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‘The police have been informed, of course, and if we hear first, we shall certainly contact you immediately and I hope you will do the same for us?’

‘Of course.’

Deep down Alex didn’t believe they’d hear from Matthew again; she suspected James Feeney might have been driving that vehicle.

She was wrong, though. Waiting at home on her return was a nondescript parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, with a printed address by a hand she wasn’t familiar with. However, when she opened the box, she discovered it was a ruse to prevent anyone seeing a letter from Matthew. He’d hidden his letter inside. Alex tore open the envelope.

My dear Alex,

By the time you receive this I will be far from the reach of those who would commit me as a madman – far away from Yorkshire. In fact, sweet wife, as you read, I shall probably be crossing the English Channel, heading for Paris, towards my beloved James, to live in a country that is tolerant of men who find comfort in the arms of each other.

I hate the churchgoing bigots who claim to be good, tolerant people, and yet would gladly clap a man into chains to be tortured, drugged and straitjacketed for the rest of his life for a situation he can no more help than if he had an ailing heart or club foot.

I was born this way and I shall die this way but I refuse to spend my life being called a moral imbecile. I won’t go into the atrocities of life at Bootham and I am, my love, forever grateful for all that you did to have me moved. Dr Ely can keep his dead man’s testicles! Do you know, he was preparing a special concoction to make me sicken from both ends . . . as though I had dysentery! I shall stop, for my hands tremble with rage at what he had planned for me.

By now you’ve surely worked out I had an accomplice, and help came from the most unexpected quarter. I owe my life to your lover, Henry Blakeney. It is Harry, as he insisted I call him, who drove a delivery van and organised my escape out of the Retreat. It was Harry who paid for and smuggled me onto this train speeding me south to London, where I gather a young lady has been hired to be photographed at a hotel with me by a private investigator. A chambermaid will be paid off to be interviewed and testify that I was seen entering the room and that I’d spent the night with a flame-haired beauty, who couldn’t be my wife, who is dark-haired, et cetera. All of this is to ensure the divorce can go through, although I fear Minerva may need some little pills from Dr Rochester to get through that episode. I am deeply sorry for this trouble to your parents, whom I am fond of.

From London, after the covert business is completed, I gather we shall take the Pullman to Brighton, where Harry knows he can overnight me in secret and reunite me with James, whom he has also helped to escape south.

From Brighton we shall make our way across to France and while Paris is our first destination I doubt we shall remain there, my darling, so please don’t look for me, don’t fret for me, don’t think on me again. In all of this the only guilt I feel is for you and how I duped you into marriage as my protection. But, dear Alex, if you could travel back in time and walk in my cowardly shoes, you would know how scared I was, both of war, of being discovered as homosexual and different to the other men, and of being bayoneted in the back by one of our own. Harry agrees there is nowhere to hide in a trench and while I am at a loss for how to repay him for being so understanding and supportive I know he is actually doing all of this for you because Harry loves you . . . this much is clear.

Oddly, while he makes it possible for me to be with the person I love most, I realise he cannot be with the one he loves. He told me how you blame him for my demise and while I cannot fix this situation, all I can do is ask you to think of this strapping, handsome fellow who sits brooding and, yes, even scowling right now, as a hero. He is a saviour to me and it is Harry who persuaded me that granting you the uncontested divorce you surely crave is the very least I can do under the circumstances.

He has agreed to extend his solicitor’s services to me so I can help you to negotiate the legal ending of our marriage at the appropriate time that suits you. I am giving you your freedom, together with the house, all of its contents and everything in the bank. It’s all yours. I fortunately squirrelled away some not insignificant savings over the years and James and I shall be fine. Harry has offered financial help should we ever need.

Truly, Alex, I would have found a way to kill myself in the asylum, of that you can be sure. And even the Retreat – as kind and gentle as it was – was nonetheless a different sort of prison and I am not a bird who lives happily caged. I need to fly free and, like most birds, I am faithful to my mate. But if I were to name a soulmate, it would be you, darling Alex.

