“You said that your husband meant to speak with a Captain Marion, so I went into the American camp with a flag of truce, looking for one. He’s now a lieutenant colonel, it seems, but he did speak with Roger—and he told me that Roger came off the field with him, unhurt, and went to help with the burial of the fallen Americans.”
“Oh, God.” Her knees had given way and she’d sat down, her feelings in chaos. He isn’t dead, he wasn’t hurt. And the feeling of relief at that was enormous—but instantly shot through with doubt, questions, and an abiding fear. If he’s alive, why isn’t he here?
“Where?” she managed, after a moment. “Where … did they bury them?”
“I don’t know,” Lord John said, his brow creased a little. “I’ll find out, if you like. But I think the burials must surely have been completed by now—there was considerable carnage on the field, but Lieutenant Colonel Maitland thinks there were not above two hundred killed. He was commanding the redoubt,” he added, seeing her blank look. He cleared his throat.
“I think that perhaps,” he said diffidently, “he might have then gone with the army surgeons, to help with the wounded?”
“Oh.” She managed to take a breath that completely filled her lungs; the first one in the last three days. “Yes. That—sounds very reasonable.” But why the hell didn’t he send me a note?
She gathered enough strength to get up and offer Lord John thanks and her hand. He took the hand, drew her in, and embraced her, his arms the first warmth she remembered feeling since Roger had left.
“It will be all right, my dear,” he said softly, patted her, and stepped back. “I’m sure it will be all right.”
BRIANNA VACILLATED BETWEEN being sure, too, and not being sure at all—but the balance of evidence seemed to indicate that Roger probably was （a） alive and （b） reasonably intact, and that semi-conviction was at least enough to let her return to work, seeking to drown her doubt in turpentine.
She couldn’t decide whether painting Angelina Brumby was more like trying to catch a butterfly without a net or lying in wait all night by a waterhole, waiting for some shy wild beast to appear for a few seconds, during which you might—if lucky—snap its photo.
“And what I wouldn’t give for my Nikon right now …” she muttered under her breath. Today was the first hair day. Angelina had spent nearly two hours under the hands of Savannah’s most popular hairdresser, emerging at last under a cloud of painstakingly engineered curls and ringlets, these powdered to a fare-thee-well and further decorated by a dozen or so brilliants stabbed in at random. The whole construction was so vast that it gave the impression that Angelina was carrying about her own personal thunderstorm, complete with lightning flashes.
The notion made Brianna smile, and Angelina, who had been looking rather apprehensive, perked up in response.
“Do you like it?” she asked hopefully, poking gingerly at her head.
“I do,” Bree said. “Here, let me …” For Angelina, unable or unwilling to bend her bedizened head enough to look down, was about to collide with the little platform on which the sitter’s chair was perched.
Once settled, Angelina became her usual self, chatty and distractible—and always in movement, with waving hands, turning head, widening eyes, constant questions and speculations. But if she was difficult to capture on canvas, she was also charming to watch, and Bree was constantly torn between exasperation and fascination, trying to catch something of the blithe butterfly without having to drive a hatpin through her thorax to make her be still for five minutes.
She had had nearly two weeks of dealing with Angelina, though, and now set a vase of wax flowers on the table, with firm instructions that Angelina should fix her eyes upon this and count the petals. She then turned over a two-minute sandglass and urged her subject not to speak or move until the glass ran out.
This procedure—repeated at intervals—let her circle Angelina, sketchpad in hand, making rough sketches of the head and neck, with quick visual notes of a ringlet coming down the curve of the neck, a deep wave over one of Angelina’s shell-pink ears … the morning sun was coming through the window, glowing sweetly through the ear. She wanted to try to catch that pink …
There was time, perhaps, to work on the arms and hands … She had as much as she needed of the hair for now, and Angelina was wearing a soft gray-silk wrapper that left her arms bare to the elbow.