Williams whistled as he strolled along the well-shaded lane. The late afternoon sun was strong and hot, and even without pack and belts his woollen jacket was heavy. It was pleasantly cool under the trees that grew on either side of the muddy track and closed over it like a tunnel. He was now a good two miles from the regiment’s camp and as usual there was a thrill in the sense of freedom this brought. There was no need to worry about how to behave, balancing the need to be sociable, but not over familiar, and respectful and enthusiastic in his duties, without appearing sycophantic. Worse still, there was never any privacy. Solitary by nature, and used over the years to spending so much time alone happily reading or dreaming, it was this he found most difficult. That made these occasional walks in his off-duty moments all the more precious. It was simply a relief to be away from pipe-clay and shouted orders, from tobacco smoke and constant talk.
As usual Williams found himself thinking of Miss MacAndrews. He knew that she was beautiful, and yet still found it hard to picture her face clearly in his mind. If only he had a likeness, and perhaps a lock of her red hair to keep with it and wear around his neck. The married officers had taken quarters in the small town near the camp, and Williams had seen the girl only twice in the last week. Admittedly the colonel had kept them all busy and his enthusiasm for them all spending as much time as possible in the mess had prevented most evening strolls and with them the hope of a chance meeting. This evening, however, Moss was attending a dinner at a house some miles away and so attendance in the mess was less important. The mood among the officers was also a little strange and there was a general sense that it would not be an especially convivial evening. Several others planned to be absent.
Williams had enjoyed this morning’s mock battle. It had been exciting doing more than simply manoeuvring for the sake of practice. The ambush of the flanking force had gone perfectly, and it was especially satisfying for the grenadiers to surprise and overwhelm the light bobs who were always so apt to swagger. Then came the rapid march back to the defences, MacAndrews driving the men hard. Number One Company was determined not to be outdone by the grenadiers and so both moved quickly. He could feel a sense of excitement as the men took to the idea of proving themselves better than the rest of the battalion. The waiting had been harder, once they were in position behind the ridge. MacAndrews had let them sit, but it was difficult not knowing what was happening. Then they heard the defenders of the redoubt fire their first volley and knew that the attack had started. Ordered to their feet, they had still not begun their own advance for what seemed like an age, until Wickham waved his hat as a signal.
The defenders knew that they had won, and Williams suspected that they would make this clear to the men from the other companies at the first opportunity, whatever the colonel’s judgement. The mock battle had anyway become just a little more real around the redoubt, resulting in a good few bruises and the odd black eye. Williams admired the way MacAndrews had out-thought the enemy, even if it was a little disconcerting since that enemy was their own commanding officer. It had also been reassuring for the company to be led by Pringle. Captain Wickham was a fine gentleman, and yet there was a vagueness about his manner that was just a little unsettling in a commander. MacAndrews always had been – and still was – so definite and precise in his instructions.
Sadly, it seemed as if the last days of training would be spent in more familiar drills. Williams knew that most of the officers in the attacking force wished for another opportunity and were convinced that they would do far better next time. The lights in particular wanted a chance to outwit the clodhopping grenadiers. Moss had announced, however, that there would be no more mock fights. There were whispers that he was angry with the officers of the attacking force for letting him down, and the defenders for doing too well. Williams hoped that was just malicious gossip, and still admired the colonel, although a small part of him wondered whether he might be a little too rash. Of the two, MacAndrews seemed to possess a surer hand, even if he lacked the colonel’s flamboyance and charisma.
Williams left the track and climbed over a stile. A path led over a low hill and then down through a little patch of woodland to the river. Ten minutes later he was swimming lazily in the gentle current, enjoying the coolness of the water around him. His uniform was carefully folded and piled on a fallen tree trunk. This was luxury and relaxation, and even a huge sense of freedom. Worries about tensions within the battalion faded as he enjoyed the moment. He ducked his head under the chilly water and swam beneath the surface.
‘The tone of this place has really fallen of late,’ said a voice as Williams burst back up. The sneering tone was familiar, but for a moment he could not see who it was.
‘Yes, full of bloody peasants,’ agreed another voice. That was Hatch, which meant that the other was Redman. The spot was well known and often used by the 106th’s officersbut even so Williams had hoped for some peace.
‘Go to the devil, both of you,’ yelled Williams, slightly surprised at his own vehemence.
‘Oh, doesn’t he know some bad words, Redman,’ said Hatch.
‘Well, he mixes with common soldiers, Hatch.’
‘Look, can’t you leave me in peace. It was so agreeable until you turned up,’ tried Williams in a softer tone.
‘So, he doesn’t want our company. Not good enough for him, I suppose,’ said Hatch. ‘Not agreeable indeed. He’s been reading books. Well, we will leave His Grace to his ablutions.’
‘Anyway, we had better move upstream where the water is clearer,’ said Redman. There was female laughter at this. Williams had now cleared the water from his eyes and turned towards the bank. Redman stood by the tree trunk, his arm around the waist of young Jenny Dobson. His other hand prodded Williams’ clothes with a stick. Hatch was behind them, holding the reins of a pair of horses.