You made me want to cheer so loudly on that day of the Sectioning. I have never felt more proud of anyone. You are formidable in full flight and I hope you will take this freedom that’s been negotiated and not only find someone worthy of your love but make all the Frobishers down the years exceptionally proud of you as you thumb your nose at society and open that shop of yours. Alex the shopgirl! Poor Minerva – she’ll surely swoon on the day of opening.

I am wishing you love, success, children, joy, peace in your heart and, above all, that you’ll find forgiveness for this flawed man you married. I’m glad you met Harry and that you discovered affection in the arms of a lover who could worship you, even though it was brief.

We shall not meet again but I hold you dear always. Thank you for years of tolerance; there were so many times I wanted to tell you the truth because I knew you deserved it and I think my heart knew you’d even accept me how I was. Another reason to love you from a distance.

Fondest, M.

Alex wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying as she finished reading. Tears fell nonetheless and she was aware they were bittersweet – a mix of joy at Matthew’s escape combined with elation that it was Harry who had orchestrated the breakout. However, this pleasure formed a wreath of sympathy, like flowers wound around the wire of regret formed from a failed marriage, divorce, accusations without proof and, mostly, the memory of Harry’s disappointment in her.

She had failed him in every way, but he had not failed her. Through his disillusionment he had kept his promise to ensure Matthew’s safety, and James’s too. It appeared that among all of them, it was the stranger – the soldier – who was the most capable of showing humanity in not judging the lovers but accepting their tenderness for one another.

She had to see him, if just to ask his forgiveness. Yes, she must go to him! Harry, she understood, would never consider coming back to her after her terse behaviour and accusations. The fault was hers and atonement was hers alone to seek.

28

She’d sat out the month, mostly to comfort her parents, especially her mother who, predictably, was struggling to come to terms with events. Every time Alex broached the subject of divorce her mother refused to listen and took to her bed. She’d finally admitted to the letter from Matthew but refused to show them, lying that she’d burned it. She had no intention of telling them about Harry’s involvement in the escape but she explained that the letter was connected with the feigned one night of debauchery so that a quick divorce could be granted. Alex had admitted he was on the Continent somewhere and she was happy he’d escaped. While she left Giles quietly in charge of organising divorce papers, she made her move south. It was time to seek out Harry and make amends.

Alex was on the train to Brighton and as she stared out of the window to the sprawling, mist-covered countryside of an almost ethereal green, she realised that these were the very rail lines that Matthew’s endeavours were connected with during the war. This carriage she was seated in, though now comfortably reconverted back to a plush first-class compartment for four, was likely used to transport wounded soldiers from the Front or goods and ammunition, food and parcels to the trenches in Western Europe.

She’d not lingered in London. As tempting as it was to be alone in the big city, she was determined to complete this urgent errand. Somewhere deep in her mind Alex knew a tiny part of her wondered if Harry might have called off the wedding and if he might even change his mind on seeing her again. Unlikely. She’d deliberately not read any marriage announcements, unsure she could bear reading about the new Mrs Blakeney.

She sat up straighter in her seat to shake herself free of these thoughts that were redundant. The train had left from London Victoria. She’d paid her ticket of six shillings and fourpence and been informed that there was no buffet on board but there were several tunnels to negotiate, and if she preferred not to close the windows herself against the blackening smoke, then she should sit in a carriage where someone else might help. She was also politely informed that she would leave the train at Haywards Heath and from there a horse-drawn cab would meet first-class passengers for the short journey into Cuckfield.

Alex was among a small crowd to alight at Haywards Heath but she hung back, pretending to search for her buff-coloured cardboard ticket as others passed the ticket inspector.

‘Good morning, madam. How are you?’ he said, clipping her ticket for the return.

‘Very well, thank you. It was a lovely journey down,’ she said, eager to engage the man.

‘We do our best, madam. You’re fortunate, though. There’s been a problem at Three Bridges . . . the next train won’t get through as smoothly. Probably half an hour to forty minutes late, I’m guessing,’ he said, taking out his fob watch and consulting it.