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
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
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