Introducing Mrs. Collins
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