Love in the Afternoon (4 page)

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 25

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.

Ever yours,

Christopher

P.S. Sketch of Albert included

26

As Beatrix read, she was alternately concerned, moved, and charmed out of her stockings. "Let me reply to him and sign your name," she begged. "One more letter. Please, Pru. I'll show it to you before I send it."

Prudence burst out laughing. "Honestly, this is the silliest thing I've ever . . . Oh, very well, write to him again if it amuses you."

For the next half hour Beatrix took part in a meaningless conversation about the dance, the guests who had attended, and the latest gossip from London. She slipped the letter from Christopher Phelan into her pocket . . .

and froze as she felt an unfamiliar object. A metallic handle . . . and the silk bristle of a shaving brush. Blanching, she realized that she had

unintentionally taken the shaving brush from Christopher's dresser.

Her problem was back.

Somehow Beatrix managed to keep smiling and chatting calmly with

Prudence, while inside she was filled with turmoil.

Every now and then when Beatrix was nervous or worried, she

pocketed some small object from a shop or residence. She had done it ever since her parents had died. Sometimes she wasn't at all aware she had taken something, whereas at other times the compulsion was so irresistible that she began to perspire and tremble until she finally gave in.

Stealing the objects was never any trouble at all. It was only returning them that presented difficulties. Beatrix and her family had always managed to restore the objects to their proper places. But it had, on occasion, required extreme measures--paying calls at improper times of the day, or inventing wild excuses to roam through someone's house--that had only fortified the Hathaways' reputation for eccentricity.

27

Thankfully, it wouldn't be that difficult to put back the shaving brush.

She could do it the next time she visited Audrey.

"I suppose I ought to dress now," Prudence finally said.

Beatrix took the cue without hesitation. "Certainly. It's time for me to go home and attend to some chores." She smiled and added lightly,

"Including writing another letter."

"Don't put anything peculiar in it," Prudence said. "I have a reputation, you know."

28

1st Battalian Rifle Brigade

Home Ridge Camp

Inkerman, Crimea

3 December 1854

Dear Christopher,

This morning I read that more than two thousand of our men were

killed in a recent battle. One Rifle officer was said to have been bayoneted.

It wasn't you, was it? Are you injured? I'm so afraid for you. And I'm so sorry that your friend was killed.

We are decorating for the holidays, hanging holly and mistletoe. I am enclosing a Christmas card done by a local artist. Note the tassel and string at the bottom--when you pull it, the merrymaking gentlemen on theleft will quaff their goblets of wine. ("Quaff" is such an odd word, isn't it?--but it's one of my favorites.)

I love the old familiar carols. I love the sameness of every Christmas.

I love eating the plum pudding even though I don't really like plum pudding.

There is comfort in ritual, isn't there?

Albert looks like a lovely dog, perhaps not outwardly a gentleman, but inside a loyal and soulful fellow.

I worry that something's happened to you. I hope you are safe. I light a candle for you on the tree every night.

Answer me as soon as you're able.

Sincerely,

Prudence

P.S. I share your affection for mules. Very unpretentious creatures

who never boast of their ancestry. One wishes certain people would be a bit more mulish in that regard.

29

Miss Prudence Mercer

Stony Cross

Hampshire

1 February 1854

Dear Pru,

I'm afraid I was indeed the bayoneted one. How did you guess? It

happened as we were climbing a hill to overtake a battery of Russian guns. It was a minor shoulder wound, certainly not worth reporting.

There was a storm on the fourteenth of November that wrecked the

camps and sank French and British ships in the harbor. More loss of life, and unfortunately most of the winter supplies and equipment are gone. I believe this is what is known as "rough campaigning." I'm hungry. Last night I dreamed of food. Ordinarily I dream of you, but last night I'm sorry to say that you were eclipsed by lamb with mint sauce.

It is bitterly cold. I am now sleeping with Albert. We're a pair of surly bedfellows, but we're both willing to endure it in the effort to keep from freezing to death. Albert has become indispensable to the company--he carries messages under fire and runs much faster than a man can. He's also an excellent sentry and scout.

