Bethune said, “Rear-Admiral Keen will hoist his flag in the frigate Valkyrie. Her captain, Peter Dawes, who was your second-in-command, stands to accept promotion and is eager to take another appointment.” He paused discreetly. “His father, the admiral, suggested that the present was as good a time as any.”
So Keen was going back to war, still in mourning for Zenoria. It was what he needed, or imagined he needed. Bolitho himself had known the haunting demands of grief, until he had found Catherine again.
“A new flag captain, then?” Even as he spoke, he knew who it would be. “Adam?”
Bethune did not answer directly. “You gave Zest to him out of necessity.”
“He was the best frigate captain I had.”
Bethune continued, “When Zest returned to Portsmouth she was found to be in a sorry state of repair. Over four years in commission, and after two captains—three, if you count your nephew—and several sea-fights, which left her with deep and lasting damage, and without proper facilities for complete repair … the last battle with Unity was the final blow. The port admiral was instructed to explain all this to your nephew after the court’s verdict was delivered. It will take months before Zest is ready for service again. Even then …”
After the court’s verdict. Bolitho wondered if Bethune shared the true meaning. Had the sword been pointing at Adam, he would have been fortunate to have remained in the navy, even with a ship as worn and weakened as Zest.
Bethune was not unaware of it. “By which time, this war will probably be over, and your nephew, like so many others, could be rejected by the one calling he loves.” He unfolded a map without appearing to see it. “Rear-Admiral Keen and Captain Bolitho have always been on good terms, both under your command and elsewhere. It would seem a satisfactory solution.”
Bolitho tried not to remember Adam’s face as he had seen it that day in Indomitable, when he had given him the news of Zenoria’s death. It had been like watching his heart break into pieces. How could Adam agree? Knowing that each day he would be serving alongside and under the orders of the man who had been Zenoria’s husband. The girl with moonlit eyes. She had married Keen out of gratitude. Adam had loved her … loved her. But Adam, too, might be grateful for an escape provided by Keen. A ship at sea, not an undermanned hulk suffering all the indignities of a naval dockyard. How could it work? How might it end?
He loved Adam like a son, always had loved him, ever since the youth had walked from Penzance to present himself to him after his mother’s death. Adam had confessed his affair with Zenoria: he felt that he should have known. Catherine had seen it much earlier in Adam’s face, on the day Zenoria had married Keen in the mermaid’s church at Zennor.
Madness even to think about it. Keen was going to his first truly responsible command as a flag officer. Nothing in the past could change that.
He asked, “You really believe that the war will soon end?”
Bethune showed no surprise at this change of tack. “Napoleon’s armies are in retreat on every front. The Americans know this. Without France as an ally, they will lose their last chance of dominating North America. We shall be able to release more and more ships to harass their convoys and forestall large troop movements by sea. Last September you proved, if proof were needed, that a well-placed force of powerful frigates was far more use than sixty ships of the line.” He smiled. “I can still recall their faces in the other room when you told Their Lordships that the line of battle was finished. Blasphemy, some thought, and unfortunately there are still many you have yet to convince.”
Bolitho saw him look at the clock yet again. Sillitoe was late. He knew the extent of his own influence and accepted it, knew too that people feared him. Bolitho suspected it pleased him.
Bethune was saying, “All these years, Richard, a lifetime for some. Twenty years of almost unbroken war with the French, and even before that, when we were in Sparrow during the American rebellion, we were fighting France as well.”
“We were all very young then, Graham. But I can understand why ordinary men and women have lost faith in victory, even now, when it is within our grasp.”
“But you never doubted it.”
Bolitho heard voices in the corridor. “I never doubted we would win, eventually. Victory? That is something else.”
A servant opened the fine double doors and Sillitoe came unhurriedly into the room.
Catherine had described the portrait of Sillitoe’s father, which she had seen at the reception in his house. Valentine Keen had been her escort on that occasion: that would have set a few tongues wagging. But as he stood there now, in slate-grey broadcloth and gleaming white silk stock, Bolitho could compare the faces as if he had been there with her. Sillitoe’s father had been a slaver, “a black ivory captain,” he had called him. Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick had come far, and since the King had been declared insane his position as personal adviser to the Prince Regent had strengthened until there was very little in the political affairs of the nation he could not manipulate or direct.
He gave a curt bow. “You look very well and refreshed, Sir Richard. I was pleased to hear of your nephew’s exoneration.”
Obviously, news travelled faster among Sillitoe’s spies than in the corridors of Admiralty.
Sillitoe smiled, his hooded eyes, as always, concealing his thoughts.
“He is too good a captain to waste. I trust he will accept Rear-Admiral Keen’s invitation. I think he should. I believe he will.”
Bethune rang for the servant. “You may bring refreshments, Tolan.” It gave him time to recover from his shock that Sillitoe’s network was more efficient than his own.
Sillitoe turned smoothly to Bolitho.
“And how is Lady Catherine? Well, I trust, and no doubt pleased to be back in town?”
