Etienne fell silent, his mind going back to that fateful day.
Brioche stirred, bringing Etienne back to the present. He let out a heavy gust of breath. “The battle didn’t begin until noon, although we had been up and ready since dawn.” He remembered the pouring rain of the day before as their wagons arrived at their positions, followed by the drip-drip off the leaves of the forest after the rain had stopped and the mist arisen. Then the waiting, the interminable waiting before a battle.
The last thing a seasoned soldier thought about was death.
“I...was part of Napoléon’s Imperial Guard.” There, he’d said the words, the first time he’d admitted such since he’d woken to find himself in Pierre’s care. His lips twisted. “The Immortals, they called us.”
“Why is that?”
“We were the elite troops. Napoléon always held us in reserve until the end.” He eased back against his pillow, reciting the words like an impartial observer. “Many times it was the emperor himself who led us into battle. He did so this time, at the very end, when all seemed lost. We were part of his oldest troops, the ones who had been with him since the beginning.
“I, of course, had been a youth when I first joined in 1806, and Napoléon had already had various campaigns. By the time I joined up, we were already facing the Fourth Coalition.”
“The Fourth coalition?” Katie asked.
He realized how little she must know of European politics—the alliances, the redrawing of land boundaries, the diplomacy and strong-arming of heads of state over the last decades...over the last centuries. “Prussia, Saxony and Russia. You see, we were not at war with England at that time, though we had been just prior in the earlier coalitions and we would be again by 1809, in the next coalition.”
“Goodness, it sounds very complicated.”
“It was and continues to be.” He waved a hand to dispel her concerns. “At any rate, all that is not important. The day of Waterloo, I was leading a company of light cavalry. We were waiting at the rear for the order to charge.”
“You were an officer!”
Would it matter to admit the truth to her? He bent his head downward. “A captain.”
“I knew you were an officer,” she said softly.
He cracked a smile. “How so?”
“Oh, by your manner, your very bearing.”
He made a sound. “Overbearing?”
She let out a small giggle. “Autocratic with those you consider your inferiors.”
The description gave him pause. Was that the way he appeared, he who’d been brought so very low in life?
He shook aside the thought for the moment and continued his narrative. “We could hear the battle raging the entire afternoon. It was hard to tell who was advancing or retreating since it shifted often. Rumors flew around us—that the Prussians had arrived to aid Wellington, that our own Maréchal de Grouchy had arrived from Wavre to strengthen our rear. We captured and lost several positions throughout the afternoon. But Wellington kept bringing in more cavalry and infantry. The Imperial Guard longed to charge, but we could do nothing until the emperor had given the order to his marshal.”
“How do you bear it—the waiting, knowing you are to face possible death or...or—”
“A fate worse than death?” he finished for her. “You don’t think about it. You polish your sword and your gun. You make sure your valet has polished your boots to a high shine. You check your horse’s harness. You talk and joke with your comrades.”
“When were you finally given the order?”
“Very late in the day. The battle hadn’t started until noon. It was not until about four o’clock that the emperor called his first cavalry charge.
“Soon the reports came back to us. Wellington’s men were greater in number than we’d supposed and they stood in such formations that our cavalry found impossible to break up.
“Our artillery weren’t well positioned to offer the support they needed. And worst of all, we no longer had the sufficient infantry—the foot soldiers—to follow our cavalry attack.
“We still hadn’t lost hope. We trusted our leader, whose genius had managed to turn the tide in the past when all seemed lost in battle. His marshals, too, would have a brilliant strategy that would win the day.
“But by that last campaign, so many had already fallen in battle or refused to follow Napoléon after his escape from Elba.”
“Why did you join him again?”
Etienne let his hands fall idle on the blanket. “For the same reason I would follow him again, if he reappeared.” He grunted in bitterness. “Because the only alternatives are the royalists who have once again taken over the government and are insisting in taking France back to the past.
“For me, Napoléon was the only hope for France.” He made another motion with his hands, as of frustration. “It is true, he made many errors towards the end—the campaign of 1812 into Russia was folly—but he was also forward thinking and brought France out of the dark ages of the days of the Bourbons and out of the anarchy of the Revolution, into the modern world. He brought order and furthered the age of the enlightenment.”
“I see,” Katie said. “Go on with the day of battle, if it doesn’t pain you too much to recount it.”
