The water was crystal clear. My fingers brushed the rock wall, sliding through the dark, slick streamers of duckweed and algae. Slippery as waterweed, that's what Jamie said about my…
The thought jarred me out of my panic. Suddenly I realized that I shouldn't be exhausting myself trying to kick to the surface. The pool couldn't be more than eight or nine feet deep; what I needed to do was relax, float down to the bottom, brace my feet and spring upward. With luck, that would get my head clear for a breath, and even if I went down again, I could continue bouncing off the bottom until I worked my way close enough to the edge to get a decent grip on a rock.
The descent was agonizingly slow. As I was no longer fighting upward, my skirts rose round me in billows, floating in front of my face. I batted them away; I must keep my face clear. My lungs were bursting and there were dark spots behind my eyes by the time my feet touched the smooth bottom of the pool. I let my knees bend slightly, pressing my skirts down around me, then shoved upward with all my might.
It worked, just barely. My face broke the surface at the top of my leap, and I had just time for the briefest of life-saving gulps before the water closed over me again. But it was enough. I knew I could do it again. I pressed my arms down to my sides to streamline myself and make the descent more rapid. Once more, Beauchamp, I thought. Bend your knees, brace yourself, jump!
I shot upward, arms extended overhead. I had seen a flash of red overhead when I broke water last; there must be a rowan tree overhanging the water. Perhaps I could get hold of a branch.
As my face broke water, something seized my outstretched hand. Something hard, warm, and reassuringly solid. Another hand.
Coughing and spluttering, I groped blindly with my free hand too glad of rescue to regret the interruption of my escape attempt. Glad, at least until, wiping the hair out of my eyes, I looked up into the beefy, anxious Lancashire face of young Corporal Hawkins.
* * *
21
Un Mauvais Quart d'Heure After Another
I delicately removed a strand of still-damp waterweed from my sleeve and placed it squarely in the center of the blotter. Then, seeing the inkstand handy, I picked up the weed and dipped it in, using the result to paint interesting patterns on the thick blotting paper. Getting fully into the spirit of the thing, I finished off my masterpiece with a rude word, carefully sprinkled it with sand and blotted it before propping it up against the bank of pigeon-holes.
I stepped back to admire the effect, then looked around for any other diversions that might take my mind off the impending advent of Captain Randall.
Not bad for the private office of a captain, I thought, eyeing the paintings on the wall, the silver desk fittings, and the thick carpet on the floor. I moved back onto the carpet, in order to drip more effectively. The ride to Fort William had dried my outer garments fairly well, but the underlying layers of petticoat were still wringing wet.
I opened a small cupboard behind the desk and discovered the Captain's spare wig, neatly bestowed on one of a pair of wrought-iron stands, with a matched silver-backed set of looking glass, military brushes, and tortoiseshell comb laid out in orderly ranks before it. Carrying the wig stand over to the desk, I gently sifted the remaining contents of the sander over it before replacing it in the cupboard.
I was seated behind the desk, comb in hand, studying my reflection in the looking glass, when the Captain came in. He gave me a glance that took in my disheveled appearance, the rifled cupboard, and the disfigured blotter.
Without blinking, he drew up a chair and sat down across from me, lounging casually with one booted foot resting on the opposite knee. A riding crop dangled from one fine, aristocratic hand. I watched the braided tip, black and scarlet, as it swung slowly back and forth over the carpet.
"The idea has its attractions," he said, watching my eyes follow the sweep of the whip. "But I could probably think of something better, given a few moments to collect myself."
"I daresay you could," I said, fingering a thick sheaf of hair out of my eyes. "But you aren't allowed to flog women, are you?"
"Only under certain circumstances," he said politely. "Which your situation doesn't meet—yet. That's rather public, though. I had thought we might get better acquainted in private, first." He reached to the sideboard behind him for a decanter.
We sipped the claret in silence, eyeing each other over the wine.
"I had forgotten to offer you felicitations on your marriage," he said suddenly. "Forgive my lack of manners."
"Think nothing of it," I said graciously. "I'm sure my husband's family will be most obliged to you for offering me hospitality."