Relentless Pursuit

by Alexander Kent

  She remembered his dismay when the child had turned away from him, when they had met for the first time on his return from sea. To her he must have seemed like a stranger, an inter-loper. But he had won her over in his own patient fashion. He could even pick her up and play with her now without fear of damaging her in some way. And Unis loved him for it.

  Allday said suddenly, “I meant to ask about young Elizabeth, Sir Richard’s daughter—she’ll be growing up now, right enough. I wonder what the King of Cornwall thinks about having her in his great house.”

  She hugged him again, and said nothing. Sir Lewis Roxby had died back when Lady Catherine was still living at the Bolitho house.

  She said, “You’re going to make a model of the Frobisher,” and bit her lip to steady herself. “We’ll have to find a real special place for that!”

  Then Allday did look at her, his eyes very clear, the frown gone.

  “I shall give it to Cap’n Adam. From both of us.”

  Afterwards, alone in their room, she wondered. Who did he really mean?

  Nancy, Lady Roxby, saw the rambling old building swing into view as the carriage swayed over the rutted track.

  It was an open vehicle, and she could feel the dust gritting between her teeth, but she liked it this way, always had since she was a small girl, the younger daughter of Captain James Bolitho. She often thought about her father, the man; she sometimes felt that the one she knew existed only in the portrait at the Bolitho house, while his character and upbringing were like entries in a diary or history book.

  “Go straight in, Francis. I doubt this will take long.”

  The shadow of the old glebe house rose above her, as always grim and unwelcoming. Ideal perhaps for an artist and a recluse, but few others.

  She felt a twinge of excitement and rebuked herself. Roxby would have called her too curious for her own good. She smiled sadly. But he would have loved her for it.

  The dark windows were blind to the outside world, the ruined chapel adding to the air of mystery. Gossip, more likely; this place was well known for its tales of witchcraft and evil spirits.

  The coachman said doubtfully, “I don’t think we are expected, m’ lady.”

  He had not been with her very long. Otherwise, he would have known about her impulses. She heard Roxby again. Damn impudence, more like!

  The sky was bright and clear, without even a wisp of cloud over the hills or the sea beyond.

  Adam would be out there now somewhere, doing what he had always wanted and dreamed about. She thought of his face, so near, when she had last spoken to him, and then had pressed his cheek against her own. Doing what he wanted and believed in. But this time had been different. As if he was leaving something behind.

  She said impatiently, “Get down and knock on the door, Francis!”

  She saw the horse shaking its ears, irritated by the buzzing insects. She could remember a time when she would have ridden here herself, and across country if the mood took her. It was wrong to look back too often . . . perhaps because since Roxby had died there had been so little joy, and nothing to anticipate.

  So many things had changed. Like young Elizabeth, who had been so surprised at the way local children lived and played . . . how could it be, that she had been so sheltered from an endless war which had threatened every mile of this coastline? She thought of the girl’s mother, Belinda, and tried once again to come to terms with it.

  She heard voices, Francis, tall and ramrod-straight like the soldier he had been until a year ago, and the servant she had met on her previous visit, when she had called to arrange for the portrait.

  She climbed down, and grimaced a little. Her breathing was fast. Just to remind me. On her next birthday she would be fifty-seven years old. People told her to settle down and enjoy these years. She was secure, and had two fine children, and now two grandchildren. She should be more than satisfied . . .

  She grimaced again. She was not.

  Francis called, “He says that his master is not here, m’ lady. He will gladly take a message.” It was as if the servant was invisible. Perhaps they were like that in the cavalry.

  She said, “It is about my nephew’s portrait.” Even that made her sound ancient. “In Captain Bolitho’s absence I thought I should enquire . . .”

  “May I be of any help, my lady?”

  Nancy turned in the direction of the voice.

  “Thank you, my dear. Have we met before?”

  The girl looked towards the house, as if regretting her first impulse. But she said, “I am Lowenna. I am staying here.”

