Page 89 of Introducing Mrs. Collins
Three nights past, when I was in company with some junior officers, they asked me whether I have anyone back home – and I told them yes. I know this is not true, not any longer, but it cheers them – and me – to think it. I did not offer a name – only the letter C – but it became a game, and when one of them guessed it, I nearly spat out my drink. To hear your name spoken by another is strange indeed. Your name does not belong out here, in the heat and the dust, spoken by a rough tongue. I regretted even allowing them your initial.
I do not really think now that you are reading these letters. I write them to keep me sane, to keep me attached somehow to England, to home, to what I love.
I love you still. Oh, how I love you! As I march beneath the hot sun, I think of that smile – when it breaks free, it captures me entirely. And I think of your skin, so pale the sun glances of it like diamond. And when alone, at night, I think of your bare shoulders, the angle of yourhip, the sounds you made
I miss your company, your laughter and your spirit. And your lips. Forgive me. I am surrounded by men, none of them very pretty.
Unless we move soon, I will write again while I am here.
Yours, always,
RF
7th June 1813, Palencia
My dear Charlotte,
As I write, the sun is setting over the river Carrión, and there is a relative calm in the camp. If I walk to the perimeter and look out onto the expanse of open land to the west – and close my ears to the chatter of thousands – I can almost imagine I am here at my leisure, as part of a belated Grand Tour. It is rather beautiful: the blue skies, green hills and river sweeping through the valley. And yet I how I yearn for a cloudy sky and the middling climate of England.
Do you recall telling me once that, if you had your choice, you would run more and dance less? Where would you run? I had a dream last night that you ran to me here. I saw you in the distance, dressed in green, your hair loose over your shoulders, a tiny figure, getting closer and closer to me. But just as you arrived and I was about to catch you, you were shot down from behind.
I am sorry to describe such an image. Will I shock you? I do not think that I will. You were always able to stomach the truths of war. You were never afraid. I am afraid.
The men know something will happen soon – it must. We have the French on the run; we outflank them in numbers, in readiness. Some are excited, some resigned, some filled with bravado, desperate for victory. I hope I can lead them as they deserve, despite my mind being so far from here. Battle will be a much-needed sharpener, when it comes, bringing blood back to the limbs and away from the heart.
You said you would dance less, but I recall holding you at the ball, one arm threaded behind your back, and your other hand clutching my own. How proud I was to stand up with you. I fear, had we had the chance of a life together, I would invite you to dance more than you would like.
I will write again when I may.
Yours, always,
RF
23rd June 1813, Vitoria
My darling Charlotte,
It is done. I am just now finding the strength to write. The day of battle began strangely; a misty, grey morning, rather than the sunshine we have been used to. It was a complicated strategy – Wellington really is to be admired. We scoffed at first, but his elaborate plan was successful: a division into four columns—
I must halt myself. I am writing as if I just came home to you after finishing some business or other, sitting at our table and relating the particulars of my week and asking you for your counsel. What an idea that is. Sharing our days together… Allow me to pretend it for a while. Let us play that it has been a hard day, and I will tell you of it as if you were mine, and as if you were here, or I there.
We were with Wellington in the centre. My brigade advanced through the village of Nanclares, and after crossing the bridge at Villodas, we were, with great effort, able to drive the French from the hill. My men were among the final push, in the late afternoon, which finally caused the French to retreat. Once the order came down from Bonaparte, it was a spectacle. How they ran! They dropped their weapons, their baggage and scattered back towards Vitoria. It was so sudden – and then, it was done.
There is hope in the camp. We might be in France in a fortnight, and from there, our usefulness will be exhausted. We will be exhausted. Those of us who return.
I do not know what the end will bring. I might come home, for as much as that means. Do you remember the home we built together, one evening at Rosings? Vases on the mantelpiece, grounds that I might ride in – and chickens! You said I would live with my horse. Perhaps I will; perhaps it will be Achilles, if he will have me.
When I return, I know not what my life will be, but I will not try to disturb you. I do not want to bring you harm. But how I should wish to see you, even from afar. I wish only to look on you, if that is all I am afforded. When this is done, they will seek to commend us for the victories, but to see you again would be a greater reward than any medal.
I will write again after the next push.
I love you.
Yours, always,
RF
CHAPTER X
