When they finally left the bed, they were giddy. Christopher made a project of bathing her, drying her, even brushing her hair. She brought his robe and sat beside the bathtub as he washed. Occasionally she leaned downward to steal a kiss. They invented endearments for each other. Small marital intimacies that meant nothing and everything. They were collecting them, just as they were collecting words and memories, all of it containing special resonance for the two of them.

Beatrix turned down all the lamps except the one on the night table. “Time for bed,” she murmured.

Christopher stood at the threshold, watching his wife slip beneath the covers, her hair falling in a loose braid over one shoulder. She gave him the look that by now had become familiar . . . patiently encouraging. A Beatrix look.

A lifetime with such a woman was not nearly enough.

Taking a deep breath, Christopher made a decision.

“I want the left side,” he said, and turned down the last lamp.

He got into bed with his wife, taking her into his arms.

And together they slept until morning.

Epilogue

26 June 1857

Hyde Park, London

Christopher waited with the Rifle Brigade in a large space on the northern side of Hyde Park, a half mile broad and three quarters of a mile long, reserved for nine thousand men of all arms. There were Marines, Dragoons, Rifles, Hussars, Life Guards, Highlanders, and more, all glittering in the abundant sun. The morning was hot and breezeless, promising to roast the hundred thousand people in attendance at the very first Victoria Cross ceremony.

The soldiers in their full dress uniforms were already miserable, some from the heat, others from envy. “We’ve got the bloody ugliest uniforms in the Empire,” one of the Rifles muttered, casting a glance at the infinitely more splendid dress of the nearby Hussars. “I hate this gloomy dark green.”

“Pretty target you’d make, crawling forward of the front lines in bright red and gold,” another Rifle replied in a scornful undertone. “You’d have your arse shot off.”

“I don’t care. Women like red coats.”

“You’d choose a woman over not having your arse shot off?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

The other man’s silence conceded the point.

A faint smile curved Christopher’s mouth. He glanced at the enclosure near the Grosvenor Gate galleries, where seven thousand ticket holders had been seated. Beatrix and the rest of the Hathaways were there, as well as his grandfather, and Audrey, and several cousins. After this elaborate and unwanted presentation was over, Christopher and the entire mass of his family and in-laws would return to the Rutledge Hotel. There would be a private dinner with feasting and merriment, and Harry Rutledge had hinted at some special entertainment. Knowing Rutledge, it could be anything from a trio of opera singers to a troop of performing monkeys. Only two things were certain—the Hathaways were in London, and it would be a wild, mad romp.

Another guest would attend the family dinner at the Rutledge—Mark Bennett, who had sold his army commission and was preparing to take the reins of his family shipping business. It had taken months for Bennett to recover from the trauma of his wartime experiences, and the process was far from complete. However, a long stay in the Phelan household had done him a world of good. Piece by piece, Bennett had put his psyche back together in a necessary but painful process. With the support of understanding friends, he had gradually come back to himself.

Now more and more, Bennett resembled the dashing and quick-witted rogue he had once been. During long vigorous rides through the countryside, he had acquired healthy color and vitality, and had regained lost muscle. Even after returning to his family estate in Gloucestershire, Bennett often visited Christopher and Beatrix at Riverton. It so happened that during one of these visits, he had met Audrey, who had come to stay a fortnight.

Audrey’s reaction to the tall, dark-haired ex-soldier had been more than a little perplexing. Christopher hadn’t understood why his normally sanguine sister-in-law became so shy and clumsy whenever Bennett was near.

“It’s because he’s a tiger,” Beatrix had explained in private, “and Audrey is a swan, and tigers always make swans nervous. She finds him very attractive, but she doesn’t think he’s the kind of gentleman she should keep company with.”

Bennett, for his part, seemed quite taken with Audrey, but every time he had made a careful advance to her, she had retreated.

And then with startling quickness, the two of them seemed to have become fast friends. They went on rides and walks together and corresponded frequently when they were apart. When they were both in London, they were always seen in each other’s company.

Mystified by the change in their formerly awkward relationship, Christopher asked Bennett what had happened to alter it.

“I told her I was impotent from old war wounds,” Bennett said. “That calmed her nerves considerably.”

Taken aback, Christopher had brought himself to ask gingerly, “Are you?”

“Hell no,” came Bennett’s indignant reply. “I only said it because she was so skittish around me. And it worked.”

Christopher had given him a sardonic glance. “Are you ever going to tell Audrey the truth?”

A mischievous smile had played at the corners of Bennett’s lips. “I may let her cure me soon,” he admitted. Seeing Christopher’s expression, he had added hastily that his intentions were entirely honorable.

It was a good match. And in Christopher’s opinion, his brother would have approved.