Pointless to explain that Catherine wanted only to return to a quieter life in Falmouth. But one could not be certain of this man. He who seemed to know everything probably knew that, too.
“She is happy, my lord.” He thought of her in the early hours of the morning when Avery had arrived. Happy? Yes, but concealing at the same time, and not always successfully, the deeper pain of their inevitable separation. Before Catherine, life had been very different. He had always accepted that his duty lay where his orders directed. It had to be. But his love he would leave behind, wherever she was.
Sillitoe leaned over the map. “Crucial times, gentlemen. You will have to return to Halifax, Sir Richard—you are the only one familiar with all the pieces of the puzzle. The Prince Regent was most impressed with your report and the vessels you require.” He smiled dryly. “Even the expense did not deter him. For more than a moment, that is.”
Bethune said, “The First Lord has agreed that orders will be presented within the week.” He glanced meaningfully at Bolitho. “After that, Rear-Admiral Keen can take passage in the first available frigate, no matter who he selects as flag captain.”
Sillitoe walked to a window. “Halifax. A cheerless place at this time of the year, I’m told. Arrangements can be made for you to follow, Sir Richard.” He did not turn from the window. “Perhaps the end of next month—will that suit?”
Bolitho knew that Sillitoe never made idle remarks. Was he considering Catherine at last? How she would come to terms with it. Cruel; unfair; too demanding. He could almost hear her saying it. Separation and loneliness. Less than two months, then, allowing for the uncomfortable journey to Cornwall. They must not waste a minute. Together.
He replied, “You will find me ready, my lord.”
Sillitoe took a glass from the servant. “Good.” His hooded eyes gave nothing away. “Excellent.” He could have been describing the wine. “A sentiment, Sir Richard. To your Happy Few!” So he even knew about that.
Bolitho scarcely noticed. In his mind, he saw only her, the dark eyes defiant, but protective.
Don’t leave me.
2 FOR THE LOVE OF A LADY
BRYAN FERGUSON, the one-armed steward of the
Bolitho estate, opened his tobacco jar and paused before filling his pipe. He had once believed that even the simplest task would be beyond him forever: fastening a button, shaving, eating a meal, let alone filling a pipe.
If he stopped to consider it, he was a contented man, grateful even, despite his disability. He was steward to Sir Richard Bolitho and had this, his own house near the stables. One of the smaller rooms at the rear of the house was used as his estate office, not that there was much to do at this time of the year. But the rain had stopped, and they had been spared the snow that one of the post-boys had mentioned.
He glanced around the kitchen, the very centre of things in the world he shared with Grace, his wife, who was the Bolitho housekeeper. On every hand were signs of her skills, preserves, all carefully labelled and sealed with wax, dried fruit, and at the other end of the room hanging flitches of smoked bacon. The smell could still make his mouth water. But it was no use. His mind was distracted from these gentle pleasures. He was too anxious on behalf of his closest and oldest friend, John Allday.
He looked now at the tankard of rum on the scrubbed table. Untouched.
He said, “Come along, John, have your wet. It’s just what you need on a cold January day.”
Allday remained by the window, his troubled thoughts like a yoke on his broad shoulders.
He said at length, “I should have gone to London with him. Where I belong, see?”
So that was it. “My God, John, you’ve not been home a dogwatch and you’re fretting about Sir Richard going to London without you! You’ve got Unis now, a baby girl too, and the snuggest little inn this side of the Helford River. You should be enjoying it.”
Allday turned and looked at him. “I knows it, Bryan. Course I do.”
Ferguson tamped home the tobacco, deeply troubled. It was even worse with Allday than the last time. He looked over at his friend, seeing the harsh lines at the corners of his mouth, caused, he thought, by the pain in his chest where a Spanish sword had struck him down. The thick, shaggy hair was patched with grey. But his eyes were as clear as ever.
Ferguson waited for him to sit down and put his big hands around the particular pewter tankard they kept for him. Strong, scarred hands; the ignorant might think them awkward and clumsy. But Ferguson had seen them working with razor-edged knives and tools to fashion some of the most intricate ship models he had ever known. The same hands had held his child, Kate, with the gentleness of a nursemaid.
Allday asked, “When do you reckon they’ll be back, Bryan?”
Ferguson passed him the lighted taper and watched him hold it to his long clay; the smoke floated toward the chimney, and the cat lying on the hearth asleep.
“One of the squire’s keepers came by and he said the roads are better than last week. Slow going for a coach and four, let alone the mail.” It was not doing any good. He said, “I was thinking, John. It’ll be thirty-one years this April since the Battle of the Saintes. It hardly seems possible, does it?”
Allday shrugged. “I’m surprised you can remember it.”
Ferguson glanced down at his empty sleeve. “Not a thing I could easily forget.”
Allday reached across the table and touched his arm. “Sorry, Bryan. That was not intended.”
Ferguson smiled, and Allday took a swallow of rum. “It means that I’ll be fifty-three this year.” He saw Allday’s sudden discomfort. “Well, I’ve a piece of paper to prove it.” Then he asked quietly, “How old does that make you? About the same, eh?” He knew Allday was older; he had already served at sea when they had been taken together by the press-gang on Pendower Beach.
