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Colonel Blackwood was of an entirely different stripe. He was not afraid of the lash, and it was not only enlisted men who received it. Officers who stepped out of line were flogged considerably worse than enlisted men, because their position of privilege demanded a higher level of behaviour than ignorant farm boys. So said Colonel Blackwood!

For myself, I neither knew nor cared whether the man lived or died. I neither knew nor cared whether he was enduring agony or ecstasy with each snap of the whip. I had gone beyond such caring. All my crying was done. All the chastisement from my father was delivered, with him apparently unaware that I was the victim. He only felt shame at my condition, and perhaps embarrassment that one of his daughters was importuned so easily.

It all happened so innocently. When the regiment marched in, everyone remembered the previous year, so all the more sensible women started walking together for safety. Like the others, I strove to do the smart thing at all times. Having remembered some of the men from the previous year, and having heard rumours about that last night at the ball at Netherfield, I was very diligent in my efforts, nor would I allow my sister to slip into carelessness.

This all worked well until we found one of our tenants’ daughters badly injured, down near the bridge over Wright’s Creek. We could not tell what was wrong with her, so I sent my sister to run quickly for assistance, while I stayed to attend her. She could not possibly have been more than fourteen or fifteen. My sister, true to her word, ran like the wind and had my father and my brother back within half an hour. Unfortunately, that half-hour was twenty minutes more than it took the soldier to take my innocence, exactly as he had taken the other young girl’s.

He had his face covered with a hood, and probably thought himself safe from detection. He was not even wearing a uniform, so it would be difficult to prove exactly who he was. His plan was a good one, and likely to succeed. In fact, it had probably succeeded in the past. It might have succeeded with me, if he had not ended up with four bloody fingernail scratches down his cheek, which made him readily recognisable. Of course, he was arrogant enough to think he could tell his own story and have it prevail, particularly since he knew full well any family would try to hush up the scandal.

The man trapped my arms in place with his size, and had his way with me before I even had any chance to fight back. He attacked me from behind, threw me to the ground, lifted my skirt and petticoat, grabbed my wrists, and proceeded to indulge his appetites. He was the worst sort of brute, but the whole thing was over before I even got my wits about me. I nearly took his eye out when I got my fingers under the mask, and was lying there with my fingers covered in blood, the other young girl curled up against my chest crying, and the miserable cretin long gone when my sister returned.

My father hung his head in shame, though why he was shamed was beyond me. Perhaps he should be ashamed that he failed to protect his daughters, or that he welcomed the regiment with open arms, or perhaps because he simply could not stand up like a man, accept what happened, and demand satisfaction. My father was near sixty, and having a duel or even a fistfight with a thirty-year-old militiaman was not likely to end well, but he could have demanded satisfaction from the man’s commander, or sent my brother to defend both our honour and the next victim—yet he did not. He thought to protect the family’s precious reputation at my expense, and had I not fallen with child, I might well have agreed. My sister was only sixteen, and she need not suffer my fate, though I had to wonder how many women in England were suffering because fathers and brothers looked out for the family interest at the expense of justice.

Fortunately for me, or perhaps not, Colonel Blackwood noticed my countenance the next time I went into Meryton, and he had definitely noticed the scratch marks on one of his officers’ faces, despite the officer’s best efforts to both hide and explain them.

Colonel Blackwood was not a man gifted in conversation. He was not a man gifted in propriety. He was not a man gifted in manners. He was not a man gifted in subtlety. He simply marched in front of me, and stared me down.

“I will need to see that hand, if you please, Miss.”

I had nearly run him down, and put the offending hand inside my pelisse.

“I would rather not, Colonel.”

“You may send your father or brother to take their justice when we are through, but I am afraid I truly must insist. It is a matter of great importance.”

He was not the least bit subtle, but he had at least arranged our little encounter where we would not be seen and remarked upon. We were in the open, maintaining all propriety, but not where anybody could actually see us right at that moment. I did not know what in my countenance alerted him; but I suspected it was not his first trip to that particular well.

“You ask a great deal, Colonel.”

“I do.”

I liked the way he refrained from prevarication or excuses or justification or flattery or empty words. He was not a man to be crossed, nor did he pretend to be. His duty was to the entire population, and sometimes difficult and unfair things had to be done for the greater good. He never explained that, but I managed to figure it out while standing in front of him. Had it required his explanation, he would not have been the man for the job. Having made my choice, I carefully removed my hand from my pelisse, and removed my glove.

With a manoeuvre that would be considered both forward and crass, but with the gentlest of touches and the utmost respect, he examined my hand minutely and carefully. I was not best pleased with my very first experience of a man holding my ungloved hand, but I endured it. In another time and place, I might well have welcomed his attention, but that opportunity was long gone.

My fingernails were, even three weeks later, still ripped and torn, and they were the exact size, length, and spacing to match up with the scratches on the miscreant’s face. He stared at me hard, and I finally nodded. I know not whether he was asking my confirmation or my permission, but I was willing to give both with the understanding that he would do his duty.

“May I presume events occurred in the way these scratches suggest?”

“You may.”

Looking uncomfortable, he continued relentlessly, “Did the events proceed all the way to the conclusion I am expecting?”

“They did.”

“And have there been… consequences?”

I turned red and stared at my feet. “It is too early to be certain, but most likely yes. The signs are not propitious.”

He looked at me in what I believed to be understanding. Perhaps another man may have preferred to show sympathy, but that was neither what he could deliver nor what I needed.

He finally replied, “Thank you. I know that was difficult, and a lot for me to ask. I am truly sorry.”

Not only was Colonel Blackwood not a subtle man, but he also was not a stupid one. He knew what happened in situations like this: how fathers would blame their daughters, brothers would ignore the truth in front of their faces, and the family’s reputation would be preserved at all costs. Colonel Blackwood knew this, but fortunately for me, or perhaps unfortunately for his man, Colonel Blackwood did not give a damn what girls’ fathers thought. If one of his men misbehaved, it was up to fathers to bring them to him for justice, and if they failed their duty, it was up to their commander. If that required confirmation from the victim directly, so be it.

“Colonel Blackwood.”

He looked at me and nodded, and I added, “I was not the only one. Two on that day alone, but I shall not break another’s confidence. The second is but fourteen. She is damaged, but has at least been spared the particular consequences.”