Love in the Afternoon

by Lisa Kleypas

  It was the polite, distancing letter she had written to Christopher Phelan.

  It had never been sent.

  Beatrix went cold all over, her knees threatening to give out from beneath her. “Oh, God,” she whispered, sitting on the nearby chair with such force that it wobbled dangerously.

  She must have given Audrey the wrong letter. The unsigned one that had started with “I can’t write to you again. I’m not who you think I am . . .”

  Beatrix’s heart pounded, straining with the force of panic. She tried to calm her buzzing thoughts enough to think. Had the letter been posted yet? Perhaps there was still time to retrieve it. She would ask Audrey . . . but no, that would be the height of selfishness and inconsideration. Audrey’s husband had just died. She did not deserve to be bothered with trivialities at such a time.

  It was too late. Beatrix would have to let it be, and let Christopher Phelan make what he would of the odd note.

  “Come back, please come home and find me . . .”

  Groaning, Beatrix leaned forward and rested her head on the table. Perspiration caused her forehead to stick to the polished wood. She was aware of Lucky leaping up to the table and nuzzling her hair and purring.

  Please, dear God, she thought desperately, don’t let Christopher reply. Let it all be finished. Never let him find out it was me.

  Chapter Five

  Scutari, Crimea

  “It occurs to me,” Christopher said conversationally as he lifted a cup of broth to a wounded man’s lips, “that a hospital may be the worst possible place for a man to try to get well.”

  The young soldier he was feeding—no more than nineteen or twenty years of age—made a slight sound of amusement as he drank.

  Christopher had been brought to the barracks hospital in Scutari three days earlier. He had been wounded during an assault on the Redan during the endless siege on Sebastopol. One moment he’d been accompanying a group of sappers as they carried a ladder toward a Russian bunker, and the next there was an explosion and the sensations of being struck simultaneously in the side and right leg.

  The converted barracks were crowded with casualties, rats, and vermin. The only source of water was a fountain at which orderlies queued up to catch a fetid trickle in their pails. As the water was unfit for drinking, it was used for washing and soaking off bandages.

  Christopher had bribed the orderlies to bring him a cup of strong spirits. He had sluiced the alcohol over his wounds in the hopes that it would keep them from suppurating. The first time he’d done it, the burst of raw fire had caused him to faint and topple from the bed to the floor, a spectacle that had caused no end of hilarity from the other patients in the ward. Christopher had good-naturedly endured their teasing afterward, knowing that a moment of levity was sorely needed in this squalid place.

  The shrapnel had been removed from his side and leg, but the injuries weren’t healing properly. This morning he had discovered that the skin around them was red and tight. The prospect of falling seriously ill in this place was frightening.

  Yesterday, despite the outraged protests of the soldiers in the long row of beds, the orderlies had begun to sew a man into his own bloodstained blanket, and take him to the communal burial pit before he had quite finished dying. In response to the patients’ angry cries, the orderlies replied that the man was insensible, and was only minutes away from death, and the bed was desperately needed. All of which was true. However, as one of the few men able to leave his bed, Christopher had interceded, telling them he would wait with the man on the floor until he had breathed his last. For an hour he had sat on the hard stone, brushing away insects, letting the man’s head rest on his uninjured leg.

  “You think you did any good for him?” one of the orderlies asked sardonically, when the poor fellow had finally passed away, and Christopher had allowed them to take him.

  “Not for him,” Christopher said, his voice low. “But perhaps for them.” He had nodded in the direction of the rows of ragged cots, where the patients lay and watched. It was important for them to believe that if or when their time came, they would be treated with at least a flicker of humanity.

  The young soldier in the bed next to Christopher’s was unable to do much of anything for himself, as he had lost an entire arm, and a hand off the other one. Since there were no nurses to spare, Christopher had undertaken to feed him. Wincing and flinching as he knelt by the cot, he lifted the man’s head and helped him to drink from the cup of broth.