‘Jenny, does your father know you are here?’ asked Williams, realising as he spoke how fatuous it must sound.
She looked a bit sheepish, but then rallied. ‘I’m a woman now, Mr Williams, and go where I choose.’ She lifted her chin defiantly. Her face was a little thin, but had a gentle prettiness about it, perhaps even beauty, and this was well set off by her thick brown curls.
‘That’s true enough for anyone to see.’ Redman dropped the stick and reached round to undo the lace at the front of the girl’s blouse. He struggled for a moment. Jenny looked a little shocked, but then used her own hand to help him. The tie undone, the young ensign pulled the top down and began to fondle the girl’s left breast. ‘And she knows how well gentlemen will treat her. A lady, is our Jenny.’
Williams was shocked, a little ashamed, but did not manage to look away. He was a quite glad that he was shoulder deep in water. It was only when Jenny Dobson moved to push Redman’s hand away and refasten her blouse that Williams himself managed to shift his gaze down.
‘You should go home, Jenny,’ he said as gently as he could. ‘You parents will be worried. Best to stop now before you make a mistake.’
‘There’s no mistake.’ Redman was now stroking the girl’s cheek. ‘We’ll look after her and all have a pleasant time.’
‘Go home, Jenny,’ repeated Williams. He started to swim towards the bank. Hatch had already mounted.
‘Mind your own business and don’t pretend to understand the ways of gentlemen.’ Redman’s voice was dripping with contempt. He put his hands round Jenny’s waist and lifted her up. Hatch took her arms and pulled the girl on to the horse behind him. She did not resist, but Williams noticed that she would no longer look at him. Redman then mounted.
‘Let me take you home, Jenny,’ implored Williams.
‘Goddam it, stop interfering, you Welsh prick!’ screamed Redman. Hatch rode away with the girl. Redman walked his horse over to the trunk, and reached down to grab the pile of clothes. Williams’ shirt fell away, but the ensign galloped off hallooing and waving his jacket and trousers in his hand. They were fifty yards away by the time Williams scrambled up on to the bank. Their scorn for him did not matter, but to be leading Dobson’s daughter astray brought on a cold rage. He could not catch them now, but he could at least follow them, and maybe bring the girl away bshe was disgraced. The two young officers were more than a little drunk and so there just might be time.
Williams pulled the shirt on to his wet skin. It was long and fell to the middle of his thighs and would almost be decent if it were not that the dampness made it more than a little transparent. The same was true of his drawers, which he had worn while swimming. He pulled on his boots, and was glad that he had not worn the long black gaiters when he went walking in his fatigue trousers. He lifted his shako up from the ground and put it on his head. It was easier than carrying the thing. Then, in shirt-tails, boots and hat, the gentleman volunteer went off on a quest to preserve a maiden’s honour, in spite of herself.
On reflection it was probably a bad choice to cut through the woodland in the hope of getting ahead of the riders following the towpath. Tactically it made sense. The river curved in a great loop before it came to the next spot where the bank was gentle and a little beach favoured bathing or indeed other activities. Practically, the route was overgrown, and at times he had to force his way through. Williams reflected that at least knights errant had their armour to protect against brambles and nettles instead of just bare legs. He was not sure just what he was going to do if he caught up, and hoped that an idea would come to him. If Jenny refused to leave then he could not force her, and he doubted that he could shame the two ensigns into letting her go.
After a few minutes, Williams started to wonder whether he was losing his way. He pressed on, knowing that the woods were not large and that he should strike the path at some point if he kept going. A little later he saw the ground rise slightly, and realised that he must have gone too far to the left. He veered the other way and finally came to where the trees were thinner. The path was near and suddenly he heard hoof-beats. There was a rocky outcrop crowned by a long-rooted elm just where the path turned away from the riverbank. Williams had just enough time to get into its shelter. There was excitement that he had beaten them and would have surprise on his side. He waited, readying himself to leap, and when the sound of a trotting horse came so close that it must be at the bend itself, Williams sprang out. He was shouting, with his shako in one hand as he waved his arms and placed himself in the middle of the path.
Jane MacAndrews screamed. Her horse reared and she struggled to keep her balance and rein the mare in. Williams gaped in astonishment, then just managed to jump backwards and avoid the animal’s front hoofs as they thrashed against the air. Jane lost her hat, and her red hair came unpinned and flew around her face. A good rider, she had ridden this grey only once before and knew her to be skittish. She felt herself slipping, her weight shifting backwards and to the left and her knee coming off the support of the side saddle. The mare was now turning in close circles. Dimly she recognised that it was Mr Williams who now seemed to be running round and flapping his arms in half-hearted preparation to catch her or give support. The idiot plainly knew little about horses and was only making the beast more nervous.
The mare reared again, and Jane lost her balance altogether and felt herself falling backwards. The horse cantered away back down the path. For a moment the girl fell, then she struck Williams, knocking him down and landing on top of him. Jane was a little dazed, and Hamish winded and at first unable to speak. There was silence for a while.
