Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(14)
“I’m not who you think I am,” he found himself repeating inaudibly.
No, of course she was not. Neither was he. He was not this broken, feverish creature on a hospital cot, and she was not the vapid flirt everyone had taken her to be. Through their letters, they had found the promise of more in each other.
“. . . please come home and find me . . .”
His hands felt swollen and tight as he fumbled with the other letter, from Audrey. The fever was making him clumsy. His head had begun to ache . . . vicious throbbing . . . he had to read the words in between the pulses of pain.
Dear Christopher,
There is no way for me to express this gently. John’s condition has worsened. He is facing the prospect of death with the same patience and grace that he has shown during his life. By the time this letter reaches you, there is no doubt that he will be gone . . .
Christopher’s mind closed against the rest of it. Later there would be time to read more. Time to grieve.
John wasn’t supposed to be ill. He was supposed to stay safe in Stony Cross and father children with Audrey. He was supposed to be there when Christopher came back home.
Christopher managed to huddle on his side. He tugged the blanket high enough to create a shelter for himself. Around him, the other soldiers continued to pass the time . . . talking, playing cards when possible. Mercifully, deliberately, they paid him no attention, allowing him the privacy he needed.
Chapter Six
There had been no correspondence from Christopher Phelan in the ten months after Beatrix had last written to him. He had exchanged letters with Audrey, but in her grief over John’s death, Audrey found it difficult to talk to anyone, even Beatrix.
Christopher had been wounded, Audrey relayed, but he had recovered in the hospital and returned to battle. Hunting constantly for any mention of Christopher in the newspapers, Beatrix found innumerable accounts of his bravery. During the months-long siege of Sebastopol, he had become the most decorated soldier of the artillery. Not only had Christopher been awarded the order of the Bath, and the Crimea campaign medal with clasps for Alma, Inkerman, Balaklava, and Sebastopol, he had also been made a knight of the Legion of Honor by the French, and had received the Medjidie from the Turks.
To Beatrix’s regret, her friendship with Prudence had cooled, starting with the day when Beatrix had told her that she could no longer write to Christopher.
“But why?” Prudence had protested. “I thought you enjoyed corresponding with him.”
“I don’t enjoy it any longer,” Beatrix had replied in a suffocated voice.
Her friend had given her an incredulous glance. “I can scarcely believe that you would abandon him like this. What is he to think when the letters stop coming?”
The question made Beatrix’s stomach feel heavy with guilt and wanting. She hardly trusted herself to speak. “I can’t continue to write to him without telling him the truth. It’s becoming too personal. I . . . feelings are involved. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
“All I understand is that you’re being selfish. You’ve made it so that I can’t send a letter to him, because he would notice the difference between your penmanship and mine. The least you could do is keep him on the string for me until he returns.”
“Why do you want him?” Beatrix had asked with a frown. She didn’t like the phrase “keep him on the string” . . . as if Christopher were a dead fish. One among many. “You have many suitors.”
“Yes, but Captain Phelan has become a war hero. He may even be invited to dine with the queen upon his return. And now that his brother is dead, he will inherit the Riverton estate. All that makes him nearly as good a catch as a peer.”
Although Beatrix had once been amused by Prudence’s shallowness, she now felt a stab of annoyance. Christopher deserved much more than to be valued for such superficial things.
“Has it occurred to you that he’ll be altered as a result of the war?” she asked quietly.
“Well, he may yet be wounded, but I certainly hope not.”
“I meant altered in character.”
“Because he’s been in battle?” Prudence shrugged. “I suppose that has had an effect on him.”
“Have you followed any of the reports about him?”
“I’ve been very occupied,” Prudence said defensively.
“Captain Phelan won the Medjidie medal by saving a wounded Turkish officer. A few weeks later, Captain Phelan crawled to a magazine that had just been shelled, with ten French soldiers killed and five guns disabled. He took possession of the remaining gun and held the position alone, against the enemy, for eight hours. On another occasion—”
“I don’t need to hear about all that,” Prudence protested. “What is your point, Bea?”
“That he may come back as a different man. And if you care for him at all, you should try to understand what he has gone through.” She gave Prudence a packet of letters tied with a narrow blue ribbon. “To start with, you should read these. I should have copied the letters that I wrote to him, so you could read them as well. But I’m afraid I didn’t think of it.”
Prudence had accepted them reluctantly. “Very well, I’ll read them. But I’m certain that Christopher won’t want to talk about letters when he returns—he’ll have me right there with him.”
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