Here are a few things I've learned from Albert--

1. Any food is fair game until it is actually swallowed by someone

else.

2. Take a nap whenever you can.

3. Don't bark unless it's important.

4. Chasing one's tail is sometimes unavoidable.

I hope your Christmas was splendid. Thank you for the card--it

reached me on the twenty-fourth of December, and it was passed all around my company, most of them never having seen a Christmas card before.

Before it was finally handed back to me, the cardboard gentlemen attached to the tassel had done a great deal of quaffing.

I also like the word "quaff." As a matter of fact, I've always liked unusual words. Here's one for you: "soleate," which refers to the shodding of a horse. Or "nidifice," a nest. Has Mr. Caird's mare given birth yet? Perhaps I'll ask my brother to make an offer. One never knows when one might need a good mule.

Dear Christopher,

It feels far too prosaic to send a letter by post. I wish I could find a 30

more interesting way . . . I would tie a little scroll to a bird's leg, or send you a message in a bottle. However, in the interest ofefficiency, I'll have to make do with the Royal Mails.

I have just read in the Times that you have been involved in yet more heroics. Why must you take such risks? The ordinary duty of a soldier is dangerous enough. Have a care for your safety, Christopher--for my sake if not your own. My request is entirely selfish . . . I could not bear for your letters to stop coming.

I'm so far away, Pru. I'm standing outside my own life and looking in.

Amid all this brutality, I have discovered the simple pleasures of petting a dog, reading a letter, and staring at the night sky. Tonight I almost thought I saw the ancient constellation named Argo . . . after the ship that Jason and his crew sailed in their quest to find the golden fleece. You're not supposed to be able to see Argo unless you're in Australia, but still, I was almost certain I had a glimpse of it.

I beg you to forget what I wrote before: I do want you to wait for me.

Don't marry anyone before I come home.

Wait for me.

Dear Christopher,

This is the perfume of March: rain, loam, feathers, mint. Every

morning and afternoonI drink fresh mint tea sweetened with honey. I've done a great deal of walking lately. I seem to think better outdoors.

Last night was remarkably clear. I looked up at the sky to find the

Argo. I'm terrible at constellations. I can never make out any of them except for Orion and his belt. But the longer I stared, the more the sky seemed like an ocean, and then I saw an entire fleet of ships made of stars. A flotilla was anchored at the moon, while others were casting off. I imagined we were on one of those ships, sailing on moonlight.

In truth, I find the ocean unnerving. Too vast. I much prefer the

forests around Stony Cross. They're always fascinating, and full of

commonplace miracles . . . spiderwebs glittering with rain, new trees growing from the trunks of fallen oaks. I wish you could see them with me.

And together we would listen to the wind rushing through the leaves

overhead, a lovely swooshy melody . . . tree music!

As I sit here writing to you, I have propped my stocking feet much too close to the hearth. I've actually singed my stockings on occasion, and once I had to stomp out my feet when they started smoking. Even after that, I still can't seem to rid myself of the habit. There, now you could pick me out of a 31

crowd blindfolded. Simply follow the scent of scorched stockings.

Enclosed is a robin's feather that I found during my walk this

morning. It's for luck. Keep it in your pocket.

Just now I had the oddest feeling while writing this letter, as if you were standing in the room with me. As if my pen had become a magic wand, and I had conjured you right here. If I wish hard enough . . .

Dearest Prudence,

I have the robin's feather in my pocket. How did you know I needed a token to carry into battle? For the past two weeks I've been in a rifle pit, sniping back and forth with the Russians. It's no longer a cavalry war, it's all engineers and artillery. Albert stayed in the trench with me, only going out to carry messages up and down the line.

During the lulls, I try to imagine being in some other place. I imagine you with your feet propped near the hearth, and your breath sweet with mint tea. I imagine walking through the Stony Cross forests with you. I would love to see some commonplace miracles, but I don't think I could find them without you. I need your help, Pru. I think you might be my only chance of becoming part of the world again.