by Lisa Kleypas
One of the fallen, Captain Brighton, brought a rough terrier named Albert, who is undoubtedly the most badly behaved canine in existence. After Brighton was lowered into the ground, the dog sat by his grave and whined for hours, and tried to bite anyone who came near. I made the mistake of offering him a portion of a biscuit, and now the benighted creature follows me everywhere. At this moment he is sitting in my tent, staring at me with half-crazed eyes. The whining rarely stops. Whenever I get near, he tries to sink his teeth into my arm. I want to shoot him, but I’m too tired of killing.
Families are grieving for the lives I’ve taken. Sons, brothers, fathers. I’ve earned a place in hell for the things I’ve done, and the war’s barely started. I’m changing, and not for the better. The man you knew is gone for good, and I fear you may not like his replacement nearly so well.
The smell of death, Pru … it’s everywhere.
The battlefield is strewn with pieces of bodies, clothes, soles of boots. Imagine an explosion that could tear the soles from your shoes. They say that after a battle, wildlflowers are more abundant the next season—the ground is so churned and torn, it gives the new seeds room to take root. I want to grieve, but there is no place for it. No time. I have to put the feelings away somewhere.
Is there still some peaceful place in the world? Please write to me. Tell me about some bit of needlework you’re working on, or your favorite song. Is it raining in Stony Cross? Have the leaves have begun to change color?
Yours,
Christopher Phelan
By the time Beatrix had finished the letter, she was aware of a peculiar feeling, a sense of surprised compassion pressing against the walls of her heart.
It didn’t seem possible that such a letter could have come from the arrogant, all-knowing Christopher Phelan. It wasn’t at all what she had expected. There was a vulnerability, a quiet need, that had touched her.
“You must write to him, Pru,” she said, closing the letter with far more care than she had previously handled it.
“I’ll do no such thing. That would only encourage more complaining. I’ll be silent, and perhaps that will spur him to write something more cheerful next time.”
Beatrix frowned. “As you know, I have no great liking for Captain Phelan, but this letter … he deserves your sympathy, Pru. Just write him a few lines. A few words of comfort. It would take no time at all. And about the dog, I have a little advice that might help—”
“I am not writing anything about the dratted dog.” Prudence gave an impatient sigh. “You write to him.”
“Me? He doesn’t want to hear from me. He thinks I’m peculiar.”
“I can’t imagine why. Just because you brought Medusa to the picnic…”
“She’s a very well-behaved hedgehog,” Beatrix said defensively.
“The gentleman whose hand was pierced didn’t seem to think so.”
“That was only because he tried to handle her incorrectly. When you pick up a hedgehog, you have to slide your palms beneath—”
“No, there’s no use telling me, since I’m never going to handle one. As for Captain Phelan … if you feel all that strongly about it, write a response and sign my name.”
“Won’t he recognize that the handwriting is different?”
“No, because I haven’t written him yet.”
“But he’s not my suitor,” Beatrix protested. “I don’t know anything about him.”
“You know as much as I do, actually. You’re acquainted with his family, and you’re very close with his sister-in-law. And I wouldn’t say that Captain Phelan is my suitor, either. At least not my only one. I certainly won’t promise to marry him until he comes back from the war with all his limbs intact. I don’t want a husband I would have to push around in an invalid’s chair for the rest of my life.”
“Pru, you have the depth of a puddle.”
Prudence grinned. “At least I’m honest.”
Beatrix gave her a dubious glance. “You’re actually delegating the writing of a love letter to one of your friends?”
Prudence waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Not a love letter. There was nothing of love in his letter to me. Just write something cheerful and encouraging.”
Beatrix fumbled for the pocket of her walking dress, and tucked the letter inside. Inwardly she argued with herself, reflecting that it never ended well when one did something morally questionable for the right reasons. On the other hand … she couldn’t rid herself of the image her mind had conjured, of an exhausted soldier scribbling a hasty letter in the privacy of his tent, his hands blistered from digging the graves of his comrades. And a ragged dog whining in the corner.
She felt entirely inadequate to the task of writing to him. And she suspected that Prudence did as well.
She tried to imagine what it was like for Christopher, leaving his elegant life behind, finding himself in a world where his survival was threatened day by day. Minute by minute. It was impossible to picture a spoiled, beautiful man like Christopher Phelan contending with danger and hardship. Hunger. Loneliness.
Beatrix stared at her friend pensively, their gazes meeting in the looking glass. “What is your favorite song, Pru?”
“I don’t have one, actually. Tell him yours.”
“Should we discuss this with Audrey?” Beatrix asked, referring to Phelan’s sister-in-law.
“Certainly not. Audrey has a problem with honesty. She wouldn’t send the letter if she knew I hadn’t written it.”
Beatrix made a sound that could have either been a laugh or a groan. “I wouldn’t call that a problem with honesty. Oh, Pru, please change your mind and write to him. It would be so much easier.”