He shook his head but didn’t take up his tale for some seconds. Finally, he gave another sigh at the futility of reliving that day. “It was around seven that evening that the emperor finally issued the order for us to advance. We were ready, having been anxious to enter the fray. We could see by then that he had called on us to stem the tide. But we had done so in the past. We knew the presence of the Imperial Guard would boost the morale of those on the battlefield.
“You cannot begin to imagine the thunderous sound of a line of advancing cavalry. It is meant to instill fear into the line of infantry confronting them.
“But by the time our troops charged, the field was littered with fallen. Artillery shell was going off everywhere. We could hardly see in front of us for the smoke.
“We advanced on the ridge that Wellington held. As we approached it, suddenly a troop of his men rose up, and fired upon us. At that proximity, it was deadly. It broke up our line immediately and many horses fell. As we tried to rally, they charged us on bayonet and devastated the rest of us. I received a shot in the shoulder but I ignored it, too busy keeping my seat and rallying my men.
“But it was useless. Wellington had too many forces and our charge had been broken. The next thing we knew we were in retreat.”
He didn’t want to continue. To what purpose? To her credit, Katie said nothing, as if sensing that the most difficult part was yet to come.
He shut his eyes, in his mind still seeing it. “It was an awful day when we heard the shouts around us that the Guard was in retreat. It was a day of infamy and dishonor for us.
“It meant every man for himself then. No salvation was to come.” The clock ticked on placidly and Brioche’s even breathing filled the silence.
Beyond the open window, a bird twittered in a nearby tree. It must be a beautiful sunny day. Not unlike his last day as a functioning human being.
Summoning his courage, he continued. “Perhaps you do not realize, but Napoléon’s Imperial Guard’s motto was never to surrender. We die fighting. Napoléon prized us above any other regiment. We were his last great weapon against an opposing army.
“But when they heard the shout that the Imperial Guard was in retreat, panic swept over the field and utter chaos ensued.
“It was then the British began their advance.”
He took another deep breath, summoning all his reserves to recount the rest. “By some miracle I had maintained my mount. I managed to lead some of my troops to the rear of the field. As I tried to rally the few men around me to make a last stand, I heard a warning shout and the whistle of artillery—so close I knew it would explode near us.
“I remember no more.”
He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his eyes, too weary to recount the rest.
After a silence he spoke. “It is curious how after the cannonades and constant firing for hours, the aftermath of battle is eerily silent. I came to and heard nothing. My eyes hurt unbearably. I thought night had fallen, and it was some moments before I realized it was my eyes that were not able to make out anything.
“When I tried to move, my limbs had no feeling.” He endeavored to go on, to explain for her sake. “I realized, lying there, trying to piece things together, that it must have been a case-shot that went off near enough to unleash its deadly load of lead—nails or whatever other scrap metal each case is loaded with. I must have been hit in the eyes and back. My shoulder ached unbearably from the bullet I’d received earlier.
“I fully expected to die.
“Gradually, I became aware of voices here and there—French, Flemish, some British. But then I was out again.
“I remember little else. Waking in some sort of conveyance like a farm cart...being given something burning to drink, like cognac. Feeling pain in my shoulder, my eyes aching so much I wanted to scream...and wishing I could feel some of that pain in my legs instead of the awful nothingness.”
“It’s a miracle you survived.”
A miracle or a curse? “Much...much later when I finally came to my senses, after days of a fever, I woke in some peasant’s hut, somewhere in Belgium, I imagine, to find Pierre attending me. I was so thankful that the pain in my eyes had subsided that at first it didn’t strike me that I couldn’t see.
“Pierre said he’d found me on the battlefield being stripped by looters. When they left me, he heard a moan and realized I was still alive. He told me he’d salvaged another soldier’s uniform for me.
“As the days went by, he gave me news of what had happened. Napoléon had abdicated once again, and any officer who had followed him was subject to a court marshal and the death penalty.”
He hesitated about telling her the rest. “When he told me I’d be arrested as soon as I returned to France, we decided it was better to take the identity of the foot soldier, whose uniform I wore.”
“So, you are not...Etienne Santerre?” she asked in a voice full of wonder.
“My name is Etienne. But not Santerre. It is better that you not know any more.” He scowled. “I hadn’t much desire to live and didn’t care what became of me then or who people thought I was. When he deemed me well enough to travel, Pierre brought me to Les Invalides.
