“I paid for my folly. For not having the courage to tell Mark the truth. For thinking that I could save him. For thinking that I could find him.” Her gaze came back to him. “One day in France, I saw someone who had been brought in for superficial wounds. He was dazed, and I was told he’d been buried alive when a shell fell short and exploded in his sector. He was the only survivor. All of his men were killed. But he kept asking for them, he didn’t want to be treated until he was sure they were seen to. An orderly took him away to rest for a little while, and I asked someone the officer’s name. I looked in on him later, and he was sleeping. I could see the shadows under his eyes, I could see that he’d been in the line through some of the worst fighting. And I knew I could love this man. I wanted to hold him and keep him safe. All I could do was ask that he be given a little longer to recover, but every man was needed. I was told to wake him up and send him back. I couldn’t. I asked someone else to do it.” She took a deep breath. “I never saw him again after that, though I’d hear some snippets of news from time to time and knew he was safe. I never asked. But I listened for his name. It wasn’t until this past New Year’s Eve that I found him again. I thought, we could be friends, it would be all right.” She added wryly, “I was still lying to myself, you see.”

He didn’t reply. He knew she didn’t want his sympathy or his compassion.

“I kept telling myself that I could always go away, if there were problems. After all, I was still married. And I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let myself deny that.”

This time when she fell silent, he said, “Meredith. Would tea help? Sherry?”

She shook her head.

That poise he’d found so attractive had deserted her now. He could see her hands shaking, even though she clasped them tightly in her lap.