Excerpt from "Till Next We Meet"
An Avon Release
May 2005
ISBN:
0-060-75737-X
©2005 by Karen Ranney
Page 2
He wrapped the pipe in a jerkin and placed it on the bottom of the trunk. Harry rarely smoked it and when he did it was more to warm his hands then for the flavor of the tobacco. A few souvenirs from the Indians were next, and then a book of poetry Dunnan had taken from a dead Frenchman. Moncrief wrapped the other man’s brush and shaving gear in a shirt and wedged them into a corner.
He glanced at the collection of letters and debated returning them to the captain’s wife. In actuality, Moncrief was the one responsible for hoarding these, even though they rightfully belonged to Dunnan. After a minute of thought, he left them where they were on the end of the bed.
Harry’s wife had sent him a pillowcase, deftly embroidered with thistles and roses. Moncrief ran his fingers over the intricate needlework before placing it atop Dunnan’s other belongings. The Scots broadsword was next, along with Harry’s dirk. The last item to be packed was a scarlet vest and tunic, and black trousers, a match to the uniform in which Captain Dunnan had been buried.
All in all, few mementos to assuage a widow's grief.
Moncrief closed the trunk lid and locked it, placing the key on his desk alongside a piece of blank paper and a newly trimmed quill.
He would have to write one last letter. A last letter. How many times had he told himself that? Circumstance, however, had succeeded in doing what his will could not – ended his correspondence with Catherine Dunnan.
One day, more than a year ago, he’d received a letter from Captain Dunnan’s wife inquiring as to her husband’s health. She’d not heard from him since he’d left Scotland and was concerned.
As Colonel of the regiment, it was occasionally his duty to prod his men into communicating with those they’d left behind, a chore he did not relish. Nor was this errand a particularly easy one.
“You should be glad of someone to write, Dunnan,” he’d said. Moncrief’s father deplored the task and his brother claimed no time for it. Once, there had been a woman who’d liked writing him well enough, until waiting for him had paled next to the flattery of another man.
Harry had been stretched out on his bed, still attired in his muddy uniform from that afternoon’s maneuvers. He’d only grinned and reached inside his trunk and tossed his latest, unread, letter at Moncrief.
“Here, Colonel, you write her. She’s forever prattling on of things about which I have no interest. I only married the cow because she was an heiress, but a month of marriage was enough for me.” He laughed. “Now she’s all in a twitter about that house she’s inherited. Damn shame she couldn’t have gotten the money before I joined the regiment.”
“The least you could do is ease her mind, Dunnan. Send her a letter.”
“If I write her back, Colonel, she’ll just expect another. Best not to write her at all.”
Moncrief left the room, already framing the words he’d write to Catherine Dunnan.
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