And now there was Lord Rhodes, a true bastard to all accounts. More trouble.
Jago looked at the midshipman sitting below him. The new one, Deighton. Very quiet, so far, not like his father had been. He wondered if the boy had any idea of the truth. Killed in action, for King and Country. His lip almost curled with contempt. Deighton had been scared rotten even before the ball had marked him down.
The flagship was towering over them now, masts and spars black against a clear blue sky. Every piece of canvas in place, paintwork shining like glass.
A ship, any ship, could look very different in the eyes of those who saw her. Jago knew from hard experience how it could be. To the terrified landsman, snatched from his daily life by the hated press gang, the ship was a thing of overwhelming terror and threat, where only the strong and the cunning survived. To a midshipman boarding his first vessel she would appear awesome, forbidding, but the light of excitement was already kindled, ready to be encouraged or snuffed out.
He looked at the captain’s shoulders, squared now as if to meet an adversary. To him, she would seem different again.
He saw him shade his eyes and raise his head, knew what he was looking for, and what it meant to him. Today. Now. The Cross of St George lifting and rippling from Frobisher’s mainmast truck: the admiral’s flag, where his uncle’s had been flying when they had shot him down.
He had died bravely, they said. Without complaint. Jago found he could accept it, especially when he looked at his own captain.
‘Bows!’ He did not even have to raise his voice. Other coxswains were here, watching, and there were several, grander launches with coloured canopies over their sternsheets.
Jago swore silently. He had almost misjudged the final approach to Frobisher’s main chains, where white-gloved sideboys were waiting to assist their betters to the entry port.
‘Oars!’ He counted seconds. ‘Up!’
The gig came to rest alongside perfectly. So you could crack an egg between them, as old coxswains boasted.
But it had been close. Jago had seen the canopied launches. It usually meant that women would be present, officers’ wives maybe, or those of the governor’s staff. But there was only one who troubled him, and he could see her now, half-naked, her gown soaked with spray and worse. And the captain holding her. Not scornful, or making a meal of it like some, most, would have done.
Adam got to his feet, one hand automatically adjusting his sword. For only an instant their eyes met, then Jago said formally, ‘We shall be waitin’, sir.’
Adam nodded, and looked at the midshipman. ‘Listen and learn, Mr Deighton. Your choice, remember?’
The midshipman removed his hat as Adam reached for the hand ropes. They heard the twitter of calls and the bark of commands, then he asked quietly, ‘You were there too, weren’t you? When my father . . .’
Jago answered sharply, ‘Aye, sir. A lot of us was there that day. Now take the tiller an’ cast off the gig, can you manage that?’
The youth dropped his lashes. It was as if Jago had told him what he had not dared to ask.
Above their heads, as the gig cast off to make way for another visitor, Adam replaced his hat and shook the hand of Frobisher’s captain, a lantern-jawed Scot named Duncan Ogilvie. He was well over six feet tall, and it was hard to imagine him living comfortably in any ship smaller than this.
‘You must allow the admiral a few minutes to bid farewell to an early visitor.’ He gestured vaguely with his head. ‘Commodore from the Dutch frigate yonder.’
Adam had watched her anchor and had felt the old uneasiness at the sight of her flag amongst the squadron’s ships. The flag of a once respected enemy, but an enemy for all that. It would take even stronger determination when the French ships began to appear. He turned to say something, but the other captain was already greeting a new arrival, and his eyes were moving swiftly beyond him to yet another boat heading for the chains.
Adam had been a flag captain twice, with his uncle and with Valentine Keen. It was never an easy appointment. To be Rhodes’ flag captain would be impossible.
A harassed lieutenant eventually found him and escorted him aft to the great cabin. Even with all the screens removed and furniture kept to a minimum, the whole of the admiral’s quarters was packed with uniforms, red and scarlet, and the blue and white of sea officers. And women. Bare shoulders, bold glances from the younger ones, something like disdain from the not so young.
The lieutenant called out Adam’s name and ship, and a marine orderly appeared as if by magic with a tray of glasses.
