Carolina's Walking Tour

By

Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon
2007

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-045-8
ISBN 10: 1-60174-045-X

Copyright © 2008 by Lesley-Anne McLeod

Cover art and design by Cait Bens

All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in
whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or
hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

Published by Uncial Press,
an imprint of GCT, Inc.

Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

Carolina saw the gentleman twice in the tranquil streets of Bath--once in the North
Parade and once more in busy Broad Street--before she began to wonder about his identity, and
his disabilities.

He was obviously a veteran and a victim of the Peninsular War. His bearing was
military and he was tall. His right arm was contained neatly in a black silk sling, his right hand
shielded with a black glove. A silk patch covered his right eye, but concealed little of two drastic
scars that scored the right side of his lean, strong-boned face. His clothes hung upon him,
tailored for the vigorous, muscular man he must have been before he had suffered his
wounds.

Once Carolina had noticed him, she saw him frequently, always walking, always hatless,
his unfashionably long dark hair gleaming blackly in the occasional rays of Bath sunshine. Over
two weeks, she saw him repeatedly: striding through Orange Grove, limping one day down
Walcot Street, pacing the meandering banks of the River Avon, and treading the straight line of
Gay Street.

He was impossible to overlook, and intriguing, but her speculations upon his identity
were idle, given her retiring nature. They were unlikely ever to meet. The thought caused a pang
of regret to linger in the region of her hitherto untouched heart.

Then one morning, to her utter surprise, he appeared in the Pump Room. She had never
seen him at the Upper Rooms, at musicales or at evening parties, but only when he was abroad,
walking. Now here he was, in attendance, near the counter where the vile healing waters were
dispensed, upon a frail lady well past her middle years. In close proximity he appeared even
more battered than she had thought, yet he was smiling in a manner that belied his physical state.
His cheerful visage, in view of his shocking injuries, was astonishing.

Carolina's curiosity overcame her normal reticence. "Grandmama, who is that
gentleman?" she said in an undertone to the elderly lady at her side.

The Dowager Viscountess Chersham surveyed the spacious, light-filled room with her
faded blue eyes. Carolina knew she would not have to explain to her astute grandparent which
gentleman she was observing. He was conspicuous among the elderly infirm aristocrats and
paunchy middle-aged citizens who made up the assemblage.

"I have no idea, but he is in company with Lady Quainton if that is of help to you. A
nice woman, not in robust health." The dowager knew everyone in the town and had repeatedly
provided Carolina with unwanted details about them all. "Her son was in the Rifles or some
such, injured at Ciudad Rodrigo. Could it be he?"

"I think it must be, and that he is no longer in the Rifles," Carolina suggested. She found
herself unable to prevent her gaze from lingering on him. "Not with those limitations."

"I've a notion to speak with her ladyship. Do you go and bring them to me," the dowager
said.

"Grandmama, I--"

"Go, girl. You'll not hide behind shyness while you reside with me and you don't require
a formal introduction to the lady. I've known her these thirty years. You're two and twenty; strive
for some courage. Tell them who you are. You've dignity and self-possession if not beauty and
charm, and you don't lack for wit. Now go."

The dowager was not a lady with whom one argued. Carolina went, albeit reluctantly.
She returned alone brief minutes later, edging through the increasing crowds all bound to take
the waters.

"They were on the point of departure, Grandmama. Lady Quainton has been unwell and
stays abroad only a short time each day. But she says she will call upon you, perhaps tomorrow,
if she is well enough." Carolina straightened her simply decorated, plaited straw bonnet
nervously.

"And the boy?"

Carolina thought to quibble over calling the desperately scarred gentleman a boy, then
decided against it, remembering his ready laugh and charming smile. "It is Lord Quainton,
formerly a Colonel of his regiment." She puzzled over his determinedly light-hearted and
whimsical manner. It had been most unexpected. Perhaps it was meant to distract one from his
injuries and from questions about his career on the Peninsula?

"I remember now. Quainton passed to his reward five years since. This Alexander
inherited the barony."

"But went to the war?"

"Career soldier; his mama did not demand that he sell out."

"Perhaps she wishes she had. 'Tis a miracle he returned alive," murmured Carolina, half
to herself.

Her grandmother smiled a small tight smile.

Carolina could read the old lady's thoughts very well. Lady Chersham was delighted that
her granddaughter had displayed an interest in a gentleman.

She was well aware that her grandmother found her difficult, although she was not
flirtatious or contentious or scandalous or avaricious. She was simply ordinary...astonishingly so,
she thought. Her face, her person, her talents, and her achievements were none of them more
than commonplace.

Carolina had had three Seasons in London, and had been presented during the second.
She was accepted at Almack's without question, but only danced reluctantly. A few pleasant and
undistinguished gentlemen had taken note of her. She had wanted no part of them. She had
refused a fourth Season and had requested that she be allowed to visit her grandmother in Bath.
Her parents had permitted it, as they were busy with the debut of her younger sister.

"I have welcomed your company these past weeks, my dear, you know that," Lady
Chersham said now, as they departed the Pump Room.

Carolina unfurled the umbrella she carried; it was raining again though the trees were
now in full leaf, and myriad flowers brightened the late spring gardens.

"But I sympathize with your mother, I really do. I'm losing patience with you."

Carolina only sighed as she gave her grandmother her arm to the crested carriage that
would see them home to Queen Square.