  “Captain Phelan,” came the crisp voice of one of the Sisters of Charity. With her stern demeanor and forbidding expression, the nun was so intimidating that some of the soldiers had suggested—out of her hearing, of course—that if she were dispatched to fight the Russians, the war would be won in a matter of hours.

  Her bristly gray brows rose as she saw Christopher beside the patient’s cot. “Making trouble again?” she asked. “You will return to your own bed, Captain. And do not leave it again . . . unless your intention is to make yourself so ill that we’ll be forced to keep you here indefinitely.”

  Obediently Christopher lurched back into his cot.

  She came to him and laid a cool hand on his brow.

  “Fever,” he heard her announce. “Do not move from this bed, or I’ll have you tied to it, Captain.” Her hand was withdrawn, and something was placed on his chest.

  Slitting his eyes open, Christopher saw that she had given him a packet of letters.

  Prudence.

  He seized it eagerly, fumbling in his eagerness to break the seal.

  There were two letters in the packet.

  He waited until the sister had left before he opened the one from Prudence. The sight of her handwriting engulfed him with emotion. He wanted her, needed her, with an intensity he couldn’t contain.

  Somehow, half a world away, he had fallen in love with her. It didn’t matter that he hardly knew her. What little he knew of her, he loved.

  Christopher read the few spare lines.

  The words seemed to rearrange themselves like a child’s alphabet game. He puzzled over them until they became coherent.

  “. . . I’m not who you think I am . . . please come home and find me . . .”

  His lips formed her name soundlessly. He put his hand over his chest, trapping the letter against his rough heartbeat.

  What had happened to Prudence?

  The strange, impulsive note aroused a tumult in him.

  “I’m not who you think I am,” he found himself repeating inaudibly.

  No, of course she was not. Neither was he. He was not this broken, feverish creature on a hospital cot, and she was not the vapid flirt everyone had taken her to be. Through their letters, they had found the promise of more in each other.

  “. . . please come home and find me . . .”

  His hands felt swollen and tight as he fumbled with the other letter, from Audrey. The fever was making him clumsy. His head had begun to ache . . . vicious throbbing . . . he had to read the words in between the pulses of pain.

  Dear Christopher,

  There is no way for me to express this gently. John’s condition has worsened. He is facing the prospect of death with the same patience and grace that he has shown during his life. By the time this letter reaches you, there is no doubt that he will be gone . . .

  Christopher’s mind closed against the rest of it. Later there would be time to read more. Time to grieve.

  John wasn’t supposed to be ill. He was supposed to stay safe in Stony Cross and father children with Audrey. He was supposed to be there when Christopher came back home.

  Christopher managed to huddle on his side. He tugged the blanket high enough to create a shelter for himself. Around him, the other soldiers continued to pass the time . . . talking, playing cards when possible. Mercifully, deliberately, they paid him no attention, allowing him the privacy he needed.

  Chapter Six

  There had been no correspondence from Christopher Phelan in the ten
months after Beatrix had last written to him. He had exchanged letters with Audrey, but in her grief over John’s death, Audrey found it difficult to talk to anyone, even Beatrix.

  Christopher had been wounded, Audrey relayed, but he had recovered in the hospital and returned to battle. Hunting constantly for any mention of Christopher in the newspapers, Beatrix found innumerable accounts of his bravery. During the months-long siege of Sebastopol, he had become the most decorated soldier of the artillery. Not only had Christopher been awarded the order of the Bath, and the Crimea campaign medal with clasps for Alma, Inkerman, Balaklava, and Sebastopol, he had also been made a knight of the Legion of Honor by the French, and had received the Medjidie from the Turks.

  To Beatrix’s regret, her friendship with Prudence had cooled, starting with the day when Beatrix had told her that she could no longer write to Christopher.

  “But why?” Prudence had protested. “I thought you enjoyed corresponding with him.”

