Relentless Pursuit

by Alexander Kent

  It was past. There was only the next horizon. And the next.

  He closed the drawer and locked it.

  It would be better if they could leave, put to sea right now, no matter what the mission entailed.

  Three more days. He thought he heard young Napier tidying things in the small pantry. How did he feel about leaving again?

  It had all been so new, so different. Young Matthew allowing him to share the box on the carriage, and teaching him to ride the new pony, Jupiter. Being spoiled by Grace Ferguson, and cheered by the stable lads when he had fallen from his mount and struggled up again.

  Adam had been unable to look at Yovell as he had dictated the last of his letters and instructions.

  “Should I be unable to act on this request, through death or disablement, the youth, David Napier, shall be discharged at the expense of my estate, and taken into care by those listed at Falmouth.”

  Yovell had placed the document with the other letters for his signature, and had said nothing.

  Adam thought of his return to the house, riding beside but separated from the dark-eyed girl. And the recall, unexpected, and yet, in some strange way, inevitable.

  The boy Napier, wiping his eyes with his hand, so unwilling to leave the first real home he had ever known, yet determined, proud even, to stay with his captain.

  We all need somebody.

  He glanced at the old sword on its rack, remembering the church in Falmouth. The first Bolitho to wear this sword. And the last?

  He returned to the quarter gallery and stared at the hazy out-thrust of land. He knew nothing about her, might never see her again. And even if I did . . . He swung away, seeking anger to offer an escape.

  But all he could see was her face, uplifted in that old church. Asking, telling, pleading?

  Feet thumped overhead and he heard someone laugh. Galbraith would be here shortly. Corporal Bloxham’s well-deserved promotion had been sanctioned. A sergeant in the Royal Marines was a big step up the ladder, and in a crowded hull like this it was an event. One to be celebrated.

  The man who had saved his life that day when Martinez had paid with his own.

  He reached for his coat. The captain would share a “wet” with the new sergeant in his mess.

  He looked at the locked drawer but saw the rose in her hand.

  There was a tap at the door. He was ready.

  It was not a dream.

  13 COMING TO TERMS

  THE RUGGED STRETCH of parkland which ran down to the River Thames to mark the winding curve of Chiswick Reach was deserted. There were usually young riders exercising their skills here, as it was considered safe, at least during the daylight. It was July, and yet the wind off the river seemed cool, and strong enough to ruffle the bushes; the sky was almost hidden by cloud.

  The smart landau in its dark blue livery stood alone, the matching greys resting now, shaking their harness after a lively trot across the park.

  Catherine, Lady Somervell, tugged the strap and lowered one of the windows, tasting the air, the nearness of the river even though it was not visible from this place.

  This place. She felt a shiver run through her. Why? Was it guilt, excitement? She stared across the park but only saw her own reflection in the glass. It was speckled with rain too. She shivered again.

  There were two leafless trees standing apart from all the others. They had died long ago, but something or someone had decreed they should remain. It was said that they marked the last rendezvous for many duellists over the years. Pistol or blade; for officers from the nearby garrison, falling out over women or cards, or in a momentary fit of ill humour, it often ended here.

  Her fingers tightened around the strap. Her husband had been killed in a duel. Someone else. She had never regarded him as a husband.

  She heard the carriage creak as the coachman shifted his position on the box. Ready for anything. One of Sillitoe’s men, most of whom looked more like prizefighters than servants.

  He had not asked where she was going, or why. He would know. It was his way, and she had become used to it. Like this finely sprung carriage, unmarked, unlike his others, with the arms of Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick, the one he sometimes used for private business meetings. She shook herself, as if to drive it away. She had stopped questioning him.

  She looked at her reflection again. The beautiful Catherine, who had won the hearts of the nation, and had been their hero’s lover. Who had spurned the hostility and envy of society . . . She touched a lock of the dark hair at her brow. Until that man had fallen in battle and her world had ended.

  She turned her thoughts aside, as a swordsman might parry a blade, and focused on Sillitoe.

  Powerful, respected and feared. The man who had used his influence to keep her from Richard, and had never denied it. And yet he had been the rock which had saved her. From what? She still did not know.

  She could sometimes even consider the horror of the night when she had returned unescorted to her little Chelsea house on the Walk. She would have been raped but for Sillitoe bursting into the room, where she had never slept again without remembering.

  Now she lived in Sillitoe’s house, which lay just around this sweeping bend of the Thames, and had accompanied him to Spain, on the excuse that she might help with his business affairs, as she spoke good Spanish. Or was the truth more simple, like the word whore carved on the door of the Chelsea house: because she needed him, now more than ever?

  She often thought of her last visit to Cornwall, her talks with Richard’s sister Nancy.

  At first she had been tempted to return to Falmouth, and to live in the old house he had made into a home for her. She was, after all, used to spite and cruel gossip; it would have taken time, but they would have accepted her.

  She knew even that was a lie. Nancy had said, envy and guilt walk hand in hand. She would know better than anyone.

