Felicia Carlyon was as different as was imaginable. She was perhaps ten years younger than her husband, no more than her mid-sixties, and although her face showed a certain strain, a tightness about the mouth and shadows around the large, deep-set eyes, there was nothing in the least passive or defeated about her. She stood in front of the walnut table on which tea was laid, her body still slender and rigidly upright with a deportment many a younger woman would have envied. Naturally she was wearing black in mourning for her son, but it was handsome, vivid black, well decorated with jet beading and trimmed with black velvet braid. Her black lace cap was similarly fashionable.

She did not move when they came in, but her glance went straight to Hester, and Hester was intensely aware of the force of her character.

“Good afternoon, Miss Latterly,” Felicia said graciously, but without warmth. She reserved her judgment of people; her regard had to be earned. ”How pleasant of you to come. Edith has spoken most kindly of you.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Carlyon,” Hester replied equally formally. “It is gracious of you to receive me. May I offer you my deepest sympathies for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Felicia's complete composure and the brevity with which she accepted made it tactless to add anything further. Obviously she did not wish to discuss the subject; it was deeply personal, and she did not share her emotions with anyone. “I am pleased you will take tea with us. Please be comfortable.” She- did not move her body, but the invitation was implicit.

Hester thanked her again and sat, not in the least comfortably, on the dark red sofa farthest from the fire. Edith and Damaris both seated themselves and introductions were completed, Randolph Carlyon contributing only what was required of him for civility.

They spoke of the merest trivialities until the maid came with the last of the dishes required for tea, paper-thin sandwiches of cucumber, watercress and cream cheese, and finely chopped egg. There were also French pastries and cake with cream and jam. Hester looked at it with great appreciation, and wished it were an occasion on which it would be acceptable to eat heartily, but knew unquestionably that it was not.

When tea had been poured and passed Felicia looked at her with polite enquiry.

“Edith tells me you have traveled considerably, Miss Latterly. Have you been to Italy? It is a country I should have liked to visit. Unfortunately at the time when it would have been suitable for me, we were at war, and such things were impossible. Did you enjoy it?”

Hester wondered for a frantic moment what on earth Edith could have said, but she dared not look at her now, and there was no evading an answer to Felicia Carlyon. But she must protect Edith from having appeared to speak untruthfully.

“Perhaps I was not clear enough in my conversation with Edith.” She forced a slight smile. She felt like adding “ma'am,” as if she were speaking to a duchess, which was absurd. This woman was socially no better than herself-or at least than her parents. “I regret my traveling was in the course of war, and anything but educational in the great arts of Italy. Although I did put in to port there briefly.”

“Indeed?” Felicia's arched eyebrows rose, but it would be immeasurably beneath her to allow her good manners to be diverted. “Did war oblige you to leave your home, Miss Latterly? Regrettably we seem to have trouble in so many parts of the Empire at the moment. And they speak of unrest in India as well, although I have no idea whether that is serious or not.”

Hester hesitated between equivocation and the truth, and decided truth would be safer, in the long run. Felicia Carlyon was not a woman to overlook an inconsistency or minor contradiction.

“No, I was in the Crimea, with Miss Nightingale.” That magic name was sufficient to impress most people, and it was the best reference she had both as to character and worth.

“Good gracious,” Felicia said, sipping her tea delicately.

“Extraordinary!” Randolph blew out through his whiskers.

“I think it is fascinating.” Edith spoke for the first time since coming into the withdrawing room. “A most worthwhile thing to do with one's life.”

“Traveling with Miss Nightingale is hardly a lifetime occupation, Edith,” Felicia said coolly. “An adventure, perhaps, but of short duration.”

“Inspired by noble motives, no doubt,” Randolph added. “But extraordinary, and not entirely suitable for a-a-” He stopped.

Hester knew what he had been going to say; she had met the attitude many times before, especially in older soldiers. It was not suitable for gentlewomen. Females who followed the army were either enlisted men's wives, laundresses, servants, or whores. Except the most senior officers' ladies, of course, but that was quite different. They knew Hester was not married.

“Nursing has improved immensely in the last few years,” she said with a smile. “It is now a profession.”

“Not for women,” Felicia said flatly. “Although I am sure your work was very noble, and all England admires it. What are you doing now you are home again?”

Hester heard Edith's indrawn breath and saw Damaris swiftly lower her eyes to her plate.

“I am caring for a retired military gentleman who has broken his leg quite severely,” Hester answered, forcing herself to see the humor of the situation rather than the offense. “He requires someone more skilled in caring for the injured than a housemaid.”

“Very commendable,” Felicia said with a slight nod, sipping at her tea again.

Hester knew implicitly that what she did not add was that it was excellent only for women who were obliged to support themselves and were beyond a certain age when they might reasonably hope for marriage. She would never countenance her own daughters descending to such a pass, as long as there was a roof over their heads and a single garment to put on their backs.

Hester made her smile even sweeter.

“Thank you, Mrs. Carlyon. It is most gratifying to be of use to someone, and Major Tiplady is a gentleman of good family and high reputation.”

“Tiplady…” Randolph frowned. “Tiplady? Can't say I ever heard of him. Where'd he serve, eh?”

“India.”

“Funny! Thaddeus, my son, you know, served in India for years. Outstanding man-a general, you know. Sikh Wars-'45 to '46, then again in '49. Was in the Opium Wars in China in '39 as well. Very fine man! Everyone says so. Very fine indeed, if I do say so. Son any man would be proud of. Never heard him mention anyone called Tiplady.”

“Actually I believe Major Tiplady was sent to Afghanistan-the Afghan Wars of '39 and '42. He talks about it sometimes. It is most interesting.”

Randolph looked at her with mild reproof, as one would a precocious child.

“Nonsense, my dear Miss Latterly. There is no need to affect interest in military matters in order to be polite. My son has very recently died”-his face clouded-”most tragically. As no doubt you are aware from Edith, but we are used to bearing our loss with fortitude. You do not need to consider our feelings in such a way.”

Hester drew breath to say her interest had nothing to do with Thaddeus Carlyon and long predated her even having heard of him, then decided it would not be understood or believed, and would appear merely offensive.

She compromised.

“Stories of courage and endeavor are always interesting, Colonel Carlyon,” she said with a very direct stare at him. “I am extremely sorry for your loss, but I never for a moment considered affecting an interest or a respect I did not feel.”

He seemed caught off balance for a moment. His cheeks grew pinker and he blew out his breath sharply, but glancing sideways at Felicia, Hester saw a flicker of appreciation and something which might have been a dark, painful humor, but it was too brief for her to do more than wonder at it.