The Crimean war was fought between Russia on one hand and the Ottoman Empire, England, France and Sardinia on the other. The most immediate reason was a dispute between Russia and France over control of Palestinian Holy places. This conflict had gone on from 1852 until the war in the Crimea began in 1853. The English were not so much there to support the French, but because they didn't like the unpredictable Russians controlling a sea port in the Black Sea. They preferred to see them landlocked. Also, the British really wanted to be involved in a war again. A matter of national pride. They were ill-prepared and badly advised.

Many of the characters here are factual. I have taken liberties with their personalities. Great liberties. See if you can guess who is who in the LFN world. Those familiar with my stories will recall Jack and Ben from various stories.

************

My mother has said that they found me under a cabbage leaf in the kitchen garden. I am some sort of unnatural, contrary being, nothing like anyone on her side of the family. Women on the Wirth side are biddable, serene. My mother and I have always been at loggerheads about something. Mostly it is my fault. I have never understood her dreams for me. My dreams were always to be able to do whatever my brothers, Jack and Ben did. Like a man I want to chose my own path.

I am not, in looks, like my father's side of the family either. They are small and partly of Russian gypsy extraction. My grandmother, the gypsy, married a British soldier. Ben is like them, dark and wiry. Jack and I are twins. I am extremely tall, almost Jack's height, and my hair is silver blonde. Perhaps some Celtic warrior princess somewhere in the distant past is at fault for my size and colouring.

I always thought I should have been the boy and Jack the girl. Not that he is girlish, he's just more easy and amiable than I am wont to be. I am smarter and more distrustful. I am nothing like I look. A boy once told me I looked like huge woodland faerie. I suppose he was trying to be nice in his way, but he got a punch in the eye for that. He never came near me again.

I have eyes that a few gentlemen have told me are the colour of the sky on a sunny day. How bloody original. It is my experience that men only say such things when they want something from you. It might work on the other girls of my acquaintance, but not on me. Most of the girls I know believe every fancy word a man tells them. I think that I have far better sense than that. I have not met the man I feel is worthy of me yet. I hope that doesn't sound conceited. It is just a fact. And I like facts. One cannot go wrong with the truth.

Most men are a little cowed by my Amazonian size. They stare at me and then they flush as red as beetroot. I have been asked to dance, but every time it is a disaster because I am utterly compelled to lead. The dancing and deportment master my mama scrimped to send me to, screamed and threw up his hands in horror by my third lesson. I never went back. Mama was furious because the money could not be refunded. The instructor, totally lacking in any male essence I could discern, pronounced me a cow with an bad attitude. I pushed him in a fit of pique. Mama cried.

No dancing partner except Jack has ever cleared past my chin. No one asks to sign my card any more. My mother says it's because I frown and look down my nose. I scare them all away like so many mice. I have gotten used to standing with the wallflowers and the chaperones at the few country dances I attend. My mother's dreams of a wealthy husband, a vicar or a younger son with a modest allowance went up in smoke by the time I was twenty-two. I am fully on the shelf now.

I don't think I will ever have a husband. Baba's tea leaves say that I will. She says that I am destined meet my other half, my perfect mate soon, and only after some difficulty will we be together. She, of course, can't see so far into the future as to tell me what the difficulty will be or what he will look like. She says his name will start with 'M' and that we have been together in other lives and will be again and again.

I smiled at her and asked why we just didn't get it right the first time.

I think I'll just take a lover. Just for curiosity's sake. I have seen horses and dogs mate and I want to know how it all works with humans. Baba says it is surprisingly nice with the right man.

I know that I am not supposed to think such things let alone write them, but who is ever going to read this but me? I will take a handsome lover and he will be at least my height, but strong and dark and wildly romantic. And he won't wear face whiskers or that awful smelling pomade on his head. He will be wealthy and smart, but he will care about things other than cigars and good port at the men's club.

I think the only person I can talk to about such earthy matters as men and what they're actually good for, is my baba, Anna Maria. She lives in a small cottage not far from our home and I see her whenever I can. I work at the Derbyshire pottery works, where my father is foreman, painting roses on china. I tolerate it, because it's a good living for a woman. It was hard enough to get my other to see her way to allow me to work there at the factory. At least I am not working as a governess in some earl's estate as Mama wants. I'd hate that.

Painting roses was the closest I thought I'd ever get to being a real artist, but I have hit upon a way to change all that. I would like to be famous and go live a bohemian life in London or even Paris. I may even wear trousers and smoke a cigar. I have no wish to study with the sap-skulls who draw apple cheeked urchins and idealised women at the Academy. I want to forge out on my own. I will do things on canvas that people will find brilliant and disturbing.

At any rate I'm leaving England soon. I'm to follow my brother Ben, a sergeant with the 4th Light Dragoons and my Uncle Walter, a munitions sergeant with the 11th Hussars and Jack, who is with the same regiment, to the Crimea. I will accompany some of the officer's wives as a companion and child minder on board the ship. When we arrive I will stay with the wife of one of the officers in my uncle's regiment. She is an amiable sort, young and carefree. She promises that I shall have free time to do what I like.

I am over the moon. I will be allowed time to paint soldiers and horses and battle scenes and to practice the Russian language I have been speaking with Baba since my childhood. It will be exciting and exotic. We leave in early August. My mother is appalled. She cries incessantly and drinks her fortitude building tonics until she is quite insensate. She blames my wish to leave home on the family's tainted gypsy blood. As I have said before, and proudly, my father's mother, my baba, once called Anna Maria Twelve-Trees, is half Russian gypsy. It is the family curse, this lust to wander. I do not look at it as a curse but a gift of freedom.

She tells me I will come through this fine. That I will surprise myself. Nikita White will be having her share of joy someday.

***********

October 29, 1854,

My Dear Brother,

I hope this letter finds you well. This war is a fool's errand. As far as I can see it is being run by idiots. I suppose I am one of them as I call myself liaison between the fools. Perhaps things get lost in the translation between the allied generals. The French, the English and the Turks against the supposedly lowly Russians and yet nothing gets done right. So we rot here in the mud looking at the coming of a hellish winter.

I should not complain. I am snug and dry in a house in Balaclava. I have all that I want. We French feel more smug about ourselves because we are better equipped. We have food and blankets and dry tents while the British foot soldiers stand in the rain and freeze to death or drop dead of cholera. Thousands of them died in the first week, Jean-Francois. It is a shame and a disgrace.

It is the British foot soldiers I feel for. Some of them fall over dead in the trenches with nary a word of complaint and yet the others, no better off, trudge on with a dram of rum, salt-meat and a hard biscuit. It is heartbreaking. The hills are littered with bodies that cannot be buried and horses that have died knee deep in sucking red mud.

I am well sick of General Saint-Arnaud. We could have taken the Russians at Sevastepol and gained control of the port but the decisions that were made about how to conduct the battle by General Raglan, Cardigan and St. Arnaud will cause this war to drag on for at least another year. While they were fooling around deciding who would have the glory of going to battle in the best positions, the Russians made a good job of defending the port and held on by the skin of their teeth. For all this bumbling we should find ourselves stuck here for at least a year more.

I like Raglan. He is a gentleman and a quiet soul, but he is not a master of his men. I fear that he is gravely ill. Cardigan is a rich buffoon with a beautiful young mistress he keeps on a well stocked yacht in the Balaclava harbour. She rides a prancing horse and wears a ridiculous uniform based on those of Cardigan's 11th Hussars. I have seen her many times. She has dark, reddish hair and eyes the colour of black marble. She is a beauty but she makes me think of a feral creature.

