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that while Albion isn’t perfect there is a lot to be proud of.’
    â€˜Freedom of the press,’ George said. ‘Freedom of thought.’
    â€˜More or less. And there’s the rule of law. And Democracy.’
    â€˜Votes for women?’
    â€˜Coming soon,’ Aubrey said firmly. He uncrossed his arms and counted on his fingers. ‘Writing. The Arts. Sciences.’
    â€˜Charity,’ George said. ‘Don’t forget charity. Albionites know that it’s the right thing to do to help those less well off than you are.’ He held up a finger. ‘And don’t forget cricket.’
    â€˜How could I? Aubrey said. ‘It’s a good country. Not perfect, but it’s better than the alternative. I’d hate to see it crushed.’
    â€˜That’s the other thing,’ George said. ‘We’re talking about defending ourselves here.’
    Aubrey had visions of invaders marching on Parliament House. Or the Palace. Or Maidstone. He shuddered. ‘While I wouldn’t want Mother to hear it, I’d do what I could to protect her.’ And George’s parents. And Caroline, of course. And Mrs Hepworth. And Harris. Then there’s Bertie...
    â€˜Of course.’ George scowled. ‘I’m worried about Sophie and her family.’
    George had met Sophie Delroy a year ago, while on their Lutetian escapade. They’d been diligent correspondents ever since, and Sophie had visited Greythorn on one memorable occasion. Aubrey thought they were well matched. The sharp and ambitious Sophie and the clearly smitten George.
    â€˜Why not ask them over here for a holiday?’ Aubrey suggested. ‘Plenty of room here at Maidstone.’
    George chewed on this. ‘Or I could ask them to the farm. Father would like that.’
    â€˜They’d be out of harm’s way.’
    â€˜If you allow me to leapfrog sideways, so to speak, it’s true, what you say.’
    â€˜It is?’
    â€˜The best way to lessen worry is to do something about it. One of your maxims, that.’
    â€˜It is?’ Aubrey hadn’t realised he’d appropriated one of his father’s favourite mottos. Not that he minded – he agreed. Doing something – anything – was about the only remedy for the paralysis that worry could bring about.
    â€˜A favourite,’ George said firmly. ‘Now, I don’t think we’ve really decided what we’re going to do.’
    â€˜A question for you, then. How do you feel about being summoned here?’
    â€˜Summoned?’ George frowned. ‘I didn’t really see it like that.’
    Am I being oversensitive? Aubrey wondered, but he went on. ‘Well, what about being described as “foolish”?’
    â€˜Steady on, old man. I think it was our possible actions that were described as foolish, not us.’
    â€˜Aren’t you splitting hairs, George? It sounded to me as if we couldn’t be trusted and we needed to be sheltered for our own good.’
    â€˜I suppose there was a bit of that...’
    â€˜I’m not sure how well that sits with me.’ Aubrey reached out for his cocoa, but his cow mug was cold. ‘I’m worried about this war, George.’
    George stood and brushed off his jacket. ‘Let’s sleep on it. It’s too late to do anything now.’
    Aubrey glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece over the fire. It was after eleven. He’d wanted to wait for his father, but if he wasn’t home by now he may not be home at all. ‘Tomorrow morning it is. Plenty of time then to do something rash.’

Five

    Sir Darius did not come to Maidstone at all. At breakfast – while George stowed away enormous quantities of bacon and eggs – Aubrey thought his mother was doing well to cover her concern, but he saw how she tensed when the telephone rang. When Harris returned, she continued buttering her toast but with the sort of studied