“When I insisted he send word to my father to let him know I lived, Pierre did so. He came back telling me that my father wanted nothing to do with a son who was both blind and cripple and said I was better off to live out my days at Les Invalides.”
“Oh! How can that be?” She sounded so distressed.
He shrugged. “What good would I be to him now?”
“That has nothing to do with it! A father or mother does not disown their children just because they are not in perfect condition. I cannot believe your father would do such a thing!”
He was amazed at her outrage. “You will make a good mother, fighting for your children with all the ferocity of a tigress.”
She said nothing and immediately he was afraid he’d said something to displease her. How provoking not to be able to see her expression.
“I...I don’t know about that,” she finally said. “I hope I’ll be a good mother. I can never imagine abandoning a child.”
He began picking at the threads of his blanket. “Anyway, there you have it, my inglorious end on the battlefield.”
She rose from her chair and the next thing he knew, she knelt by his side. His breath caught when she took one of his hands in hers. He hadn’t expected that. He willed himself to lie perfectly still.
“It sounds terrible, all you went through,” she said softly. “I’m so very sorry. But thank you for telling me about it. I know it must have been difficult to relive all that horror.”
He swallowed, finding it unendurable to have her so close to him...and not be able to reach for her. “You...can...ask me anything and I’ll tell you.” As he said the words, he realized they were true. He had never trusted a soul to the extent he trusted her. “I...I owe you my very life.”
She squeezed his hand gently. “You’ve tired yourself out enough this afternoon. Thank you for the confidence. I shan’t repeat what you told me to anyone.
“I know the Lord spared your life for a reason,” she continued before he could thank her. Then she released his hand and stood. “I’ll let you nap now. If you are feeling stronger when you wake up, I have a surprise for you.”
He was alert at once. “What?”
She laughed softly. “If you feel up to it, we shall carry you down to the garden. It’s such a lovely day. We can continue reading Le Misanthrope there. Would you like that?”
I would like to be anywhere you are, Katie, my heart. But he didn’t say the words aloud. “Yes, that would very nice.”
* * *
Gerrit Hawkes stood at the window of an upstairs sitting room, looking down below at the enclosed garden in the back of their Paris hôtel. “Our Katie’s certainly smitten.”
His wife, Hester, came to stand at his side.
The two looked at Katie, who was sitting on a stone bench, the book she’d been reading to Santerre face down forgotten on the bench beside her. Santerre had been wheeled out for the first time since he’d recovered and sat in his chair at an angle to her bench, their knees almost touching.
Their sudden laughter traveled up to the open casement windows where Gerrit and Hester stood.
“So, too, is he, I imagine,” Hester said at his elbow.
Gerrit’s eyes narrowed, watching Santerre’s profile. He could hear snatches of French. “Doubtless you’re correct, my dear.”
“What can we do about it?”
He glanced at his beloved wife, touching a wisp of her hair which fell at her temple. “Do? Whoever stops the course of true love? Did your father change your feelings about me?”
Hester turned her hazel eyes up to him, eyes whose depths never ceased to fascinate him even after a year of marriage. “Of course not. If it is true love,” she added, her gaze troubled.
“What do you think, you who know Katie better than I?”
Hester’s glance focused once more on the couple down below, who had lapsed back into English. “I would say there is no way Katie can resist Monsieur Santerre’s helpless condition right now. You know how she is with anyone or anything needing her attention.” She sighed deeply. “Not that I can judge Monsieur Santerre. He seems very polite and tries to make little trouble for us. I can see it bothers him to be waited on no matter how much we reassure him to the contrary.”
Gerrit shook his head in pity. “Poor fellow. It mustn’t be easy for him to receive Katie’s attentions and know he can’t have her.”
“You don’t think he’d ever try?”
He considered, eying the man. “No, he’s too proud. I’ve seen the way he stiffens up every time one of us does something for him.”
“We know nothing of him,” Hester observed. “He says he was a mere foot soldier and has said nothing of any family. Not that any of that matters as long as he is an honorable man.”
“He’s no ordinary enlisted man, I can tell you that much.”
Hester’s eyes widened as she looked up at Gerrit. “No? How do you know?”
