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Les Deux Fauconx Carseille, September Dearest mother, As the north wind begins to chance its way this far down the Continent I am caught up with thoughts of home. The breeze induces in me an overpowering nostalgia, reminding me of the English Autumntide that I miss so dearly. Spain knew little of the London cold and South France is barely more susceptible. I apologise for my brief discourse as I know only too well how you have been fretting for my next letter following the last. But steady yourself now for I must warn you that you may not find its next contents to your liking. The note I received last month in Mont Launee has proved hope

 The new Monday was grey but the dour-faced young gentleman could have easily put the weather down as grandly sympathetic to his situation. He ignored the Spring cold that set in misty droves around him with its mist and faint spitting rain in the morning gloom. With no wind to push the grey away barely a newly-budded leaf moved save for the jogging of a constant stream of droplets falling from the gargoyle nearby that made the bough spring steadily this way and that. The woodpile was not the most comfortable place for the young man to sit. His short legs were pulled up to his chest in an infantile way with the heels of his boots dug firmly

The French officer's name was Commandant Benoit DuMoyen, and he was forced to speak within the confines of a language which, while it was similar to his native tongue, nearly caused him to vomit when he barked his challenge. "Where is the one called Astley?!" He snarled in English and tugged at the reins in his shabbily gloved hands so that his mare was forced into a half-rear as she turned. Commandant DuMoyen was a thin-faced man, clean shaven with two substantial touches of grey at either temple. The tiny Spanish village's name, if it even had one, was unimportant. What was important was that a score of British infantrymen were holed up i

Les Deux Fauconx Carseille, September Dearest Mama, I leave tommorow to join Uncle Benoit's battalion. I am told that while being transported to Spain, our caravan may be escorted by James' divison! My heart swelled with the news, and I had to share it with you so that your's could, as well. I am sure that it will not be difficult to find him, even though uncle has sent a carriage, as I believe James to be the only holder of his name in our army. I am sure that I will be able to see him, despite Lieutenant LeBlanc's attempts to keep the men from me (At thirty three years old, I believe I am quite capable of handling the advances of a mob o