He has an assistant I do not see eye to eye with, I am afraid. I am forced to be in his company often but I trust him not, dear brother. Have you ever looked into the eyes of a man who has no soul? Lieutenant Zalman is one of those men. He brags about his conquests with women until I feel the need to hide my disgusted sneer behind my hand.

Do I sound bitter? I am not. Just lonely and tired as hell.

St. Arnaud is being replaced as he received a sabre wound. Nothing much, I assure you. I gave you worse cuts in fencing practice. I hope that Marshall Paul Bosquet is more qualified. He arrives soon.

It will soon be winter. It promises to be a bitter cold one according to the locals I have met in camp. I feel sorry for the wives of the soldiers. I cannot fathom why there are so many women here with their men, as many as forty wives per regiment. Hundreds of them, some even with young children, some pregnant. Some of these poor ladies have died of disease already. Some have gone back home to England. Yet others persevere.

There is one especially that I have noticed. She is an artist. She is young and blonde. Tall, like a Valkyrie. She wears breeches sometimes and a frock coat. She sits on the hill with the foreign newspaper corespondents and sketches the battles. Sometimes at the end she will go and walk amongst the bodies, quite unafraid, covering their eyes and arranging their hands with such gentleness it has made some of the men weep to see her. I watch and I fear for her safety until she comes back. It is not my place to correct the girl's actions and I doubt she would allow me to do it if I were to try. There are many women on the field after the battle seeing to the men, Russian, Turk, French and English looking for loved ones.

I think if women ran the world, dear brother, there would be no such scenes of carnage.

I could not believe she was real when first I saw her. I do not even know her name, so do not assume anything of an attachment. As you know, Jean Francois, I have no interest in women at the moment, but she is a beauty. You would have your tongue hanging out to look at her. Don't tell Zara I said that for your wife is of great beauty as well.

Zalman knows the girl. He wants her. I see the look in his eyes when he sees her. She is indifferent to him, perhaps. I don't know. I doubt she is his woman. He could not possess someone as pure of face and spirit as she. Besides, I see him squiring the general's wife about. Perhaps they have an understanding of a sexual nature.

I want to tell the girl to go home so that she will not succumb to this hell, but still whenever I ride into the Hussar's camp I can't help but look for her. I miss her and I am unaccountably sad when I leave without seeing her.

I come to the end of my words here, brother. I am tired. I have had a slight cold, sneezing, nothing more. The shoulder wound I got at Alma has healed. Tell Adam that Balthazar is well and missing his carrots and sugar lumps. There will be a special letter for him soon. Tell him that I love him and that I will be home when I can. I hope he is not missing his Papa too much. I am grateful to you and Zara for giving him a home with you and your brood, Jean Francois. I hope he has stopped crying at night for Russia and his mama.

I have not.

Be well my brother, God Bless,

Michel

*******

War was not exactly what I thought it would be. My brother's games of toy soldiers before the hearth and battles in the meadow were far cleaner. Uncle Walters tales of Waterloo painted a far different picture than I had imagined.

I tell myself that I am not afraid, that I am strong enough, that I can do this.

The trip over was unspeakable. Crowded and disgusting. We slept sitting up. The horses were looked after better than the men. Many were deathly sick before we even arrived. Mrs. Parker and Mrs. Fitch, the women I was to accompany, have returned home rather than be here. Poor Mrs. Fitch lost her son and husband to cholera the first week we camped in Balaclava bay.

Walter says: What did they expect? A Sunday picnic.

Some of the women, mostly the officers wives, are lucky enough to be housed in the town, but the places assigned to the British are disgusting and filthy. The sanitation is non-existent. The tent camps are worse though. I do not see how some of us continue to survive. Raglan has said that there are supplies coming, but each day we wait and the supplies do not come. We are short of food, clothing and medicine. Some of the men do not have blankets or dry stockings. There are few shovels to bury the dead and if we did have the means, the men would be too tired to do it.

The wounded and the ill are sent by donkey carts to overcrowded ships that are barely sea-worthy for the long trip to the hospital at Scutari. They say the sea is littered with limbs and bodies thrown overboard. The hospital there is said to be nothing more than a cattle barn. There is no sanitation, the place is infested with rats and the medical staff is scarce and exhausted. There are rumours that someone will be sent soon to clean the place up, a woman called Florence Nightingale. They call her a little tartar.

I have taken to splitting my time between the camp and the town of Balaclava. The road is bad and it takes me the better part of a morning to travel it. I usually walk alone sliding through the mud. Sometimes a young war correspondent I have met takes me to town in his small donkey cart. His name is Seymour. He is young and enthusiastic, very timid and mouse-like to look at it, but I suspect, like me, another adventurer at heart. Jack introduced me to him. He is the one who takes me to the battles with him. He would like to purchase some of my pictures to send back to the papers in London.

I work now a few days a week at Mrs. Seacomb's hotel. She is a fine woman of mixed race, born in the Caribbean. Her husband died soon after her arrival. It had been her dream to be a nurse but the war office turned her down because she is half-caste. She just laughs and says that she has been living with narrow minds of the British all of her life. The men love her and call her Mother Mary-Jane. She is like their mother, though I'd say she is only in her middle years. She has a surgery, staffed by a fine young doctor and his wife and the men can stay to recover from their wounds. It is the only truly good thing I have seen. I am happy to help some of the other women roll bandages and change linens.

As I walk to town I have seen the bodies of the men littering the roads. They cannot be buried and are instead covered with lime in hopes that the stench will be kept down. They lay there, their arms crossed neatly into stomachs now shrunken to form pits. It is at once pitiful, sad and strange. They look like so many frosted gingerbread men, shoeless and coatless, their faces and bodies coated with white lime. At first the sight made me retch. Now I think I have become immune.

I try not to become depressed. I have never done better or more meaningful drawings. This experience will only add depth to my work, make me stronger. I am in a place where I am needed. Baba told me that I would survive this and I believe her.

The wife of Lord Cardigan has been after me to paint her portrait in her hussar's 'uniform'. She says that she'll pay me well and I have considered it. The money will go far to helping Mrs. Seacomb. I don't like the woman and shudder at spending time in her company. The women I work with tell me that she was Lord George Cardigan's mistress for years. Her name is 'Adeline de Horsey. She is a noted equestrienne, very skilled in the hunt and by all accounts, man hungry. She is often accompanied by her husband's right hand man, Lieutenant Zalman.

He is about thirty, pale, startlingly tall, thin and wiry and his Adam's apple bulges in his neck. He speaks in very cultured, educated tones. His eyes are hawklike, his nose thin and pointed, as is his chin. I like him little and yet he takes every opportunity to seek my company. I have been merely polite but still he persists. His legs are long and thin in the obscenely tight cherry coloured trousers and gold topped boots of the Hussars. My brother Jack wears the uniform far better.

There seems to be no love lost between Zalman and the French officers. I know he despises them and the majority of the British troops share his hate. I have seen him watching the young French liaison officers. There is a certain young French lieutenant called Samuelle that he hates. They seem to stare daggers at each other.

I have seen the Frenchman several times. He is hard not to notice. Our eyes met once. It was strange. I had this piercing thrill go through me right from my breasts into my groin. It felt like it did when I was a young girl and sat my female parts on the edge of my shoe. I asked Baba what that meant, why it felt good and sinful at the same time. She smiled and told me that every girl feels that, that sometimes seeing a man you loved would make you feel that.

Not love, I surmised. Lust, maybe. I was sure when the Frenchman's eyes met mine he could tell that I was feeling it. He smiled knowingly.

