`I love you, may God keep you both safe!`

     These were the last words I heard from you, my sweetest Jack. I was nearly full term when they came for you, dragging you across the cold flagstones and out into the perilous night. I listened to the sound of the wheels of the cart as it bounced down the rutted alley, heard the plaintive cries of the men calling to their loved ones. Then there was nothing. Nothing but the rain beating against the window and the haunting call of a hunting owl.

      Eliza is twelve months old today. I sit here, sunlight pushing through the open window, and think of  you my dearest Jack. They say you may be in a battle at somewhere called Waterloo. You would be proud I`m sure, how I have managed without you. I take in laundry and do a little dressmaking for the big House. The child has your eyes my sister Mary says, the same beguiling curl of lip. They took her husband too, that terrible night. She sits now in quiet contemplation, her eyes forever fixed on the broken latch, and waits.

     I pray often Jack. Pray for your safe deliverance from the guns and unimaginable mutilation. But most I pray for Eliza. Am I wrong my beloved husband? Should I not wish for our child to grow strong and healthy, a permanent reminder of a good and honest man?