* * * * *
A familiar knot tightened in Ritcherd’s stomach as he calmly reviewed battle plans with his officers. The sultry clouds gathering overhead well represented his mood. Despite the many times he’d lived through this, the dread never lessened. He knew that men—his men—would die. And he always wondered if this battle would be the one to cost him life or limb. But always foremost in his mind was Kyrah. Surrounded by death and dissolution, thoughts of Kyrah kept him sane. She had become his life’s blood through the years they’d spent together, and no distance between them could keep her from his mind.
The years had made him well practiced at seeing from the inside out. He could stare at maps and battle plans and see nothing but Kyrah, the way he remembered last seeing her, blossoming into womanhood, her eyes full of innocent grief at his leaving. He could gaze over a littered battlefield and see only Kyrah, her dark curls wrestling with the Cornish wind, her timid purity that nearly left him breathless, even the first time he’d laid eyes on her. As young as he’d been, nothing since that day had left such a remarkable impression on him as Kyrah Payne.
“Letter for you, Captain Buchanan,” a courier announced, startling Ritcherd from his thoughts. He sighed as he took it, wondering what new measure of bad news he might be receiving from his superior officers. But the knot inside him briefly dissipated into the first measure of happiness he’d felt in months as the courier added, “Looks like it’s from a lady.”
“Thank you,” he barely managed to say, then nodded toward his men. “If you will excuse me.” They smiled with understanding as he hurried away. Alone in his tent, he ran his fingers over the familiar scrawling of his name on the envelope, noting the tattered look about it. Just as the others, it had come into his hands with an obvious indication that the trek it had taken to find him had been difficult. This was only the fifth letter in two and a half years, and he wondered how many had not made it at all.
Her letters had always been lengthy and mostly filled with memories they had shared. He had read them each countless times, treasuring the evidence of their past together and the hope that they would share the future. But this letter already felt different, and he wondered why.
Carefully he broke the seal, and immediately felt something tug at him as he pulled out the single page and unfolded it to read:
Dearest Ritcherd,
I think of you often and hope this letter finds you well and safe. I am fearful when I think of the things you must be facing, and pray that you will return unharmed.
I received letters from you yesterday. There were four together with dates ranging over three months. I must thank you for them. They, as the others, are very dear to me. I hope that you are receiving my letters. I have sent several.
I should be going, for my time is brief. Mother and I are doing well and are anxiously awaiting your return. If you know when it will be, try to let us know. We need you.
God be with you, Captain Buchanan. May He keep you safe and return you to your homeland soon. With much love, Kyrah.
Puzzled and disturbed by the letter, Ritcherd held the tattered page in his hand and closed his eyes. Trying hard to filter out the constant bustling noises outside his tent, he tried to imagine what she would look like if he could see her now. He was certain that time had changed her. She would be a woman now, and he hated the thought of having missed these years with her. He wondered if she had had a coming out. Surely Stephen and Sarah would have made it the finest, just as they did with everything for Kyrah. He realized the age difference that had put him and Kyrah in separate realms would no longer exist. He wanted to be with her, and his most fervent prayer was that she had not grown up to realize she could live without him.
Again he looked at the letter he’d just received, noting the date was several months earlier. That, combined with the subtle mood of desperation, left him feeling more helpless and frustrated than he ever had in his life. He wondered why there was no reference to Stephen, and why the letter’s briefness made him feel like Kyrah was too busy to write more.
Sounds filtering from the camp forced him back to the present, and he grudgingly rose from his makeshift bed. Despite the uncertainty of a letter getting to Kyrah, he sat and wrote to her, if only to ease his own mind. He had it sent out right away, along with two others: another for Kyrah and one to his mother.
The night was sleepless and dawn came far too soon, accompanied by the threat of a storm. With Kyrah’s letters tucked carefully in his breast pocket, Ritcherd stoically went into battle. The horror had barely begun when he turned to look into the eyes of a colonist soldier. The gun was aimed at his chest, but as Ritcherd lunged to avoid the shot, he felt his arm catch fire before he even heard the blast. Immediately he lost all sense of time. It felt like eternity before he finally passed out on the rain-worn battlefield, yet it seemed only moments later that he awoke in a makeshift hospital with the stench of war and death all around him. The pain in his arm was unbelievable. The fear that he might lose it to infection was worse.
