Free Carolina's Walking Tour by Lesley-Anne McLeod

Carolina's Walking Tour
    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