But Prudence, when pressed to do something, usually turned intransigent, and this situation was no exception. “Easier for everyone but me,” she said tartly. “I’m sure I don’t know how to reply to such a letter. He’s probably even forgotten that he’s written it.” Returning her attention to the looking glass, she applied a touch of rose petal salve to her lips.
How very beautiful Prudence was, with her heart-shaped face, her brows thin and delicately arched over round green eyes. But how very little of a person the looking glass reflected. It was impossible to guess what Prudence truly felt for Christopher Phelan. Only one thing was certain: It was better to answer, no matter how ineptly, than to withhold a reply. Because sometimes silence could wound someone nearly as badly as a bullet.
Later, in the privacy of her room at Ramsay House, Beatrix sat at her desk and dipped a pen nib into a little well of dark blue ink. A three-legged gray cat named Lucky lounged at the corner of the desk, watching her alertly. Beatrix’s pet hedgehog Medusa occupied the other side of the desk. Lucky, being an innately sensible creature, never bothered the bristly little hedgehog.
After consulting the letter from Phelan, Beatrix wrote:
Captain Christopher Phelan
1st Battalion Rifle Brigade
2nd Division Camp, Crimea
17 October, 1854
Pausing, Beatrix reached out to stroke Lucky’s remaining front paw with a gentle fingertip. “How would Pru start a letter?” she wondered aloud. “Would she call him darling? Dearest?” She wrinkled her nose at the idea.
The writing of letters was hardly Beatrix’s forte. Although she came from a highly articulate family, she had always valued instinct and action more than words. In fact, she could learn far more about a person during a short walk outdoors than she could by sitting and conversing for hours.
After pondering various things one might write to a complete stranger while masquerading as someone else, Beatrix finally gave up. “Hang it, I’ll just write as I please. He’ll probably be too battle-weary to notice that the letter doesn’t sound like Pru.”
Lucky settled her chin beside her paw and half-closed her eyes. A purring sigh escaped her.
Beatrix began to write.
Dear Christopher,
I have been reading the reports about the batt
le of the Alma. According to the account by Mr. Russell of the Times, you and two others of the Rifle Brigade went ahead of the Coldstream Guards, and shot several enemy officers, thereby disordering their columns. Mr. Russell also remarked in admiration that the Rifles never retreated or even bobbed their heads when the bullets came flying.
While I share his esteem, dear sir, I wish to advise that in my opinion it would not detract from your bravery to bob your head when being shot at. Duck, dodge, sidestep, or preferably hide behind a rock. I promise I won’t think the less of you!
Is Albert still with you? Still biting? According to my friend Beatrix (she who brings hedgehogs to picnics), the dog is overstimulated and afraid. As dogs are wolves at heart and require a leader, you must establish dominance over him. Whenever he tries to bite you, take his entire muzzle in your hand, apply light pressure, and tell him “no” in a firm voice.
My favorite song is “Over the Hills and Far Away.” It rained in Hampshire yesterday, a soft autumn storm that brought hardly any leaves down. The dahlias are no longer in stem, and frost has withered the chrysanthemums, but the air smells divine, like old leaves and wet bark and ripe apples. Have you ever noticed that each month has its own smell? May and October are the nicest-smelling months.
You ask if there is a peaceful place in the world, and I regret to say that it is not Stony Cross. Recently Mr. Mawdsley’s donkey escaped from its stall, raced down the road, and somehow found his way into an enclosed pasture. Mr. Caird’s prized mare was innocently grazing when the ill-bred seducer had his way with her. Now it appears the mare has conceived, and a feud is raging between Caird, who demands financial compensation, and Mawdsley, who insists that had the pasture fencing been in better repair, the clandestine meeting would never have occurred. Worse still, it has been suggested that the mare is a shameless lightskirt and did not try nearly hard enough to preserve her virtue.
Do you really think you’ve earned a place in hell? I don’t believe in hell, at least not in the afterlife. I think hell is brought about by man right here on earth.
You say the gentleman I knew has been replaced. How I wish I could offer better comfort than to say that no matter how you have changed, you will be welcomed when you return. Do what you must. If it helps you to endure, put the feelings away for now, and lock the door. Perhaps someday we’ll air them out together.
Sincerely,
Prudence
P.S. Went sketching with Beatrix yesterday. Enclosed is a drawing of a brown hare foraging through the apple orchard at Ramsay House. Unfortunately the subject would not hold still and insisted on running off with a stem of thistle. Clearly these low-minded Hampshire rabbits have no respect for artistic endeavors.
When Beatrix was done, she folded the sheets of paper and tucked in a sketch of a rabbit in the orchard.
She had never intentionally deceived anyone. She would have felt infinitely more comfortable writing to Phelan as herself. But she still remembered the disparaging remarks that he had once made about her. He would not want a letter from that “peculiar Beatrix Hathaway.” He had asked for a letter from the beautiful golden-haired Prudence Mercer. And wasn’t a letter written under false pretenses better than nothing at all? A man in Christopher’s situation needed all the words of encouragement one could offer.
He needed to know that someone cared.
And for some reason, after having read his letter, Beatrix found that she did indeed care.