It didn't end there. I dreamed of him that night. I dreamed that he was kissing me. Touching my breasts with his elegant hands. I awoke in a sweat and couldn't return to sleep until I went to the privy.

*******

" Seen 'im today then, Ethel?" asked Lizzy Simms as she tore a six foot long linen strip with her chill-blane ravaged hands.

" Oy, Prince Charmin'. I haven't, luv. But I'm wantin' to. Lord, isn't he pretty? " It was a sunny day and Ethel Murray was squinting and grinning, her face a spider's web of wrinkles.

The two ladies have long been following their husbands, career men in the British army. Ethel's husband was with the kilted, fur hatted Black Watch. Sergeant Murray was actually her third husband. Lizzie is on her second. He is with the Cathcart division. They are good-hearted and brave women. I know my mother would wrinkle her nose in disgust at them. Of course some of the women here are disgusting. Drinkers of gin and rum, their children left unattended while they lay about. A few are prostitutes.

" Have you seen 'im, Nikki, luv?"

" I haven't seen any princes yet. I did see the Russian regent from a distance. I did a very nice likeness of him."

Ethel laughed. " He's not a real prince. His name is Lieutenant Michel Samuelle. Looks like an angel he does. An angel with a bit of the devil in his eyes to make him spicy."

" I think I've seen him."

" You'd know if you had , Nikki, luv," said Doris Banks. " Most beautiful male I've seen. Hair the colour of fall chestnuts and eyes so blue "

" His eyes are green," argued Ethel.

" They're gray," pronounced Lizzy. " Like steel. Like the sea."

" Are they? Could have sworn as they were blue."

" How old do you think he is? "

" Can't be far over thirty. Lor', that mouth. That is a mouth meant to kiss. Frenchies can truly kiss, so they say. They know lots of ways, lots of interesting ways." Ethel winked.

" And places."

The ladies began to guffaw. Oh, they are hardly staid daughters of Britain. I'm sure they would not simper and smile over my mother's chaste and maudlin Christian novels. My mother would have one believe that no one kisses in Britain. I'm sure the ideal Victorian man and woman make love with their clothes neatly in place.

I got that feeling again like I was sitting on my shoe as I was thinking about Lt. Samuelle's mouth made for French sin.

" Lord, speak of the devil. There he is."

I looked up to see the French officer ride by on his sleek, black horse. I stared at him in awe. He was so clean. He practically shone in the warm October sun.

He wore his uniform well, his short, dark blue serge coat trimmed in gold braid, his many brass buttons shiny as they trailed down his wide chest. His waist was trim, his breeches fitted in a way that drew attention to his buttocks and muscular thighs. His black boots were blindingly shiny, the tassels of gold bouncing in time with the prancing steed. His hat sported a white plume and gold braid which he doffed as he swung off his horse.

I liked his hair. He sported no huge whiskers or mutton chops. His sideburns were not much past his beautiful ears, his lean face clean shaved and tanned. His hair was a little longer than the fashion and swept back from his handsome face simply, as if by impatient hands. No Madagascar oil stained it dark and greasy. I imagined that the red tinged tresses would smell like sunshine and feel like silk against my nose.

He was not too tall, perhaps two inches above me. He held himself proudly, his gait soldierly, but there was something more in that walk. It hinted at his personality. I knew he could be brave, arrogant, amazingly kind and compassionate and darkly, deeply, tempestuously sexual just by that walk. Don't ask me how. I have never thought such things about a male before by watching the way Michel Samuelle moved.

" Oh, Lord. To be in a feather bed under 'im," said Ethel.

He turned his head as if he had heard her. I knew he had not. He was thirty feet away from us. He smiled and gave us a courtly bow. The other women laughed and curtsied back at him, giggling wildly. I just clutched my roll of bandages and stared. I knew that my cheeks were crimson. My heart was beating a battle tattoo against my ribs.

***********

November 1st, 1854,

My dearest brother,

Things continue to worsen here. It is colder now. The weather is strange here. It changes in the blink of an eye. The fog can be so thick at times one can't see his hand. It is cold not the drizzle never ceasing for days. And then it is hot enough to go coatless.

Lord George Cardigan has lost most of his Light Brigade. He was wounded in the leg and plays like the fallen hero, his wife beating her chest over his prostrate form. It was a slight scratch, a trifle.

Marshall Bosquet is an improvement but I find him arrogant in his way. He has pocked skin and a large nose. His hair is a short, white shock on his head and he wears a heavy mustache. He thinks I should not be completely trusted because of my years with the Russians and my Russian born son. I told him, with little emotion, that he has no one better to trust. I think I grow on him by degrees, but still I find his disregard for anything but battle disconcerting. There must be something in life other than dedication to one's profession. I'm sure the man knows little of family and love.

He does talk about his dogs and his mother a lot. I don't know which he thought more of.

He does have an eye for war and said something to me about the British Hussar's advance as we watched from the hill. " C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre." I think the war corespondents were sending those words back with the telegraph today. It summed the situation perfectly.

It really isn't about him that I wish to write.

I saw her there, the girl I wrote about. She was looking for her brother a few hours after the dust and the smoke had settled. She walked slowly and carefully among the twisted, fallen bodies and I was afraid for her as usual.

I had seen her in town several days before, but she'd been in a dress and apron then and I'd hardly recognised her.

There was a Russian soldier, down but still alive. He had managed to crawl out from under his horse. She dropped to her knees, stanching his chest wound with her white shawl.

I ran over to her. I got strange looks from Bosquet but I had to do it. She was speaking to the fallen man in Russian. I was amazed. She looked up at me with eyes so richly blue my heart skipped a beat in my chest. Lord, she is so beautiful. She has high cheek-bones and a wide, full mouth, a determined little chin and her nose is the sweetest I've seen ever, Jean Francois, sort of small and tip-tilted.

She looks like the girl on the swing in that painting Mama had above her bed before she realised that Papa was staring at it the rare occasion that he shared it. Do you remember her? We called her Fleur. The Fragonard lady with the taut, naked breasts we used to ogle as teenagers. The one with the blonde hair and the long, long legs. But I digress in a shameful way.

Her eyes were full of tears for the Russian boy but she started rather angrily when she saw me.

" You'd best leave now, mademoiselle. He'll be looked after by his own kind." I think I must have said it rather stiffly. I might have come across as rude. You know me.

" I am allowed to be here," she said softly.

" I am thinking of your safety. He might have killed you. Or his comrades may decide to take you prisoner."

" That's utter garbage."

I stiffened my own back. " It's truth."

" He is too weak. What would poor Alexi do? Flail at me with this shattered hand? He thinks I am an angel come to take him to his mother. Do you want me to leave him to die alone? Would you want to die alone? "

I shook my head. I could think of nothing better than dying like that Russian soldier, my head sweetly cradled in the girl's lap.

" You can leave me now," she said, tartly.

" Were you looking for your husband? "

" I have no husband, sir, not that it is any of your business. I am here with my bothers and uncle. My twin was here today. I was looking for him. Hopefully I shall find him safe and alive later."

I nodded. I could see over my shoulder that I was being called back by my superiors. I think my heart almost shattered when I had to leave her there. She didn't even seem to care that I left.

Don't say that I'm in love, Jean. I'm not. I do not know the girl and she seems prickly as a cactus. Perhaps her beauty, her bravery, have me a little obsessed. Maybe it's just the reminiscence of what I used to do after I had stared at that painting of the girl on the swing too long. Don't say that you did not do the same.

Maybe it's time I sought out a woman again. Two years is a long time.

Perhaps you should not let Zara read this. I enclose a special letter for Adam. Let her read that. I want her to have no visions of me writhing in agony on my bunk thinking about an English woman who looks at me like I am horse dung on her boot.

