“My brother-in-law Cam is very knowledgeable about herbs and medicines,” Beatrix volunteered. “His grandmother was a healer in his tribe.”

“A Gypsy cure?” Audrey asked in a doubtful tone.

“You must try anything and everything,” Beatrix insisted. “Including Gypsy cures. The Rom live in nature, and they know all about its power to heal. I’ll ask Cam to make up a tonic that will help Mr. Phelan’s lungs, and—”

“John probably won’t take it,” Audrey said. “And his mother would object. The Phelans are very conventional people. If it doesn’t come from a vial in a doctor’s case, or the apothecary’s shop, they won’t approve.”

“I’m going to bring something from Cam all the same.”

Audrey leaned her head to the side until it rested briefly on Beatrix’s shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Bea. I’m going to need you in the coming months.”

“You have me,” Beatrix said simply.

Another breeze whipped around them, biting through Beatrix’s sleeves. Audrey shook herself from her dazed misery and stood, handing back the cloak. “Let’s go into the house, and I’ll find that letter for Pru.”

The interior of the house was cozy and warm, the rooms wide with low timbered ceilings, thick-paned windows admitting the winter-colored light. It seemed every hearth in the house had been lit, heat rolling gently through the tidy rooms. Everything in the Phelan house was muted and tasteful, with stately furniture that had reached a comfortably venerable age.

A subdued-looking housemaid came to take Beatrix’s cloak.

“Where is your mother-in-law?” Beatrix asked, following Audrey to the staircase.

“She went to rest in her room. The news is especially difficult for her.” A fragile pause. “John has always been her favorite.”

Beatrix was well aware of that, as was most of Stony Cross. Mrs. Phelan adored both her sons, the only children she had left after two of her other children, also sons, had died in their infancies, and a daughter who had been stillborn. But it was John in whom Mrs. Phelan had invested all her pride and ambition. Unfortunately no woman would ever have been good enough for John in his mother’s eyes. Audrey had endured a great deal of criticism during the three years of her marriage, especially in her failure to conceive children.

Beatrix and Audrey ascended the staircase, past rows of family portraits in heavy gold frames. Most of the subjects were Beauchamps, the aristocratic side of the family. One couldn’t help but notice that throughout the generations represented, the Beauchamps were an extraordinarily handsome people, with narrow noses and brilliant eyes and thick flowing hair.

As they reached the top of the stairs, a series of muffled coughs came from a room at the end of the hallway. Beatrix winced at the raw sound.

“Bea, would you mind waiting for a moment?” Audrey asked anxiously. “I must go to John—it’s time for his medicine.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Christopher’s room—the one he stays in when he visits—is right there. I put the letter on the dresser.”

“I’ll fetch it.”

Audrey went to her husband, while Beatrix cautiously entered Christopher’s room, first peering around the doorjamb.

The room was dim. Beatrix went to open one of the heavy curtains, letting daylight slide across the carpeted floor in a brilliant rectangle. The letter was on the dresser. Beatrix picked it up eagerly, her fingers itching to break the seal.

However, she admonished herself, it was addressed to Prudence.

With an impatient sigh, she slipped the unopened letter into the pocket of her walking dress. Lingering at the dresser, she surveyed the articles arranged neatly on a wooden tray.

A small silver-handled shaving brush . . . a folding-blade razor . . . an empty soap dish . . . a lidded porcelain box with a silver top. Unable to resist, Beatrix lifted the top and looked inside. She found three pairs of cuff links, two in silver, one in gold, a watch chain, and a brass button. Replacing the lid, Beatrix picked up the shaving brush and experimentally touched her cheek with it. The bristles were silky and soft. With the movement of the soft fibers, a pleasant scent was released from the brush. A spicy hint of shaving soap.

Holding the brush closer to her nose, Beatrix drew in the scent . . . masculine richness . . . cedar, lavender, bay leaves. She imagined Christopher spreading lather over his face, stretching his mouth to one side, all the masculine contortions she had seen her father and brother perform in the act of removing bristle from their faces.

“Beatrix?”

Guiltily she set aside the brush and went out into the hallway. “I found the letter,” she said. “I opened the curtains—I’ll pull them back together, and—”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, let the light in. I abhor dark rooms.” Audrey gave her a strained smile. “John took his medicine,” she said. “It makes him sleepy. While he rests, I’m going downstairs to talk with Cook. John thinks he might be able to eat some white pudding.”

They proceeded down the stairs together.

“Thank you for taking the letter to Prudence,” Audrey said.

“It’s very kind of you to facilitate a correspondence between them.”

“Oh, it’s no bother. It’s for Christopher’s sake that I agreed. I will admit to being surprised that Prudence took the time to write to Christopher.”

“Why do you say that?”