  And Adam, and his letters, which she had left unanswered. What else could she have done? She suspected that Adam knew as well as she what disaster would have resulted, intentional or otherwise.

  The house by the river was almost spartan when compared with the mansions of other men of influence. And it would soon be empty, with only the servants to care for it, and memories she could only imagine. Like the portrait, alone on that wide landing, of Sillitoe’s father, who had founded an empire upon slavery. There had been pride in Sillitoe’s voice when he had spoken of him.

  He might be thinking very differently now; rarely a day had passed when the issue of slavery did not appear in the news-sheets. And now Algiers again. She controlled her breathing. Richard would have lived but for those ships at Algiers. Napoleon had landed in France after his escape from Elba; it had been inevitable. She thought suddenly of the man who was meeting her today. Now . . . Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune, a rising star in the Admiralty but still young, and alive. He should have relieved Richard in the Mediterranean. She had heard her lover say it so often; time and distance, wind and tide. A few days sooner, and he would have been replaced. Safe.

  She heard the coachman shift again, the click of metal as he loosened the weapon he always carried. Something like a club, but it could change at the twist of a wrist to a foot-long stiletto.

  “Comin’, m’ lady!”

  She dabbed her eyes and looked again. A solitary horseman, approaching at a loose canter. Unhurried. Watchful.

  She realised that it was the first time she had seen Bethune out of uniform. It was easy to recall her private visits to his office at the Admiralty. Up the back stairs, he had always called it.

  She watched him wheel round towards the carriage. Another one who had done little to hide his feelings for her. The youngest vice-admiral since Nelson, with a brilliant career ahead, and a wife and two children to support his endeavours. He was taking a risk simply by meeting her today. She had never forgotten the savage cartoons, herself, naked and shedding tears while looking out at the assembled fleet. The caption Who will be next? had roused Sill
itoe’s fury more than anything she had seen; he was usually too clever to show emotion.

  William called down, “This ’im, m’ lady?” No chances, or he would answer for it.

  Bethune swung down from his horse and doffed his hat.

  She said, “Come in,” and moved along the seat. Richard had always spoken warmly of him; Bethune had been a mere midshipman in the Sparrow, his first command, and he had never lost that youthful look.

  Bethune was studying her.

  He said, “We can always meet here, when you need to see me. It is secure enough.”

  She said, “It was good of you to come.” It was not so easy after all. They were like strangers. But it was safer this way. “I have something for Adam.” She groped in her shawl, knowing that he was watching her, as she had seen him do in the past. He had never forgotten that it had been he who had allowed her to return alone to Chelsea, when the nightmare had been waiting for her.

  He had blamed himself, and his wife for conspiring with Belinda on that same night.

  She said, “It is Richard’s Nile medal. I think Adam should have it.” She knew Bethune was about to protest. “Richard gave it to me at Malta. That last time.” She faltered, and tried again. “I think he knew then that he was going to die. Adam must have it. It will help him.”

  His hands closed around hers to cradle the little package.

  “I will attend to it. Unrivalled will be at sea, but I can make arrangements.” The grip remained firmly on her hands. “You are looking wonderful, Catherine. I think about you constantly.” He attempted to smile, the midshipman again. “I did think that you might have married.”

  He hesitated. “Forgive me. I had no right.”

  She released her hands and smiled at him for the first time.

  “I lost my way. And what of you, Graham?”

  “Their lordships are very demanding at times.” He seemed to come to a decision. “I have been hearing a great deal of Sillitoe’s involvement with the slave trade. I am certain that he is in no way a party to the continuation of such illegal dealings, but his other connections may bring criticism. The Prince Regent, as you may know, has discontinued his seals of office. Some people are quick to forget past favours.”

  She nodded. She did not know about the Prince Regent. He had already revoked Sillitoe’s appointment as Inspector General. Because of rumour. Because of me.

  Bethune cocked his head to listen to a church clock somewhere.

  “I have heard that Lord Sillitoe intends to visit the West Indies, some of his old interests?” He took her hands again, and this time he did not release them. “I would ask that you do not accompany him. I would feel safer if you remained in England.” He looked at her openly. “In London. Where I might see you. Do not seek trouble for yourself, I beg you, Catherine.”

  She felt him touch her face, her hair, and she was suddenly ashamed. Is this what I have become?

  The door opened and closed and Bethune was looking up at her again.

  He said quietly, “Remember. I am always ready. Always at your call . . . but you know that?”

  She watched him swing easily into the saddle. My own age? Younger? She wanted to laugh. Or cry.

  “Back to the house, please, William.”

  The river came into view, a few coloured sails on the grey water.

  But all she saw was the door.

  Whore.

  Unis Allday walked slowly across the inn yard and felt the sunshine hot across her neck and bare arms. She enjoyed it, even after the heat of the kitchen and the baked bread, fresh from the oven. It was afternoon, in some ways the best time of the day, she thought.

  She looked at the front of the inn, freshly painted and welcoming, a place to be proud of. She waved to a passing rider, one of the estate keepers, and received a greeting in return; they all knew her now, but nobody took liberties with her. If they did it would only be once, small though she was.

