She suddenly felt as though something inside her had been put through a wringer.

Strong Poison

It really was all Peter's doing, you know. After my fiancé John was killed in 1917, it was Peter who came around on leave to deliver his personal effects and tell me more about how it happened.

"I know the Colonel told you that he didn't suffer, and that he died instantly," Peter had said, "but it wasn't the usual tommyrot we put into letters to the next-of-kin. A shell exploded near him, and that was it. I don't know if that helps you, but it seems important to some, especially mothers. He used to talk a lot about you, don't you know, so when I bagged a spot of leave, I stuck up my hand to do the errand. He was a frightfully decent chap, and we all miss him in the battalion. How are you holdin' up? "

I told him that it wasn't very easy, and I was having trouble handling it.

He looked around the room, and spotted a clay head I'd started some months earlier. "Is this your work? Do you like sculpting?"

I told him it was just a hobby. He looked at me. "D'you know, this is really good work. You've got an eye for detail, and a fine hand in capturing it in clay. If you don't mind some impertinent advice, you should take this up professionally. God knows we need some beauty right now. And the war won't last forever. I can give you the names of several dealers who would be interested in showing your work."

We had dinner a couple of times before he went back. While Peter always tried to look a silly ass, I wasn't deceived. There was a mind there that was awesome in its controlled power. So I took him up on his advice, and soon I was established. It didn't hurt that I made a number of sales to people who informed me that "Lord Peter said I must come and see your work!"

I lost track of him after he was wounded, but one day he breezed into my studio, introducing his man, Bunter, to whom he credited his recovery, and we caught up over lunch. Then I'd see him every few months, when he wanted a gift for someone, or had some questions about the circle of artists I was familiar with, or when he "just felt like some intelligent company, Marjorie." I don't think he ever realized that I was modestly in love with him. Not passionately – that had died with John – but as someone I could live and work with as an equal. I suppose I loved his mind rather than his body, but if he'd been interested in my body, I'd have said yes instantly.

But it wasn't to be, of course. Peter's tastes in women are like his tastes in motor cars – he likes them hot and fast, or classic and custom-built. He wanted the top of the line, someone who would send his blood racing. I was too sensible and down-to-earth. I did try, about the time of that affair with the Dorland girl, but he put me off in the nicest possible way. I was concerned that he might disappear on me, since I'd been a little too forthright, but he did come around, though less often. And then he met Harriet.

Peter had the kindness to invite me to the wedding, but I thought it better not to go. While I wished him all the best, it would have been too hard for me. I sent a nice neutral sculpture to them, instead.

And I keep my bust of Peter close to my bed, to remind me of what might have been.