Love in the Afternoon (5 page)

I feel as if I have more memories of you than I actually do. I was with you on only a handful of occasions. A dance. A conversation. A kiss. I wish I could relive those moments. I would appreciate them more. I would

appreciate everything more. Last night I dreamed of you again. I couldn't see your face, but I felt you near me. You were whispering to me.

The last time I held you, I didn't know who you truly were. Or who I was, for that matter. We never looked beneath the surface. Perhaps it's better we didn't--I don't think I could have left you, had I felt for you then what I do now.

I'll tell you what I'm fighting for. Not for England, nor her allies, nor any patriotic cause. It's all come down to the hope of being with you.

Dear Christopher,

You've made me realize that words are the most important things in

the world. And never so much as now. The moment Audrey gave me your

last letter, my heart started beating faster, and I had to run to my secret house to read it in private.

I haven't yet told you . . . last spring on one of my rambles, I found the oddest structurein the forest, a lone tower of brick and stonework, all covered with ivy and moss. It was on a distant portion of the Stony Cross estate that belongs to Lord Westcliff. Later when I asked Lady Westcliff 32

about it, she said that keeping a secret house was a local custom in medieval times. The lord of the manor might have used it as a place to keep his mistress. Once a Westcliff ancestor actually hid there from his own

bloodthirsty retainers. Lady Westcliff said I could visit the secret house whenever I wanted, since it has long been abandoned. I go there often. It's my hiding place, my sanctuary . . . and now that you know about it, it's yours as well.

I've just lit a candle and set it in a window. A very tiny lodestar, for you to follow home.

Dearest Prudence,

Amid all the noise and men and madness, I try to think of you in your secret house . . . my princess in a tower. And my lodestar in the window.

The things one has to do in war . . . I thought it would all become

easier as time went on. And I'm sorry to say I was right. I fear for my soul.

The things I have done, Pru. The things I have yet to do. If I don't expect God to forgive me, how can I ask you to?

Dear Christopher,

Love forgives all things. You don't even need to ask.

Ever since you wrote to me about the Argos, I've been reading about

stars. We've loads of books about them, as the subject was of particular interest to my father. Aristotle taught that stars are made of a different matter than the four earthly elements--a quintessence--that also happens to be what the human psyche is made of. Which is why man's spirit corresponds to the stars. Perhaps that's not a very scientific view, but I do like the idea that there's a little starlight in each of us.

I carry thoughts of you like my own personal constellation. How far

away you are, dearest friend, but no farther than those fixed stars in my soul.

Dear Pru,

We're settling in for a long siege. It's uncertain as to when I'll have the chance to write again. This is not my last letter, only the last for a while. Do not doubt that I am coming back to you someday.

Until I can hold you in my arms, these worn and ramshackle words

are the only way to reach you. What a poor translation of love they are.

Words could never do justice to you, or capture what you mean to me.

Still . . . I love you. I swear by the starlight . . . I will not leave this earth until you hear those words from me.

33

Sitting on a massive fallen oak deep in the forest, Beatrix looked up from the letter. She didn't realize she was crying until she felt the stroke of a breeze against her wet cheeks. The muscles of her face ached as she tried to compose herself.

He had written to her on the thirtieth of June, without knowing she

had written to him on the same day. One couldn't help but take that as a sign.

She hadn't experienced such a depth of bitter loss, of agonized

longing, since her parents had died. It was a different kind of grief, of course, but it carried the same flavor of hopeless need.

What have I done?

She, who had always gone through life with unsparing honesty, had

carried out an unforgivable deception. And the truth would only make matters worse. If Christopher Phelan ever discovered that she had written to him under false pretenses, he would despise her. And if he never found out, Beatrix would always be "the girl who belonged in the stables." Nothing more.

"Do not doubt that I am coming back to you . . ."

Those words had been meant for Beatrix, no matter that it had been

addressed to Prudence.

"I love you," she whispered, and her tears spilled faster.