His eyes narrowed, focusing once more on Santerre, whose expressive hands were moving to aid him in something he was recounting to Katie. “He’s a gentleman, if I don’t miss my guess. He’d have a commission of some sort. But he’s keeping awfully silent about his background, and I’ll wager he has good reason to.”
“Why ever so?”
He shrugged. “Heaven only knows. This country’s been through some upheaval for the last twenty-odd years. There’s no telling what happened to his family. Perhaps they were all guillotined.”
“Oh, dear,” she breathed in horror.
He stroked his chin, continuing to surmise. “Etienne Santerre...the name doesn’t mean anything to me. I haven’t heard it in any of the salons I’ve been to. It wouldn’t be difficult to make some inquiries.”
“Will you?” Hester asked in concern.
He considered and finally shook his head. “Not for the present. If the fellow wants to keep quiet about himself, I’ll respect his feelings for now. There’s not much harm he can do our Katie from that chair, and my instinct tells me he wouldn’t want to. He seems a decent sort and he has behaved with perfect decorum—another reason I peg him a gentleman’s son.”
“And now he’s found our Katie—or she him.”
Gerrit gave a short laugh. “We can blame Brioche, who led her to him.”
His wife clucked her tongue. “What I fear is what will happen when it is time for us to return to America? I hate to see Katie hurt.”
Gerrit kneaded his wife’s shoulder, as he continued gazing down below. “I’d wager it’ll be even tougher for him. What does he have to look forward to but living out a cheerless existence at Les Invalides?”
“Oh, Gerrit, what are we to do?”
He shrugged, having as little idea as Hester. “Just be there for Katie when she has to say goodbye.”
“You don’t think...there is a future for the two of them?”
He emitted a sound of skepticism. “With a man who is both lame and blind, who has no family to support him—much less take care of a wife—not that Katie couldn’t support him if she pleased. It would mean Katie would move to France permanently, have you thought of that? Oh—and not to forget that he’s Roman Catholic in a country with a history of persecuting Protestants. What would our Katie do among such a people?”
She sucked in a breath. “I hadn’t thought.” She shook her head. “Poor Katie.”
* * *
Katie watched Etienne feel around the edge of his dinner tray for his cutlery and had to restrain herself from leaning forward to locate them for him.
As she had tied the napkin around his neck, he had said he could feed himself. While she understood that he didn’t want to feel completely helpless, it pained her to see him groping now.
She had debated whether to leave him by himself, but had decided against it, in case he should need her for anything. She also wanted him to begin to feel comfortable having her around him, so that he wouldn’t feel badly about trying to do things in front of her. She had already cut everything into bite-size pieces for him.
To distract her and allow him to locate things, she said, “You know I never did hear from you whether you liked any of the pastries I brought you...” She laughed nervously. “Or, perhaps you were obliged to throw them all to the pigeons.”
At the mention of “pastries,” he immediately stopped and looked in her direction. When she finished speaking, he said quietly, “If I didn’t tell you, it was because...I...I never actually tasted them.”
Her mouth fell open. “What?”
He located his fork and clutched it in his left hand. “I would dearly have loved to taste them...and to tell you how delicious they were, if Pierre hadn’t taken them from me as soon as you were out of sight.”
Outrage followed her disbelief. “You mean to say that awful man took what I had brought you and never even let you taste one!” She let out a gasp. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
He shrugged. “It would have done no good. He would have found some other way to plague me.” He fixed his attention in front of him, his head slightly bowed. “I was...afraid he wouldn’t bring me out to the esplanade anymore.”
She sat back, amazed at the man’s cruelty. “Oh, my! Thank goodness the Lord set you free of that ogre.”
His fine lips pressed into a grimace. “Set me free? To saddle you and your generous family with a burden?”
“How can you speak such nonsense! If you continue in that vein, you shall forfeit going outside today.” She laughed to show him she was only jesting with him. But he didn’t return her laugh.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“Yes, of course.” Using both his hand and fork, he managed to put a piece of the breaded veal on the tines and bring it to his mouth. Katie realized her breath was held, and when he’d begun chewing, she forced herself to lean back in her chair and pick up her sewing.
“You have a good chef here,” he said when he had swallowed.
“Oh, yes,” she answered at once, relieved to have a safe topic of conversation. “I’ve never eaten so well in my life, although I consider my mother an excellent cook.”
