“I don’t think she gives a fig about him. I warned Christopher about her before he left, actually. But he was so taken with her looks and her high spirits that he managed to convince himself there was something genuine between them.”

“I thought you liked Prudence.”

“I do. Or at least . . . I’m trying to. Because of you.” Audrey smiled wryly at Beatrix’s expression. “I’ve resolved to be more like you, Bea.”

“Like me? Oh, I wouldn’t do that. Haven’t you noticed how odd I am?”

Audrey’s smile broadened into a grin, and for a moment she looked like the carefree young woman she had been before John’s illness. “You accept people for what they are. I think you regard them as you do your creatures—you’re patient, and you observe their habits and wants, and you don’t judge them.”

“I judged your brother-in-law severely,” Beatrix pointed out, feeling guilty.

“More people should be severe on Christopher,” Audrey said, her smile lingering. “It might improve his character.”

The unopened letter in Beatrix’s pocket was nothing less than a torment. She hurried back home, saddled a horse, and rode to Mercer House, an elaborately designed house with turrets, intricately turned porch posts, and stained-glass windows.

Having just arisen after attending a dance that lasted until three o’clock in the morning, Prudence received Beatrix in a velvet dressing gown trimmed with spills of white lace. “Oh, Bea, you should have gone to the dance last night! There were so many handsome young gentlemen there, including a cavalry detachment that is being sent to the Crimea in two days, and they looked so splendid in their uniforms—”

“I’ve just been to see Audrey,” Beatrix said breathlessly, entering the private upstairs parlor and closing the door. “Poor Mr. Phelan isn’t well, and—well, I’ll tell you about that in a minute, but—here’s a letter from Captain Phelan!”

Prudence smiled and took the letter. “Thank you, Bea. Now, about the officers I met last night . . . there was a dark-haired lieutenant who asked me to dance, and he—”

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Beatrix asked, watching in dismay as Prudence laid the letter on a side table.

Prudence gave her a quizzical smile. “My, you’re impatient today. You want me to open it this very moment?”

“Yes.” Beatrix promptly sat in a chair upholstered with flower-printed fabric.

“But I want to tell you about the lieutenant.”

“I don’t give a monkey about the lieutenant, I want to hear about Captain Phelan.”

Prudence gave a low chuckle. “I haven’t seen you this excited since you stole that fox that Lord Campdon imported from France last year.”

“I didn’t steal him, I rescued him. Importing a fox for a hunt . . . I call that very unsporting.” Beatrix gestured to the letter. “Open it!”

Prudence broke the seal, skimmed the letter, and shook her head in amused disbelief. “Now he’s writing about mules.” She rolled her eyes and gave Beatrix the letter.

Miss Prudence Mercer

Stony Cross

Hampshire, England

7 November 1854

Dear Prudence,

Regardless of the reports that describe the British soldier as unflinching, I assure you that when riflemen are under fire, we most certainly duck, bob, and run for cover. Per your advice, I have added a sidestep and a dodge to my repertoire, with excellent results. To my mind, the old fable has been disproved: there are times in life when one definitely wants to be the hare, not the tortoise.

We fought at the southern port of Balaklava on the twenty-fourth of October. Light Brigade was ordered to charge directly into a battery of Russian guns for no comprehensible reason. Five cavalry regiments were mowed down without support. Two hundred men and nearly four hundred horses lost in twenty minutes. More fighting on the fifth of November, at Inkerman.

We went to rescue soldiers stranded on the field before the Russians could reach them. Albert went out with me under a storm of shot and shell, and helped to identify the wounded so we could carry them out of range of the guns. My closest friend in the regiment was killed.

Please thank your friend Beatrix for her advice about Albert. His biting is less frequent, and he never goes for me, although he’s taken a few nips at visitors to the tent.

May and October, the best-smelling months? I’ll make a case for December: evergreen, frost, wood smoke, cinnamon. As for your favorite song . . . were you aware that “Over the Hills and Far Away” is the official music of the Rifle Brigade?

It seems nearly everyone here has fallen prey to some kind of illness except for me. I’ve had no symptoms of cholera nor any of the other diseases that have swept through both divisions. I feel I should at least feign some kind of digestive problem for the sake of decency.

Regarding the donkey feud: while I have sympathy for Caird and his mare of easy virtue, I feel compelled to point out that the birth of a mule is not at all a bad outcome. Mules are more surefooted than horses, generally healthier, and best of all, they have very expressive ears. And they’re not unduly stubborn, as long they’re managed well. If you wonder at my apparent fondness for mules, I should probably explain that as a boy, I had a pet mule named Hector, after the mule mentioned in the Iliad.

I wouldn’t presume to ask you to wait for me, Pru, but I will ask that you write to me again. I’ve read your last letter more times than I can count. Somehow you’re more real to me now, two thousand miles away, than you ever were before.