“We have not found him, neither dead nor injured.” She whispered that under her breath, over and over, throughout the day, as a means of keeping herself from going out to comb that bloody field herself, turning over every grain of sand and blade of saw grass. And in the evening, Lord John had come again, worn and weary, but with a clean face and a smile.

“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.