An hour had passed. William now led Lydia Westin in and seated her on a divan near the empty fireplace. He draped a rug over her legs and a paisley shawl about her shoulders. Her face was white, and the defiant sparkle that had shone in her eyes that morning had given way to quiet resignation.

She gestured me to sit and dismissed William.

"You were kind to stay, Captain," she said after William had closed the doors. Her voice was a weary slur.

I remained standing. "Not at all."

She toyed with the fringe of her shawl, as though gathering her strength to speak. Her portrait hung above her, painted, I guessed, when she'd been at least ten years younger. She had been extraordinarily beautiful then. Her painted face was a bit softer than the one that faced me now, and her eyes had lacked the pain I observed in them today.

Ten years ago, we had both been thirty. She had been an elegant Mayfair hostess, and I had been training cavalry in Sussex, preparing them, though I did not know it, to die on the battlefields of Spain. From what I knew of her, Lydia Westin, unlike my own wife, had not followed her husband to the Peninsula. She'd remained here in this fine house, attending the opera, hosting gatherings, keeping her skin soft and her slippers clean. She had lived the life my wife had longed for, the one I had not been able to afford to give her.

At last Lydia looked up at me. Her maid had combed out her dark hair, but had not dressed it, letting it lie loose about her shoulders. The girl-like style did not soften the brittle woman who watched me.