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,

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.

Chapter Four

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.

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.