‘Better take the red wine, sir. T’ other’s not much good.’ Then, as an afterthought, he murmured, ‘Corporal Figg, sir. Me brother’s one o’ your Royals!’ He hurried away, wine slopping unheeded over his sleeve.
Adam smiled. The family again.
‘Ah, there you are, Bolitho!’ It sounded like at last. Rhodes waited for him to push through the crowd, his head bowed between the deck beams. He was almost as tall as his flag captain.
Rhodes said loudly, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Captain Bolitho? Commands one of my frigates.’
And there she was, smiling a little as she stepped from behind the admiral’s considerable bulk. She was all in blue, her hair piled above her ears, the luminous skin of throat and shoulders as he remembered.
She said, ‘On the contrary, Lord Rhodes, we know one another quite well,’ and offered her hand deliberately, unaware or indifferent to the eyes upon them.
An officer was speaking urgently to the admiral, and Rhodes had turned away, obviously angered by the interruption.
As Adam raised the hand to his lips, she added softly, ‘I should have said, very well.’
They stood by the stern windows, watching their reflections in the thickened glass. They did not touch, but Adam could feel her as if she was pressed against him.
She said, ‘We shall be leaving Malta very soon.’ She turned as if to follow another reflection, but the figure melted away and was lost in the throng.
Then she moved slightly, with one hand raised. ‘Look at me.’
Adam saw the little silver sword at her breast. There were so many things he wanted to say, needed to ask, but he could sense the urgency, the hopeless finality. Of a dream.
She said, ‘You look wonderful.’ Her free hand moved and withdrew. As if she had been about to touch him, had forgotten where they were. ‘The bruise? Is it gone?’
Their eyes met, and he felt the irresistible thrill of danger as she murmured, ‘My mother said when I was a child and I hurt myself, I’ll kiss it better, Rozanne.’ She looked away. ‘It was so beautiful, all of it.’ Her lip quivered. ‘I shall not spoil it now.’
‘You couldn’t spoil anything . . .’ He lingered over the name. ‘Rozanne.’
He heard Rhodes’ voice again, and Bazeley’s, and their laughter. She raised her chin, and said steadily, ‘You see, Captain, I love you!’
Bazeley said loudly, ‘Here she is!’ and, as they turned, ‘Captain Bolitho. More adventures, I hear!’ He took his wife’s arm. ‘That’s a sailor’s life! Not for me, I’m afraid. I like to build things, not knock ’em down.’
Rhodes’ eyes were on Bazeley’s hand around her bare arm. ‘Sometimes we have to do one before we can afford the other, Sir Lewis!’
Bazeley grinned broadly. ‘There, what did I tell you?’ He made a show of dragging out his watch. ‘I must make our excuses, m’ lord. I have to see some people.’ He looked at Adam. ‘I wish you well.’ He did not offer his hand, or remove it from her arm.
A lieutenant was waiting anxiously. ‘I have summoned your boat, Sir Lewis.’
Bazeley nodded, dismissing him. ‘Given the backing of Parliament, we shall see Malta turned into a fortress. It makes me feel humble to be offered the task, huge though it is!’
They moved away into the crowd, but when Bazeley paused to speak with a senior army officer and clasp him ostentatiously around the shoulders, Rozanne
turned and looked directly at Adam.
No words. Just the hand on the little silver sword, pressed against her breast. Nothing more was needed.
Rhodes was saying thickly, ‘If he’s humble, then I’m the bloody Iron Duke!’
Adam realised that Captain Forbes had joined him, and was holding two glasses, one of which he offered.
Forbes said, ‘Quite a gathering,’ and sighed. ‘And ours is a private ship again, for better or worse.’ Then he murmured, ‘I heard before you joined the squadron that you were not afraid to take a risk, if you considered it justified.’ His eyes shifted to the admiral. ‘Now, I understand.’
When Adam looked again, she had gone.