"You see? You will not defend yourself, will not bother even to argue with me. You
make nothing of yourself, have nothing to say for yourself. You are pale in person and character.
You need not be! You have as many good features as bad, and a more than common intellect. I
am relieved, indeed I am, to see you express an interest in Quainton. It shows you have blood in
your veins, at least." Lady Chersham settled into her carriage's maroon plush seat with something
perilously near a flounce.

Carolina struggled to lower her umbrella. She smiled her thanks when the groom took it
and handed her within. She said nothing, for how could she respond when her grandmother
spoke only the truth. They sat in uneasy silence for the short journey.

Carolina's reflections were grave. If she could not even be a comfort to the
dowager--and all she seemed to do was irritate her grandmother--what could she do with her future?

Be a prop to her aging parents? The Viscount and Viscountess Chersham were
disappointingly hale and vigorous.

Be a useful maiden aunt? Her elder brother had already produced two precocious
infants, and her two married sisters looked set to be as fecund.

Yes, she could be indispensable to the nieces and nephews who would populate the
family nurseries. She would be an antidote, more plain and awkward every year, shunted from
household to household within the family. "Aunt Caro will help. What else has she to do?" She
shivered as the imaginary words echoed in her head.

"Never say you have caught a chill?" her grandmother snapped. "Even your constitution
is lacklustre!"

* * * *

Carolina walked out every day, though she never ventured very far. Some days she
executed errands for the dowager, other days she went no further than the circulating library. On
many occasions, she merely trod the streets around Queen Square, thinking, planning her future,
and revising plans.

She walked to the great Abbey occasionally and knelt in a corner behind the splendid
tomb of Lady Jane Waller, praying for guidance. The still sanctity of the nave always brought
her peace and sometimes hope.

More than once she trudged past the magnificent bulk of the Guildhall in High Street
and wondered if any of the prosperous gentlemen coming and going there was looking for a
wife, a governess, or even a housekeeper.

One day near midsummer, with a desperate need to weary herself beyond thinking,
Carolina walked from Queen Square down Gay Street to the Circus and from thence to Brock
Street and on to the Royal Crescent. There, across from the majestic curve of residences and a
little down the hill from the pavement, she found a stone outcrop large enough to provide a seat.
Gathering her checked muslin skirts, she perched on it, and paused to catch her breath. It was a
glorious day; she was not so dispirited that she could not appreciate it. The scents of trees,
grasses and flowers were intoxicating. The sky was an intense blue that seldom showed itself
above Bath and the sun was warm on her village hat and pale green spencer.

Surely such simple pleasures were recompense for that which her life lacked? They must
be, for she had no doubt that her life would go on, as ordinary as she was herself, with or without
her agonizing. The thought that galled her was that, for want of a little courage, her existence
could surely be so much better. Where was she to find courage--in Bath of all places? And what
would she do with it?

An impatient shout from a coachman on the Crescent caused her to look up. She beheld
Lord Quainton dodging impatiently between the fine horses and splendid carriages that traveled
the street, apparently uncaring of his own safety. He strode hatless across the Crescent Field. She
hunched closer onto her rock, willing herself to invisibility. Nearby he paused, staring out across
the burgeoning vista toward the town centre where the vast bulk of the Abbey towered over its
surroundings.

He seemed to be unaware of her presence, and she was unsurprised. She did not
commonly command notice, though they had met when Lady Quainton had made her promised
call upon Lady Chersham. She rose, intending to creep away unrecognized.

He spoke suddenly. "Miss Finmere, good day. You must excuse my wool-gathering. I
was--"

She caught herself on a startled gasp and interrupted him, saying, "You were hundreds
of miles away no doubt." She had no desire to hear polite fictions about his lack of attention to
her presence. "It must be difficult to withdraw your mind from the struggles of your former
companions when the newspapers are full every day of the conflict on the Peninsula." She was
led to loquacity by her desire for honesty.

His black hair was wind-tossed, his glance apparently arrested by her perspicacity. "It
is," he said. "But the
ton
does not care for war stories, and so I am always carefree, as
you see."

"Hmmm." She was unconvinced. Her quick, shy glance saw shadows in his single dark
blue eye. His smile seemed manufactured to prove his insouciance.

"You are walking? Do you do so often?"

"I...yes. How come you to remember my name?" she ventured.

"Why should I not? You intrigued me on the two occasions we met. I made it my
business to ask questions of my mother."

"Please do not offer me Spanish coin. I am in no wise intriguing." Something about this
compelling man demanded candour.

"You may be without drama in colouring or feature, but your eyes have a wise, knowing
quality that attracts. So much composure, so many dreams." His demeanour was thoughtful.

She gasped and blushed, though his words were spoken without pity or
consciousness.

"Will you walk with me, Miss Finmere?" He was abrupt and, for once, charmless. He
did not pursue his previous statement.

"I...I have seen you walking before, and I think I saw you limp one day. Should you take
quite so much exercise?" She could not imagine from whence came the audacity to question
him.

"Oh yes. I will walk 'til it either kills or cures me, Miss Finmere, limp or no. I have not
got the use of this arm, you see." He gestured abruptly at the sling. "They saved it, but to no
advantage; it is useless. I cannot ride or drive at present, so I am determined I shall walk. Now, I
should not be averse to a walking companion, especially one of good sense such as yourself. Will
you join me or no?"