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and their lives in the harsh climate.
    The weeks that followed were hardly more than a living hell. A blizzard struck in early October, and men died like flies from the cold and the cholera. Half-frozen corpses were left lying scattered where they fell, since the ground was too hard to dig graves. Damien took a wound in his upper right shoulder at the conflict along the Alma River, where over eight thousand men had died.
    For two weeks he carried his useless arm in a filthy sling, using his left hand for any necessary work. Then, when a fellow officer insisted the wound be looked at in the medical tent, Damien was one of the first to receive the gentle ministrations of one of the recently arrived and desperately needed nurses. It was from her that he learned of the true horror of this war; more than twice the men were dying from disease than from battle wounds.
    After only a month of fighting, the harbor was blocked by sunken ships and it was obvious that no more supplies were forthcoming by sea. Admiral Lyons was in charge of the port blockade, and though he periodically sent small boats in with foodstuffs and medicine, the provisions never lasted more than a few days.
    Between skirmishes, the British had managed to set up a permanent base at Balaklava, and the French at Kamiesch. Damien stayed with the British contingent to rally his men. It would have been easy to avoid the battlefield as other commanding officers had done, sending out the enlisted ranks to fight and die like animals. Damien’s conscience would not let him do so, and his popularity with the soldiers grew by leaps and bounds.
    Behind his optimistic facade, Damien burned with helpless frustration. He was forced to watch as disheartened British soldiers broke and ran, scattering the lines, and he heard boys too young to grow beards scream with agony when their frozen limbs were amputated in the medical tent.
    In his own numb, mindless world, he took one day at a time, serving on the front lines and then falling back to recoup, sometimes assisting the too few physicians in hasty operations by holding a man down or pouring rotgut into an open mouth to ease the agony.
    Though it initially appeared that the Russians would have an easy win, used to the weather as they were, the slow passage of days finally saw the tide beginning to turn. More soldiers and fresh supplies occasionally arrived from Europe, boosting morale and resolve in the wearied troops.
    Damien received word from his mother at last, after having been seven months away from home, and a wry grin twisted his mouth as he read the familiar spidery scrawl on rose-scented parchment dated four months ago.
    Mon fils, I hope this letter finds you well and alive after so long away. Of course I realize that the mail service is dreadful during wartime, but I have heard nothing from you or of you … if you are injured or not. However, as you suggested, I have taken respite in France and returned to the chateau to pass the dreary winter months. Mistgrove is closed up and I dismissed the servants with ample wages until your return. Dear Henriette is as frantic as I for word about you. I told her I had heard nothing, but she still calls on me every week. Please, if you find a moment to spare for your poor Maman, write to me here at Villette. In the meantime, I will drown my sorrows with the distraction of a fête at Fontainebleau, for which I will wear half-mourning in a lovely dark purple velvet until I hear from you again …
    The rest of the letter went on to detail several other gowns Marcelle had purchased for the dramatic effect she so loved, and Damien shook his head with a smile as he folded the letter and tucked it away in his shirt pocket.
    His mother was still young enough to be courted, having had Damien when she was only sixteen, and Marcelle had often been accused by the other court ladies of having a secret potion that kept her so beautiful.
    Damien suspected that his mother’s secret was having a