Your pathetic brother,

Michel

************

She persuaded me. With the offer of paints and an easel. I would paint 'Adeline de Horsey.

I'd lost my pad of paper the week before in a rainstorm that soaked and wrinkled the papers. I promised that I would get the painting done by Christmas. I would be paid on completion of the portrait. I intended to give the money to Mrs. Seacomb so she could keep on.

It was winter now. There was a an unsteady truce of sorts. Most of the men were still in the trenches, the odd skirmish then and again. Mrs. Seacomb was busy. On the days when I was not painting Lady Cardigan I was there in Balaclava.

Jack made it through the battle. He'd been taken off after having the last two fingers partly severed on his left hand. Both were lost but he seems fine about it and shrugs away the pain. He will not go home because of it.

Walter is morose, as usual, and spends his time giving me advise which I pretend not to take.

Lieutenant Zalman is the person who has been assigned to bring me to Lady Cardigan on the days when I paint her. She perches on a saw horse upon her saddle and looks ridiculous. She tells me stories of her first two husbands and their accidental deaths. She gives advise I do not solicit. Take young men as lovers, she says. Marry old and rich men. The horse, whom I swear is her familiar, is called Diablo. I am to paint him in later. I hope he's better company than she.

Zalman has been most pleasant and polite. Perhaps I misjudged him. At any rate, were he to be attentive in a lover-like way, I should ignore him.

I am tired. All I seem to do is work. I haven't seen the Frenchman recently. I try not to think about the French lieutenant too often in the daytime. I do it too much when I sleep.

*********

November 15, 1854

My dear brother,

The battles have ceased for now. The weather is appalling. I thank you for the new gloves and the small clothes. I never thought I would relish woolen underwear. I had great need of them, though I feel guilty when I see the others freezing.

Something happened yesterday of which I am ashamed and grateful at the same moment. It could have been tragic, but thank God it was not.

Bosquet's coach driver is at best a moron. At worse a lousy driver. He was going through town far too fast yesterday. A young lad trying to catch a runaway puppy wandered out into the street and was almost run down. Can you, dear brother, guess who happened to be his guardian angel?

Yes, of course it was she. The English girl from the battlefield. I know her name now. Nikita White.

She pulled the boy away from the carriage before I could even react. The two of them fell backwards into the street, the impact sending them sprawling. She lay there in the dirt with her blue eyes wide open and her mouth slack, stunned and deathly pale, the wind knocked out of her. At first I thought her dead. I feared she had struck the back of her head or hurt her neck.

I went to her first as Mrs. Seacomb had gone to see to the boy and gathered him into her capable arms. He was howling, so I knew he was hurt but not dead.

I lowered my ear to her mouth. I could feel her warm breath.

" Mademoiselle? "

She blinked dreamily up at me. " I dreamed that they were pale blue."

"Pardon?"

" Your eyes. Not blue at all really. They're green."

" Sometimes." I smiled at her.

" Angus? Is he alright? "

" Yes. He seems fine."

" Your driver is an ass." I was busy by this time feeling her ribs and up and down her slim arms and legs. I told her that he wasn't my driver. She seemed resigned to my checking her bones at first and then she seemed to come into her right mind. " What are you doing? Touching me like that?" She tried to sit up.

" Don't do that. I haven't finished yet."

" You're taking liberties."

" I'm doing no such thing. Sit up slowly, if you can, rest against my shoulder while I check your back."

"No! I will stand now, if you'll stop feeling me. I am fine. I will do as I please, sir."

" My name is Michel."

" I wish no familiarity."

" Fine, Call me Lt. Samuelle then."

I helped her to her feet. Her ankle turned immediately over. She made this sweet little gasp and staggered back into my body. I hate to tell you the state I was in, Jean. I was like a schoolboy reacting at his first dance with a girl, hard as rock. That hasn't happened to me in ages. I suppose it happened when I was testing her long, shapely legs for breaks.

I lifted her into my arms, praying that she wouldn't feel me against her hip. She was no light weight, Jean. While slender, she is wide of shoulder and muscular like a lad, near my height of six feet. I managed to get her to Mrs. Seacomb's hotel without staggering too much. I can still feel her weight in my arms as I write this.

She was spitting mad at being carried and even madder at Bosquet.

" Don't you stupid French know that there are children about?"

" Children should not play in the street. And stupidity is not exclusive of the French."

She seemed slightly embarrassed and had the grace to offer apology.

" Children should not play in the street. You see no French children here playing in the street. "

" All children do things like that."

" Not if the parents are diligent."

She frowned at me. " Rich, you mean. If they can afford nannies and nurses or to stay at home. Those women and children would starve if they did not follow their men to war."

" If they were not lazy, drunken English sluts their children might be safe."

" How dare you!"

I glared at her. She glared back. Our faces were inches apart. He arms were around my neck and all the time she was hissing at me in anger, she didn't let go.

Jean Francois, she was so beautiful up close I could hardly speak. I have never said things like that to a lady. I had never been so angry or yet so compelled to kiss her. I wanted to kiss that lush, beautiful mouth so badly I was shaking with it.

I dumped her into the chair. She grimaced in pain but said nothing.

I think I have written enough on that score. I would not want you to think that I was interested in the girl. It's just that I am a man and as you are saying so often to me, I have turned my back on women since Elena's death. I suppose I have punished myself enough.

I didn't mean for Elena to die. She is gone. I must put the past behind me.

It's just that this girl is different than Elena in every conceivable way. It isn't really her that I desire, perhaps, just what she represents. She is so full of life and strength and wilfulness. She is just like that painted girl on the swing I made into my ideal as a boy. A boy's dream. And she is here. In the middle of this hell where I never thought I would ever see someone as lovely as she.

She is real. The nasty tongue lashings she gave me that day, I could do without. I would never have expected the girl in the swing to call me a " right bloody idiot."

Am I making a terrible fool of myself here, Jean Francois? Tell me. You are the older and wiser of us.

This woman seems to hate me, likely only because it has been ingrained in her to hate the French. Or maybe it's me. Maybe she knows what I am. What I have done. That I am tainted. Maybe she sees through me.

She confuses me. She makes me want to live again. To try.

She is not a shrew, Jean. She is protecting herself from me. She is kindness itself with others, bravely saving that child, tending to the sick and dying, loyal to her uncle and brothers, holding that Russian soldier in her soft arms while he gasped his last breath.

I know why she protects herself from me. She knows instinctively what I did to Elena. She knows my kind.

God, how I long to kiss her. Just once.

I must stop this here, Jean. I hope by the time I have returned I will have regained some of my lost mind.

Your confused brother,

Michel

***********

I do not like him. I do not. He is handsome and that is all that appeals to me, shallow creature that I am deep inside. I am an artist and I love beauty in all things, although I tell myself that I must seek the truth and the

God, as Uncle Walter would say: You're so full of shite it's comin' out your ears.

I do like him. I can't help it. He does not cow before me. He's almost as quick with the barbs as I am. And he does not back down because I am a lady. I wonder if he felt what I felt when he was carrying me. I was just thinking that I was far too heavy for him, that he was going to sink to his knees under the weight of me.

All I could think about as Mrs. Seacole wrapped my ankle, was his lean face, those peridot green eyes and their triple rows of lashes. His lashes sweep his the edges of his perfectly shaped brows. Oh, how envious I am of his eyelashes. It's like they have been dipped in boot-black. And his mouth. The ladies were right about his mouth. It parted just slightly when he was looking at me and the inside of his lip was lovely. His nose is perfect for his face, so masculine, so uncompromising, adding just the right touch so that he is not too pretty. And that pugnacious chin. Makes him look tough where he could have looked tender. And the dimples made my heart pound. One in his chin and one very slight one in his cheek that is only there when he frowns and tries to look serious. His profile would have made Alexander the Great jealous. His face would make a girl not as resilient as I am, swoon. I am so very glad he has not covered that face with hair!

