Chapter 2 #2
This was the unnamed magical isle of Shakespeare’s Tempest, a place of wonder and illusion, where great things might happen in a land of fruitfulness and plenty. It was beautiful, exotic, and up to now, safe.
Richard hated it.
This posting had been the only one to which his commander had the authorisation to send him.
No matter how much he had pleaded to be sent to some theatre of war, his father’s influence was too strong.
Other men of his rank and higher had somehow found themselves in perilous places; marquesses and dukes sent their sons off to fight Napoleon’s brutal forces, and took pride in their service to King and Country.
His old schoolmate Ackley’s father, Lord Aysthill, was almost eager to see him go.
But Richard’s own father and Aysthill were very different men, and the Earl of Matlock had his fingers deep within the workings of the Home Office.
No, the Earl of Matlock had spoken, and this was as close as he would allow his son to come to battle.
Battle might still happen, of course. The Atlantic was no safe place for ships of either British or French flag, and the Americans to the west were rattling the sabre as well.
It would not be long until the war crossed to the New World, and then this green and enchanted isle might well be stained red.
Britain was prepared for this. With the Dockyards to this end, and Fort St Catherine and the nearby Gates Fort at the far eastern end of the archipelago, the entire colony was protected.
There was little question about why this should be the great harbour for the British fleet in the middle of the Atlantic.
The more Richard considered this, the more he became reconciled to his posting.
This was no useless role, after all, not like his commands in England had been, training boys to walk in straight lines.
He would soon be marshalling not only soldiers, but scores of workers as well, coordinating training exercises, sending out scouting missions, advising on strategy, and leading real soldiers in a location that might very well soon see war.
Perhaps this would be a tolerable place to build his career after all.
Nor could it be ignored that this posting had come with the added stripes and braids of a promotion, and Lieutenant Colonel was not a rank at which to sneer.
Even Miss Ingalls, cruel and overreaching as she was, must be impressed by it.
Not that she would have the chance to congratulate him.
Richard was quite finished with her and her ilk.
He tossed these musings aside and pulled his hat low over his eyes.
It was not quite sufficient to shield him from the bright sunshine, but it would do for now.
Perhaps in his wanderings, he might find a place to purchase one of the wider-brimmed sort he saw many of the local men wearing.
Light in colour and made of straw, they would serve this climate better than what he had brought with him from England.
Yes, that was a grand purpose for this foray out along the string of islets, and the village of Somerset would surely be his proposed destination.
He took his leave at the gate that was so nearly complete and started down the path to the village.
It was not yet noon, and the day promised to be warm but not too hot, especially under the canopy of trees.
After the enforced confinement of the ship, and then his days lurking about the fortifications, he revelled in the exercise.
Each stride loosened muscles that had long been protesting, and the caress of the sun on his back warmed more than his limbs.
He was here, further from England than ever he had been before, finally out of his father’s reach.
He had his colonel to answer to, of course, but now, at this moment, he was entirely independent, going wherever he wished to direct his steps, needing to heed nobody.
It was a fine thing indeed, and he was pleased to allow his mind to wander as freely as his feet.
As he walked, bright sparkles of sunlight drew his attention from the water, snatches of which he could spy through the surrounding foliage, casting the day in a sort of mystical aura.
He laughed at himself; for a moment, he could even believe that Prospero himself, Shakespeare’s sorcerer of the magical isle, were commanding the elements, such was the startling effect.
In his mind’s eye, he pictured lovely Miranda floating before him through the bushes, waiting to command some spirit to do her bidding.
He could almost see her, slim but with a woman’s form, not too tall, neither too short, her hair hidden beneath a flower-trimmed bonnet, her frock pale and light and suitable for the clime as she traced the path far ahead of him.
What a fancy! Once more, he chuckled to himself as another glint of bright reflected sunlight flashed into his eyes.
Then the image stumbled on a fallen branch and exclaimed something Richard could not fully hear. It seemed, however, that the image had a good salty vocabulary. Such was the peril of living on a military base.
