Four months had passed since Jacob and Lydia had returned to the village. There had barely been time for him to settle her at his grandfather’s ancestral home before he had to hurry off to catch the coach. He had given her a swift kiss on her grief-numbed lips, which she had barely felt in the daze of activity, and murmured quick instructions to pack her belongings, and her father’s books, and bring them to the manor. And to write to him. He had promised he would return within a month or two, as soon as he could secure leave.
However, within days of his departure, news had spread that the French dictator had escaped from the island of Elba, and by March, war had broken out. She and her new husband had been able to exchange only a couple of letters before he had departed for the Continent.