  Nancy took a deep breath and stepped into cool shadows. In her heart, she had hoped for this meeting with one who until now had been little more than a name, an occasional visitor to these parts, and then only in the company of Sir Gregory Montagu.

  She followed her along the deserted passageway, conscious of her poise, her apparent confidence. She remembered her vaguely as a child; it was coming back to her like her father’s history, like fragments from the pages of a diary. She had been born in Bodmin, where the family name had been Garland. A successful arrangement, they had said at the time, between a promising scholar soon to be appointed to a prestigious college in Winchester, and the daughter of a Bodmin corn chandler . . . Nancy saw the girl pause, as if to ensure that she was still following . . . She saw the date in her mind. Around 1790, when news had reached her of Richard’s fever in the Great South Sea; he had been in command of the frigate Tempest. Allday had been with him even then.

  “We may talk in here, if you wish.” Very composed, and, in the filtered sunlight, quietly beautiful. A woman then, aged about twenty-six or twenty-seven.

  Nancy glanced around the room. Untidy, but she was aware of the order of things in this, a painter’s domain. A place wherein he could work, leave for a week or a month if he chose, and know that it would be exactly how he wanted it when he returned.

  She often spent her spare time painting flowers, or scenes on the shore, and she had been moved by Elizabeth’s readiness to copy her. It had been their first real point of contact.

  She observed the girl. Dressed in a pale blue robe without any sort of decoration, or even a belt. Loose and airy. She had already noted the long hair, and the easy way she walked, but now that she was facing her she was more aware of her eyes. So dark that they concealed her thoughts, like a barrier between them.

  Lowenna said, “The portrait is over here. Sir Gregory is pleased with it, I think.”

  Nancy waited as she uncovered the canvas; she even did that with a graceful, unhurried movement. She knew she sat for Montagu: perhaps that was it. Poise . . .

  She studied the unfinished portrait; unbelievable that one man could possess such a great talent. It was Adam to the life, the way he held his head when listening, or answering a question. The dark eyes, like the eyes of the girl she knew was watching her, instead of the painting. There was an uncompleted yellow rose in Adam’s coat and she almost mentioned it, but some deeper sense seemed to warn her that this tenuous contact would be broken instantly. And Adam’s small, elusive smile; Montagu had caught it precisely. No wonder he could turn any woman’s head, and break his own heart.

  She said, “It is exactly right. How I think of him when he’s away. Which is too often these days.”

  She turned, and saw the astonishment which for only a second had broken through the girl’s composure.

  Lowenna said quietly, “I had not realised . . .”

  “That we were so close?” Nancy looked at the portrait again, the flood of memories pushing aside all reserve. “He came to me when his mother died. He had walked all the way from Penzance. He was only a boy.” She nodded slowly, without knowing she had done so. “Came to me.”

  “Thank you for telling me.” So simply said, like a very young girl again.

  “Will you be staying here long, Lowenna?”

  She shook her head, the sunlight touching her hair like fine gold. “I don’t know. I may be goin
g back to London. Sir Gregory has several paintings to finish.” She glanced at the portrait again, almost shyly, as if she were testing something. “But he will complete this first.”

  Nancy walked to a window, seeing the harp and the stool beside it. Then she saw the other unfinished painting, the naked girl chained to a rock, the sea monster about to break surface beside her.

  She looked at her again. Defensive, or defiant? The dark eyes gave nothing away.

  She said softly, “You are very beautiful.”

  “It is not what it may appear, my lady.”

  “I am far older than you.” She shrugged. “Unfortunately. I have been in love twice in my life. I know how it feels.” She made to hold out her hand, but instinct prevented her. “I also know how it looks. I care deeply for my nephew, perhaps, dare I say it, more than a son. He is brave, loyal and compassionate, and he has suffered.” She saw the words reaching her. “As I believe you have.”

  “Who said that of me?”

  “Nobody. I am still a woman, still young at heart.”