‘Well, I trust your intentions are honourable,’ said the girl. She was staring up at the blue sky, her back resting on the body of the volunteer. One hand reached down and touched bare skin, but she did not feel real alarm and certainly kept any trace of this out of her voice.
Her hair was in Williams’ mouth and brushing over his face. It felt quite wonderfully soft, and he had to cough before he could speak, although what came out was still barely coherent.
‘I . . . of course, of course. Must apologise . . . Have behaved abominably . . .’
‘Do you make a habit of jumping out on poor innocent girls whenever they go riding? And apparently half naked as well.’
‘It’s all a mistake,’ Williams blurted out, sounding rather like a child caught in the midst of some prank and hoping to escape punishment. ‘I thought you were Redman and Hatch.’
‘Then I shall modify the question. Do you make a habit of wandering about half naked and jumping out on your fellow officers?’ Williams could hear the amusement in her voice and suddenly was himself laughing. Jane joined in, and for a while they both simply laughed at the ridiculous situation. Williams laughed until he could hardly breathe.
‘Mr Williams, I am quite safe and unharmed,’ said Jane eventually. ‘You can let go of me!’
Hamish realised that his right hand had slipped around the girl’s slender waist. His left rested on her skirt and could dimly feel her thigh beneath.
‘I am so very sorry,’ he said nervously, through another mouthful of wispy red hair. ‘I did not realise.’
The girl rolled off him and knelt up on her hands. She smiled as she looked at the discomforted Williams.
‘Mama called you a Viking. I do not think that is adequate. You are clearly a satyr.’ The volunteer babbled more incoherent apologies and claims that she had misunderstood. Jane stood up, taking care not to tread on the skirt of her russet riding habit. Then she very pointedly looked up at the sky.
‘Is it impolite to enquire why you are not wearing breeches?’ she asked.
Williams rose to a crouch and then stood up, all the while frantically tugging his shirt-tails downwards and uttering even more apologies. Finally he managed a coherent account of what had happened.
‘Is this Miss Dobson dark haired and wearing a deep blue skirt?’
Williams nodded. He thought Jenny’s skirt was blue, although could not say that he had noticed.
‘Then your quest may have been unnecessary. I passed her some while ago walking back to camp. She bid me good day by name so I guessed she was from the regiment. From what you say the girl must have come to her senses. She cannot have been with those two for very long. No harm done.’ At least not today, thought Jane, but kept it to herself. She was not sure how well the evidently quixotic Williams might cope with such a cynical suggestion.
Jane MacAndrews shaded her eyes as she looked down the path. Her grey had long since vanished. The girl patted her unruly hair. ‘I must look a mess,’ she said, half to herself.
‘You look perfectly beautiful,’ said Williams, surprised at the assurance of his own voice and the boldness with which he spoke.
‘A gallant satyr. You really are an unusual gentleman, Mr Williams.’ He held out her hat, which had been sadly trampled by the horse and looked beyond repair. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘I was rather fond of that. Now, I would be grateful if you would assist me in recovering my horse. She was only borrowed.’
They walked sidee waside along the path, Miss MacAndrews carefully keeping her gaze high, either scanning the landscape for her horse or occasionally looking up at the tall man beside her. Williams could not remember being so happy. To his amazement his shyness had vanished, and they talked lightly. Jane first spoke of horses, but as it soon became clear that his knowledge was extremely limited, she asked instead about his earlier life. He spoke of bustling ports, of sailors and their stories of far-flung voyages, of his sisters, and his mother. Miss MacAndrews appeared to be entranced, and whenever he tried to turn the conversation to her own life and her time in America, she quickly asked him another question about himself.
To Williams’ lasting regret, they found the grey mare before very long. It was standing under the shade of a tree, happily cropping the long grass. As he made to creep towards it and grab the trailing reins, the girl stopped him. She approached cautiously, talking softly and making sure that the animal was calm. The grey’s ears flicked back, but it remained still and let the girl pat its neck. Only then did she take the reins and lead it round and back on to the path.
‘Would you give me a leg,’ she said, reaching up to grasp the horn of the saddle. Williams leaned and cupped his hands so that the girl could place her booted foot into them.
‘Thank you, Mr Williams, for a quite extraordinary ride,’ she said with a warm smile as she looked down at him. ‘I will see you again this evening.’
‘Miss MacAndrews?’ he asked.
‘At eight, I believe, yourself and several of the other young gentlemen are invited to dine with us at the cottage. Be prompt, mind you. Father hates unpunctuality.’
‘Major MacAndrews has mentioned nothing.’
‘Oh, I doubt Father knows, but Mama has arranged it and that is all there is to it.’
It was hard to argue with such assurance. ‘In that case I shall look forward to it.’
‘By the way, we are fairly informal at home. However, I should warn you that we do have some standards. The wearing of breeches, for instance.’
Rather foolishly Williams found himself looking down, having almost forgotten his unorthodox state of dress. When he looked up again the girl was already riding fast down the towpath, one arm raised in a leisurely wave.