Epilogue

Epilogue

May 7, 1813

Dear Philippe,

This will be a test of my Italian. I have not written the language in eight years. Perhaps one of us should learn the other's language.

How delighted and relieved we were to receive your letter yesterday dated February 13, and to learn that you were in Grenoble. Your letter came via a smuggler bringing champagne to one of my patients, a laird who suffers spectacularly from gout.

To answer your question, my practice thrives. Strange, but after years of hacking, sawing and patching war wounds, I had no idea how much salt of magnesium to administer to relieve something as prosaic as constipation. I will say, if ever a war breaks out between Dundee and Glasgow (and who can trust Glaswegians?), I am ready with an awesome selection of bone saws.

Elinore is thriving, as well. She has decided that she likes living in a real house. She planted flowers in all the window boxes a month ago, watered them faithfully, then burst into tears when everything sprouted. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me it was the first time she had ever stayed long enough in one place to see anything she planted come up through the soil. What a dear heart she is. As you might expect, she is increasing. If it is a boy, he will be Bertram Philippe, dear friend.

Harper exceeds my expectations as a driver. I pay him a generous wage, and I think he is not inclined to resume his former life of crime. It appears to be the farthest thing from his mind. He is courting the butcher's daughter, and proving to be as shy as I was. He has a reputation of sorts, which it does me no harm when it comes time to collect fees from my patients. No one is ever in arrears.

We all miss Wilkie. Elinore does have nightmares about her father and that last wild ride. I hold her until the sorrow passes.

Not a day goes by that I do not review my cases and wonder if I could have done something different, but that is the burden of a surgeon. I jump at loud noises, but so do Elinore and Harper.

Do I miss Marching Hospital Number Eight? Sometimes. General Picton has promised to send me a dispatch when the army passes through Santos again, which should be any day now. We can only pray that Dan O'Leary and his patients are well. We made a difference in Number Eight, but now I know the pleasure of riding home to a warm house. When I open the door, Elinore is there.

I must close. The smuggler is ready to take this, the laird is complaining of his gout, and I strongly suspect twins at the solicitor's. Do accept our love, and let us know how you are faring.

Your obedient servant,

Jesse C. Randall