Cross of St George

by Kent, Alexander

  Now that it’s all nearly over. He might have told her what All-day had said, but she had gone, and he was glad that it would remain a secret between them.

  Then he walked out into the cold, damp air and could smell the sea. Coming home. It was suddenly important that there should be no fuss: Allday had understood, even though he was bursting to know what was going to happen. It must be as if they had only been from Falmouth for a single day.

  He looked over at the end stall and saw the big mare Tamara throwing her head up and down, the white flash on her forehead very clear in the dull light.

  There could be no more doubt. Ferguson walked over and rubbed her muzzle.

  “She’s back, my lass. And none too soon.”

  Half an hour later the carriage rattled into the drive. The hero and his mistress who had scandalized the country, defying both hypocrisy and convention, were home.

  Lieutenant George Avery regarded himself critically in the tailor’s mirror, as he might examine a stranger. He knew very little of London, and on previous visits he had usually been on some mission to the Admiralty. The tailor’s establishment was in Jermyn Street, a bustling place of shops and elegant houses, and the air, which seemed unclean after the sea, was alive with the din of carriages and hooves.

  He must have walked for miles, something he always enjoyed after the restrictions of a crowded man-of-war. He smiled at his reflection; he was quite tired, unaccustomed to so much exercise.

  It was strange to have money to spend, something new to him. This was prize-money, earned over ten years ago when he had been second-in-command of the schooner Jolie, herself a French prize. He had all but forgotten about it; it had seemed unimportant in the light of his subsequent misfortunes. He had been wounded when Jolie was overwhelmed by a French corvette, then held as a prisoner of war in France; he had been exchanged during the brief Peace of Amiens only to face a court martial, and to receive a reprimand for losing his ship, even though he had been too badly injured to prevent others from hauling down her colours. At Adam Bolitho’s court martial he had relived every moment of his own disgrace.

  He thought of the house in Chelsea, where he was still staying, and wondered if Bolitho and Catherine had reached Cornwall yet. It was difficult to accept, let alone take for granted, that they had left him to use the house as he chose. But he would have to go to Falmouth soon himself, to be with the others when Sir Richard received his final instructions. His little crew, as he called them. Avery thought it was dangerously close to being a family.

  Arthur Crowe, the tailor, peered up to him. “Is everything satisfactory, sir? I shall have the other garments sent to you immediately they are ready.” Polite, almost humble. Rather different from their first meeting. Crowe had seemed about to offer some critical comment on Avery’s uniform, which had been made by the Falmouth tailor, Joshua Miller. Just another impoverished luff, at thirty-five, old for his rank, and therefore probably under a cloud of some sort, doomed to remain a lieutenant until dismissal or death settled the matter. Avery had silenced the unspoken criticism by a casual mention of his admiral’s name, and the fact that the Millers had been making uniforms for the Bolithos for generations.

  He nodded. “Very satisfactory.” His gaze shifted to the bright epaulette on his right shoulder. It would take some getting used to. A solitary epaulette on the right shoulder had formerly been the mark of rank for a captain, not posted, but a captain for all that. Their Lordships, apparently at the insistence of the Prince Regent, had changed it. The solitary epaulette now signified the rank of lieutenant, at least until some new fashion was approved.

  The room darkened, and he imagined that the sky was clouding over again. But it was a carriage, which had stopped in the street directly opposite the window: a very elegant vehicle in deep blue, with some sort of crest on the panels. A footman had climbed down and was lowering the step. It had not been lost on the tailor: he was hurrying to his door and opening it, admitting the bitter air from the street.

  Curious, Avery thought, that in all the shops he had seen there appeared to be no shortages, as if war with France and the new hostilities with America were on another planet.

  He watched absently as a woman emerged from the carriage. She wore a heavy, high-waisted coat almost the same colour as the paintwork, and her face was partly hidden by the deep brim of her bonnet as she looked down for the edge of the pavement.

  Arthur Crowe bowed stiffly, his tape measure hanging around his neck like a badge of office.

