In the Crimea, she had borne weary witness to their violence, with her mind numbed to the gore and rage. More often, however, she had absorbed moments of kindness, which had sustained her optimism. How could she have nursed so many if she had harbored the belief they were all cold-hearted killers? She had chosen to remember rations shared, socks mended, blame taken in another’s stead. Or how soldiers in full regalia could appear childlike when huddled together for warmth, one blanket to three bodies, their eyes closed against the toxin of warfare and the horrors of a winter siege. So many had behaved as brothers, with nothing in common but a promise to fight for Queen and Country. Never had she seen, however, such a solid, towering wall of contradictions. William Christie had the build of a mythic giant, all muscle and silent intimidation. His suit was unaccountably fashionable for someone who wore it so poorly. He appeared half-strangled by his cravat, and hugged indecently by a slim-fitting coat that had been tailored, inexplicably, to diminish the breadth of his chest.