  Even the inn sign had been repainted, The Old Hyperion under full sail. To strangers passing through Fallowfield, on the fringe of the Helford River, it might be just another name for a local inn, but not to Unis, or the man she had married here. Hyperion was a real ship, and had taken one husband from her in battle and given her another, John Allday.

  She could smell the paint. The two additional rooms for guests were almost finished; the new road nearby would bring coaches, and more trade. They had done well, despite, or perhaps because of the struggle at the beginning.

  At noon it had been busy, with men in from working on the road, and they were young men, proof that the war was truly over. Men who could walk free without fear of a press-gang, or the misery of returning home crippled and unwanted.

  She thought of her brother, the other John, who had lost a leg fighting in the line with the Old Thirty-First. Now, at least, he would talk about it, instead of looking upon his injury as some kind of personal failure. Without him she would never have managed to build the inn into a successful, even prosperous business.

  She heard the clatter of glasses and guessed it was Tom Ozzard, our latest recruit, John had called him. Another link, a veteran from that other world she could only imagine. Sir Richard Bolitho’s servant, who had been with him until the day he had been killed. Out of nowhere, Ozzard had appeared here in Fallowfield, more like a fugitive than a survivor. A man haunted and hunted by something, and she knew that but for John’s sake she would never have considered offering him a roof, and work which he understood.

  Despite his dour and sometimes hostile manner he had proved his worth, with wine, and with some of the more demanding customers, auctioneers and traders in particular. An educated man, he had made the inn’s bookkeeping and accounts seem simple, but he never shared a confidence, and she sensed that even her John knew little about him beyond that world they had shared at sea.

  She saw a shadow pass the parlour door. It was Nessa. Tall, dark-haired, and rarely smiling, but she would turn the head of any real man. Her brother John, for instance. But it was hard to know if there was anything between them. Turned out by her parents because she had conceived and lost a child by a soldier from the Truro garrison, Nessa had become part of the family here, and had rejected the past. And she was so good with little Kate, necessary at a busy inn when you needed six pairs of eyes at once.

  The Old Hyperion was doing well, and would do even better. She paused, one hand on the wall, the bricks almost as hot as new bread. So why was she worried?

  She thought of the big, shaggy, some might say ungainly man who had burst into her life. Rough, but respected as a true seaman and Sir Richard’s friend, John Allday had won her heart. He had come ashore now; he had done far more than his duty, but he was still not over it. When he made his trips to Falmouth she knew he would be watching the ships, coming or going; it was always the same. Trying to hold on. To remain a part of it.

  She considered his last visit to Falmouth, when he had met Captain Adam Bolitho; she had been painfully aware of his uncertainty, his misgivings as he had tried to decide whether he should go back to the old house he had once called his home, when he was not at sea with Sir Richard.

  She had heard Bryan Ferguson say that Sir Richard and her John were like master and loyal dog, each afraid of losing the other. Perhaps that was so. She clenched her fists. She would allow no harm to come to him now.

  She had asked John how he had found Captain Adam. He had thought about it, his chin in the big, awkward hands which could be so loving and so gentle in their private world.

  He had said, “Like his uncle, a good and caring captain to all accounts, but stands alone. Shouldn’t be like that.” As if he felt somehow responsible.

  She entered the parlour, so familiar now, the shining copper and pewter, the lines of tankards, and the mingled smells of food, flowers, and people. In the place of honour was the beautiful model of the old Hyperion, exact in every detail and scale, and made by those same big, scarred hands. But it had been moved, something forbidden to eve
rybody except . . . She walked into the next room, the one with the fine view of a long line of evenly matched trees; when the light was right you could see the river, like molten silver beyond them.

  John Allday was sitting at the table, his face deep in thought as he studied the canvas roll of tools, blades and strips of bone arranged in front of him.

  Like many sailors, he could take on most jobs. He could make furniture, like the beautiful cot he had fashioned for little Kate, and the chest he had built for the lieutenant named George Avery who had become so much a part of Unis’s life. Because Allday was illiterate, Avery had written his letters to her, and had read her letters to him. It would have been a rare and wonderful relationship in any walk of life, let alone aboard a man-of-war. Now the quiet, almost shy Avery was gone, one more name on the roll of honour. For King and Country.

  “What is it, John?”

  She put her arm around his massive shoulders. Sir Richard had called him my oak, but she could feel his slow, careful breathing even now. The terrible wound in the chest left by a Spanish sword, at a place no one could remember, and it was getting worse. But he had always insisted he could manage, when Sir Richard had needed him.

  Now I need you, dearest John.

  “When I gets time on my hands.” He did not look up at her. “I gets to thinking, another model, mebbee?”

  She hugged him. “You’re always busy! Make some of the youngsters sit up an’ take notice, I can tell you!”

  He sighed. “You knows me, love, I’m not one for passing time with the old Jacks, swinging the lamp with every tankard of ale! Your brother’s got the right idea, puts ’em in their place!” He looked round. “Where’s Kate?”

  “Resting. Nessa’ll keep an eye on her.”