Twenty minutes later, as I was making my way to the Rabbit Hutch -- plate with a cheese-and-sauce sandwich in one hand and a carefully balanced cup of tea in the other -- I heard the sputtering and coughing of a motorcycle coming from the forecourt.

That would be Father O'Shea on his monthly round.

It was a wonderful gesture that he took it upon himself to visit us, as he was under no obligation to. In fact, he'd been the one to approach us during the war. He'd simply shown up one day and asked if we had any Catholics and were their souls being cared for as well as their injuries?

Dr Corriton could hardly refuse to have a man of the cloth underfoot, although he thought him even more of a nuisance than me and my silly projects. I'd taken an immediate liking O'Shea, if only for allowing me the pleasure of seeing  Dr Corriton stiffen and flee whenever he appeared, Bible in one hand, pack of cards in the other.

Sure as a weeds, Father O'Shea's cheery, wind-reddened face peered around the edge of the door of the Hutch and grinned at me.

"Thought I'd find you here working hard, Miss Altringham."

"I've only just arrived. The same as you," I quipped back, waving my hand over the papers and files on the table in front of me to indicate none of it had been seen to yet.

"Ah," he said, coming into full view in the doorway, his clerics collar only just visible under the thick, black motoring scarf and brown leathers. "But I've already read a mass and heard a round dozen snoozingly boring confessions. I always look forward to these Sundays at Cloud Hill, you know. The men here never bore me."

"No? Are we far worse sinners than most under your care, Father?" I teased him.

"Not worse, just far more imaginative than the old-age pensioners in Tunbridge Common. And you've got Whist players."

I laughed. It was true. He was a mean hand at the Whist table and always played a few rounds with any willing victims before he rumbled off to see to the health of more souls.

"Pip pip!" a loud voice from behind O'Shea called out.

O'Shea threw a glance behind himself and quickly moved aside. Rhys-Jones wheeled energetically into the room, winking at me. I smiled back conspiratorially, as I knew how much the basket toads loved opportunities to startle unsuspecting two-leggers. And startling a priest was an extra bonus, no matter how popular he was.

"Right," O'Shea began. "I'll be off then. I've got my flock to tend to ... the lame and wicked to console." He arched an eyebrow and shot a look at Rhys-Jones, who smiled back, the picture of innocence. "Good day, Miss Altringham, and good day to you, young man."

"Good day, Father, and thank you for continuing to visit us. We do appreciate it."

"Only doing the Lord's work. And my own."

Indeed he was, unlike the vicar from the village who roundly refused to come out to the house chapel. No, our local man of God felt what few, true believers were lurking on the estate could jolly well trundle down to his sombre little church every Sunday, if they were so inclined. He honestly couldn't be bothered. 

The reputation of returning Tommies was not sterling, to say the least, but the local vicar seemed to hold something against us personally. I'd been told stories of the suspicious, thunderous looks from the pulpit and barely veiled references to us whenever a few had made the trek. 

Father O'Shea didn't seem to judge the men nearly as harshly, not by yards. Yes, they had all their problems and had been exposed to incredible violence, yet that did not make them more dangerous or depraved than your average man. But then, he didn't have his own church and parish to think about. O'Shea was just as much an outsider as we were.

After a while Pritchard showed up in the office to help us with the dull task of putting together our meeting schedule and getting all the papers and memorandum sheets in order for the next day. 

When we were finished, I decided to take the back way out and see how the house vegetable patches were coming along.  The string-and-wood trellises that would support the contents of our soup pots in a few months had only just been put up and I was always a bit nervous about the new shoots. 

Me and my daft cabbages, as Charlotte would have grumbled.

Happy laughter floated on the breeze from somewhere and I followed it to the edged of the garden to see who was having a merry time of it. Hopping through the turnips seedlings, I peeked around the corner of the East Wing of the house and looked over to the small chapel my great grandfather had erected in the middle of what had been a glorious flower garden in his day.

By the chapel door, Father O'Shea stood chatting and joking with a few men. Mass over, time for Whist, I thought, smiling. I turned to be on my way, when James stepped out of the chapel and joined the group. Surprise stopped me cold and I stared.

Was James Catholic? I hadn't thought so. I thought he'd been no more believing than the average soldier, as far as I remembered. He'd never attended religious services. Had that changed, as well?

I felt like some kind of spy, standing there watching the group from behind the brickwork, but I didn't move away. Instead, I leaned as far forward as I could to catch any words the wind carried my way, idly curious to know what they were talking about.

After a few minutes, the men began to slowly drift as a group towards the Infirmary, where a card table had already been set up, no doubt.

O'Shea said something and James smiled at him.

A real smile.

Not the faint ghost of a smile he'd shown me a few times, but that gorgeous, dazzling smile I remembered so well. The one that had drawn me to him and made me forget where I was, and who I was, for months.

For an instant that seemed far, far longer, jealous flared up in me hotter than I'd ever felt it in my life. My knees went to pudding and I had the urge to slump over and be sick straight into the daisies. My smile. He'd given my smile away to someone he barely knew, but he'd refused it to me. But then the feeling disappeared just as quickly as it had come, and I was left with a rapidly beating heart and a metallic taste in my mouth. 

I watched the group walk on until they reached the Infirmary.

Something was wrong. With me. 

His body had felt so wonderful and the feeling of him stroking my hair. . . and if remnants of his feelings for me were still there, that was a pity, but a reality I was entirely responsible for.

I knew nothing of this new James Davis.  For heaven's sake, he was as good as a stranger! A gruff, rude stranger! I had no idea what was going on under the surface, in his mind and heart, anymore. His body was familiar, his face, even most of his gestures. Good Lord, he'd shown he still could care, but what about me? 

Another wave of jealousy -- hot and possessive -- washed over me. . . and, and then guilt and finally . . . loneliness.

I had far too many responsibilities and not nearly enough time for myself. Or anyone I could really care about intimately. Charlotte and her dizzy life was a wonderful escape and a true support, but she was in London and London was continents away from where I was most of the time.

The Great War might be over but I realised right then, surrounded by bean shoots and the fuzzy tops of radishes, that I was in the middle of fighting my own, personal battle for the Aftermath. 

The battle to have a life for myself again. And I was losing, that much was becoming clear. Painfully losing.

I wanted him back. I wanted my lad back. So much so, it was a physical ache in my muscles and I felt tears welling up, stinging my eyes.

Oh, dash it all.

I hadn't realised until that very moment how bitterly I'd missed him.

Was that the real reason I'd run after him and forced him to come home with me? Insulted him and wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, no matter how he struggled to walk away? Not charity. Not helping 'one of ours'. Had I recognised my own happiness and dropped everything to chase it down the most aggressive way I knew how? Had he captured me, all those years ago, like I'd captured him? Not with love, with need.

I'd had to let him go, send him back, during the war. I'd had no claim on him, the Army did. But now? There was no time limit. No one else claiming him for themselves.

I'd dropped him and he'd fallen so low he'd never got up again, he said. All he wanted was to be left alone by good people who confused compassion with passion. Left alone by me. 

Perhaps my bright spark was out of my reach for good. Perhaps he really had died in some bloody, horrific trench years ago and only the shell was left moving about. An exact copy of him that would torture me with what happiness had been in the past and what happiness the future would never hold. 

I bit my lip and shook my head.

Oh, Olivia. Whatever have you done?