“Miss Barrow!” Richard greeted her across the separating gap. She spun about to discover who was calling.
Miss Barrow was the daughter of the commanding colonel at the Dockyard.
Richard had been introduced to her and her mother shortly after his arrival, but he had, thus far, no cause to engage in any sort of conversation beyond, ‘How do you do?’ and ‘Very well, thank you.’ The lady was not particularly young—perhaps two or three years younger than himself—and seemed, by her residence at the fort, to have resigned herself to a life of spinsterhood.
If she had aspirations of marriage, surely, she would have found an aunt or cousin with whom to live in England, where she might meet some eligible gentleman in want of a wife. Here, in Bermuda, and despite the wealth of officers, such that were seeking a spouse were few.
Miss Barrow looked back at him, her expression unreadable.
This was their first encounter out of doors, and she looked different in the sunshine.
In the dappled light under the trees, Richard saw the sun pick out hair of medium brown, and when he got closer, he could see her eyes were a bright, green-flecked hazel.
She was not beautiful, not in that heart-stopping manner, but neither was she plain.
Her features were regular and not unappealing, and her lashes thick and dark.
But he could no longer look at a woman’s face without the unwitting comparison with that of Honoria Ingalls, callous though she might be, and every other such face paled in contrast. Miss Barrow held no candle to that cruel beauty.
Perhaps Richard’s expression showed some hint of disdain.
Perhaps Miss Barrow, like her father, was not the object of widespread approval.
But at his approach, her face clouded over, and she stepped backwards.
Could she be afraid of him? It hardly seemed likely!
He was a newcomer to the island and an officer as well, everything respectable.
Still, her voice was hard with suspicion as she returned his greeting with a rebuke.
“I did not expect to be followed, sir. Have you been dogging my steps since I left the fort?”
“What?” He had not expected such a reproach. What had made her so combative? “I, follow you? No, not at all. I was walking to Somerset to learn my way about the town and saw you ahead of me. I did not mean to interrupt your walk. I shall turn back if it pleases you.”
His walk and his sun hat would have to wait for another day, it seemed. He could not hold back a huff of disappointment.
Her face retained its wary expression, but she relaxed her stiff carriage.
“Forgive my presumption. I have learned to be cautious. My father is not always a favourite amongst his subordinates.” She did not elaborate on her comment, but there was little doubt as to what she meant.
If the men disliked her father, might they not also take out their antagonism on his daughter in so many little ways?
“I shall return to the Dockyard and leave you to your walk.” Despite the rumblings he had heard from some of the men, he liked the colonel and had no desire to bring unhappiness to Miss Barrow.
“It is a fine day. I wish you well.” He bowed deeply with the elegance trained into him by a succession of tutors and turned around to return to the fort.
He had gone no more than a dozen paces when he heard a thundering behind him. If he did not know better, he could believe it was a horse approaching at great speed. Yet this path was far too narrow for such rashness. Was it not?
His momentary speculation was split by a scream from somewhere behind him, and as he turned in his place to see what had happened, the horse raced past at a tremendous pace, far too fast to notice who might be riding it with such recklessness.
But this was not the time to pursue the rushing steed.
He must see to Miss Barrow, whose cry had arrested his steps.
His feet were moving almost before his brain absorbed the import of the sound, and in a moment, he was back in that place where he had left her.
There was no one in sight, but that cry—
She could not be far.
He scoured the woods on either side of the winding path until a flash of pale fabric in the trees caught his eye. There she was, crouched down, balanced on one knee.
“Miss Barrow!” He dashed towards her as quickly as the uneven ground allowed. “Are you well? Who was on that horse?” For it had surely been the horse and rider who had forced her off the path.
“I am well enough, I think.” Her voice was strained, and as he came closer, Richard saw a trickle of blood oozing from a deep scratch on her arm, presumably from a twig from one of the surrounding trees.