till later. I’m sure she had her reasons.’

Christine did not know whether she was being sincere, or just vindictive. What she was most aware of was Bruce’s look of horror, not aimed at her mother but at her, Christine.

‘Mrs Myerscough…’ he began. ‘It is Mrs Myerscough, is it?’

‘Yes, that’s right, but I’d rather you called me Myrtle.’

‘Very well then… Myrtle.’ He smiled uncertainly at her, then almost collapsed into the opposite armchair. ‘I am very sorry to hear about your husband; what a dreadful shock it must have been for you… This has been a great shock to me, as you can see, but at least I am glad to see that my wife…’ he gave her a withering glance, ‘has made you welcome now. You are, indeed, very welcome here. Have you come all the way from Yorkshire today?’

‘Yes, I have… I went up to Middlebeck yesterday, to find out what I could. I knew your father was the squire, you see. Christine told me that bit.’

‘Yes, I can imagine…’ said Bruce thoughtfully.

‘Anyway, your parents very kindly invited me to stay the night; lovely folk they are, Bruce. So I set off again this morning, and I’ll get a train back from Lincoln in a little while. There’s one in the early evening, I’ve been told.’

‘So how did you get up here?’

‘On the bus. I was lucky enough to just catch one. I don’t suppose they run very frequently.’

‘You’re right; they don’t. But don’t worry… Myrtle; I will run you back to Lincoln in the car. But before that you are going to stay and have a meal with Christine and me. She always cooks something special on a Wednesday, don’t you?’ Again, the look he gave her held no sympathy or affection. ‘There will be plenty to go round; isn’t that right, Christine?’

‘Yes,’ she said briefly. ‘I’ll go and see to the vegetables, if you will excuse me.’

‘Thank you very much, Bruce,’ she heard her mother say, as she gladly made her escape. ‘You are a very kind young man. I can quite see why Christine was so taken with you…’

‘But why, Christine, why did you lie to me?’ Bruce asked repeatedly that evening when he had returned from taking her mother to Lincoln station. ‘It wasn’t just a white lie, either. It was downright wicked to tell me that your parents were dead.’

‘One thing led to another, Bruce, and when I’d said it I couldn’t go back. I didn’t want you to think badly of me. I wanted you to think I was from a nice respectable background. I knew your father was somebody important and well thought of…’

‘Yes, you knew my father was the squire and so you decided to latch on to me? I can see it all now.’

‘No, no… It wasn’t like that at all. I loved you, Bruce. I still love you; you know I do…’

‘And so you deceived me time and time again? That’s a strange kind of love, Christine. Telling me you were only twenty when you were twenty-two, and then pretending you were pregnant… Oh yes, I came to my senses about that little ruse a while ago, and I have a pretty good idea as well about why you are not getting pregnant now. But this lie about your parents is the worst of all. How could you imagine I would think badly of you because of what your parents had done? You are not responsible for their actions. I understand that you had a good upbringing with your grandmother? I’m sure she didn’t encourage you to cheat and lie.’

‘I wanted something better,’ she answered sullenly. ‘You have no idea what it was like, living in a hovel like I did, with an outside lav and a zinc bath in the kitchen, and wearing clothes bought from a jumble sale. And I was determined not to go the way my parents had gone to get a bit of extra money; stealing and living off immoral earnings.’

‘What you have done is just as bad, Christine; in fact, in my view it is worse. At least your mother has her own code of honesty. She told me something of her life, and that of your father. Not everything, I don’t suppose, but I can read between the lines. And I can understand, I suppose, why you broke away from them. But you should have told me, right at the start, at least some of the truth. I feel now that I will never trust you again.’

‘Bruce, please don’t say that…’

But for the next two days he scarcely spoke to her.

‘Your father’s funeral is tomorrow,’ he said the next day. ‘You will be going, I take it? I think you should.’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I almost promised that I would.’

‘Then try and keep your word, for once in your life.’

‘Would you…would you care to go with me, Bruce?’ she asked tentatively.

‘No.’ His reply was curt. ‘You will have to do this on your own.’

He did at least run her to the station on Friday morning; the funeral was to take place in the afternoon. She hoped that by the time she came back on Saturday she might be able to work round to a reconciliation with him.

But when she returned home, after spending Friday night in a small hotel near the centre of Bradford, she found that Bruce was not there. He had left a note…

‘Dear Christine, I think it might be as well if we parted company for a while. As I have told you, I feel that I can no longer trust you. I wonder, in fact, if I ever really knew you at all. I will be staying in staff quarters at the camp. For the time being, you may remain in the house. Bruce.’

She screwed up the letter, holding it in a tight ball in her hand. She felt tears of anger and frustration, and of sadness, too, come into her eyes. She had lost him; she supposed she had known all along that Bruce was a man of high principles. Whatever was she going to do now?