  “What a pleasure to see you again, my lady, on this fine brisk morning!”

  Avery smiled privately. Crowe obviously made a point of knowing those who mattered, and those who did not.

  He thought of Catherine Somervell, wondering if she had persuaded Bolitho to patronize this prosperous street.

  Then he swung away, his mind reeling, the new epaulette, the shop, everything fading like fragments of a dream.

  The door closed, and he barely dared to turn round.

  Crowe said, “If you are certain I can provide nothing more, Mr Avery?”

  Avery faced the door. The tailor was alone. Crowe asked, “Is something wrong, sir?”

  “That lady.” He made himself look, but even the carriage had gone. Another fragment. “I thought I knew her.”

  Crowe watched his assistant parcelling up the new boat-cloak Avery had purchased. “Her husband was a good customer. We were sorry to lose him, although not always an easy man to satisfy.” He seemed to realize that it was not the answer Avery had wanted. “Lady Mildmay. The wife, or should I say, the widow, of Vice-Admiral Sir Robert Mildmay.”

  It was she. Except that when he had last seen her, she had been only the wife of his captain in the old Canopus.

  Crowe prompted, “Was that the lady of your acquaintance?”

  “I think I was mistaken.” He picked up his hat. “Please have the other purchases delivered to the address I gave you.”

  No arguments, no hesitation. Sir Richard Bolitho’s name opened many doors.

  He walked out into the street, glad to be moving again. Why should he care? Why did it matter so much? She had been unreachable then, when he had been stupid enough to believe it was more than just an amusing game to her, a passing flirtation.

  Had she changed? He had caught a glimpse of her hair, honeycoloured; how many days, how many sleepless nights he had tried to forget it. Perhaps she had been part of the reason he had not resisted when his uncle, then Sir Paul Sillitoe, had suggested that he offer himself for the position of flag lieutenant to Sir Richard Bolitho. He had expected his application to be refused as soon as Bolitho had learned more about him. Instead, he had never forgotten that day in Falmouth, in the old house he had come to know so well, their kindness to him, the trust, and eventually the friendship which had done so much to heal the doubts and the injuries of the past. He had thought little more beyond the next voyage, the next challenge, even though it took him to the cannon’s mouth yet again.

  And now, this. It had been a shock. He had deluded himself. What chance would he have had? A married woman, and the wife of his own captain? It would have been like putting a pistol to his head.

  Was she still as beautiful? She was two years older than himself, maybe more. She had been so alive, so vivacious. After the slur of the court martial, and then being marooned on the old Canopus, he thought until the end of his service, she had been like a bright star: he had not been the only officer who had been captivated. He quickened his pace, and halted as someone said, “Thank you, sir!”

  There were two of them. Once they had been soldiers; they even wore the tattered remnants of their red coats. One was blind, and held his head at an angle as though he were trying to picture what was happening. The other had only one arm, and was clutching a hunk of bread which had obviously been handed to him by a pot-boy from the nearby coffee-house. It had probably been left on someone’s plate.

  The blind man asked, “What is it, Ted?”

  T
he other said, “Bit o’ bread. Don’t worry. We might get lucky.”

  Avery could not control his disgust. He should have been used to it, but he was not. He had once come to blows with another lieutenant who had taunted him about his sensitivity.

  He said sharply, “You there!” and realized that his anger and dismay had put an uncharacteristic edge to his voice. The one-armed man even cowered, but stood protectively between the officer and his blind companion.

  Avery said, “I am sorry.” He was reminded suddenly of Adam Bolitho, and the presentation sword he had sold. “Take this.” He thrust some money into the grimy hand. “Have something hot to eat.”

  He turned away, annoyed that such things could still move and trouble him.

  He heard the blind man ask, “Who was that, Ted?”

  The reply was barely audible above the clatter of wheels and harness.

  “A gentleman. A true gentleman.”

  How many were there like that? How many more would there be? Probably soldiers from a line regiment, maybe two of Wellington’s men: shoulder to shoulder, facing French cavalry and artillery. Living from battle to battle, until luck changed sides and turned on them.

