Chapter 22 #2
If he missed anybody, it was still Emily.
Not a day passed when he did not think of her.
Where was she? Was she in the New World, sitting in a wooden fort in Upper Canada?
Was she in a mud brick house in the Caribbean, or on some island off the coast of Greece?
Or was she still on a ship, rocking on the waves, somewhere between civilisation and Australia?
And more important, was she well? How pleased had she been to leave Bermuda?
The island had been a paradise of sorts, but one with its faults, with the fraught mood in the fort at the Dockyard.
Did she long for more varied society? Was she happy in the isolation of a remote outpost?
Did she miss him?
It had been over six months, and he still had not received a word from her.
Every day he looked with anticipation at the pile of letters that appeared on his desk, and every day he felt the pang of disappointment.
He had long since given up the hope of something actually arriving from her, but he looked for it, nonetheless.
What he wouldn’t give for a few more moments in her company!
He ached to hear the sound of her voice offering plain and sensible advice, or to see the light touch the curve of her cheek, brown from the sun.
He longed to hear her laughter and enjoy her engaging conversation, to relish in her keen observation of everything she saw and to see the world once more through her eyes.
The pain of separation was almost physical at times.
He was able to set it aside to enjoy a ride on his horse or an evening with Darcy and Georgiana, but it was never absent.
He could laugh with his fellows and shout encouragement for his favoured horse at the Epsom Derby, but he always wished Emily were around to laugh with him.
This year, Robert Ladbroke’s Octavius had won, a horse favoured by Richard, and his small friendly wager with some of the men at his club had furnished him with a tidy pile of extra blunt for the year.
It was not enough to see a man to a new carriage, but it would certainly procure him a good many pints at the tavern.
Or to allow him to purchase a new bonnet or bouquet of flowers for his chosen friend of the female sex.
Would Emily like roses, or were chrysanthemums more to her tastes?
How he wished he might see her so he could ask!
No matter how he buried his ache, it was always there.
Now the races were run and the new recruits trained, and June was well underway.
The weather had progressed from warm to hot, and Richard envied his colleagues overseeing the summer training at Brighton, where cool sea breezes might mitigate the worst of the summer’s miasma.
His lot, however, was here at his camp with another set of green soldiers, far from the revelry and carnival-like mood of the coastal town.
There were few opportunities for social activities in his near future; his parents had departed for Matlock in the north, and likewise his brother and his family were gone to their own seat.
The club in London was all but abandoned.
Only Darcy and Georgiana remained in Town, where they would stay until their planned return to Pemberley at the very end of July.
The beacon to break the monotony of the summer was the upcoming officers’ ball, to be held at the beginning of July in one of the grand rooms at Whitehall.
Under most circumstances, Richard would find some excuse to be elsewhere on the given evening, but he had been told by his general that his presence was expected.
And, in perfect truth, the idea of a respite from the loneliness of summer was not unwelcome.
It would be pleasant to spend an evening, no matter how hot, with his fellow high-ranking officers.
There would be ample wine and food, and a healthy supply of good—and likely bawdy—conversation.
To be seen there would only further his career, for it was a truth universally acknowledged that more favour was curried around the billiards or cards tables than on the fields of battle.
Richard had few aspirations to the aiguillette of a general, but neither would he turn down such a promotion should one ever come his way.
The wealth and privilege that accompanied that elevated rank could see a man set for life.
Thus it was that on the evening in question, he stood at the doors to the grand ballroom for a moment to peruse the scene inside.
Unlike the ballrooms of the ton where, thanks to the dictates of Beau Brummel, the ladies’ pale dresses were punctuated with the formal black now made de rigeur for men thanks to the dictates of Beau Brummel, this room was a riot of colour.
The officers, striking in their red dress coats and glittering medals and braid, looked like exotic flowers next to their elegant sisters, wives, and other female guests.
The room was stiflingly hot, as expected, but the table along one side of the grand space groaned with cool drinks and the doors at the back were flung wide open to allow some of what passed for fresh air in London to trickle through the crowded space.
At the far side of the cavernous hall, on a dais in the corner, sat a small orchestra comprised of military men with musical talents, and the centre of the floor was chalked with the design of an elaborate battleship, ready to be ruined by the dancing.
Voices were raised in greeting, and already, the scent of libations tinged the air.
Richard found his general and made the appropriate greetings to the man and his wife before threading his way through the throng to the refreshments table to find a glass of wine.
It took him a moment to reach his destination.
He met first one acquaintance, and then another and another, each of whom took a moment to converse, and by the time he finally had his glass in hand, he had secured partners for three dances.
There was some time before the band would start to play, however, and he would not allow that time to arrive without having consumed at least what he was holding.
He took a sip and contemplated the room.
How many people could fit into this space?
The size of the crowd was becoming rather alarming.
Richard could scarcely believe there were this many officers in all of England, and yet the numbers grew with every passing moment.
Surely most of them were needed in Spain or elsewhere abroad.
It seemed that it was not only his father who had such influence as to keep sons and grandsons on English soil.
How many of these red-coated men did he know, he wondered, from the schoolroom or the clubs?
How many of those would he not even meet this evening due to the sheer magnitude of the crowd?
The musicians began to tune their instruments, and Richard made his way over to where he would meet Major Lowe’s daughter for the first set.
He had met her before; she had little beauty and only adequate manners, but she was not unpleasant and was a reasonable dancer.
The two dances of the set passed quickly, and he walked Miss Lowe back to her family before seeking the side table to find her a cool glass of punch.
He was hot and thirsty after the dance and took a glass of wine for himself, and then, having drunk it quickly, took another before procuring a drink for the lady.
At last, he made his way back across the room to deliver the refreshment to his dancing partner, whereupon he moved out of the crush for a moment to rest before the next set.
Standing now along one side of the room with his back against a tall white column, he observed the space once more.
The air almost swirled with the movement of men and women, some in time with the music, others on their way from here to there or from there to here.
Perspiration and perfume scented the air, and the effects of the two glasses of wine he had just consumed blunted his senses.
He was reminded, in some strange way, of that day right after his arrival in Bermuda, when he walked through the woods on the path to Somerset.
Then, as now, he imagined a sprite wandering through the space, a nymph, or perhaps Miranda.
Instead of trees there were men, instead of leaves wafting in a light breeze there were people wandering about, but the sense of unreality was the same.
And there, he imagined the nymph of his imagination transmuted into a woman with plain brown hair and hazel eyes. Just like Emily.
Emily.
It could not be. Surely…
He blinked.
The vision did not change. And at that moment she looked up and saw him too. Her face went white, and she seemed to sway on her feet for a moment before turning from him and running into the crowd.