Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(15)

“You should try to know him better,” Beatrix said. “I think you want him for the wrong reasons . . . when there are so many right reasons. He’s earned it. Not because of his bravery in battle and all those shiny medals . . . in fact, that’s the least part of what he is.” Falling silent for a moment, Beatrix had reflected ruefully that from then on she really should avoid people and go back to spending her time with animals. “Captain Phelan wrote that when you and he knew each other, neither of you looked beneath the surface.”

“The surface of what?”

Beatrix gave her a bleak look, reflecting that for Prudence, the only thing beneath the surface was more surface. “He said you might be his only chance of belonging to the world again.”

Prudence had stared at her strangely. “Perhaps it’s better after all that you stop writing to him. You seem rather fixed on him. I hope you have no thought that Christopher would ever . . .” She paused delicately. “Never mind.”

“I know what you were going to say,” Beatrix had said in a matter-of-fact manner. “Of course I have no illusions about that. I haven’t forgotten that he once compared me to a horse.”

“He did not compare you to a horse,” Prudence said. “He merely said you belonged in the stables. However, he is a sophisticated man, and he would never be happy with a girl who spends most of her time with animals.”

“I much prefer the company of animals to that of any person I know,” Beatrix shot back. Instantly she regretted the tactless statement, especially as she saw that Prudence had taken it as a personal affront. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Perhaps you had better leave, then, and go to your pets,” Prudence had said in a frosty tone. “You’ll be happier conversing with someone who can’t talk back to you.”

Chastened and vexed, Beatrix had left Mercer House. But not before Prudence had said, “For all our sakes, Bea, you must promise me never to tell Captain Phelan that you wrote the letters. There would be no point to it. Even if you told him, he wouldn’t want you. It would only be an embarrassment, and a source of resentment. A man like that would never forgive such a deception.”

Ever since that day, Beatrix and Prudence had not seen each other except in passing. And no further letters were written.

It tormented Beatrix, wondering how Christopher was, if Albert was with him, if his wounds had healed properly . . . but it was no longer her right to ask questions of him.

It never had been.

To the jubilation of all England, Sebastopol fell in September 1855, and peace negotiations began in February of the next year. Beatrix’s brother-in-law Cam remarked that even though Britain had won, war was always a pyrrhic victory, as one could never put a price on each life that had been damaged or lost. It was a Romany sentiment that Beatrix agreed with. All totaled, more than one hundred and fifty thousand of the allied soldiers had died of battle wounds or disease, as well as over one hundred thousand Russians.

When the long-awaited order was given for the regiments to return home, Audrey and Mrs. Phelan learned that Christopher’s Rifle Brigade would arrive in Dover in mid-April, and proceed to London. The Rifles’ arrival was keenly anticipated, as Christopher was considered a national hero. His picture had been cut out of newspapers and posted in shop windows, and the accounts of his bravery were repeated in taverns and coffeehouses. Long testimonial rolls were written by villages and counties to be presented to him, and no fewer than three ceremonial swords, engraved with his name and set with jewels, had been struck by politicians eager to reward him for service.

However, on the day the Rifles landed at Dover, Christopher was mysteriously absent from the festivities. The crowds at the quay cheered the Rifle Brigade and demanded the appearance of its famed sharpshooter, but it seemed that Christopher had chosen to avoid the cheering crowds, the ceremonies and banquets . . . he even failed to appear at the celebration dinner hosted by the queen and her consort.

“What do you suppose has happened to Captain Phelan?” Beatrix’s older sister Amelia asked, after he had gone missing for three days. “From what I remember of the man, he was a social fellow who would have adored being the center of so much attention.”

“He’s gaining even more attention by his absence,” Cam pointed out.

“He doesn’t want attention,” Beatrix couldn’t resist saying. “He’s run to ground.”

Cam lifted a dark brow, looking amused. “Like a fox?” he asked.

“Yes. Foxes are wily. Even when they seem to head directly away from their goal, they always turn and make it good at the last.” Beatrix hesitated, her gaze distant as she stared through the nearby window, at the forest shadowed by a harsh and backward spring . . . too much easterly wind, too much rain. “Captain Phelan wants to come home. But he’ll stay aground until the hounds stop drawing for him.”

She was quiet and contemplative after that, while Cam and Amelia continued to talk. It was only her imagination . . . but she had the curious feeling that Christopher Phelan was somewhere close by.

“Beatrix.” Amelia stood beside her at the window, laying a gentle arm across her shoulders. “Are you feeling melancholy, dear? Perhaps you should have gone to London for the season as your friend Prudence did. You could stay with Leo and Catherine, or with Poppy and Harry at the hotel—”