Catherine Somervell turned away from the low stone wall and watched the coachman and groom adjusting the harness, and quieting the two horses which had just been led from the stables. A smart carriage, but it was strange not to see the familiar crest on its door. This one was Roxby’s. She smiled sadly, reminiscently. The King of Cornwall, as he had been known, affectionately for the most part, although not, perhaps, to those who had appeared before him in his capacity as magistrate.
She saw Roxby’s widow, Nancy, giving a parcel to the coachman and emphasising something with a gesture. Food for the journey. Like Grace Ferguson at the old Bolitho house, Nancy always seemed to think she was not getting enough to eat.
She turned her back on the drive and the house and gazed at the nearest hillside. Smooth and green, and yet the sea lay just beyond it. Lying in wait . . .
She had stayed for a single night here with Richard’s youngest sister. Now she would return to Plymouth, where Sillitoe was waiting. She had had mixed emotions about meeting Valentine Keen again, but she need not have worried; he and his wife had made her more than welcome, and Sillitoe also. There had been no questions or hints, not even the revival of old memories. Keen would never change, and his second marriage was obviously a success. Gilia was exactly what he needed, and Catherine knew simply by talking to her that Keen was still unaware of Adam’s love for Zenoria.
Coming back to the old house below Pendennis Castle had been very hard for her. So many familiar faces, obviously delighted to see her again: Bryan and Grace, Young Matthew, so many of them. And one other. Daniel Yovell, Richard’s secretary, had moved back into his little cottage and Bryan Ferguson had signed him on as his deputy, with obvious relief. One of the little crew, as Richard used to call them. There had been no time to visit Fallowfield, and she still did not know if she was relieved or saddened by it. Seeing Allday again so soon might have been more than she could bear. With Keen and the others it was difficult enough; she thought Allday would have broken down her last defences.
Nancy joined her by the wall, wrapped in a thick shawl.
‘There’ll be an early winter, I think.’ Catherine felt the eyes on her, full of affection and anxiety. ‘If only you could stay a while longer. But if there’s anything you need, you have only to write and let me know.’ She slipped an arm around her waist, like a young girl again. The girl who had been in love with a midshipman, the young Richard Bolitho’s best friend.
‘We have many things to do before we sail for Spain, Nancy. I have so enjoyed being here with you.’
They stood in silence for a moment.
‘You mustn’t worry about Tamara. She’ll be well exercised and cared for, until . . .’ She broke off. ‘You know what I mean.’
Catherine said deliberately, ‘I am not living at Chelsea now, Nancy. I am staying at Lord Sillitoe’s house in Chiswick.’ She had started; she could not stop. ‘I have never felt the same about the Chelsea house since that night.’ She felt Nancy’s grip tighten around her waist. ‘Sometimes of late I have seen men watching the house, or imagined I have. Waiting for a chance to see that woman.’
Nancy asked softly, ‘Shall you marry this Sillitoe? It is obvious to me that he adores you, and rightly so. Remember, I did not marry Roxby for love, but it grew to something even stronger. I still miss him.’
They turned away from the wall and faced the carriage. It was time.
Catherine said, ‘He gave up his appointment to the Prince Regent because of me. I shall not destroy his life as well with another scandal.’ She inclined her head, as if someone had spoken to her. ‘I shall tell you, you of all people.’
There were faces at the upper windows, servants looking out as that woman prepared to leave their ordered world. And Elizabeth would be here tomorrow. Another challenge, for both of them. Nancy had sent her to Bodmin with her governess to arrange for some more appropriate clothing and to see something of the town.
Growing up fast, Nancy had said. A withdrawn, demure child who had been too long in the company of older people. She had told Catherine about the day following the girl’s arrival. It had been hard to tell how she had been affected by her mother’s untimely death, and even now she was still not sure.
But on that day Nancy had taken her down to one of the beaches where Catherine had so often walked with Richard. Some children had been standing in the shallows, hunting for shells, Nancy thought. Elizabeth had remarked on their bare feet. Had the children no shoes? Were they too poor to own them?
She had said, ‘My word, when I think what we used to do at her age!’
Catherine turned and embraced her with great feeling.
‘I shall never forget your kindness, and your love. I have always known why Richard cared so much for you.’