  “I don’t enjoy it any longer,” Beatrix had replied in a suffocated voice.

  Her friend had given her an incredulous glance. “I can scarcely believe that you would abandon him like this. What is he to think when the letters stop coming?”

  The question made Beatrix’s stomach feel heavy with guilt and wanting. She hardly trusted herself to speak. “I can’t continue to write to him without telling him the truth. It’s becoming too personal. I . . . feelings are involved. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  “All I understand is that you’re being selfish. You’ve made it so that I can’t send a letter to him, because he would notice the difference between your penmanship and mine. The least you could do is keep him on the string for me until he returns.”

  “Why do you want him?” Beatrix had asked with a frown. She didn’t like the phrase “keep him on the string” . . . as if Christopher were a dead fish. One among many. “You have many suitors.”

  “Yes, but Captain Phelan has become a war hero. He may even be invited to dine with the queen upon his return. And now that his brother is dead, he will inherit the Riverton estate. All that makes him nearly as good a catch as a peer.”

  Although Beatrix had once been amused by Prudence’s shallowness, she now felt a stab of annoyance. Christopher deserved much more than to be valued for such superficial things.

  “Has it occurred to you that he’ll be altered as a result of the war?” she asked quietly.

  “Well, he may yet be wounded, but I certainly hope not.”

  “I meant altered in character.”

  “Because he’s been in battle?” Prudence shrugged. “I suppose that has had an effect on him.”

  “Have you followed any of the reports about him?”

  “I’ve been very occupied,” Prudence said defensively.

  “Captain Phelan won the Medjidie medal by saving a wounded Turkish officer. A few weeks later, Captain Phelan crawled to a magazine that had just been shelled, with ten French soldiers killed and five guns disabled. He took possession of the remaining gun and held the position alone, against the enemy, for eight hours. On another occasion—”

  “I don’t need to hear about all that,” Prudence protested. “What is your point, Bea?”

  “That he may come back as a different man. And if you care for him at all, you should try to understand what he has gone through.” She gave Prudence a packet of letters tied with a narrow blue ribbon. “To start with, you should read these. I should have copied the letters that I wrote to him, so you could read them as well. But I’m afraid I didn’t think of it.”

  Prudence had accepted them reluctantly. “Very well, I’ll read them. But I’m certain that Christopher won’t want to talk about letters when he returns—he’ll have me right there with him.”

  “You should try to know him better,” Beatrix said. “I think you want him for the wrong reasons . . . when there are so many right reasons. He’s earned it. Not because of his bravery in battle and all those shiny medals . . . in fact, that’s the least part of what he is.” Falling silent for a moment, Beatrix had reflected ruefully that from then on she really should avoid people and go back to spending her time with animals. “Captain Phelan wrote that when you and he knew each other, neither of you looked beneath the surface.”

  “The surface of what?”

  Beatrix gave her a bleak look, reflecting that for Prudence, the only thing beneath the surface was more surface. “He said you might be his only chance of belonging to the world again.”

  Prudence had stared at her strangely. “Perhaps it’s better after all that you stop writing to him. You seem rather fixed on him. I hope you have no thought that Christopher would ever . . .” She paused delicately. “Never mind.”

  “I know what you were going to say,” Beatrix had said in a matter-of-fact manner. “Of course I have no illusions about that. I haven’t forgotten that he once compared me to a horse.”

  “He did not compare you to a horse,” Prudence said. “He merely said you belonged in the stables. However, he is a sophisticated man, and he would never be happy with a girl who spends most of her time with animals.”

  “I much prefer the company of animals to that of any person I know,” Beatrix shot back. Instantly she regretted the tactless statement, especially as she saw that Prudence had taken it as a personal affront. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Perhaps you had better leave, then, and go to your pets,” Prudence had said in a frosty tone. “You’ll be happier conversing with someone who can’t talk back to you.”

