Sincerely,

Prudence

Beatrix had never intentionally deceived anyone. She would have felt infinitely more comfortable writing to Phelan as herself. But she still remembered the disparaging remarks that he had once made about her. He would not want a letter from that “peculiar Beatrix Hathaway.” He had asked for a letter from the beautiful golden-haired Prudence Mercer. And wasn’t a letter written under false pretenses better than nothing at all? A man in Christopher’s situation needed all the words of encouragement one could offer.

He needed to know that someone cared.

And for some reason, after having read his letter, Beatrix found that she did indeed care.

Chapter Two

The harvest moon brought dry, clear weather, and the Ramsay tenants and workers reaped the most abundant yields in memory. Like everyone else on the estate, Beatrix was occupied with the harvest and the local festival that followed. A massive al fresco dinner and dance was held on the grounds of Ramsay House for more than a thousand guests, including tenants, servants, and townspeople.

To Beatrix’s disappointment, Audrey Phelan had not been able to attend the festivities, as her husband John had developed a persistent cough. She had stayed home to care for him. “The doctor has left us with some medicine that has already helped John to great effect,” Audrey had written, “but he warned that uninterrupted bed rest is important for a complete recovery.”

Near the end of November, Beatrix walked to the Phelans’ house, taking a direct route through woodlands populated with gnarled oak and wide-gesturing beeches. The dark-branched trees seemed to have been dipped in crushed sugar. As the sun cracked through the veneer of clouds, it struck brilliant glints on the frost. The soles of Beatrix’s sturdy shoes bit through the frozen mush of dried leaves and moss.

She approached the Phelan house, formerly a royal hunting lodge, a large ivy-covered home set among ten forested acres. Reaching a charming paved path, Beatrix skirted the side of the house and headed toward the front.

“Beatrix.”

Hearing a quiet voice, she turned to behold Audrey Phelan sitting alone on a stone bench.

“Oh, hello,” Beatrix said cheerfully. “I hadn’t seen you in days, so I thought I would . . .” Her voice faded as she took a closer look at her friend.

Audrey was wearing a simple day gown, the gray fabric blending into the woods behind her. She had been so silent and still that Beatrix hadn’t even noticed her.

They had been friends for three years, ever since Audrey had married John and moved to Stony Cross. There was a certain kind of friend one only visited when one had no problems—that was Prudence. But there was another kind of friend one went to in times of trouble or need—that was Audrey.

Beatrix frowned as she saw that Audrey’s complexion was bleached of its usual healthy color, and her eyes and nose were red and sore-looking.

Beatrix frowned in concern. “You’re not wearing a cloak or shawl.”

“I’m fine,” Audrey murmured, even though her shoulders were trembling. She shook her head and made a staying gesture as Beatrix took off her heavy wool cloak and went to drape it over Audrey’s slender form. “No, Bea, don’t—”

“I’m warm from the exertion of the walk,” Beatrix insisted. She sat beside her friend on the icy stone bench. A wordless moment passed, while Audrey’s throat worked visibly. Something was seriously wrong. Beatrix waited with forced patience, her heartbeat in her throat. “Audrey,” she finally asked, “has something happened to Captain Phelan?”

Audrey responded with a blank stare, as if she were trying to decipher a foreign language. “Captain Phelan,” she repeated quietly, and gave a little shake of her head. “No, as far as we know, Christopher is well. In fact, a packet of letters arrived from him yesterday. One of them is for Prudence.”

Beatrix was nearly overcome with relief. “I’ll take it to her, if you like,” she volunteered, trying to sound diffident.

“Yes. That would be helpful.” Audrey’s pale fingers twisted in her lap, knotting and unknotting.

Slowly Beatrix reached out and put her hand over Audrey’s. “Your husband’s cough is worse?”

“The doctor left earlier.” Taking a deep breath, Audrey said dazedly, “John has consumption.”

Beatrix’s hand tightened.

They were both silent, while a chilling wind crackled the trees.

The enormity of the unfairness was difficult to grasp. John Phelan was a decent man, always the first to call on someone when he had heard they needed help. He had paid for a cottager’s wife to have medical treatment that the couple couldn’t afford, and had made the piano in his home available for local children to take lessons, and invested in the rebuilding of the Stony Cross pie shop when it had nearly burned to the ground. And he did it all with great discretion, seeming almost embarrassed to be caught in a good deed. Why did someone like John have to be stricken?

“It’s not a death sentence,” Beatrix eventually said. “Some people survive it.”

“One in five,” Audrey agreed dully.

“Your husband is young and strong. And someone has to be the one out of the five. It will be John.”

Audrey managed a nod but didn’t reply.

They both knew that consumption was a particularly virulent disease, devastating the lungs, causing drastic loss of weight and fatigue. Worst of all was the consumptive cough, turning ever more persistent and bloody, until the lungs were finally too full for the sufferer to breathe any longer.