His only method of coping was a conscious effort to become lost in memories that gave him some comfort. If he concentrated hard enough on the past, he could almost completely shut out the din of anguish surrounding him. When they gave him something to ease the pain, losing himself became all the easier, and he allowed his mind to drift back to the day he’d met Kyrah, the day that had changed his life more than he ever would have dreamed at the time.
When he’d first laid eyes on the beautiful little girl with dark, unruly hair, he’d wondered briefly if she could somehow ease the pain of recently losing his sister. By asking her questions, to which she’d nodded her replies, Ritcherd confirmed that Kyrah had just moved into the old Greene estate. It was the only house within walking distance of the old church that didn’t have established residents. And he’d heard his mother make some derogatory comments at the breakfast table just that morning about the nouveau riche invading the area. Well, if the newly rich were a different breed from the old rich he’d grown up with, Ritcherd was all for getting to know them.
He immediately felt drawn to Kyrah for reasons he couldn’t put a finger on. And when she took him home with her, his comfort only deepened. There was something about her and the surroundings in which she lived that fascinated him. He wondered if these were the kind of people he’d only heard of, people who didn’t need money to be happy. He found a clue to support that theory when Sarah Payne first entered the room, dressed in a dark skirt and white blouse, with a scarf wrapped around her hair to protect it from the dust of renovation. She was as ordinary and beautiful as the moors. And Kyrah was very much like her.
When he inevitably had to introduce himself, he feared what the Paynes’ reaction might be. He had truly hoped that his neighbors could have gotten to know him for what he was, without the prerequisite of having to be a Buchanan of Buckley Manor. But Stephen and Sarah’s attitude quickly put him at ease. Their acceptance was immediate and true. In fact, he thrived on their acceptance so thoroughly that he often feared wearing out his welcome. But he wanted so badly to be with the Paynes that he made every effort to be perfectly polite and helpful.
Ritcherd’s years of watching Kyrah grow from a child into a young woman were the happiest of his life. Right from the start, he could see that she had a sensitive perception of life that he knew he lacked. The day came when Ritcherd realized he was getting too old to play boy-hero to a little girl, and he began spending more of his time with other boys in the area. It didn’t take long, however, to realize how much he preferred Kyrah’s company to any available alternatives. The one friendship he maintained was with George Morley, who lived some miles north. George had a similar background, and he was fun to be with as they did the things that growing boys do. But his relationship with George simply wasn’t enough on its own. Nowhere could he find the peace and perfect contentment he found with Kyrah. Instinctively he’d believed that the
path to true happiness in his future could only be found by holding Kyrah’s hand, even though he often felt unworthy of her.
Nearly six years Kyrah’s elder, Ritcherd felt time begin to separate them more and more as they grew older. Of course, it was never difficult to conjure up the childishness to play their games and laugh and run, and inevitably she would raise herself to his level and spend hours talking about philosophies of life and the world in a way that left Ritcherd in awe. But gradually Ritcherd began to see Kyrah differently. It happened soon after he’d returned from a brief jaunt to Plymouth with George and a few of his friends. His experiences there were both disturbing and maturing. But the real growing up came when he’d returned to see Kyrah and he realized that in not so many years she would be a woman. The thought often brought on confusion or impatience, and at times it was difficult to be alone with her and not wonder what it would be like to hold her the way he dreamed about when he’d lie awake nights and ponder his relationship with a thirteen-year-old girl.
Knowing that Kyrah’s parents were perceptive and sensitive to his moods, he felt certain they suspected the change in his feelings. And it wasn’t a surprise when Stephen invited Ritcherd to go hunting and they ended up instead at the pub. It wasn’t unusual for them to hunt or go into town, but the look in Stephen’s eyes told Ritcherd there was something specific he wanted to say. He fully expected Stephen to bring up Kyrah, but his heart pounded as he wondered if Stephen would request that he and Kyrah not continue their relationship as it was. The thought seemed unbearable.
“There is something I’d like to talk to you about, my boy,” Stephen said after ordering drinks and leaning across the table.
“Go on,” Ritcherd replied, trying not to sound nervous.
“You’ll soon be nineteen, and . . .” Stephen chuckled nervously. “You’re already taller than I am.”
Ritcherd gave a tense smile and glanced down at the drink he hadn’t touched.
“You’re a man now, Ritcherd. So I think you’re old enough to understand something I want to tell you.”