How had these feelings crept up on her? Good God, she could hardly

remember what Christopher Phelan looked like, and yet her heart was

breaking over him. Worst of all, it was entirely likely that Christopher's declarations had been inspired by the hardships of wartime. This Christopher she knew from the letters . . . the man she loved . . . might vanish once he returned home.

Nothing good would come of this situation. She had to put a stop to it.

She could not pretend to be Prudence any longer. It wasn't fair to any of them, especially Christopher.

Beatrix walked home slowly. As she entered Ramsay House, she

encountered Amelia, who was taking her young son Rye outside.

"There you are," Amelia exclaimed. "Would you like to go out to the stable with us? Rye is going to ride his pony."

"No, thank you." Beatrix's smile felt as if it had been tacked on with pins. Every member of her family was quick to include her in their lives.

They were all extraordinarily generous in that regard. And yet she sensed herself being cast, incrementally and inexorably, as the spinster aunt.

She felt eccentric and alone. A misfit, like the animals she kept.

Her mind made a disjointed leap, summoning recollections of the men

she had met during dances and dinners and soirees. She had never lacked for 34

male attention. Perhaps she should encourage one of them, just pick a likely candidate for attachment and be done with it. Perhaps having her own life was worth being married to a man she didn't love.

But that would be another form of misery.

Her fingers slipped into the pocket of her dress to touch the letter from Christopher Phelan. The feel of the parchment, which he had folded, caused her stomach to tighten with a hot, pleasurable pang.

"You've been very quiet of late," Amelia said, her blue eyes searching.

"You look as though you've been crying. Is something troubling you, dear?"

Beatrix shrugged uneasily. "I suppose I'm melancholy because of Mr.

Phelan's illness. According to Audrey, he has taken a turn for the worse."

"Oh . . ." Amelia's expression was soft with concern. "I wish there were something we could do. If I fill a basket with plum brandy and

blancmange, will you take it to them?"

"Of course. I'll go later this afternoon."

Retreating to the privacy of her room, Beatrix sat at her desk and took out the letter. She would write to Christopher one last time, something impersonal, a gentle withdrawal. Better that than to continue deceiving him.

Carefully she uncapped the inkwell and dipped her pen, and began to

write.

Dear Christopher,

As much as I esteem you, dear friend, it would be unwise for either of us to be precipitate while you are still away. You have my earnest wishes for your well-being and safety. However, I think it best that any mention of more personal feelings between us should be delayed until you return. In fact, it is probably best that we end our correspondence . . .

With each sentence, it became more difficult to make her fingers work properly. The pen trembled in her fierce grip, and she felt her tears well again. "Rubbish," she said.

It literally hurt to write such lies. Her throat had gone nearly too tight to breathe.

She decided that before she could finish it, she would write the truth, the letter she longed to send to him, and then destroy it.

Breathing with effort, Beatrix snatched another piece of paper and

hastily wrote a few lines, only for her eyes, hoping it would ease the intense pain that had clamped around her heart.

Dearest Christopher,

35

I can't write to you again.

I'm not who you think I am.

I didn't mean to send love letters, but that is what they became. On their way to you, my words turned into heartbeats on the page.

Come back, please come home and find me.

Beatrix's eyes blurred. Setting the page aside, she returned to her

original letter and finished it, expressing her wishes and prayers for his safe return.

As for the love letter, she crumpled it and shoved it into the drawer.

Later she would burn it in her own private ceremony, and watch every heartfelt word burn to ashes.

36

Later in the afternoon, Beatrix walked to the Phelan home. She carried a substantial basket weighted with the brandy and blancmange, a round of mild white cheese, and a small "homely cake," dry and bare of icing, only slightly sweet. Whether or not the Phelans needed such items didn't matter nearly so much as the gesture itself.

Amelia had urged Beatrix to ride to the Phelan home in a carriage or cart, as the basket was a bit unwieldy. However, Beatrix wanted the exertion of walking, hoping it would help to calm her troubled spirits. She set her feet to a steady rhythm, and drew the early-summer air into her lungs. This is the smell of June, she wanted to write to Christopher . . . honeysuckle, green hay, wet linen hung out to dry . . .