He blinked in her direction. “Your mother cooks?”
It was her turn to look surprised. “Why, yes, so do my sisters and I.” She realized as she was speaking that he must be of a class where the women did not cook but had servants and cooks.
He seemed to recover at once. “Of course, forgive me. What kinds of things do all of you cook?”
As she began to describe some of their local dishes, he continued eating.
“Pumpkin pie is one of my favorite desserts,” she said. “It cannot compare with your delicate pastries, but it has a wholesome goodness all its ow—” She was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Yes?”
A maid poked her head in the doorway.
“Come in, Inès,” she bade.
“Merci, mademoiselle.” The maid curtsied when she reached her chair and held out a silver salver with a white card upon it. “There is a gentleman below.”
“A gentleman? Are you sure he does not wish for my brother, Monsieur Hawkes?”
“No, mademoiselle, he asks for you.”
Katie took the card and turned it over. It was engraved with a fine, black script.
Marcel d’Arblay, le Comte St. Honoré.
She placed the card back down on the tray. “Did you tell him I am not as yet receiving any guests?”
“Oui, mademoiselle, but he insisted I present my card to you.”
“Very well. Give him my regrets. Thank you, that will be all.”
When the maid closed the door, Katie turned her attention back to Etienne. He had not continued eating, his attention directed her way. “What is it?” she asked. “Is there something missing?”
“Am I keeping you from receiving guests?”
She laughed in relief. “Oh, no! I told you, you are my pretext for avoiding them.” She paused, not wishing to upset him but wanting him to know. “By the by, that was the young count I had told you about, do you remember?”
He gave a slight nod, his body seeming to stiffen. “Yes.”
“He lives nearby, I believe I told you. I’m sure that is why he found it convenient to stop by.”
“Undoubtedly.”
He said nothing more, but Katie felt a tension in the room.
Finally, he felt around the rim of his plate until he was able to grasp the hunk of crusty bread at its side. He broke off a piece but did not bring it to his mouth. “Has...has he—er—called before while I’ve been sick?”
“I believe so,” she said slowly.
“What have you...er...told him?” His fingers crumbled the bread.
“What I’ve told anyone who has left a card, to excuse me since I am nursing a guest who has fallen ill.”
Etienne finally took a bite of bread but seemed to be forcing himself to chew it. He picked up his fork again and fumbled for another piece of meat. She tried not to watch him but bent her head over her stitching.
She heard the fork hit the plate then nothing. When she looked up, he had managed to locate his glass of wine and was holding it in one hand while feeling the rim with the other. Slowly, he brought it to his mouth, one finger crooked over the edge to guide him with the contents.
When he’d taken a sip and replaced the glass on the tray, he surprised her by saying, “Perhaps you should receive the young count the next time he visits.”
She almost dropped her stitching. “Y—you think I should see him? What...would I say about you—if he should ask me, that is?”
He shrugged. “The truth—that I am a homeless veteran from Les Invalides whom you took pity on.”
She uttered a small gasp, trying to read his tone. Did she detect irony? He sounded so matter-of-fact. How she wanted to refute his words but didn’t dare speak the truth.
She hadn’t taken pity on him, her soul cried out in protest. That wasn’t the reason at all!
* * *
The next day it rained, so Katie couldn’t have Etienne taken down to the garden. Instead, she read to him a while in his room. Afterwards, she left him to nap. When the maid once again brought up St. Honoré’s card, she dutifully went into one of the drawing rooms to receive him.
She didn’t understand what Etienne’s interest was in the count, but she would do as he suggested. Perhaps she could glean something from the young man.
She waited, tense, sitting straight at the edge of the small sofa she had chosen.
The maid opened the door and announced, “Le Comte St. Honoré.”
He came at once to her seat and bowed his curly brown head over her hand. She felt dowdy in her plain gray morning gown. He was dressed in a beautiful dark green cutaway coat and cream waistcoat, tight white trousers tucked into polished black Hessians.
“Mademoiselle Leighton, at last you take pity on me and deign to see me,” he said as he let her hand go.
The effusive words made her uncomfortable. “Oh, dear, it’s nothing like that. Please, won’t you have a seat?” She indicated one of the chairs beside the small loveseat in order to be away from his close scrutiny.
