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Words cannot express how delighted I was to receive your letter from your prison camp, with its reassurances of your good health. When you fell beneath the ice during the Winter campaign, your comrades assured me that survival was impossible and the Army Lists recorded your gallant death in battle.  A most touching eulogy was read out by the junior minister for War himself in Parliament. I received many warm expressions of sympathy, as of course, no person in this Kingdom was more assailed by this perceived loss than I, your grieving wife.  Several of the officers of your regiment have taken it upon themselves to comfort me personally station themselves around the house, so I shall feel myself protected, although with the beastly French still on the other side of the Channel, I truly feel I have nothing to fear. Indeed, several Naval officers, also in the vicinity, have assured me

Beloved, this brings me to the part of this letter that I most regret to have to write. I fear I have not passed on to the Government your entreaties that a peace be signed with that Corsican fiend Napoleon. You did not marry a coward, my love, and I fervently hope that I did not do so either. As your loving wife, my thoughts are with you, but as an Englishwoman, they are with my country. Indeed, your account of the indignities and tortures to which his foul soldiers are subjecting you merely strengthens my resolve. Things must be simply dreadful to have caused you so to lose your senses as to pen such a defeatist missive and I can only hope that sharing your experiences with me can help you endure. In this respect, it might be helpful if in your next letter, you supply more details and explanation of terms such as ‘buggering’ so that as your soul-companion I can more fully share in your suffering. I have sought to inform myself about the general concept – the gallant naval officers stationed in the vicinity seem familiar with the principle of the thing and have even but as your wife I should know all of the details. Do not spare my feelings, but tell all.

Should a just peace ever be signed – which I fear, my true beloved, must be many years off – and should I ever encounter any of the uncouth French officers who have so mistreated you, they will know the fury of a wronged Englishwoman! To think that the mouth that I so long to kiss has been soiled by being abused so by a man – if such a word applies to these filthy Frenchies! You must be brave and endure, my darling. And perhaps the next time you are required to “service” that Dupont fellow with his enormous… talent (you neglected to supply the precise dimensions, my beloved, do, please), perhaps you will summon your courage and bite. Bite hard. For me.

I must also record that I was a little disturbed, by your suggestion, my beloved, that when we are finally reunited in a World at peace, that I might myself… I shall not write the words. I do not blame you, beloved, but you must have lost your mind should you imagine that I would ever – ever – undertake such a revolting act.  I have very sharp teeth, my beloved, and I too can bite, if need be. But I am sure that once you are back with us, your mind will return to its more English ways of thinking and eschew such perversities.

However, should you happen to have become accustomed to some of the other practices you say you experience nightly, Doctor Thomson assures me that even a weak woman can perform them, with an appendage he has constructed could construct for me. The naval officers inform me that

Be brave, my beloved. Be a man even as the Frenchies treat you as a woman and remember that even ‘a weak and feeble woman’ can be a patriot and a soldier. Hold your head high as you suck, lick and swallow and endure the ‘buggerings’ as best you can but never forget you are British! I myself feel nothing but a steely resolve to carry on, taking all degradations this dreadful war might impose upon me with a smile on my lips and a firm resolve that we shall one day make France squeal for mercy ourselves, when a column of fine British soldiers thrusts itself into Paris!

To victory, no matter what the cost!

Vanessa

PS: – In answer to your linguistic enquiries, the word ‘chienne’ you keep hearing is the French for a female dog, or bitch. I so despise that nation, I earnestly wish I had never learnt the language, but I suppose those many years with Madame Pelton were not wholly wasted! ‘Avales’ means swallow and is in the familiar singular form, indicating a lack of respect. Had they manners, they would be ordering you with “avalez”!. And analogously with lécher, to lick. The word ‘entonnoir’, with which they threatened you, should your entreaties for peace not succeed, is less familiar to me but I am informed that it may mean a kind of funnel, such as might be used to channel liquid into a narrow opening. If you could supply more precise details of the context in which this ‘entonnoir’ will be used, I would find that most enlightening. With details, my love. ‘Maitre’ does indeed mean ‘Master’ as you rightly surmised and ‘bottes’ are boots. I am glad to learn you are taking advantage of your stay to expand your knowledge, even if under such trying circumstances! V