the letter.
Christmas greetings to you, Rhys. Or should I say Colonel Armistead? Congratulations on your promotion. It is well-deserved. You are a true leader and unflappable in battle. I take pride in having been your fellow officer and that I still call you my friend.
At least by the time you receive this, it will almost be Christmas. I know what you are going through now. Endless drills to keep the men busy and out of trouble with the fighting at a standstill. A few visits to the local village for wine and a woman. At least your weather is milder—and dryer—than England now experiences. We have been cold and damp, as usual.
Anna has grown quite large, her belly round with the babe growing inside her. Her arms and legs are still a tad too thin but both the doctor and midwife assure us that things are on schedule and she should deliver come mid-February. Her moods are mercurial, swaying wildly from feisty to sweet. She misses riding desperately and cannot wait to take it up again once the child comes.
I do long for the two of you to meet, Rhys. I have spoken of you fondly to my countess and we hope for the day this bloody war will come to an end. I have a feeling it will take Bonaparte’s death for that to occur. The Frenchman is too canny to be caught and then give up, especially after all these years at war.
Know that I think of you daily and miss your company. Despite being at war, we had some good times, you and I. You are as a brother to me and I hope the day will come when we will reunite in England. Until then, my dearest friend, I pray for your safety.
Wishing you well,
Dez
Rhys folded the letter and sighed aloud. There was but a ghost of a chance he would see Dez anytime soon. This idiotic conflict had dragged on this long and, at times, Rhys believed it might go on forever. Bonaparte was a fiend and a genius—and he would never willingly lay down his arms. If only some sane Frenchman would take the opportunity to assassinate the Little General, the soldiers from all sides might finally be able to go home.
Home. Where was home?
Even if the war ended tomorrow, Rhys had nowhere to go. His mother had died from her faulty heart two weeks before he entered military service. He still remembered the heat of the day and the smell of the flowers at her funeral. Additionally, he had only spent a day at Sheffield Park. Lady Sheffington had been appalled and outraged that her husband had thought to prepare for the future in case their son died prematurely before inheriting the title. Rhys had stood outside the drawing room in his new clothes as the two argued loudly, the countess hissing like an alley cat at the earl. In the end, Lord Sheffington had apologized to Rhys and sent him, along with Mr. Goolsby, back to London. Instead of sharing Viscount Raleigh’s tutor, one was hired for Rhys.
It had probably been a blessing in disguise to be banished from Sheffield Park. Lady Sheffington would have made his life miserable if he had remained in the country. As it was, Eli Simpson had been hired to teach Rhys. They had spent long days together, studying Greek and Latin, mathematics, history, and economics. London had called to them and they had walked the streets and parks for hours, as well as visiting museums countless numbers of times. Eli had taught Rhys about architecture and taken him to buildings throughout the city to illustrate his lessons.
Most importantly, Eli had taught Rhys how to speak properly. They worked for hours in order for him to lose his thick, lower-class accent. He had mimicked Eli’s public school speech and slowly the lessons had taken root. No one would know from hearing Rhys speak now that he had such humble origins. Despite the vast knowledge he had collected at Eli’s hand and new accent, inside, Rhys felt vastly inferior to those officers around him. At least he had proven himself adept at war and the military had taught him skills that helped him be successful in his career.
The same private from earlier popped his head back inside the tent. “Sorry, Colonel. Another letter for you. Should’ve been placed with the first.” He handed it to Rhys. “A good day to you, Colonel.”
He wondered who the author of this