* * *
Griff broke the seal on Alyssa’s latest letter. They had been on the move for almost three weeks, and it had taken the post longer than usual to catch up with them. His regiment was joining General Crawford in the push across Portugal, into Spain toward the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo.
Griff unfolded the parchment and read the brief note, then carefully refolded it and held it beneath his nose. The faint scent of roses and lavender filled his nostrils, bringing with it memories of the three nights he had held her in his arms. Griff gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the noise of the camp, the jangle of bits and bridles, the rattle of swords and sabers, and the incessant droning of a black fly trapped inside the tent. He gently tucked the letter inside the ribbon tied around the packet of all the other letters she’d sent him.
Griff hadn’t realized he’d made a noise until Eastman, who sat on a camp stool polishing the brass buttons of one of his coats, spoke. “News from home, my lord? From Lady Abernathy?”
Griff swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “Good news? More descriptions of Lady Abernathy’s plans for the improvement of the manor? Does she still intend to grow hops and flax? Have the new dairy cows arrived? Did she send any more skin lotion?”
Griffin didn’t answer, and Eastman turned to look at him. “Sir? Is everything all right back home?”
Alyssa’s letters full of sketches and ideas and bits of household gossip had brightened his and Eastman’s days. She told him of ripping out sections of the overgrown hedges and replacing them with smaller varieties of boxwood and holly. She detailed the events of her day, wrote of Mrs. Lightsey’s and Cook’s surprise when Alyssa commandeered a portion of the kitchen storerooms in order to produce her herbal concoctions. And she always sent samples of new scents, sprinkling her pages with rose and lavender water or imbuing the sealing wax with rosemary or peppermint or spearmint or bayberry or lemon balm. She often included small packages of soap for Griff and Eastman and for the men in his command who needed them. The bright blue ribbon Griff used to tie her letters had come from around a parchment-wrapped bar of vanilla and chamomile soap. Griff had given it to a young second lieutenant whose face had been badly chafed from the sun and wind and the strong lye soap he’d been using to shave.
Her letters were unfailingly bright and cheerful, and Griff spent his time alone at night reading them over and over again.
When he complained in one letter of sunburn and the biting flies, Alyssa sent a flask of lotion to soothe the skin and repel the insects.
It had arrived in her last packet, and now he and Eastman were the envy of the regiment.
Griff imagined Alyssa creating the lotion in Cook’s kitchen, smiling as he recalled the memory of the way she had smelled the day he and Lord Tressingham had concluded the wedding settlement.
“No descriptions of the plans for the manor this time. Or samples.” He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled it. “She writes with the news that there will be no heir.”
Eastman sighed. “I am deeply sorry, my lord.”
Griffin bit the inside of his cheek. “So am I, my friend.” He glanced at the valet who had willingly become his aide and comrade-in-arms. “I didn’t realize how much I had come to depend upon good news and the confirmation that I had done my duty to my family as well as my country.”
“How is my lady taking the news?” Eastman asked as if the event was current instead of almost a month past.
“She blames herself.” Griff cleared his throat.
“She mustn’t.”
“I agree,” Griff told him, somehow managing a slight smile. “But there are tear stains on the paper, which is why I intend to take advantage in this lull in the marching and skirmishing and disabuse her of the idea.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Eastman said, laying the coat aside as Griffin took a sheet of paper from his traveling desk, took out a pen and nib, and uncapped a bottle of ink.
04 July 1810
My dear Alyssa,
It took three weeks for your letter to reach me. We have been on the move since mid-May. I cannot tell you where we are for fear that these letters fall into the wrong hands. The enemy, numbering approximately eight thousand, is nearby, and we are on the alert. We never unsaddle excepting in the evenings, and then it is merely to clean the horses. We sleep in full appointments with our bridle reins in hand, ready to turn out on the instant and at two of the clock in the morning, the whole regiment remains on high alert until the pickets are relieved and return unharmed and all is quiet. The firing is very brisk. It begins at first daylight, ceases during the heat of the day, and resumes at night. Eastman and I remain unhurt, but my horse, Samson, sustained a slight wound when a minié ball grazed his hip. I used your drawing ointment and the lotion to repel the flies, and I am relieved to say that he is recovering very nicely.
As for your sad news, I am very sorry that I could not be there to hold you close and assure you that although I am disappointed, I am not disappointed in YOU.
There is no shame or fault in failing to conceive. These things happen in their own time and cannot be forced. The ability to conceive is beyond your control. It is in the hands of a Higher Power. Please do not blame yourself. And please don’t cry anymore. Everything will be all right. My last words to you were prophetic. I miss you. You are on my mind a thousand times a day. I think of you in the kitchen preparing herbal decoctions and supervising the replanting of the gardens—using massive amounts of the “tea” you prepare from the stable muck, and of course, I think of you as you looked the way I last saw you.. . and I remember what we shared. So I thank you, my sweet bride, for helping to relieve my burdens while I fulfill my duty.
Your husband, Griffin.
PS: I shared your chamomile soap with a young lieutenant of whom I have become very fond. He has a very fair countenance, and his skin has suffered mightily from the elements. Not the least of which was the soap he used for shaving. His face is much improved, and Lieutenant Hughes begs me to send his deepest appreciation and admiration.
G.
Chapter Twenty-four
“Letters from home are a lifeline for soldiers. There is, I believe, an art to the writing of them. They should he filled with the news of home, more heavily weighted with good news than ill, for soldiers should always have something for which to look forward.”
—Alyssa, Lady Abernathy, diary entry, 16 July 1810