Allday eyed him warily. “Aye, something like that.” He looked at the fire, his weathered features suddenly despairing. “I’m his cox’n, y’see. I belongs with him.”
Ferguson took the stone jug and poured another generous measure. “I know you do, John. Everyone does.” He was reminded suddenly of his cramped estate office, which he had left only an hour ago when Allday had arrived unexpectedly in a carrier’s cart. Despite the fusty ledgers, and the dampness of winter, it was as if she had been there just ahead of him. Lady Catherine had not been in his office since before Christmas, when she had left for London with the admiral, and yet her perfume was still there. Like jasmine. The old house was used to the comings and goings of Bolithos down over the years, he thought, and sooner or later one of them failed to return. The house accepted it: it waited, with all its dark portraits of dead Bolithos. Waited … But when Lady Catherine was away, it was different. An empty place.
He said, “Lady Catherine perhaps most of all.”
Something in his voice made Allday turn to look at him.
“You too, eh, Bryan?”
Ferguson said, “I’ve never known such a woman. I was with her when they found that girl.” He stared at his pipe. “All broken up, she was, but her ladyship held her like a child. I shall never forget … I know you’re all aback at the thought that maybe you’re getting old, John, too old for the hard life of a fighting Jack. It’s my guess that Sir Richard fears it, too. But why am I telling you this? You know him better than anybody, man!”
Allday smiled, for the first time. “I was that glad about Cap’n Adam keeping out of trouble at the court martial. That’ll be one thing off Sir Richard’s mind.”
Ferguson grunted, smoking. A revenue cutter had slipped into Falmouth, and had brought the news with some despatches.
Allday said bluntly, “You knew about him and that girl, Zenoria?”
“Guessed. It goes no further. Even Grace doesn’t suspect.”
Allday blew out the taper. Grace was a wonderful wife to Bryan, and had saved him after he had returned home with an arm missing. But she did enjoy a good gossip. Lucky that Bryan understood her so well.
He said, “I love my Unis more than I can say. But I’d not leave Sir Richard. Not now that it’s nearly all over.”
The door opened and Grace Ferguson came into the kitchen. “Just like two old women, you are! What about my soup?” But she looked at them fondly. “I’ve just done something about they fires. That new girl Mary’s willing enough, but she’s got the memory of a squirrel!”
Ferguson exclaimed, “fires, Grace? Aren’t you being a bit hasty?” But his mind was not on what he was saying. He was still turning over Allday’s words. I’d not leave Sir Richard. Not now that it’s nearly all over. He tried to brush it aside, but it would not go. What had he meant? When the war finally ended, and men paused to count the cost? Or did he fear for Sir Richard? That was nothing new. Ferguson had even heard Bolitho liken them both to a faithful dog and its master. Each fearful of leaving the other behind.
Grace looked keenly at him. “What is it, my dear?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
Allday darted a glance between them. Although separated for long periods when he was at sea, he had no closer friends.
He said, “He thinks I’m getting old, ready to be broken up like some rotten hulk!”
She laid one hand on his thick wrist. “That’s foolish talk, you with a fine wife and a bonny baby. Old indeed!” But the smile did not touch her eyes. She knew both of them too well, and could guess what had happened.
The door opened again, and this time it was Matthew, the coachman. Like Allday, he had protested against remaining in Falmouth and entrusting Bolitho and Catherine to a common mail coach.
Ferguson was glad of the interruption. “What’s amiss, Matthew?”
Matthew grinned.
“Just heard the coach horn. Sounded it, like that other time when he was coming home!”
Ferguson said briskly, “Drive down and fetch them from the square,” but Matthew had already gone. He had been the first to know, just as he had been the first to recognize the St Mawes salute when Bolitho had returned to Falmouth a little over a month ago.
He paused to kiss his wife on the cheek.
“What was that for?”
Ferguson glanced at Allday. They were coming
home. He smiled. “For making up the fires for them.” But he could not repress it. “For so many things, Grace.” He reached for his coat. “You can stop for a meal, John?”
But Allday was preparing to leave. “They’ll not want a crowd when they gets here.” He was suddenly serious. “But when he wants me, I’ll be ready. That’s it an’ all about it.”
The door closed, and they looked at one another.
She said, “Taking it badly.”
Ferguson thought of the smell of jasmine. “So will she.”
The smart carriage with the Bolitho crest on the door clattered away across the stableyard, the wheels striking sparks from the cobbles. For several days Matthew had been anticipating this, backing the horses into position at the time when the coach from Truro could be expected to arrive outside the King’s Head in Falmouth. Ferguson paused by the door. “Fetch some of that wine they favour, Grace.”
She watched him, remembering, as if it were yesterday, when they had snatched him away in the King’s ship. Bolitho’s ship. And the crippled man who had returned to her. She had never put it into words before. The man I love.
She smiled. “Champagne. I don’t know what they see in it!”
Cross of St George Page 3