Page 107 of A Thousand Painted Hours

“No,” I said with some weariness. “But it was nevermehe wanted. Any more than he wants Trudy, the actual woman, or wanted Margo in Cairo. He falls passionately in love with ... an ideal, some imaginary vision of what she will be.”

“Isn’t that what all men want?”

“No. Not at all.” I scowled. “Peter is driven to possess beauty, as if it’s something he can buy.” I paused. “A lot of men are that way, of course. And we’re taught to pander to it, offer beauty in whatever way we can to capture their attention. But not all men.”

“Not your prince.”

“Why do you always say it that way? So droll, as if it’s something foolish.”

“What did I say?”

“‘Your prince,’” I echoed in her lightly mocking tone. “That is a title he inherited. It is not the summation of him. And yes, I am thinking of him when I say all men are not like that. He has values and lives them. He looks beyond beauty.”

“But how would you know? You’re beautiful yourself. Perhaps he, like Peter, was only smitten by your face and body.”

“No.” It would be easy to trot out Channan as the exhibit of the day, but I would not use her that way. “Integrity truly exists. The ability to see women for more than their beauty or usefulness to men also exists.” I shook my head. “Jonathan, for one.”

She rolled her eyes. “Queer men don’t count.”

“I disagree, but let us change direction now. I don’t want to fight with you, my dear friend.”

“Oh, do ignore me! I am wretched in Helen’s absence, and Jonathan is so busy. Please come stay with me here, Elsie. We’ll transport your mother, and then you and I can while away the war playing rummy and whist.”

The image gave me such a sense of relief that I nodded. “Yes, let’s do that. I need to bring the other two kittens and their mother. Is that all right?”

“Of course. They’re being little darlings.”

“All right. I shall see what needs to be transported.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

As I prepared to leave, Nina laid a thin hand over my forearm. “Are you safe with Peter, Elsie? You’ve always been quite vague about what happened in Cairo.”

“You needn’t worry,” I said. A ripple of memory warned me that was not at all true.

Letters After the War

1919

England

—56—

February 19, 1919

Greylake, England

Dear Mother,

It grieves me to write this letter, but I have had a telegram about William, who survived the war only to succumb to influenza on his way home to England. A friend of his wrote to me (I am enclosing the letter) to say he went very quickly and did not suffer, but I do not think that will alleviate your sorrow very much. I made arrangements for his body to be interred at Herewich with his ancestors.

I weep as I write this, knowing how hard it will be for you to hear. It is terribly cruel that he managed to get though the war and then fell to illness so close to the end. I am sorry that he did not have a chance to marry, or test all his grand theories on how to build Herewich into the thriving estate it once was, and I am desperately sorry that I cannot ever embrace him again.

Of course, the estate now passes to cousin Harold, a feat that once would have seemed impossible, butthe war has killed so many more than our William that a distant cousin is the only male of our line left to inherit. I am furious that we shall both be left without a dime, when I am alive and breathing and as much my father’s child as my brother was.

But what is there to be done?