  She tried not to listen to the sound of carriage wheels. Montagu was back, but it would make no difference who it was. She made up her mind. “You see, I believe my nephew has lost his heart to you. It is why I came here today.” She walked towards the door. “Now that I have met you, I am glad I came.” She turned, one hand on the door. “If you feel the need, Lowenna, come to me.”

  She did not move. But the hostility was gone.

  She said, “As Adam came?” It was the first time she had used his name.

  Then Nancy did reach out and take her wrist. “As a friend, if you like.” She felt that in another moment the girl would have pulled away.

  She said calmly, “A friend, then, my lady.”

  Along the same bleak passageway, and the bright square of sunshine through the opened doors.

  It was not Montagu, but a man she recognised from a wine merchant’s in Falmouth. He touched his hat and beamed at her.

  “’Tes a fine day, m’ lady. Summer at last, mebbee?”

  Nancy looked back at the pale blue figure by the stairway. “Yes, Mr Cuppage, it is a fine day.” She raised one hand to the girl and added, “Now it is.”

  She walked out into the dusty air again. Afraid to stop and consider, even to look back.

  Francis and a stable boy were by the horse; the dour-faced servant had disappeared. She might have imagined all of it.

  She thought of Adam and his ship, under orders again after so brief a respite. It was his life, and she was a sailor’s daughter and the sister of England’s naval hero. She took Francis’ arm and pulled herself up into the carriage before glancing back at the house. But now, I am Adam’s aunt.

  She saw a brief movement by a window. Pale blue. Where she had seen the harp, and the other painting.

  She said aloud, “There is nobody else!”

  As the carriage moved away, she imagined she heard Roxby laugh.

  Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick got up from the chair and walked to a nearby window. He could not remember how many times he had done so, or how long he had been here.

  He stared down at the familiar scene, the unending parade of carriages, mostly open to the watery sunshine, a few bright parasols and the wide-brimmed hats of ladies being driven from one form of amusement to another. A troop of dragoons trotting past, a young helmeted cornet turning in his saddle as a straight-backed man stepped from the crowd to raise his hat to the colours at the head of the troop. He had only one arm.

  Herrick turned away, angry with himself, unable to ignore or forget the raw pain in the stump of his own arm, even at the slightest movement, and all the more so in his heavy dress coat.

  He sat again and stared at the opposite wall, and two paintings of sea fights: colours flying, swirling gunsmoke, the enemy’s canvas riddled with shot-holes. But they never showed the blood, the dead men, and the pieces of men.

  He studied the polished marble, the neat array of gilded chairs. It must take the equivalent of a watch of seamen to maintain this great vault of a building. He grunted and eased the shoulder of his coat, beneath the heavy bullion epaulette whose presence could still surprise him.

  This was the Admiralty, where their lordships and an army of staff officers controlled the strands of the web connecting them to every squadron, every ship, and every captain on every ocean where their flag flew, almost unchallenged.

  And after this? He thought of the lodgings he was using close to Vauxhall. Not fashionable, especially for a flag officer, but comfortable enough. And cheap. He had never been careless with his hard-earned money. He had come up the hard way, and was well aware of the navy’s habit of reversing a man’s fortunes along with his destiny.

  He had been at the Admiralty the whole forenoon, going over the charts and reports of the anti-slavery patrols with the admiral concerned, and he knew men well enough to understand that the admiral, pleasant though he was, had not the least idea what Freetown and the appalling conditions of slavery entailed. Perhaps it was better, safer that way.

  There would be more discussions tomorrow; a Member of Parliament on the interested committee would also be there. Her-rick had explained in his reports, and face to face, that they needed ten times the number of agile patrol vessels, and a diligent leadership in direct command, before any real results would be manifest. Money was always the objection; there was none to spare for an overall increase. And yet Herrick had been hearing nothing else since he had arrived in London but the rumour of a massive show of force against the Algerine pirates and the Dey who had persisted in defying all attempts to unseat him. This time it would be no less than a fleet, and under the command of Pellew himself. Herrick could not be bothered with the frills and fancies of grand titles; “Pellew” was good enough for him.

