1821 - The Battle for Palembang

22: The Name of the Woman I Love (Muntinghe's Town, 1821)

It all came back to him. Her eyes, her nose, her wide, wholesome smile. Her lips against his. The sound of her laughter, of perverse smiles and teases; of a time long gone, of a time when Simpson was indeed, happy, and no matter what, a happiness he could never have back. "Vera... Vera is the name of the woman I love."

And he told everything to her: how they met at a friend's private party, how they looked at each other, how they held each other in assurance. It went off to a few youthful mistakes they made, something perhaps they never regretted, the trips they took. He also told her how her parents never really liked him–a man of mediocre birth was certainly not much, in addition to that, his only achievement was his war medal, and such experiences, though valorous, were only worth of savages and Irishmen. A mere ensign, then a mere lieutenant of redcoats. He told Rosa that one day, though deep in love, she stopped seeing him, that later on, it was revealed that it was her parents' doing and being a good child as she must, she had to stop loving him. And the next time he saw her, she was already with another man.

"You are a complicated man, James." Said Rosa. "The man, what happened to him?" asked Rosa. How Simpson reacted to the question was what surprised Rosa.

Simpson turned his head to the nurse. She had now taken off her headcover, her brown hair let loose. It fell down onto her back straight, though marred with waves that denoted only perfection of its dearest texture. It complemented her slim, straight nose, tanned skin, and brown eyes perfectly, and there, she looked at him back.

"When I talked to Vera at the ball, he challenged me to a duel. Honour had brought me to accept it, instead of an apology... But had I requested an apology..."

"You are saying that your hand was forced by honour?"

"Yes."

"Having killed this man, do you feel as if you had done an honourable thing?"

He looked to the grander expanse. The sun began its descent down the horizon, down against the woods, the rivers, the squadron of birds coming about. "Had I done an honourable thing...?" he laughed out of spite. "Killing a man for a love I could never have. And a love that seemed to be surely Graham's... the man was drunk for Christ's sake, and he insulted me in front of all the gentlemen in southern England, I couldn't–"

"Had you left that General Crawford's ball and went away, would this sadness ever befall her? Or you?"

A pause came from Simpson, who answered in a timid tone. "Then so be it. I will always be a murderer to her. I cannot change that. To hypothesise of it is useless. She will never be mine. I cannot change that. But the feeling lingers, Rosa, and I do not see it fade; with every mention of her name I tremble with madness; it forces me to abuse spirits and deny good humours even in the lightest of days." Said James. "And the worst thing, the worst thing is I will never understand why; it breaks my heart even at the slightest thought of it... God, this fate–"

"Do you believe, James?" asked Rosa, suddenly.

"Not much of one." Simpson replied, cordially.

"Then do not blame God for your plights. You are responsible over your own actions; I've known killers and you made the choice to kill that Graham, honour-bound or not. If you and Vera were never meant-to-be at the first place, by now, oceans away from her, you should've understood that, and accepted the reality that none of you shall be together." She said, and firmly so. However, it was not her words that brought Simpson to a halt. It was the manner of its delivery. And she looked at him with the senses of a person who cared, with the demeanours of a watchful elder sister, the eyes of a lover.

"I'm sorry, Rosa." Said he, and he started to crack. He felt his eyes watering themselves.

"Whatever code you believe in, such do not exist here. This is not England, dearest James. This is the rest of the world. And Vera may as well be dead."