“Merci, mademoiselle.” Flipping aside his coattails, he took the satin upholstered armchair. “Apropos, how is your patient? He was quite grave, I heard?”
“How did you hear that?”
He made a nonchalant motion with his hand. “A servant. The influenza, non?”
She smoothed her skirt over her knees. “Yes, in fact it was.”
A faint shudder ran through him. “Quel horreur! It’s a wonder no one else has caught it. It would have decimated me to know that you had succumbed.”
She looked down, unsure of herself in a situation in which she felt undercurrents that she suspected were of her own making. “Thank you.”
“Are you feeling well, mademoiselle? You look drawn.”
Her gaze flew up. She must look washed out and positively haggard beside his polished plumage. “Yes, I feel quite well, thank you. Just tired, you can understand.”
“Of course, ma chérie. Forgive my impertinence. You look charming, as always. I was merely concerned with your own health.”
“Thank you, that is most kind of you.” He’d called her “my dear.” Was that usual among the French when two people were veritable strangers? She didn’t know. He was a count. Doubtless he knew all the proprieties.
She paused, not knowing what else to say. If she had her choice, she would be upstairs checking on Etienne or outside, walking Brioche, regardless of the rain. Perhaps she’d pay a visit to the old veterans...
She realized the count had been speaking. “I beg your pardon?”
He smiled. “I was merely inquiring about your guest. Is he an acquaintance of your family’s?”
“No...o.”
He merely lifted an eyebrow, as if waiting for her to fill in the gap. When she didn’t reply right away, hesitating to use the phrase Monsieur Santerre had supplied for her, afraid it would only elicit more questions, he added, “A mystery guest?”
She gave a short laugh. “Not at all. He...he is a...a veteran I met at Les Invalides. He fell terribly ill and as they were...afraid he could be quite contagious there among all the old and infirm, I offered to bring him here, where...he...could receive adequate care.” She focused her eyes on the count’s signet ring, uncomfortable under his steady scrutiny. She’d never dissembled before, and although she was telling the truth, she felt she was deliberately misleading him all the same.
“What a worthy young lady you are, Mademoiselle Leighton! To put your own life in danger for a mere old veteran—a stranger.”
Her gaze flew up to his, wanting to contradict him that Monsieur Santerre was not an old veteran, but the words died on her lips. What did it matter? He was never going to meet Monsieur Santerre. She moistened her lips. “I didn’t do so much. Anyone—at least of my own family and acquaintances back home in Bangor—would have done the same.”
The same eyebrow rose in skepticism. “Take in a man with the influenza?” He tsk-tsked. “Hardly imaginable.”
She said nothing.
“This gentleman—this veteran—he had no place else to go, no family?”
“No, none that I know of.” Her laughter sounded nervous to her own lips. “Of course, he was hardly conscious when I made the decision to bring him here, so I could not ask him.”
He nodded as if considering. “Of course you couldn’t.”
The silence drew out between them. “But now that he is on the mend, he has not mentioned anyone? Anyplace where he could go?”
She was getting tired of trying to interpret the count’s questions and watch her own responses. “He is still very weak, so moving him would be out of the question.”
“Of course, of course...” he murmured. “Well, I am relieved to see you in health. I couldn’t help but come and ascertain for myself that you are out of danger.”
She dipped her head. “Thank you, monsieur.”
“I hope your old soldier will soon be well enough where you feel comfortable leaving him, to rejoin the salons of Paris. Your company is sadly missed, I must tell you.”
She blinked at him, momentarily forgetting his assumption of an old soldier, at the absurdity of his last words. “I’m sure no one has missed my presence at all.”
“You would be surprised. I have heard very complimentary things about the young American demoiselle who exudes such charm wherever she goes.”
Now she knew he was speaking nonsense...or merely expressing pure flattery. Was that a French custom?
He told her a few items of gossip she had missed among the beau monde of Paris while she had been closeted in the sick room, and after the designated quarter of an hour, rose to go.
Once again he bowed over her hand. “Thank you, mademoiselle, for allowing me to see with my own eyes that you are well.” He squeezed her hand slightly before letting it go. “When you are once more able to get out, I would deem it an honor if you and your family would come to my house to dine.”
“Th—thank you, monsieur.”
His light blue eyes looked into hers. “Give my best wishes to your veteran.” With a bow of his head, he withdrew before she could react.