  Chastened and vexed, Beatrix had left Mercer House. But not before Prudence had said, “For all our sakes, Bea, you must promise me never to tell Captain Phelan that you wrote the letters. There would be no point to it. Even if you told him, he wouldn’t want you. It would only be an embarrassment, and a source of resentment. A man like that would never forgive such a deception.”

  Ever since that day, Beatrix and Prudence had not seen each other except in passing. And no further letters were written.

  It tormented Beatrix, wondering how Christopher was, if Albert was with him, if his wounds had healed properly . . . but it was no longer her right to ask questions of him.

  It never had been.

  To the jubilation of all England, Sebastopol fell in September 1855, and peace negotiations began in February of the next year. Beatrix’s brother-in-law Cam remarked that even though Britain had won, war was always a pyrrhic victory, as one could never put a price on each life that had been damaged or lost. It was a Romany sentiment that Beatrix agreed with. All totaled, more than one hundred and fifty thousand of the allied soldiers had died of battle wounds or disease, as well as over one hundred thousand Russians.

  When the long-awaited order was given for the regiments to return home, Audrey and Mrs. Phelan learned that Christopher’s Rifle Brigade would arrive in Dover in mid-April, and proceed to London. The Rifles’ arrival was keenly anticipated, as Christopher was considered a national hero. His picture had been cut out of newspapers and posted in shop windows, and the accounts of his bravery were repeated in taverns and coffeehouses. Long testimonial rolls were written by villages and counties to be presented to him, and no fewer than three ceremonial swords, engraved with his name and set with jewels, had been struck by politicians eager to reward him for service.

  However, on the day the Rifles landed at Dover, Christopher was mysteriously absent from the festivities. The crowds at the quay cheered the Rifle Brigade and demanded the appearance of its famed sharpshooter, but it seemed that Christopher had chosen to avoid the cheering crowds, the ceremonies and banquets . . . he even failed to appear at the celebration dinner hosted by the queen and her consort.

  “What do you suppose has happened to Captain Phelan?” Beatrix’s older sister Amelia asked, after he had gone missing for three days. “From what I remember of the man, he was a social fellow who would have adored being the center of so much attention.”

  “He’s ga
ining even more attention by his absence,” Cam pointed out.

  “He doesn’t want attention,” Beatrix couldn’t resist saying. “He’s run to ground.”

  Cam lifted a dark brow, looking amused. “Like a fox?” he asked.

  “Yes. Foxes are wily. Even when they seem to head directly away from their goal, they always turn and make it good at the last.” Beatrix hesitated, her gaze distant as she stared through the nearby window, at the forest shadowed by a harsh and backward spring . . . too much easterly wind, too much rain. “Captain Phelan wants to come home. But he’ll stay aground until the hounds stop drawing for him.”

  She was quiet and contemplative after that, while Cam and Amelia continued to talk. It was only her imagination . . . but she had the curious feeling that Christopher Phelan was somewhere close by.

  “Beatrix.” Amelia stood beside her at the window, laying a gentle arm across her shoulders. “Are you feeling melancholy, dear? Perhaps you should have gone to London for the season as your friend Prudence did. You could stay with Leo and Catherine, or with Poppy and Harry at the hotel—”

  “I have no interest whatsoever in taking part in the season,” Beatrix said. “I’ve done it four times, and that was three times too many.”

  “But you were very sought after. The gentlemen adored you. And perhaps there will be someone new there.”

  Beatrix lifted her gaze heavenward. “There’s never anyone new in London society.”

  “True,” Amelia said after a moment’s thought. “Still, I think you would better off in town than staying here in the country. It’s too quiet for you here.”

  A small, dark-haired boy charged into the room on a stick horse, letting out a warlike cry as he brandished a sword. It was Rye, Cam and Amelia’s four-and-a-half-year-old son. As the boy sped by, the end of the stick horse accidentally knocked against a floor lamp with a blue glass shade. Cam dove reflexively and caught the lamp before it smashed against the floor.