ensing the explosive quality in Christopher’s stillness, Beatrix waited until he had drained his champagne. “Oh, my,” she said in a voice loud enough to carry to the people around them. “I fear all this excitement is bringing on a touch of the vapors. Captain Phelan, if you wouldn’t mind escorting me to the parlor...?”

The question was greeted with sympathetic murmurs, as any evidence of a woman’s delicate constitution was always encouraged.

Trying to look fragile and wan, Beatrix clung to Christopher’s arm as he led her from the drawing room. Instead of proceeding to the parlor, however, they found a place outside, a bench set on a graveled walkway.

They sat together in wordless communication. Christopher slid his arm around her, pressing his mouth against her hair. She listened to the night sounds from the nearby wood; peeps and rustlings, the melodious conversations of frogs, the flappings of birds and bats. Eventually she felt Christopher’s chest lift and lower in a long sigh.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, knowing that he was thinking about Mark Bennett, the friend he hadn’t been able to save. “I know why this medal is so odious to you.”

Christopher made no reply. From the near-palpable tension he radiated, she understood that of all the dark memories he harbored, this was one of the worst.

“Is it possible to refuse the medal?” she asked. “To forfeit it?”

“Not voluntarily. I’d have to do something illegal or hideous to invoke the expulsion clause.”

“We could plan a crime for you to commit,” Beatrix suggested. “I’m sure my family would have some excellent suggestions.”

Christopher looked at her then, his eyes like silvered glass in the moonlight. For a moment Beatrix feared the attempt at levity might have annoyed him. But then there was a catch of laughter in his throat, and he folded her into his arms. “Beatrix,” he whispered. “I’ll never stop needing you.”

They lingered outside for a few minutes longer than they should have, kissing and caressing until they were both breathless with frustrated need. A quiet groan escaped him, and he tugged her up from the bench and brought her back into the house.

As Beatrix mingled among the guests, chatting brightly and feigning interest in the advice they offered, she kept stealing glances at Christopher whenever possible. He appeared calm to the point of stoicism, maintaining a soldierly demeanor. Everyone fawned on him, even those whose social rank and aristocratic blood far eclipsed his. Despite Christopher’s controlled façade, she sensed his unease, perhaps even antagonism, in trying to readjust to a landscape that had once been so familiar. He felt out of place among old friends, none of whom wanted to dwell on the reality of what he had experienced and done in the war. The medals and gold braid and patriotic music were all that anyone felt comfortable discussing. And therefore he could only allow his feelings to show in brief and cautious increments.

“Beatrix.” Audrey was at her side, gently drawing her away before she could become involved in another conversation. “Come with me. I want to give you something.”

Beatrix took her to the back of the house, to a set of stairs leading to an oddly shaped room on the second floor. It was one of the many charms of Ramsay House, that rooms and eccentric spaces with no apparent purpose seemed to have grown organically from the main residence.

They sat together companionably on the stairs.

“You’ve done Christopher so much good already,” Audrey said. “I thought when he first returned after the war that he had lost all capacity for happiness. But he seems far easier with himself now... not nearly so brooding or tightly strung. Even his mother has remarked on the difference—and she is grateful.”

“She has been kind to me,” Beatrix said. “Even though it’s obvious that I am not what she expected of a daughter-in-law.”

“No,” Audrey conceded with a grin. “However, she is determined to make the best of things. You are the only chance of keeping Riverton in our branch of the family. If you and Christopher produce no offspring, it will go to her cousins, which she could not abide. I think she would have liked me much better, had I been able to conceive.”

“I’m sorry,” Beatrix murmured, taking her hand.

Audrey’s smile turned bittersweet. “It wasn’t meant to be. That is the lesson I’ve had to learn. Some things aren’t meant to be, and one can either rail against it, or accept it. John told me near the end that we had to be grateful for the time we had been given. He said he saw things very clearly, as his life drew to a close. Which leads me to what I wanted to give you.”

Beatrix looked at her expectantly.

Carefully Audrey removed a neatly folded bit of parchment from her sleeve. It was an unsealed letter.

“Before you read it,” Audrey said. “I must explain. John wrote it the week before he died—he insisted on doing it himself—and he told me to give it to Christopher when—or if—he returned. But after reading it, I wasn’t certain what to do with it. When Christopher came back from the Crimea, he was so volatile and troubled... I thought it better to wait. Because no matter what John had asked of me, I knew above all that I must do no further harm to Christopher, after all he’s been through.”

Beatrix’s eyes widened. “You think this letter might harm him?”

“I’m not sure. In spite of our kinship, I don’t understand Christopher well enough to judge.” Audrey shrugged helplessly. “You’ll know what I mean when you read it. I don’t want to give it to Christopher unless I can be sure it will do him good, and not create some unintended torment. I leave it in your hands, Beatrix, and trust in your wisdom.”