  There did not seem to be much in the way of secrecy; even The Times had hinted at a “determined intervention” to free the Christian slaves who languished in the Dey’s prisons.

  And now this had happened. A messenger had caught him just as he had been about to leave the building.

  He had been requested to present himself to Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune, the newly appointed deputy, and no stranger to the lords of admiralty.

  He had no thoughts on Bethune as a senior officer. I was Richard’s first lieutenant a year after Bethune was one of his midshipmen. Now he outranks me. He had grown used to such distinctions. He did not have to like them.

  He found that he was at the window again. Perhaps Adam Bolitho had told a superior officer, maybe Keen, what he had divulged about Sillitoe and his part in the slave trade. No. Adam might be hot-headed, even indiscreet, but he would not violate something as strong as personal trust. He watched a smart carriage passing among some market vehicles, saw the woman who sat alone, her face shaded by a broad-brimmed hat. It could have been Richard’s mistress. That woman. Why had he told Adam Bolitho? Concern, or was it guilt?

  It had been Adam who had brought the news to him, that his own very dear Dulcie had died. Just as Herrick had once carried the tragic news of Bolitho’s young wife’s death . . .

  He stared with something like hatred at the garishly painted battles. The roots and memories were stronger than many believed.

  He heard unhurried footsteps approaching, and braced himself. Perhaps it was a mistake, or Bethune had taken another appointment.

  “Sir Graham Bethune can see you now, sir.”

  Herrick stood up, and winced as the heavy dress coat dragged at his stump. So damned typical of this place. Can see you now. As if it was a favour!

  He knew he was being unreasonable, and blamed his pain for it. He hated the way people stared, or clucked sympathetically when they met him. He could recall a surgeon suggesting that he should wear ostrich quills on his coat to steer people away from jostling or reopening the wound. He could even hear himself.

  Afraid of war, are they? Or of what it does to those who have to fight it?

  If Dulcie had been alive . . .
He saw the doors swing inward, and Bethune waiting to greet him. Standing, his arm outstretched, his left arm, to match his own.

  “Good to see you, Thomas!” His handshake was firm, his palm still that of a sailor. “Seat yourself. There’ll be some wine in a moment, but we are served by snails in this cathedral!”

  Herrick sat down, taking time to adjust himself in the chair, like someone searching for a trap. Then he looked directly at Bethune. He had always prided himself in being honest and open with others, and grudgingly he recognised those qualities in Bethune, something which the vice-admiral’s lace and the grand office could not hide.

  Bethune said, “I saw your reports. I was particularly interested in your views on Freetown and the Windward Coast—I have said as much to the First Lord. You should get the credit you deserve. I suspect you may be requested to return to that or some other aspect of the slave trade, but I don’t suppose you’ll mind about that.” It was not a question.

  Herrick almost smiled. Requested; a term they used when you had attained flag rank. It still meant that you had no choice in the matter.

  Bethune strode to a window and opened it, admitting the ceaseless din of iron-shod wheels and the clatter of many horses: London on the move, never at rest.

  Herrick watched him. He too was restless, full of energy. Still a young man, like the one who had commanded that fine frigate depicted in this room’s only painting.

  Bethune went on, “I especially liked your report on Captain Tyacke, another officer who might well have gone unnoticed, passed over, but for someone caring enough to act.”

  Herrick clenched his remaining fist. As if Tyacke were also in this room, listening to the street, watching the dragoons, like the man in the crowd. He said without hesitation, “Sir Richard did as much for me, Sir Graham.”

  Bethune nodded, satisfied perhaps. “You served with him at the Nile?”

  Herrick rubbed the arm of his chair. This was not what he had expected.

  “Yes. In Lysander. I was Sir Richard’s flag captain then.”

  Bethune turned from the window. Herrick would say no more, but it was enough.