The Rakehell Regency(269)

"No, I'm aware of that, but what if there were something terribly gruesome or shocking?"



She gave a mild frown. "Is your friend a rake or rattle, or ungentlemanly in some way?"



"No, indeed," Jonathan said most firmly. "Michael Avenel, Viscount Glyne, is the very best of men. No angel, that's for certain, but not a debaucher, and without an evil intention in his body. But he's a most prodigious soldier. Nicknamed The Grim Reaper, in fact. I would not wish any details of his campaigns to distress you unduly."



"Well, let me decide for myself? Do, please. I can see how much you wish to hear his news."



She sat on the sofa next to Sarah and nodded at Clifford to continue.



He had been sorting the letters into chronological order, and shrugged. Jonathan looked uneasy, but settled back in his chair.



Clifford sorted the pile to his satisfaction and began to read. "'My dearest family and friends. I hope this letter finds you all in good health, and that you've been receiving news from me regularly. Blake is well, and we see each other when we can, though not in a professional capacity, I'm happy to say. I remain well and uninjured, praise God. I only wish you all had been so lucky, and that we were all still together here in the Peninsula. Sorry for the selfish wish, but I do miss every one of you.



"'Jonathan's dramatic performances in the officer's mess are still talked of to this day. And Clifford's skill with a rifle is legendary. As for Thomas, his impromptu cricket games and uncanny ability to find a greased pig to keep the men occupied is sorely missed. Not least because the pig made such good eating when we were done with the game.'"



Pamela stared at the two men present who had been mentioned in turn, who both seemed blushingly pleased with themselves.



"But enough fond reminiscing. Now for some real news. I'll start with general impressions, and then fill you in on old friends. First off, we have had lulls in the action because of the weather and terrain, which is of course most mountainous in the Pyrenees. Anyone who thinks it does nothing but rain in England has never been to Spain and the south of France in the winter months. It is cold and bitter, and I'm heartily sick of the constant drizzle. The only thing worse is the frost and snow. We're on quite high ground in our encampment. Often the first thing we have to do before even having breakfast is dig out hapless comrades trapped in their tents by snow.'"



"Oh my," Sarah sighed. "I do hope he is getting our little packages and presents."



Clifford nodded as he read the next paragraph. "'Supplies are hard to come by, and often do not even deserve the name breakfast. Far too many times your thoughtful parcels have meant all the difference between a mouthful shared amongst comrades, and an empty belly. We're all more grateful than we can say, for that and the merest snippets of news from home, from the Rakehells, and especially from you, my dearest brother Randall.'"



"Randall was our most faithful correspondent, until his brother Francis died," Jonathan explained. "Then he had, well, I suppose a breakdown or something. Was so grief-stricken he flubbed his degree at Oxford and wrote letters which were the equivalent of monosyllables."



"The poor man," Pamela said sympathetically.



Clifford squinted and found his place once more. "'We live on tea and hardtack, mostly, and count ourselves lucky to have even that at times. Though Wellington has done very well generally in provisioning the army considering the season and isolation, there are so many of us. Plus the French have seen fit to actually plunder their own country without compunction or remorse.



"'Wellington pays cash on the nail for everything to ensure there is no hostility between the French and we Allied soldiers. They've been treated so badly by their own soldiers, we are actually seen as liberators, and cheered whenever we enter a town.'"



"How remarkable," Henry said.



"'The plundering has reached desperate proportions, though any at all has always been deemed intolerable by Wellington. With that in mind, he's sent all but one of the Spanish battalions back into their own country. They were far too unreliable, and too intent upon revenge and rapine. Not that anyone can necessarily blame them after all they endured at the hands of Napoleon's forces since 1808.'"



"No, indeed," Jonathan said with a nod. "Though it is dreadful all the same."



"'But Wellington is not about to risk everything in what could be the last stages of the war over such issues as food and uniforms. The Spanish government has neglected their army most shamefully, but there's only so much we can do for the poor wretches if we are to bring this to a successful conclusion, which please God we shall in the spring.