Stephen leaned back and pushed his fingers through the sandy red hair that reminded Ritcherd of a fox. “You know,” he mused, “there are two things on this earth that are more precious to me than any measure of wealth. The first is Sarah.” He sighed. “How can a man explain what a woman like that can mean in his life? I would die for her, Ritcherd. I’ve often wished that I was more than what I am—for her sake. She likely deserved better. But at least I’m good at what I do. Gambling may not be an admirable profession, but it’s allowed me to give Sarah the kind of lifestyle she deserves.”
Stephen paused to look at Ritcherd, who watched him attentively. This was not how he’d expected the conversation to go.
“And close to Sarah in worth to me is Kyrah. You can’t imagine what it’s like to love a woman so much, and then see her immortalized in such a way. I hope one day you will know what that’s like.” He smiled. “I believe you will.”
Ritcherd glanced down again, feeling an indescribable emotion.
“You probably know Kyrah as well as I do—perhaps better. I don’t need to tell you how wonderful she is. I can see how the two of you care for each other. And one day, some good things could come from the feelings you share.”
Ritcherd held his breath. He could feel it coming.
“Kyrah is, in many ways, still a girl. But the separate realms you inhabit now, because of your age difference, will not exist one day.”
Stephen paused and their eyes met. Ritcherd conveyed silently that he was listening, and Stephen continued with his natural ability to put the most sensitive subjects into the easiest words.
“I know how many years you and Kyrah have known each other, and I can well understand how you would want to express your affection for her—as any man would. But you must be patient, Ritcherd.”
The intensity in Stephen’s eyes deepened as he made certain Ritcherd was watching him. “You must remember,” his tone was gentle despite the stern way he lifted his finger, “if you do anything to deny Kyrah the right to move from childhood into womanhood at a normal pace, and under the best possible circumstances, you will never cease to regret it. Do you understand what I’m saying, Ritcherd?”
“I understand,” he answered directly, feeling immense relief. The man actually trusted him.
“It may not be easy for you, my boy. But I doubt there is any amount of desire, or gratification of that desire, that could ever compensate for what you’d be taking from her. If you’re patient, Ritcherd, you will reap the rewards. She’s a wonderful girl, much like her mother. And if it works out, well . . .” Stephen tipped his head and smiled widely. “The two of you could be very happy together.” His expression turned speculative. “I hope I’m not making too much of a presumption by saying that . . . I mean . . .”
“No, sir,” Ritcherd smiled, “you’re not.”
Stephen laughed and downed his drink. “We’d best do a little hunting before the day is through, don’t you think?”
Hours later they returned to the house, and Sarah insisted that Ritcherd stay for supper, although he ate with the Paynes more than he did at home. After supper, while they were all seated in the drawing room, Ritcherd unobtrusively observed Kyrah, sitting close beside him, her feet tucked up beneath her. And he could see the wisdom in Stephen’s advice. He knew the coming years could be difficult, feeling for her as he did. He longed for the day when she would be a woman, but he felt grateful for the privilege of knowing her as a child. Just looking into her eyes now, he was filled with a formless contentment. And it was easy to imagine the life they would share, raising children of their own.
The years brought them so close that Ritcherd often declared they could look into each other’s eyes and know what the other was thinking or feeling. Kyrah’s gentle perceptions taught Ritcherd that life was far more than the attaining of material possessions and the climbing of social ladders. And never once, with all the time he spent alone with Kyrah, did Stephen ever indicate a lack of trust in Ritcherd to keep Kyrah’s best interests at heart. Stephen’s attitude about this and so many other things made Ritcherd wonder why his own father had to be so stony and mistrusting. But knowing his father would never change, Ritcherd merely used the comparison to appreciate just how dear Stephen was to him.
“Stephen,” he murmured, feeling a hand on his arm. He opened his eyes, and the present slapped him in the face with the sounds and smells of death and disease. “Stephen,” he said again, trying to shut out the pain as the wound in his arm was cleansed and bandaged. How he longed to be with Stephen, to absorb his fatherly wisdom and caring. He drifted back into oblivion, imagining Stephen putting Kyrah’s hand into his so they could be married.
Ritcherd nearly went mad through the weeks of recovery, wondering what was happening with Kyrah. At times he truly believed she was with him, then he became devastated to realize it was only a product of his fevered delirium. In the moments his mind was coherent, he filled his thoughts with her, and the one thing that kept him sane was the vision of returning home to Kyrah. He could almost feel her running into his arms, and everything would be all right again. With that, he swore that if he ever got out of this country alive, he would never come back. All he wanted was to go home. Home—to Kyrah.