By the time she reached her destination, both her arms ached from

having held the basket for so long.

The house, dressed in thick ivy, resembled a man huddling in his

overcoat. Beatrix felt prickles of apprehension as she went to the front door and knocked. She was ushered inside by a solemn-faced butler who relieved her of the basket and showed her to the front receiving room.

The house seemed overheated, especially after her walk. Beatrix felt a bloom of perspiration emerge beneath the layers of her walking dress and inside her sturdy ankle boots.

Audrey entered the room, thin and untidy, her hair half up, half down.

She was wearing an apron with dark ruddy blotches on it.

Bloodstains.

As Audrey met Beatrix's concerned gaze, she attempted a wan smile.

"As you see, I'm not prepared to receive anyone. But you're one of the few people I don't have to maintain appearances for." Realizing that she was still wearing the apron, she untied it and rolled it into a little bundle. "Thank you for the basket. I told the butler to pour a glass of the plum brandy and give it to Mrs. Phelan. She's taken to her bed."

"Is she ill?" Beatrix asked as Audrey sat beside her.

37

Audrey shook her head in answer. "Only distraught."

"And . . . your husband?"

"He's dying," Audrey said flatly. "He doesn't have long. A matter of days, the doctor says."

Beatrix began to reach for her, wishing to gather her in as she might one of her wounded creatures.

Audrey flinched and raised her hands defensively. "No, don't. I can't be touched. I'll break into pieces. I have to be strong for John. Let's talk quickly. I have only a few minutes."

Immediately Beatrix folded her hands in her lap. "Let me do

something," she said, her voice low. "Let me sit with him while you rest. At least for an hour."

Audrey managed a faint smile. "Thank you, dear. But I can't let anyone else sit with him. It has to be me."

"Then shall I go to his mother?"

Audrey rubbed her eyes. "You're very kind to offer. I don't think she wants companionship, however." She sighed. "Were it left to her, she would rather die along with John than go on without him."

"But she still has another son."

"She has no affection for Christopher. It was all for John."

As Beatrix tried to absorb that, the tall case clock ticked as if in disapproval, its pendulum swinging like the negative shake of a head. "That can't be true," she finally said.

"Certainly it can," Audrey said, with a faint, rueful smile. "Some people have an infinite supply of love to give. Like your family. But for others it's a limited resource. Mrs. Phelan's love is all poured out. She had just enough for her husband and John." Audrey lifted her shoulders in an exhausted shrug. "It's of no importance whether she loves Christopher or not. Nothing seems important at the moment."

Beatrix reached into her pocket and withdrew the letter. "I have this for him," she said. "For Captain Phelan. From Pru."

Audrey took it with an unreadable expression. "Thank you. I'll send it along with a letter about John's condition. He'll want to know. Poor Christopher . . . so far away."

Beatrix wondered if perhaps she should take the letter back. It would be the worst possible time to distance herself from Christopher. On the other hand, perhaps it would be the best time. One small injury inflicted

simultaneously with a far greater one.

Audrey watched the play of emotion on her face. "Are you ever going to tell him?" she asked gently.

38

Beatrix blinked. "Tell him what?"

That earned an exasperated little huff. "I'm not a half-wit, Bea.

Prudence is in London at this very moment, attending balls and soirees and all those silly, trivial events of the season. She couldn't have written that letter."

Beatrix felt herself turn scarlet, then bone-white. "She gave it to me before she left."

"Because of her devotion to Christopher?" Audrey's lips twisted. "The last time I saw her, she didn't even remember to ask after him. And why is it that you're always the one delivering and fetching letters?" She gave Beatrix a fond but chiding glance. "From what Christopher has written in his letters to me and John, it's obvious he's quite taken with Prudence. Because of what she has written to him. And if I end up with that ninnyhead as a sister-in-law, Bea, it will be your fault."