The things one has to do in war . . . I thought it would all become easier as time went on. And I’m sorry to say I was right. I fear for my soul. The things I have done, Pru. The things I have yet to do. If I don’t expect God to forgive me, how can I ask you to?

Dear Christopher,

Love forgives all things. You don’t even need to ask.

Ever since you wrote to me about the Argos, I’ve been reading about stars. We’ve loads of books about them, as the subject was of particular interest to my father. Aristotle taught that stars are made of a different matter than the four earthly elements—a quintessence—that also happens to be what the human psyche is made of. Which is why man’s spirit corresponds to the stars. Perhaps that’s not a very scientific view, but I do like the idea that there’s a little starlight in each of us.

I carry thoughts of you like my own personal constellation. How far away you are, dearest friend, but no farther than those fixed stars in my soul.

Dear Pru,

We’re settling in for a long siege. It’s uncertain as to when I’ll have the chance to write again. This is not my last letter, only the last for a while. Do not doubt that I am coming back to you someday.

Until I can hold you in my arms, these worn and ramshackle words are the only way to reach you. What a poor translation of love they are. Words could never do justice to you, or capture what you mean to me.

Still . . . I love you. I swear by the starlight . . . I will not leave this earth until you hear those words from me.

Sitting on a massive fallen oak deep in the forest, Beatrix looked up from the letter. She didn’t realize she was crying until she felt the stroke of a breeze against her wet cheeks. The muscles of her face ached as she tried to compose herself.

He had written to her on the thirtieth of June, without knowing she had written to him on the same day. One couldn’t help but take that as a sign.

She hadn’t experienced such a depth of bitter loss, of agonized longing, since her parents had died. It was a different kind of grief, of course, but it carried the same flavor of hopeless need.

What have I done?

She, who had always gone through life with unsparing honesty, had carried out an unforgivable deception. And the truth would only make matters worse. If Christopher Phelan ever discovered that she had written to him under false pretenses, he would despise her. And if he never found out, Beatrix would always be “the girl who belonged in the stables.” Nothing more.

“Do not doubt that I am coming back to you . . .”

Those words had been meant for Beatrix, no matter that it had been addressed to Prudence.

“I love you,” she whispered, and her tears spilled faster.

How had these feelings crept up on her? Good God, she could hardly remember what Christopher Phelan looked like, and yet her heart was breaking over him. Worst of all, it was entirely likely that Christopher’s declarations had been inspired by the hardships of wartime. This Christopher she knew from the letters . . . the man she loved . . . might vanish once he returned home.

Nothing good would come of this situation. She had to put a stop to it. She could not pretend to be Prudence any longer. It wasn’t fair to any of them, especially Christopher.

Beatrix walked home slowly. As she entered Ramsay House, she encountered Amelia, who was taking her young son Rye outside.

“There you are,” Amelia exclaimed. “Would you like to go out to the stable with us? Rye is going to ride his pony.”

“No, thank you.” Beatrix’s smile felt as if it had been tacked on with pins. Every member of her family was quick to include her in their lives. They were all extraordinarily generous in that regard. And yet she sensed herself being cast, incrementally and inexorably, as the spinster aunt.

She felt eccentric and alone. A misfit, like the animals she kept.

Her mind made a disjointed leap, summoning recollections of the men she had met during dances and dinners and soirees. She had never lacked for male attention. Perhaps she should encourage one of them, just pick a likely candidate for attachment and be done with it. Perhaps having her own life was worth being married to a man she didn’t love.

But that would be another form of misery.

Her fingers slipped into the pocket of her dress to touch the letter from Christopher Phelan. The feel of the parchment, which he had folded, caused her stomach to tighten with a hot, pleasurable pang.

“You’ve been very quiet of late,” Amelia said, her blue eyes searching. “You look as though you’ve been crying. Is something troubling you, dear?”

Beatrix shrugged uneasily. “I suppose I’m melancholy because of Mr. Phelan’s illness. According to Audrey, he has taken a turn for the worse.”

“Oh . . .” Amelia’s expression was soft with concern. “I wish there were something we could do. If I fill a basket with plum brandy and blancmange, will you take it to them?”

“Of course. I’ll go later this afternoon.”

Retreating to the privacy of her room, Beatrix sat at her desk and took out the letter. She would write to Christopher one last time, something impersonal, a gentle withdrawal. Better that than to continue deceiving him.

Carefully she uncapped the inkwell and dipped her pen, and began to write.

Dear Christopher,

As much as I esteem you, dear friend, it would be unwise for either of us to be precipitate while you are still away. You have my earnest wishes for your well-being and safety. However, I think it best that any mention of more personal feelings between us should be delayed until you return. In fact, it is probably best that we end our correspondence . . .