Lord, he has the look of the young knights Rossetti and the others portray in those syrupy, romantic paintings everyone is so enamoured by.

Mrs. Seacole smiled at me and I was certain she knew exactly what I was thinking about. I think I was twitching or squirming because she said: " Do you have to use the privy, lass?"

" No! I am p-perfectly fine."

She smiled at me knowingly and I tried to ignore it.

" I shouldn't be here, Mary-Jane. I am hardly hurting now. There are men who could benefit from your attention."

" You are every bit as deserving of it as they are. You saved young Angus Mitchell's life. I'm sure he thinks you are his hero."

" How is he?"

" They're strapping him up in a splint now. Your French officer stayed to hold him while they set the break. He asked that I ought to attend to you. He was telling the boy lovely stories about a Russian bear who is actually a prince in disguise. The boy took quite a shine to him."

" I'm sure he could charm the birds from the trees," I mumbled. " And he is not my French officer. He is not my anything. He is actually quite rude. "

" Rude? I found him to be all that is pleasant. It's not just that he is French? You don't carry some of those British prejudices that you claim to hate so much?"

" No. I do not. I just don't like him. He is too handsome."

" Well, I'd admit that I'd just hate to wake up beside an angel like him every morning. Would make poor old me look all the worse. But then I can also see where you would catch his eye."

" He doesn't like me either. I do not want to catch men's eyes. I want to be taken seriously."

" He takes you seriously. I think you are a perfect match. And that happening , amidst all this sorrow, gives me great delight."

I firmed my chin. " Your delight is misplaced."

She smiled and walked to the window. " It looks like there is a storm coming. My bones tell me so. They have hurricanes here. I have lived through a few of them on the islands." When she turned back to me, her face was concerned. " I think the others will laugh when I tell them to prepare."

" Maybe your bones are wrong. It's perfectly sunny. "

" My bones are never wrong. I can predict hurricanes and who will fall madly in love." She grinned and swept back the wisps that escaped her bun." Just the lull before the storm. This one is about two days away, I'd say. Get some sleep, Nikita."

After she left I fretted about the possibility storm for a while and the prospect of hobbling about on an injured ankle. While I was trying to do that his face kept intruding on my thoughts. His face and the memory of his arms about me, the way he smelled, of some spicy soap and expensive cigars. I knew I would not sleep. I reached for my sketch book and began to draw, a face beginning to form beneath my pencil.

Why had I said that about his eyes right out loud?

I did fall asleep eventually. For about two hours. My dreams were peaceful. No death or carnage. I cannot recall them but I awoke with a silly smile and a huge stretch.

Michel Samuelle had returned to Mrs. Seacole's. When I went to see Angus he was sitting with the child. On Angus's lap were about fifty little tin soldiers. I know the enlisted men make them in their spare moments. These had actually been painted. Little red coats. Little green painted Russians, the handsome French Lancers and the Ottomans with their turbans and uniforms like something out of the Arabian Nights.

Michel rose to his feet and smiled at me. I was trying very hard to walk without limping. I must have looked like a drunk clinging to the wall and trying to look steady.

" How are you, Miss White?' he asked, his accent ever so slight. He speaks better English that half the English I know. I tried not to notice that his hair was clean and shiny and that the stubble of unshaven beard only made him seem more masculine.

" I am well, thank you, sir."

" Would you like a seat?"

" I shan't be staying. I came to see how this little rascal is." I ruffled Angus's red hair. I could feel myself blushing. My body seems to heat up most uncomfortably in his presence.

" Lieutenant Samuelle brought me these soldiers, miss. Aren't they lovely? "

" They are. I hope it was with the promise that you will not play in the streets again."

" I won't. I promised 'im. I like these Frenchie ones the best." He held up the one that looked like Michel. " These were meant for 'is little boy, but 'e says Adam won't mind."

My heart feel to my knees with that. He had a little boy, which also meant that he had a wife. I tried to tell myself that it was a good thing. That meant that he was completely off limits and that was the way I wanted it. Wasn't it?

" Are you sure you wouldn't like to sit?"

" No. I- I have to get back to camp now. I promised my uncle. He's had a cold and Mrs. Seacole has a jar of marmalade for him. He does like marmalade. I have other things to do. Mr. Seymour is going to look at some of my work and send it off to London today."

" I can take you home. I have something to take to General Raglan. He is ailing."

" You don't have to see me home."

" As I said, it is no trouble."

" I'll ride in the supply wagon with Sergeant Murray."

" I'll not hear of that, Miss White."

I straightened my shoulders. " Do you ever take no for an answer?"

" Let me think. Yes. I will take a no on occasion. But no one ever says no to me on that score."

My face flushed.

" I know I can be a little-- How do you say it in English? Demanding?"

" Controlling."

He smiled. " Perhaps. It is really no trouble. It will be a lot faster. And Bosquet's carriage is well sprung. It'll not jog your ankle. Please, say you'll accept. I can leave right now. I can have you back well before four. "

I nodded. " Fine. Yes. I'll go with you. It's against Mrs. Seacole's advice. She would rather I stayed the night. She says there will be a storm today."

***********

* Author's note: the hurricane is not a convenient plot devise. Ah, well, it is, but it did happen. It was devastating. Set the war back a lot and destroyed many of the ships in the harbour. The caves also exist and it was a good place for the allies to store supplies.

************

November 27, 1854

Dear Jean-Francois,

I have been away from my desk for days. A lot has happened and I do not know if this letter will even reach you before Christmas with all that has happened recently. No battles, my brother, but a natural disaster and a battle of wills.

And something so enchanting I think about it nearly every minute.

(Here Michel tells his brother about the carriage accident. I'm sure you don't want me to go into that again!)

Our departure was interrupted by the arrival of that skinny weasel Zalman. I had been feeling rather pleased with myself having talked my reluctant Valkyrie in to accompanying me to the English camp. I must tell you that I was loath to take her to that hellish place. This is no place for a woman. But the prospect of an hour or two alone with her appealed to me greatly.

At this point I was hoping in an odd way that she might turn out to be dull or boring. Someone I could not like, because I really didn't want any more than the physical attraction. That I can walk away from.

I know what you are thinking and I have told you, I will not fall in love. I cannot. And I will not.

She was waiting for me, wearing her breeches again. I will not describe her. Just let it be known that I pray breeches will someday become popular for women. She wears them well. She was smiling shyly at me with her pencil box and her sheaf of paper clutched to her chest.

Did I tell you that she has freckles? Just a few charming

Anyway, I have told you of Zalman. He is the type of fellow we hated at school. Oh, so polite and oily to his superiors and the people he wants to use. And shit to the rest of us. He reminds me of the bully boys at school who used to kick the younger, weaker boys. He figures the world is his oyster. I recall I threw a lot of fellows like him into the dirt and punched them black and blue. You were always more civil than I. Patient. You had the words. I had the fists.

I almost come out of my skin when he looks at her. I don't know what it is that makes me feel that she is mine to protect. That she is my possession.

" Miss White," he said," is to come with me to Lady Cardigan's yacht. Lady Cardigan has graciously issued an invitation for Miss White to stay and convalesce until her foot has healed."

I almost laughed.