The door was open, a gloved hand was held out to support her wrist, Nancy was crying, and suddenly the wheels were moving.
Out on to the road, which ran in the other direction to the old grey house. Where she had waited, and hoped, for the sound of his voice.
When she looked again, the hillside had moved out to hide the house and the small figure who was still waving.
She sat back against the soft leather and stared at the parcel wrapped in its spotless napkin. His old boat cloak was folded beside it, which she had always worn when the wind was blowing coldly off the Bay. There were scissors in the pocket, and she had found one rose still alive and blooming in that familiar garden.
But she had been unable to cut it. And was glad. It was a part of her. It belonged there.
The last rose.
Unis Allday knotted the ties of a fresh apron behind her back and gave herself a critical glance in the parlour glass. The first customers would be arriving soon, most likely buyers and auctioneers on their way to market in Falmouth, and it would be busy at the Old Hyperion inn. She checked each item in her mind, as she did every day. Deliveries of meat and fowl, ale from the brewery.
She walked to the door of the Long Room. Rugs brushed clean of the mud from farm workers’ boots, shining mugs and fashionable glasses for the salesmen, and a fire burning in the grate even though it was only October.
A carter had told her that fishermen had reported heavy mist around Rosemullion Head. They were all talking of an early winter.
Little Kate was out walking with Nessa, the new servant at the inn, a tall, dark woman who rarely smiled but had drawn many an admiring glance nevertheless. Not least from Unis’s brother, the other John. She was younger than he, but Unis thought she would be good for him; it would be a new beginning for both of them. Nessa had fallen for a soldier from the garrison at Truro; it was a familiar enough tale. She had carried and lost his child, and her lover had been posted with unseemly haste to the West Indies.
Nessa’s parents were good chapel people, well known in Falmouth for their strict Christian beliefs. They had turned their daughter out of the house without hesitation.
Unis had taken her into the inn and she had settled down, perhaps grateful for Unis’s trust, and her own sturdy interpretation of Christian charity.
The door from the stable yard swung open and John Allday strode into the parlour.
She knew instantly that something was wrong with him, her man, her love. She also thought she knew what it was.
Allday said heavily, ‘I jus
t seen Toby the cooper’s mate. He told me Lady Catherine was up at the house. Yesterday, he said.’ It sounded like an accusation.
She faced him; she had been right. ‘I did hear something about it.’ She put a hand on his sleeve; it looked very small and neat on his massive arm.
‘You never said?’
She regarded him calmly. ‘And well you knows why, John. You’re coming to terms with things. So let you think of her, too. Poor lamb, she’s got more’n enough to carry.’
Allday smiled fondly. Small, neat and pretty. His Unis. But woe betide anyone who tried to take advantage of her. She was strong. Stronger than me in many ways.
They walked to the window together. The place had been in debt when she had bought it. Now it was prospering and looked pleased with itself. One of the ostlers was doing his usual trick with a potato, making it disappear in mid-air and then holding out both tightly clenched fists and letting little Kate choose the one where it was hidden. The child was thinking about it now, her face screwed up with concentration, while Unis’s brother stood nearby, watching the dark-haired Nessa.
The child tapped a fist, and it was of course empty, and she screamed with delight and frustration. It never failed.
‘We’ve done well, John.’ And they were widening the lane across Greenacre Farm; coaches would be stopping here soon. People had laughed at old Perrow when the plan had been made public, but they would be laughing on the other sides of their faces before long. The wily squire would charge a toll for every coach that crossed his land.
Allday said, ‘You’ve done well, lass.’
It was there again, the old sense of loss. Like when he had told her about Captain Tyacke calling at Falmouth in his new command.
She heard her brother’s wooden leg thudding across the floor, and wondered what Nessa thought about that, or if she had even guessed his feelings for her.
He said, ‘Someone asking for you, John.’
Allday came out of his thoughts. ‘Me? Who is it?’
He grinned. ‘Didn’t offer, John.’ He added, ‘Odd-looking cove. Knows you right enough.’
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