  Those around him did not realize what it was like, and would never believe that either he or his admiral could still be moved by such pitiful reminders of the cost of war. Like that moment in Indomitable’s cabin after Adam’s ship had been lost, and a single survivor had been dragged from the sea by the brig Woodpecker, which, against orders, had returned to the scene. That survivor had been the ship’s boy. Avery had watched Bolitho bring the child back to life with his compassion, even as he had endeavoured to discover what had happened to Adam.

  Avery had once believed that his own suffering had left him indifferent to the fate of others. Bolitho had convinced him otherwise.

  Somewhere a clock chimed: St James’s, Piccadilly, he thought. He had passed it without noticing it. He looked back, but the two redcoats had gone. Like ghosts, momentarily released from some forgotten field of battle.

  “Why, Mister Avery! It is you.”

  He stared at her, vaguely aware that she was standing in the doorway of a perfumery, with a prettily wrapped box in her arms.

  It was as if the street had emptied, and, like the two ghosts, had lost all identity.

  He hesitated, and removed his hat, saw her eyes move over his face, and, no doubt, he thought bitterly, the dark hair which was so thickly streaked with grey. This was the moment he had lived in his dreams, when he would sting her with sarcasm and contempt, and punish her in a way she could never forget.

  She wore a fur muff on one hand, and the parcel was in danger of falling. He said abruptly, “Let me assist you,” and took it from her; it was heavy, but he scarcely noticed. “Is there someone who will carry this for you?”

  She was gazing at him. “I saw what you did for those poor beggars. It was kind of you.” Her eyes rested briefly on the new epaulette. “Promotion too, I see.”

  “I fear not.” She had not changed at all. Beneath the smart bonnet her hair was probably shorter, as the new fashions dictated. But her eyes were as he remembered them. Blue. Very blue.

  She seemed to recall his question. “My carriage will return for me in a moment.” Her face was full of caution now, almost uncertainty.

  Avery said, “I imagined that I saw you earlier. A trick of the light, I daresay. I heard that you had lost your husband.” A moment of triumph. But it was empty.

  “Last year …”

  “I read nothing of it in the Gazette, but then, I have been away from England.” He knew he sounded curt, discourteous, but he could not help it.

  She said, “It was not in battle. He had been in poor health for some time. And what of you? Are you married?”

  “No,” he said.

  She bit her lip. Even that little habit was painful to see. “I believe I read somewhere that you are aide to Sir Richard Bolitho.” When he remained silent she added, “That must be vastly exciting. I have never met him.” The slightest hesitation. “Nor have I met the famous Lady Somervell. I feel the poorer for it.”

  Avery heard the sound of wheels. So many others, but somehow he knew it was the carriage that matched her coat.

  She asked suddenly, “Are you lodging in town?”

  “I have been staying in Chelsea, my lady. I shall be leaving for the West Country when I have arranged my affairs in London.”

  There were two vivid spots of colour in her cheeks, which were not artificial. “You did not always address me so formally. Had you forgotten?”

  He heard the carriage slowing down. It would soon be over: the impossible dream could not harm him any more. “I was in love with you then. You must have known that.”

  Boots clattered on the pavement. “Just the one, m’ lady?”

  She nodded, and watched with interest as the footman took the box from Avery, noting his expression, the tawny eyes she had always remembered.

  She said, “I have reopened the house in London. We had been living at Bath. It is not the same any more.”

  The footman lowered the step for her. He did not spare Avery even a glance.

  She rested one hand on the carriage door. Small, well-shaped, strong.

  She said, “It is not far from here. I like to be near the centre of things.” She looked up at him, searching his face, as though considering something. “Will you take tea with me? Tomorrow? After all this time …”

  He watched her, thinking of when he had held her. Kissed her. The only delusions had been his own.

  “I think it would be unwise, my lady. There is enough gossip and slander in this town. I’ll not trouble you again.”