I saw her face change. I thought for a moment that she would say yes. And then he said:" Lady Cardigan would not like you riding about with the French without a chaperone."

" Lady Cardigan has no say in anything that I do." She glared at him. " And what does she care if he is French. He is my friend. It is no business of hers. Or yours."

" Miss White. I can assure you this will not make Lady Cardigan happy."

" Oh, piss on Lady Cardigan."

I had a dreadful time keeping a straight face. What a horrible girl she is. Her temper is quite extraordinary. She reminds me of me. Now you know why we could never be involved. We'd kill each other.

He left in a huff. She turned to me.

" There is no need to look so smug."

" Of course not."

" I didn't turn him down because I prefer your company, Lieutenant Samuelle."

That made me bite back a grin.

" I don't like either of you. He's just a little worse. That's all."

" Really? I'm not your friend then? "

" I didn't like how he said that I was to come with him. Like he could issue me orders."

" I'm sure no one ever dares do that, Miss White."

" They have been known to try. But I soon put an end to it."

We were halfway to our destination when the storm hit.

I was sufficiently pleased that she said hardly a word to me. Just told me a little about her uncle and brothers and her reasons for being in the Crimea. I was not finding the conversation stimulating at all. She only really spoke when I asked her questions. She showed not interest in me and didn't ask me anything.

I thought that I could recall the fact that she was dull and boring and self-absorbed when I felt the other thing happening. You know, the girl on the swing thing.

She is not that girl. I could have a more stimulating time with a whore. And no consequences. Or that was what I was thinking at the time.

I will tell you about the destruction later. As the horse reared up and damned near overturned the carriage, she looked at me in a way that said I had personally called up the storm, called on all my evil French gods to torment her.

" I assure you that I did not expect this!" I yelled at her at the top of my lungs. She was busy trying to tuck her sketch pad into the front of her coat, ramming pencils into her pockets until she looked like a demented flat chested porcupine. Her straight hair had come out of its moorings and flew everywhere.

The rain was lashing at my face like shards of glass. I could not hear what she was screaming at me over the howl of the wind. " Stay there. I don't want you to reinjure yourself."

Christ. A hurricane. It was incredible.

The horse was wild with fright. All I could do was unhitch him and hope that I could control him.

" What can I do to help you? " she yelled, her voice swallowed up by the wind.

" Nothing. We need to find shelter. I know of a cave. We'll go down there. It's not far." I fetched my pack with the gifts for the ailing General Raglan and slung it over my shoulder.

" A bloody cave?' she asked.

" A cave. It's safe. There are plenty of them here. We use them for storage. They used to be used by smugglers."

She nodded. " Do we walk?"

" We'll take the horse. We'll ride together."

She hesitated, then nodded again. I helped her get onto the horse. She was in some pain but I appreciated that she did not complain. I was jabbed with a pencil at least twice. I had not noticed it but her coat had only two buttons on it. She had no gloves either.

I took mine off and pressed them into her hands. " Here. Take them." She stubbornly refused until I gave her a look that said I would strangle her if she didn't.

As we rode her hair blew into my face and up my nose. She smelled of lavender and coal smoke and this essence common only to women that I had somehow forgotten. I wrapped an arm around her waist and smiled as she went all prickly again.

She did not complain, Jean. Not about her swollen foot or nearly slipping off the horse. I had to haul her twice up by the waist of her breeches when she almost slid off into the mud.

It was so damn cold. Night had almost fallen when we finally got to the cave.

I had my flint and steel and started a fire with some broken crates and one of her precious pieces of paper as soon as we got there. It was dark and dank but dry after a fashion and the ground was dry as well. There were gunny sacks to spread over sandy the floor of the cave. She asked me if there were bats.

" Likely. They'll not hurt you."

" I know." She didn't seem entirely convinced. So, I thought, she is afraid of something.

I managed to get the fire lit. She was shivering inside the thin buttonless coat. I offered her my cape. She would not accept it. It became warmer as soon as the fire took hold.

" Would you like some brandy? "

" Why did you bring that? " She gave me an accusatory look, those blue eyes flashing.

"We sly, disgusting French carry big bottles of liquor with us at all times. You never know when there's going to be a woman you might want to get raving drunk and seduce."

She frowned at me. " You are the most sarcastic man I have ever met."

" You are the most judgmental woman I have ever met."

She seemed surprised by that. " Am I? "

" Yes, quite."

" I'll bet you know a lot of women." She gave me an expectant glare. I suppose she figured upon my having at least seven mistresses. One for every day of the week.

" Of course. And , I assure you, I know all in the biblical sense. You know what they say about the French."

She raised her chin. " That you kiss in disgusting ways? "

" Of course. We invented kissing."

" Oh, you're so full of shite it's coming out your ears."

That threw me for a loop.

I sighed. " I have this because it was a gift from Bosquet to General Raglan. He's ill. Actually I doubt he'd even want it." I unscrewed the flask and brought it to my lips.

" I've never drink spirits really. A little stout once. It tastes terrible."

" British spirits taste terrible. Like British food."

" I hardly think that's fair coming from man who eats garden snails and frog's legs."

" I don't eat those things. And the snails we eat in France are not the garden variety."

" British food is not so bad, you know. If you ever tasted my Baba's Yorkshire pudding, you wouldn't say that. Though a lot of what she cooks is Russian food."

" I know Russian cooking , too," I said. I wasn't going to elaborate. " Well, I suppose I can admit a liking for Wensleydale cheese and Scotch whiskey now and then."

She sank down on her knees, pulling the pencils and the pad out of her coat. She pushed the strands of hair back from her face. She was so beautiful I had to try not to stare. I tried to think of the terrible things I'd seen so I did not think about taking those sweet lips under mine. What would she look like if she ever really smiled?

She hates you, I was telling myself. She despises you.

And she swears like a sailor.

I had hoped, Jean, that those thoughts would make the little general lie down and behave himself.

*******

I wondered what my mother would say if she could see me. How many bottles of tonic would it take to repress the pain of having a thoroughly compromised daughter? It was sad, really, for me. Everyone was going to be looking at me and wondering what I did in the cave with the fabulous Frenchman. I was going to have the reputation and yet my poor old maidenhead was going to stay quite intact.

I would have to say only that we argued and sniped at each other. And that he was besting me.

I watched him fiddle with the fire, his long elegant hands snapping pieces of dry crates that went up in seconds. He told me he'd break a few old wagon wheels when the fire took better.

There were no supplies left in the cave to speak of. No blankets or warm clothes.

He looked warmer, his skin flushed from the brandy he'd sipped.

What could it hurt, I thought.

" May I try that, if you don't mind, Captain Samuelle? " My stomach was so empty. I though that it might help a little to ease the pangs of hunger.

He looked up at me with those devastating green eyes. " Certainly." He swiped at the bottle with the cuff of his coat and handed it to me.

I tipped my head and took a gulp. It burned my throat, made my eyes tear up and caused me to hack and cough and sputter. I was flapping my hands in the air. He pounded me on the back until I belched. Just like a baby. It was loathsome and shameful.

Then he laughed. He threw back his head and guffawed. I was furious.

" Don't laugh at me." There were tears streaming down my eyes.

" I'm sorry." He tried to straighten his face. " You'll get used to it, Nikita. You have to sip, not guzzle."

" It burned. It hurt. My stomach is so empty." I gasped. "I doubt I will ever get used to it. Do you know it tastes a little like my mama's nerve tonic? "

" Really? Nerve tonic."

I nodded. I leaned over onto the jar of marmalade. I fished it out of my pocket. " Oh, gracious. Look!"

