Page 112 of Two Wars and a Wedding

Lavinia, she knew, would be delighted to have her, the same way the Romans had delighted in possessing captive enemies, to show off as trophies. Only instead of being hauled before the populace in a chariot, decked with ornaments, Betsy would be pinned into tidiness and displayed in the drawing room to a select audience of Daughters of the American Revolution. Betsy wasn’t a Daughter of the American Revolution. She wasn’t even a first cousin once removed of the War of 1812. But she had been decorated by the queen of Greece and nursed in Cuba, so she was a feather in Lavinia’s bonnet.

Betsy didn’t want to be a feather in Lavinia’s bonnet or a thorn in Alex’s side or any other kind of protuberance.

She just wanted—what she’d always wanted, she supposed. To dig.

Then find someone who will, said Holt’s voice in her head. As if it were that simple, that easy, to just go and set up a dig in Greece. There was funding, permits. . . .

Well, of course, money wasn’t really a problem. Thanks to the despised carpet factory her father had sold, she had more than enough money to fund a dig herself.

The queen would see the permit sorted for her. Sophia Schliemann would advise her. There wasn’t much Sophia Schliemann didn’t know about running a dig. And Aikaterini would help however she could.

She had some ideas about places one could try—not the well-trafficked places, not the legendary cities or major religious sites, but lesser-known places, places where one might find the traces of ordinary lives. . . .

Betsy’s nose bumped up against the wire and she drew herself back, feeling obscurely guilty for letting herself even dream about it. It felt like cheating somehow, to think of going back, of starting over, as if none of it had happened—the war, Charles, their baby.

Not your fault, Holt had told her, but then, whose fault was it? How was it fair?

Someone coughed behind her, the sort of cough that said he’d been trying to get her attention for some time.

“Holt,” she said. Speak of the devil and all that.

He’d shaved, Betsy noticed, despite his claims about aspirations toward a new mustache. His hair was damp and neatly combed down, instead of sweaty and any which way.

“How are the others?”

“Sleeping. Eating. Bathing. Smoking. Everyone is enjoying the sensation of being on dry land.” Holt smiled ruefully. “The authorities here have never been saddled with a group like us before. The foreign observers have been demanding transatlantic cables. The newspapermen have been clogging the wires filing their stories.”

Betsy stood with her back to the wire. “Poor Kit. She was worried they’d steal a march on her.”

Holt cleared his throat. “As much as I’d like to be here on my own account, I’ve been sent as the representative of a delegation.”

“A delegation?” Betsy frowned at him.

“Of the passengers of the Seneca. They’d like you to have this.” Holt produced a rather crumpled piece of paper, folded in half. “They wrote it the night we tried to dock in Virginia, but it needed to be passed around for signatures—and then there wasn’t a good chance to give it to you. And since we’ll all be going our separate ways tomorrow, the consensus was that you should have it now.”

That was an awful lot of words saying nothing. Betsy felt strangely unsettled, and not in a good way. “What is it?”

Holt shook his head and flapped the paper at her. “Just read it.”

“Fine.” Betsy took it from him and made a show of reading out loud. “Miss Elizabeth Hayes. Dear Madam: The undersigned, United States officers and other passengers on board this steamer returning from Siboney, Cuba, full of sick and wounded men from the Santiago campaign, have observed with admiration the heroic and self-sacrificing manner in which you have cared for those suffering men. . . .”

Betsy’s voice faltered. The words blurred in front of her eyes.

Holt caught the letter before it could fall. “We cannot see this trying voyage come to an end without giving you some expression of our admiration for your conduct, and our hope that your devotion will meet with a fitting reward. They mean it, you know. Every word. We all mean it.”

They’d all signed it. Everyone. Every passenger, from Captain Dowdy down to the Turkish attaché who had pretended not to understand her French.

Betsy turned her face away, fishing in her sleeve for a handkerchief. Naturally, she didn’t have one. She never did.

Holt produced a handkerchief from his pocket. Betsy vaguely recognized it as a fragment of her petticoat, cut into a rough square. He pressed it into her hand. “Not one person died on that ship. Not one. Do you realize what a wonder that is? That was your doing. No one else’s. Yours.”

Betsy blew her nose noisily into Holt’s handkerchief. “You put them up to this.”

“I didn’t. I swear.” Holt stepped back, leaning his lanky frame against a post. “It might have been Commander Anderson—the Swede. He’s half in love with you.”

“Ha,” said Betsy thickly.

“They’re all half in love with you.” Holt’s face had gone blank, his voice strangely flat. “I’m in love with you.”