  She was inside the carriage but had lowered the window, while the footman waited, wooden-faced, to climb up beside the coachman.

  For a moment she rested her hand on his, and he found himself surprised by her apparent agitation.

  “Do come.” She slipped a small card into his hand. Then she glanced quickly at the footman and whispered, “What you said to me just now. Were you really?”

  He did not smile. “I would have died for you.”

  She was still staring back at him as the dark blue carriage pulled away.

  He jammed on his hat and said aloud, “Hell’s teeth, I still would!”

  But the anger eluded him, and he added softly, “Susanna.”

  Yovell, Bolitho’s portly secretary, waited patiently near the library desk, his ample buttocks turned toward the fire. Sharing Bolitho’s life at sea as he did, Yovell knew, more than any one, the full extent of the planning and detail through which the admiral had to sift before eventually translating this paper war into written orders for his captains.

  Like Bolitho’s other loyal, if difficult, servant Ozzard, Yovell had a small cottage on the estate, even as Allday had lived there when home from the sea. Yovell gave a small, amused smile. That was, until Allday had suddenly become a respectable married man. Through one of the windows he saw a cat waiting expectantly for somebody to open the door. That was Allday to a letter, he thought, on the wrong side of every door. When he was at sea he worried about his wife and the inn at Fallowfield, and now there was the baby to add to his responsibilities. And when he was home, he fretted about being left on the beach when Bolitho returned to his flagship. Yovell had no such domestic problems. When he wanted to give up his present work he knew Bolitho would release him, just as he knew that many people thought him quite mad to risk his life in a man-of-war.

  He watched Bolitho leafing through the pile of papers, which he had been examining for most of the morning. He had only returned from London a week ago and had been occupied with Admiralty business for much of the time. Catherine Somervell had waved to him as she had left the house to call on Lewis Roxby, their near neighbour and “the King of Cornwall,” as he was dubbed behind his back. Roxby was married to Bolitho’s sister Nancy, and Yovell thought it a good thing that Catherine had family of sorts to visit while they we
re all away at sea.

  He admired her greatly, although he knew that many men called her a whore. When the transport Golden Plover had been wrecked off the coast of Africa, Bolitho’s woman had been with them, and had not only survived the hardships of their voyage in an open boat, but had somehow held them all together, given them heart and hope when they had no reason to expect that they would live. It had made his own suffering seem almost incidental.

  Bolitho looked up at him, his face remarkably calm and rested. Two weeks on the road from London, changing coaches and horses, being diverted by floods and fallen trees: their account of it had sounded like a nightmare.

  Bolitho said, “If you would arrange for copies of these, I should like them despatched to Their Lordships as soon as possible.” He stretched his arms, and thought of the letter which had been awaiting his return. From Belinda, even though there was a lawyer’s hand at the helm. She needed more money, a sizeable increase in her allowance, for herself and their daughter Elizabeth. He rubbed the damaged eye. It had not troubled him very much since his return; perhaps the grey stillness of a Cornish winter was kinder than blazing sun and the sea’s mirrored reflections.

  Elizabeth. She would be eleven years old in a few months’ time. A child he did not know, nor would he ever know her. Belinda would make certain of that. He sometimes wondered what her friends in high society would think of the elegant Lady Bolitho if they knew she had connived with Catherine’s husband to have her falsely charged and transported like a common thief. Catherine never spoke of it now, but she could never forget it. And like himself, she would never forgive.

  Every day since their return they had tried to enjoy to the full, knowing that time did not favour them. The roads and lanes were firmer after days of a steady south-easterly, and they had ridden for miles around the estate and had visited Roxby, who remained in poor health after suffering a stroke. Poor humour, too: Roxby adored his style of living, hunting and drinking, and entertaining lavishly at his house on the adjoining estate, balancing the pleasures of a gentleman with his obligations as farmer and magistrate. He was even on intimate terms with the Prince Regent, and perhaps had been given his knighthood on the strength of that acquaintance. The advice of his doctors to rest and take things more quietly was like a sentence of death.