" Does you mama drink a lot of nerve tonic? "

" Three bottles a week. She says it's my fault because I have always been the death of her. I am incorrigible." I popped open the top of the jar and dipped my finger into the sticky marmalade, licking it off with relish. Mrs. Seacole's marmalade is not as bitter as some. " It's good." I took another, larger scoop and lifted it to my mouth. He was looking at me a little strangely. " I'm starving. Do you want some? " I reached over and took another sip from the brandy bottle. It went down a lot smoother. Like when my mother mixed jam with medicine to get me to take it as a little girl.

" I don't know. I don't want to get my fingers sticky." he said. His voice sounded strained, his accent thicker.

I had just scooped some more when he took my hand in his and slowly, carefully licked the marmalade off my fingers.

I just swallowed hard and stared at that pink tongue, his half closed eyes. The sensation of having him suck my finger was indescribable. That heat assailed me again. Pinging from breast to my woman's parts.

Maybe brandy causes that, I thought.

I snatched my hand away and covered the jar. " Perhaps I'll save it for later."

" It was good. I liked it." His eyes were twinkling at me. No they were sparking. Like the flames. Definitely sparking.

Jade fire, I thought. Mysterious and deadly.

Heartbreaker. I know that's what he is. I know that's what will happen.

" What sort of name is Nikita? " he asked me. " I have heard it before in Russia, but it is generally the diminutive form of Nicholas."

" You're right. It was my grandmother's second son's name. He died when he was a little boy and my father named me that to honour him. My brother Jack was named after him. John Neville White. I'm Nikita, which is what Baba had called Nicholas. My mother didn't particularly care what I was called, as I was not expected anyway. They told her I would not live the day."

" I'm glad you did."

" Oh..."

" No middle name? "

" I have one but it is too horrible to ever reveal." I took another swig of the brandy. It was beginning to make me feel peculiar. Nice actually. Like my head was a balloon and there were fireworks in my tummy. A party.

" What is it? "

" I shan't say."

" I have something I might bribe you with."

" No amount of inducement can ever sway me to reveal the horror. What is yours? "

" Sebastian."

" Now that is nice, but then you are quite perfect. You would never be a Horace or a Bertrand. Or a Wally. I know a boy named Wally. He used to have ver runny nose and a stutter. The others made fun of him. Poor little fellow. "

He smiled. "Your grandmother is Russian? "

" Yes. Gypsy. She married my grandfather against the wishes of everyone. What exactly is the bribe?"

" Turkish delight. I have a whole box."

I smacked him hard on the shoulder. " You rascal! How dare you keep that from me?" He rubbed his shoulder. " Did I hurt you? "

" I took a lance cut there at Alma. I thought it had healed."

" My God. I'm so sorry. I have no ladylike qualities. I was always rolling around and wrestling with my brothers. You can punch me back if you like. I can take it."

" I believe you."

" It's my size, you know. I just have to act like a fellow."

" You don't look like a fellow." He blew out a long, slow breath. " Your grandparents married against the family wishes? "

" Yes. He lost his fortune. He was cut right out of the will. The were mad for each other. She lost him before I was born at the battle of Waterloo. She says it was not long enough, their time together, but they'll meet again. Now she has her cottage and a huge garden. She knows the name of every plant and every herb and all types of birds. She is so happy in her memories. I have a sketch of her. I did it when I was missing her...I'll show you later... if you'd like to see it."

" I would, Kita. Thank you. You know, most people don't marry for love."

" Most wealthy people." I was still spinning from his calling me Kita. It was strange. No one ever called me that before. Just him.

He nodded. " Did she teach you to speak Russian?"

" Yes. Where did you learn?"

" I picked it up. I speak fourteen languages actually. I am cursed with this ability to remember almost everything I see or hear. I think that's why I make a good liaison officer."

"It's good to have a memory like that. Your wife must like you. My mother is always complaining that my papa remembers nothing except the newspaper."

He poked a stick in the fire. He was very quiet.

" You miss her, I'm sure. You know it won't get back to her that you've been here with me. I know people gossip "

" She's dead." His eyes were cold, devoid of emotion. " Elena is dead."

" Oh, Michel. I am sorry. I didn't mean to...I really am so terribly...I " I pressed my hand to his thigh. He flinched and then I thought that maybe he groaned. " Michel "

My words were cut short because he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to mine. He kissed me. My, God, he actually kissed me. Just a quick kiss, but enough for me to know that his mouth was warm and incredibly soft, like rose petals. And that his tongue, shockingly, just brushed my lower lip. And his beard stubble just prickled my skin a little, but was not unpleasant at all.

I just swallowed hard and said nothing. And he sort of pretended that it had not happened.

" Hephzibah."

" What? "

" My middle name is Hephzibah. Do I get some of the candy now? "

*********

My dear Jean, I wish you were here to talk to me.

I kissed her then. I don't know why. Maybe it was because she called me Michel and I loved hearing it from her lips. Maybe it was because she looked so sad. As if she needed to berate herself more. And she does that so often and so easily. I don't think she has any idea how unique she is. How lovely. I want to shake her. Or tell her to look in the mirror. Or to go stand beside some general's wife who is dressed in diamonds up to her teeth. Even with her windblown hair and her second hand breeches and her torn coat there could be no one her equal.

If she would know half of what I see and feel when I look into her beautiful eyes. Of course I will tell her none of these things. She would not want to hear them from me.

That was the first time, the very first, that I have said Elena's name out loud since I dropped that clod of earth into her grave, took Adam's small hand and walked away.

I could barely write it, think it. I could not say it. It felt as if it had been torn out of my gut. But it didn't hurt to say it to her. It did not hurt like I thought it would.

I think the fear of letting my pain go was worse than the letting go itself. I think I had begun to make friends with the pain. It was an integral part of me, like my arm, my leg, my nose

She thinks my nose is noble. Can you believe that? She says it is not quite perfect, but close. Otherwise I would be pretty. I almost said: You know what they say about men with big feet and substantial noses.

I didn't.

I gave her the Turkish Delight. And more brandy.

" How old is your little boy? "

" He will be seven next week."

" And you will not be there."

" He has my brother and his wife and six children to make a fuss over him. I daresay he thinks of them as his parents."

" Six children. Oh my, they must truly love each other then. How luck for them. How lucky that your little boy can be in a place where people love each other and want to be together."

" It's a love match now. They hated each other once upon a time. At least they said they did. But what do nine year olds know."

I only tell the truth Jean. She passed me the brandy bottle. She was gobbling the sweets in a way that made me think she might be ill later.

" Yum. How I love this stuff." She had powdered sugar on her lip and when she grinned at me she was adorable. She has dimples and freckles across the bridge of her pert nose.

" Do you wish for children, Kita? "

" How can I have children? I haven't a husband, silly."

" I'm sure you're allowed to think about having children."

" My mother says that good Christian women never think about anything below their necks. Not ever. They do not even look at themselves in the bath. "

I burst out laughing. I could not help myself. She said it in a conspiratorial tone. Like she almost believed it. Imagine, telling me I had shit coming out of my ears one minute, and then being so very serious and ladylike. All stiff English repression. I'll bet her mama told her sex was evil and only for procreation.

She hiccuped. " She would kill me if she knew what I was thinking about when you kissed me. It was all about what was going on below the neck.. Do you want more brandy? "

" I want to keep my head. " I was thinking that I wanted to kiss her again, to lay her down in the soft sand. To love her until she cried out in ecstasy.

" I 'm worried about those poor soldiers who have to be out in this in their trenches. And the people at Mrs. Seacole's. How long do you think this will last? "

" Anyone's guess. May I look at your sketches? I hear you're very good."

