Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter. Cathy’s First Letter.

1 February 1024, L’Isle du Grand-Blaireau

Amelia,

His Napes and I are still chuckling over something that happened this past week. Two gentlemen from Mont-Havre arrived late in the afternoon and begged rooms and dinner, which we were pleased to grant.

I was helping out in the dining room—Lucie has a beau in Bois-de-Bas, and was spending the evening with her parents so that he could come and court her properly. Courtships can be scandalously reduced here in Bois-de-Bas when there is good reason, as with Armand and Amelie when her father was dying, but I have learned that they prefer to keep to the old ways when they can. I am glad, as it gives us time to find Lucie’s replacement.

The gentlemen in question were visiting Bois-de-Bas to meet with your cousin at the wagonworks the next morning. They had never met him or done business with him before, which I know because they began discussing their business plans over drinks in the King’s Parlor before dinner and continued to do so with increasing degrees of merriment over the course of the meal. I am not one to eavesdrop, but one couldn’t help hearing. On many nights this would not have mattered, but that night we had several tables of folk from town; and it so chanced that Armand and Amelie were seated at the next table.

I could see that Armand was distressed to overhear their discussions, which had become rather tactical, as His Napes later put it. Armand caught my eye as I passed and quietly asked, “They are being quite indiscreet. Could you possibly…?”

I have had years of practice at taking absurd requests in stride. I whirled over to the noisy pair, bent towards them, and said, with a conspiratorial air, “Now then, gentlemen.”

They looked at me with some surprise, and the older of the two, a man with spectacles and a beard, said “Yes, miss?” in icy tones.

“You’re being quite free with your business, gentlemen,” I said, “I pray it will prosper; but I don’t suppose you would wish word of your plans coming to Mr. Tuppenny before you meet with him.”

The younger man scowled at me. “Are you threatening us, miss? If you expect us to pay you for your silence—”

I was about to answer back, with some heat, I fear, when your cousin rose from his seat. Tossing his napkin down, he turned and came to stand by me.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said, smiling. “I am confident that the staff here at the Two Sloops are the very souls of discretion. But there are many others dining here tonight, and Mr. Tuppenny is well regarded here in Bois-de-Bas. It is all too likely that someone among the company will repeat your words to him. Please, I must beg you to continue your discussions in private.”

The pair were quite taken back, but glancing quickly about I saw many pursed lips and eyes merry with delight—not least on His Napes, who was peeking in from the lobby.

Armand returned to his seat and I to my duties. The rude pair finished their meal in affronted silence, and then hurried off to their rooms. The company burst into laughter the moment they were out of sight; at which your cousin turned bright red.

I was still out of sorts with the men when I joined His Napes later that evening for our wee dram.

“Not to worry, darlin’,” he told me. “I shouldn’t expect to see them back, not after they see Armand tomorrow morning. He will have much to say, nor will he need the business of the likes of them. And neither do we, o’ course.”

I nodded, feeling cheered; and then I was struck by a thought.

“Jack,” I said, and he looked at me sharply, for usually I addressed him as “Mr. Napes” when we were in private.

“Yes, darlin’?”

“Armand is right, you are the soul of discretion; and there’s something I should have told you long since. It is sure to come up eventually, and I shouldn’t wish you to be surprised.” And then I told him about Mr. Sloane-Price and the sins of my youth.

He listened attentively, then nodded, and said, “I see. Is there a reason you hadn’t told me this before?”

I felt myself blush, but I strode on. “At first I was afraid to, for I needed this job desperately. And then, later, I got to know you, and, well.” I shrugged. “I told Amelie and the other ladies at the Hot Springs months ago. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but we’ve been so busy, and it didn’t seem to matter as much by then.”

He grinned broadly. “And no more did it, Cathy, for I knew all along. Did you think m’ cousin would send me into battle unarmed?”

“But he said—”

“Oh, Armand knows how to keep his tongue back of his teeth, I assure you. He wouldn’t tell anyone unless they had a real need to know.”

“Which you did.” I nodded. “You did, I cannot deny it. You were taking a big chance on me. Why did you?”

He laughed. “I was a lieutenant once. Horrible objects, lieutenants, but I had Sergeant Mackham to straighten me out.” He looked at me fondly. “You had no one, darlin’. No one but your brother; and so you had to manage it on your own.”

“Amelia gave me no choice,” I told him; which you didn’t, you know.

“You couldn’t have stayed in Nexinghamshire, true it is. But you collected yourself, and since then you’ve taken the bold path.” He raised his glass. “I salute you, darlin’.”

And so there we are. Have I said thank you, Amelia?

Thank you, Amelia.

Cathy

Next letter

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