Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(12)

As Beatrix tried to absorb that, the tall case clock ticked as if in disapproval, its pendulum swinging like the negative shake of a head. “That can’t be true,” she finally said.

“Certainly it can,” Audrey said, with a faint, rueful smile. “Some people have an infinite supply of love to give. Like your family. But for others it’s a limited resource. Mrs. Phelan’s love is all poured out. She had just enough for her husband and John.” Audrey lifted her shoulders in an exhausted shrug. “It’s of no importance whether she loves Christopher or not. Nothing seems important at the moment.”

Beatrix reached into her pocket and withdrew the letter. “I have this for him,” she said. “For Captain Phelan. From Pru.”

Audrey took it with an unreadable expression. “Thank you. I’ll send it along with a letter about John’s condition. He’ll want to know. Poor Christopher . . . so far away.”

Beatrix wondered if perhaps she should take the letter back. It would be the worst possible time to distance herself from Christopher. On the other hand, perhaps it would be the best time. One small injury inflicted simultaneously with a far greater one.

Audrey watched the play of emotion on her face. “Are you ever going to tell him?” she asked gently.

Beatrix blinked. “Tell him what?”

That earned an exasperated little huff. “I’m not a half-wit, Bea. Prudence is in London at this very moment, attending balls and soirees and all those silly, trivial events of the season. She couldn’t have written that letter.”

Beatrix felt herself turn scarlet, then bone-white. “She gave it to me before she left.”

“Because of her devotion to Christopher?” Audrey’s lips twisted. “The last time I saw her, she didn’t even remember to ask after him. And why is it that you’re always the one delivering and fetching letters?” She gave Beatrix a fond but chiding glance. “From what Christopher has written in his letters to me and John, it’s obvious he’s quite taken with Prudence. Because of what she has written to him. And if I end up with that ninnyhead as a sister-in-law, Bea, it will be your fault.”

Seeing the quiver of Beatrix’s chin and the glitter in her eyes, Audrey took her hand and pressed it. “Knowing you, I’ve no doubt your intentions were good. But I rather doubt the results will be.” She sighed. “I have to go back to John.”

As Beatrix went with Audrey to the entrance hall, she was overwhelmed by the knowledge that her friend would soon have to endure the death of her husband.

“Audrey,” she said unsteadily, “I wish I could bear this for you.”

Audrey stared at her for a long moment, her face flushing with emotion. “That, Beatrix, is what makes you a true friend.”

Two days later the Hathaways received word that John Phelan had passed away in the night. Filled with compassion, the Hathaways considered how best they could help the bereaved women. Ordinarily it would have fallen to Leo, the lord of the manor, to call on the Phelans and offer his services. However, Leo was in London, as Parliament was still in session. Currently a political debate was raging over the incompetence and indifference that had resulted in the Crimean troops being so appallingly ill supported and badly supplied.

It was decided that Merripen, Win’s husband, would go to the Phelan home on behalf of the family. No one had any expectation that he would be received, since the mourners would undoubtedly be too grief-stricken to speak with anyone. However, Merripen would deliver a letter to offer any manner of assistance that might be needed.

“Merripen,” Beatrix asked before he left, “would you convey my affection to Audrey, and ask if I might help with any of the funeral arrangements? Or ask if perhaps she wants someone to sit with her.”

“Of course,” Merripen replied, his dark eyes filled with warmth. Having been raised with the Hathaways since boyhood, Merripen was very much like a brother to all of them. “Why don’t you write a note to her? I’ll give it to the servants.”

“I’ll only be a minute.” Beatrix dashed toward the stairs, pulling up great handfuls of her skirts to keep from tripping as she hurried to her room.

She went to her desk and pulled out her writing papers and pens, and reached for the top of the inkwell. Her hand froze in midair as she saw the half-crumpled letter in the drawer.

It was the polite, distancing letter she had written to Christopher Phelan.

It had never been sent.

Beatrix went cold all over, her knees threatening to give out from beneath her. “Oh, God,” she whispered, sitting on the nearby chair with such force that it wobbled dangerously.

She must have given Audrey the wrong letter. The unsigned one that had started with “I can’t write to you again. I’m not who you think I am . . .”

Beatrix’s heart pounded, straining with the force of panic. She tried to calm her buzzing thoughts enough to think. Had the letter been posted yet? Perhaps there was still time to retrieve it. She would ask Audrey . . . but no, that would be the height of selfishness and inconsideration. Audrey’s husband had just died. She did not deserve to be bothered with trivialities at such a time.

It was too late. Beatrix would have to let it be, and let Christopher Phelan make what he would of the odd note.

“Come back, please come home and find me . . .”