Ever yours,

Christopher

P.S. Sketch of Albert included

As Beatrix read, she was alternately concerned, moved, and charmed out of her stockings. “Let me reply to him and sign your name,” she begged. “One more letter. Please, Pru. I’ll show it to you before I send it.”

Prudence burst out laughing. “Honestly, this is the silliest thing I’ve ever . . . Oh, very well, write to him again if it amuses you.”

For the next half hour Beatrix took part in a meaningless conversation about the dance, the guests who had attended, and the latest gossip from London. She slipped the letter from Christopher Phelan into her pocket . . . and froze as she felt an unfamiliar object. A metallic handle . . . and the silk bristle of a shaving brush. Blanching, she realized that she had unintentionally taken the shaving brush from Christopher’s dresser.

Her problem was back.

Somehow Beatrix managed to keep smiling and chatting calmly with Prudence, while inside she was filled with turmoil.

Every now and then when Beatrix was nervous or worried, she pocketed some small object from a shop or residence. She had done it ever since her parents had died. Sometimes she wasn’t at all aware she had taken something, whereas at other times the compulsion was so irresistible that she began to perspire and tremble until she finally gave in.

Stealing the objects was never any trouble at all. It was only returning them that presented difficulties. Beatrix and her family had always managed to restore the objects to their proper places. But it had, on occasion, required extreme measures—paying calls at improper times of the day, or inventing wild excuses to roam through someone’s house—that had only fortified the Hathaways’ reputation for eccentricity.

Thankfully, it wouldn’t be that difficult to put back the shaving brush. She could do it the next time she visited Audrey.

“I suppose I ought to dress now,” Prudence finally said.

Beatrix took the cue without hesitation. “Certainly. It’s time for me to go home and attend to some chores.” She smiled and added lightly, “Including writing another letter.”

“Don’t put anything peculiar in it,” Prudence said. “I have a reputation, you know.”

Chapter Three

Captain Christopher Phelan

1st Battalian Rifle Brigade

Home Ridge Camp

Inkerman, Crimea

3 December 1854

Dear Christopher,

This morning I read that more than two thousand of our men were killed in a recent battle. One Rifle officer was said to have been bayoneted. It wasn’t you, was it? Are you injured? I’m so afraid for you. And I’m so sorry that your friend was killed.

We are decorating for the holidays, hanging holly and mistletoe. I am enclosing a Christmas card done by a local artist. Note the tassel and string at the bottom—when you pull it, the merrymaking gentlemen on the left will quaff their goblets of wine. (“Quaff” is such an odd word, isn’t it?—but it’s one of my favorites.)

I love the old familiar carols. I love the sameness of every Christmas. I love eating the plum pudding even though I don’t really like plum pudding. There is comfort in ritual, isn’t there?

Albert looks like a lovely dog, perhaps not outwardly a gentleman, but inside a loyal and soulful fellow.

I worry that something’s happened to you. I hope you are safe. I light a candle for you on the tree every night.

Answer me as soon as you’re able.

Sincerely,

Prudence

P.S. I share your affection for mules. Very unpretentious creatures who never boast of their ancestry. One wishes certain people would be a bit more mulish in that regard.

Miss Prudence Mercer

Stony Cross

Hampshire

1 February 1854

Dear Pru,

I’m afraid I was indeed the bayoneted one. How did you guess? It happened as we were climbing a hill to overtake a battery of Russian guns. It was a minor shoulder wound, certainly not worth reporting.

There was a storm on the fourteenth of November that wrecked the camps and sank French and British ships in the harbor. More loss of life, and unfortunately most of the winter supplies and equipment are gone. I believe this is what is known as “rough campaigning.” I’m hungry. Last night I dreamed of food. Ordinarily I dream of you, but last night I’m sorry to say that you were eclipsed by lamb with mint sauce.

It is bitterly cold. I am now sleeping with Albert. We’re a pair of surly bedfellows, but we’re both willing to endure it in the effort to keep from freezing to death. Albert has become indispensable to the company—he carries messages under fire and runs much faster than a man can. He’s also an excellent sentry and scout.

Here are a few things I’ve learned from Albert—

1. Any food is fair game until it is actually swallowed by someone else.

2. Take a nap whenever you can.

3. Don’t bark unless it’s important.

4. Chasing one’s tail is sometimes unavoidable.

I hope your Christmas was splendid. Thank you for the card—it reached me on the twenty-fourth of December, and it was passed all around my company, most of them never having seen a Christmas card before. Before it was finally handed back to me, the cardboard gentlemen attached to the tassel had done a great deal of quaffing.

I also like the word “quaff.” As a matter of fact, I’ve always liked unusual words. Here’s one for you: “soleate,” which refers to the shodding of a horse. Or “nidifice,” a nest. Has Mr. Caird’s mare given birth yet? Perhaps I’ll ask my brother to make an offer. One never knows when one might need a good mule.