She looked across at Enid's sleeping form now. She seemed utterly at peace; in fact, there was a very slight smile on her face, as if she dreamed of something pleasant.

Perhaps she was thinking of some of those past letters. They might still give her happy memories, days when she knew she was admired, found beautiful. Love letters were strange; they could do so much good, if kept discreetly . . . and in the wrong hands so much damage.

Hester had received very few herself, and most of them had been formal, more a statement of ardent hope than any real understanding or knowledge of her nature. Only those from soldiers had had any meaning, and they were romantic, heartfelt, but in some measure cries of desperation and loneliness from young men far from home in an alien and dreadful circumstance, and who simply found a gentle touch and a listening ear, a single spark of beauty in the midst of pain and loss, and the fear of loss. She had treasured them for what they were, not reading into them more.

She winced with embarrassment as she recalled one she had received long ago, before the Crimean War had even begun, from a young man her father had considered a very acceptable suitor. It had been couched in ardent terms, and far too familiar, in her opinion. It had stated a love which had appalled her, because he did not even see her, only what he could turn her into. She prickled with discomfort even now at the thought of it. She had never wanted to meet the man again.

In fact, she could remember vividly the next time they had met. It had been at the dinner table in her father's home-her mother was quite unaware of her feelings, and had sat smiling at the foot of the table, blandly staring at her across a sea of linen and crystal, making optimistic remarks about domestic happiness, while Hester squirmed, her face scarlet, willing to give anything at all to be elsewhere. She could still feel that wretched young man's eyes on her, and the thoughts she imagined must be in his mind as he sat there. In some ways it had been one of the worst evenings of her life.

If only he had not written, she would never have suffered so much. She might even have found him quite tolerable. He was not personally displeasing, quite intelligent, not too opinionated-in fact, altogether an agreeable person.

What ridiculous harm a letter could do if it overstated the intimate, or pressed a case too far, too soon.

It was as if the room had suddenly blazed with light. Of course! That was the answer! Not perhaps in the highest moral standard . . . in fact, definitely quite questionable. But Monk was in a desperate situation.

The problem was to whom she should send them. It must be the people of Drusilla's own social circle, or it would hardly accomplish the purpose.