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.