Love in the Afternoon (2 page)

would inherit the Riverton estate in Warwickshire upon the earl's death. John was a sober and thoughtful man, devoted to his wife, Audrey.

But the younger brother, Christopher, was another sort of man

entirely. As often happened with second sons, Christopher had purchased an army commission at the age of twenty-two. He had gone in as a cornet, a perfect occupation for such a splendid-looking fellow, since his chief responsibility was to carry the cavalry colors during parades and drills. He was also a great favorite among the ladies of London, where he constantly went without proper leave, spending his time dancing, drinking, gaming, purchasing fine clothes, and indulging in scandalous love affairs.

Beatrix had met Christopher Phelan on two occasions, the first at a

local dance, where she had judged him to be the most arrogant man in Hampshire. The next time she had met him was at a picnic, where she had revised her opinion: he was the most arrogant man in the entire world.

"That Hathaway girl is a peculiar creature," Beatrix had overhead him say to a companion.

"I find her charming and original," his companion had protested. "And she can talk horses better than any woman I've ever met."

"Naturally," came Phelan's dry rejoinder. "She's more suited to the stables than the drawing room."

From then on, Beatrix had avoided him whenever possible. Not that

she minded the implied comparison to a horse, since horses were lovely animals with generous and noble spirits. And she knew that although she wasn't a great beauty, she had her own charms. More than one man had commented favorably on her dark brown hair and blue eyes.

These moderate attractions, however, were nothing compared to

Christopher Phelan's golden splendor. He was as fair as Lancelot. Gabriel.

Perhaps Lucifer, if one believed that he had once been the most beautiful angel in heaven. Phelan was tall and silver eyed, his hair the color of dark winter wheat touched by the sun. His form was strong and soldierly, the shoulders straight and strong, the hips slim. Even as he moved with indolent grace, there was something undeniably potent about him, something

selfishly predatory.

Recently Phelan had been one of the select few to be culled from

various regiments to become part of the Rifle Brigade. The "Rifles," as they were called, were an unusual brand of soldier, trained to use their own initiative. They were encouraged to take up positions forward of their own front lines and pick off officers and horses that were usually beyond target range. Because of his singular marksmanship skills, Phelan had been

promoted to a captaincy in the Rifle Brigade.

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It had amused Beatrix to reflect that the honor probably hadn't pleased Phelan at all. Especially since he'd been obliged to trade his beautiful Hussars uniform, with its black coat and abundant gold braiding, for a plain dark green one.

"You're welcome to read it," Prudence said as she sat at her dressing table. "I must repair my coiffure before we go on our walk."

"Your hair looks lovely," Beatrix protested, unable to see any flaw in the elaborately pinned twist of blond braids. "And we're only walking to the village. None of the townspeople will know or care if your coiffure isn't perfect."

"I'll know. Besides, one never knows whom one might encounter."

Accustomed as she was to her friend's ceaseless preening, Beatrix

grinned and shook her head. "All right. If you're certain you don't mind my looking at Captain Phelan's letter, I'll just read the part about the dog."

"You'll fall asleep long before you get to the dog," Prudence said, expertly inserting a hairpin into a twisted braid.

Beatrix looked down at the scrawled lines. The words looked

cramped, tight coils of letters ready to spring from the page.

Dear Prudence,

I'm sitting in this dusty tent, trying to think of something eloquent to write. I'm at wit's end. You deserve beautiful words, but all I have left are these: I think of you constantly. I think of this letter in your hand and the scent of perfume on your wrist. I want silence and clear air, and a bed with a soft white pillow . . .

Beatrix felt her eyebrows lifting, and a quick rise of heat beneath the high collar of her dress. She paused and glanced at Prudence. "You find this boring?" she asked mildly, while her blush spread like spilled wine on linen.

"The beginning is the only good part," Prudence said. "Go on."

. . . Two days ago in our march down the coast to Sebastopol, we

fought the Russians at the Alma River. I'm told it was a victory for our side.

It doesn't feel like one. We've lost at least two thirds of our regiment's officers, and a quarter of the noncommissioned men. Yesterday we dug graves. They call the final tally of dead and wounded the "butcher's bill."

Three hundred and sixty British dead so far, and more as soldiers succumb to their wounds.

One of the fallen, Captain Brighton, brought a rough terrier named

Albert, who is undoubtedly the most badly behaved canine in existence.

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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 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 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 some advice--"

"I am not writing anything about the dratted dog." Prudence gave an 15

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--"

"No, there's no use telling me, since I'm never going to handle one. As for Captain Phelan . . . if you feel 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 to 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 to 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 16

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 lovely 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.

In the privacy of her room at Ramsay House, Beatrix sat at her desk

and dipped a pen nib into a 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 17

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 battle of the Alma.

According to the account by Mr. Russell of the Times, you and twoothers 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 down hardly any leaves. 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, in my opinion.