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‘So who can it hurt if you volunteer at the factory? I think it’s something to be admired. Every pair of hands helps.’

‘My mother could be hurt.’

‘We can’t have that. What if you balanced it out?’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You know, white fibs. Ones that can be forgiven.’

She smiled. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, they always need volunteers at the factory hospital. Maybe you could do a hospital shift and then a couple of hours a day you could do some time in the chocolate factory . . .’

‘Why on earth didn’t I think of this before?’

‘I’ll bet my bonnet your parents agree with you that nursing injured soldiers is an honourable way to devote your hours.’

‘They’d both consider it noble at the very least. I’ll mention it tonight over dinner.’

‘Dinner’s at seven tonight, Miss. You’ll need to get a hurry on if we’re to re-pin your hair and get you ready in time.’

They’d reached the house. Alex looked down past St Peter’s School towards Blossom Street, dominated by the convent, famous for its hidden chapel that the mummified hand of local martyr Margaret Clitherow called home. Well, if Margaret could defy Henry VIII’s reformation and hold secret masses as well as harbour persecuted Catholic priests, then surely Alex could find the courage to defy her parents in such a tame way?

‘Can you imagine the pain of Margaret Clitherow’s execution, crushed against a piece of rock the size of a huge turnip?’

‘Ooh, I don’t really like to think on it, Miss.’

‘Margaret Clitherow believed so wholly in her path that not even the fear of being killed so horribly beneath her own door loaded with heavy weights and stones could deter her.’

‘They say it took a quarter of an hour of horror for her to die with that stone breaking her spine,’ Holly offered, helplessly drawn into the conversation.

Alex sighed. ‘And yet my great achievement for today is to have my hair pinned up neatly for dinner and choose what to wear! There has to be more to life, Holly. Men are dying in Europe for my right to live a free life.’

Holly grinned. ‘Too much soul-searching for one evening, Miss. Come on, let’s get Blackberry into her stable. I’ll walk with you.’

2

Holly reached for the jet earrings.

‘I think I’ll just wear the necklace tonight,’ Alex decided. She dipped her head so that the long rope of darkly glittering beads could be hooped over her pinned hair.

Standing, she checked her new outfit in the mirror, adjusting the charcoal lace over a grey-mauve shift beneath. There wasn’t an old-fashioned ‘swag’ in sight on this garment and it only appeared slightly layered because the lace had been used in wide bands in a gentle nod to what had gone before. It was a daring and sleek departure from the draped neckline or fussy high collars of her mother’s choice.

‘I feel thoroughly modern, Holly,’ she admitted.

‘Very beautiful, Miss.’

‘No doubt it will prompt discussion about the show of too much décolletage,’ Alex observed in the arch tone of her mother. ‘I do very much like my hair this way, thank you,’ she said, turning sideways to admire Holly’s handiwork of loosely pinned waves.

‘You look just like the models in the magazines now.’

The lack of plaiting and tight pinning of top curls was a clear echo of the independence that young women were pressing for and together with the sleekly elegant frock, Alex anticipated raised eyebrows.

‘Will you wear some of the new lipstick?’ Holly wondered, a note of excitement in her tone. She picked up the new-fangled cylinder and admired it. ‘Isn’t it wonderful stuff?’

‘And just a fraction defiant.’ Alex grinned. ‘My mother believes colouring the lips is only for women of questionable morals but apparently pinching her lips, which achieves much the same effect, is perfectly legitimate, not at all saucy or aimed to win attention from men.’

‘My mother used to get us to fetch a few berries from the garden.’