" I am. I am at least proud of that aspect of myself."

She handed me the book. She was indeed good. Her battle scenes were vivid and uncompromising, but it was the faces of the people she had drawn that I loved. She depicted her brothers Ben and Jack grinning over a joke. Seymour, her writer friend peering over his spectacles. Her Uncle asleep against some barrels, his mouth open. There were sketches of mothers and children. One of Mrs. Seacole. She drew Cardigan and made him look like a walrus beside his witch of a wife. A pompous fool and his trophy.

And then I came to myself. It was partially done. My face was somewhat dreamy, likely better looking than really I am, Jean. I was pleased and flattered.

" You weren't supposed to see that one." She was blushing. " I think I made the nose too big."

" Why did you draw me? "

" Because I wanted to. Because you are so beautiful. And I wanted to remember what you look like."

I couldn't say anything, Jean. I just looked into her clear, blue eyes and wished that I'd been the sort of man who deserved to be remembered. She went on for a while, pointing out what she considered to be shortcomings in the rendering. She said there was something missing there in the face she had committed to paper. The other portraits, she was proud of, but that this one was not quite on the mark. " I think that I put things in my drawings that I believe should be there. Things I want to see." She sighed. " Maybe if I work some more I will get it right."

She was right in that. The man's mouth was too kind, the eyes too peaceful. The nose a little too noble.

Maybe that is how I look when I am looking at her. Maybe it is what I feel and her pencil and her bright, discerning mind have seen those feelings and reflected them on paper.

I was thinking that I did not deserve her good opinion, that I had done nothing except to possess a face that women liked. It had given me carte blanche into a lot of boudoirs: it was my gift and my curse. I am sure if I had been given different gifts and not so pretty a shell I would not have hurt the people I have hurt. Elena might still live.

" You're very talented, Kita. But you should not be here in this place."

" I had no idea the storm would be so bad," she said.

" I don't mean here, now, exactly. I mean in the Crimea. You should be home in England painting roses on china."

" I told you that I was most unhappy doing that."

" And seeing death all around you, risking your life like you have done today makes you happy? Isn't it better to be safe and warm? "

" Is that what you want? Only to be safe and warm? Do you think that is all we women want? "

" If I could find that in my life, perhaps I would want it."

"Well, it's not all it's cut out to be, my good man. I want everything a man can have. Adventure and independence."

I handed her the book and stood abruptly. " Put this away. I have to see to the horse. Maybe you should tend to your needs while I am gone. That should be quite an adventure. And don't drink any more brandy. You've had quite enough. I'll not be accused by anyone of getting you drunk and trying to have my way with you."

" You kissed me."

" It was a mistake. You just made me think of someone else. Excuse me. I shall see to the horse."

******

I did not say that I did wish for something. I wished for something more than to have adventure and independence. I wished to be loved. I wished to have someone love me.

I had discovered that with the wonder of his kiss.

I had discovered rejection once more with those terse words.

I watched him turn on his heel and walk into the darkness. His back was stiff, his shoulders straight. See to nature, he'd said. It made me flush. He is right. Some adventurer I am.

I thought again about his curt dismissal of me. A mistake. Kissing me was a mistake.

He spent a long time out there. I saw to nature in the far corner of the cave and then flopped down on my back on the gunny sacks, curling onto my side. Despite the covering, the ground was cold and my coat was thin. The sacks smelled of rotten onions and mildew. My foot ached, my boot tight around the swollen flesh. I doubted that I could get the thing off was I to try. I was thinking about his lips. How his tongue had touched mine so tentatively. I thought about the way he had licked the marmalade from my finger.

I thought of how I had said that he was beautiful. I didn't mean it to be a compliment, but a fact. He knows. How could he look at that face in the shaving mirror and not know that he makes women's hearts pound faster? Maybe my tongue had been loose because I am half drunk.

I heard him come in. I closed my eyes and buried my face against to damp sleeve of my coat. I started when he stood over me, folding his heavy woolen pelisse over my body. It felt so good I wanted to cry.

" I don't want your cloak."

" It's cold. I'll be fine in my jacket."

" I don't... "

" I will not argue with you, Miss White. You want to be treated like an man, don't argue like a child. I don't plan to sleep. I will keep an eye on the fire."

I bit my lip. Miss White. Not Kita. Miss White. Yes, I thought. That kiss had been a mistake. And he was just rubbing some salt into the wound.

I buried my nose in the cape. The outer cloth was cold from the outdoors, the lining warm and scented from his body. How did he manage to always smell clean?

I watched him as he broke up a wooden wagon wheel with a sharp rock.

" Did I do it wrong? I'd like to know for future reference."

" Did you do what wrong?"

" Did I kiss badly?"

I heard him sigh. I saw his eyes, with their thick lashes, drift closed. " I liked it far too much. That's all. Please go to sleep Miss White."

" Why did you do it? "

" Because I'm a man. And men do that. If, you were a man as you want to be, you would know that such things mean nothing to us."

He hit the wheel harder with the rock. I think he may have smashed his thumb. I offered him no solace.

That is just the way men are.

*********

De temps en temps
les ombres du coeur
deboulent le piedestal de l'homme;
et rien la,
et rien ne reste sous la pluie:
seulement ombres de coeur
passent comme une courbe infinie,
et rien ne demeure:
seulement ombres de coeur.

Elias Letelier

The wind sounded like a sea siren's wail outside the cave. I was tired, Jean Francois, and chilled to the bone. The wound in my shoulder ached. All I could think about was a steaming bath and a cup of hot coffee and a warm bed piled with quilts. Alright there was more I was thinking about but none of it was good for me or her.

My left shoulder ached like a bad tooth. I'd had little or no sleep for the two nights previous because I'd been doing translations of documents into Turkish and English for General Canrobert. When I had finally surrendered to my bed, my mind had been too full and I'd been thinking about Adam and how I missed him. I hadn't had the time to even write him a letter. His latest drawings had been tacked on the wall of my room and looking at them made my heart ache.

As I sat there nursing my bloodied thumb, I thought about what I had said to the girl. I tell myself that like the dark and the shadows now. Cruelty comes rather easy to me. Tenderness does not. Yet I regretted the harsh words I had said more than I regretted kissing her.

It's better she hates me. That kiss had been a momentary folly of mine and mine alone. It had been beautiful, but she cannot know of my lapse. She has to be shown what sort of man she is dealing with. I have no wish for a permanent attachment with any woman. I am not an easy man to know or to like, though I am good at playing the part. And I know that a girl like her would take nothing less than love. Not the shadows of a heart that has only pretended to love in order that the body might find some ease.

It is better that she finds out about my damaged character sooner, rather than later. And don't tell me that I can change, my brother, like you always do. What is done is done. Cast in cold stone and steel.

Women have called me, by turns, both cold and charming. I prefer the coldness. It is more reflective of what I have been and done. What I have created and then destroyed in my thirty three years.

Perhaps she would be happy to have learned something of men from this experience. For having two brothers and living amongst hundreds of men the young lady was woefully ignorant. Of what men want and need. Of what we do.

I know she is fully unaware of her power over me. She has not an inkling of it. She is the type of girl who frightens me to death. She makes me forget. She makes me feel weak.

I thought about the moment our lips met, the strange, inexplicable joy that I could not believe or deny. I looked over at her sleeping form. It had been a long time since I had slept with a woman, just slept. Elena and I did not sleep in the same room after Adam's birth. It had been a bad experience and she was in delicate health for a long time. After a while it just became the norm to be apart.

I was glad of that later, Jean Francois. Only one child was born out of my duplicity. Only one child was left without a mother.