What would Lowenna think of him if she could see him now?
He closed the book with a snap. This was not a dream. This was now.
”Bosun’s mate!” Like hearing some one else. ”Do your duty!”
Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune put his signature on the last document and leaned back in the unfamiliar chair, looking around the room, which had been borrowed for the occasion.
He had been excited about this moment ever since the First Lord had proposed him for the West Indies appointment: a challenge, perhaps a risk, but going ahead, not remaining in the same post, waiting for the inevitable like so many of his colleagues here. There was always a last time for everything, and he was surprised at the sentiment which had prevented him from even looking into his old office at the other end of this floor. Surprised or guilty?
He had already said his farewells to those he had grown close to; it was an awkward experience, like leaving a ship. And tonight it would be worse, at his own house on the outskirts of London. Some senior officers, even the First Lord, would be coming to pay their respects, offer their good wishes, perhaps glad they were remaining under the Admiralty’s protection in these difficult times.
He heard voices in the corridor, boxes being moved. His boxes. Even the sounds were different here. His new flag lieutenant, Francis Troubridge, would be dealing with the last rites of office. Very young, but already proving himself extremely capable. He half smiled. And discreet.
He found himself at a window although he did not recall leaving the chair. April was just a few days old. Like that other April, three years ago; could it be so long? Since the telegraph on the Admiralty roof had received the signal, the incredible news that Napoleon had surrendered and abdicated. The endless war had been over, or so they had thought.
This same carriage way had been alive with cheering and gaiety within the hour. Boys who had grown into men, or served with Nelson aboard Victory at Trafalgar, had brought about the impossible dream.
He watched the traffic and the groups of people, the occasional splash of colour from a passing uniform. The dream was over.
Bethune was not politically involved, but he could not help but be aware of the shortages and rising prices. Half the national income went on paying the war debt. The men who had saved their country from tyranny were coming home to unemployment, even poverty.
He thought of his wife. She would be in her element tonight, flattering the guests, and always in charge. How did she feel about his going back to sea at this stage of his service? One of the youngest flag officers on the Navy List. Or had been.
”You don’t need to go, Graham. But if you must, then I suppose you must.”
Was that all it meant to her?
The elderly clerk was gathering up the papers. Bethune knew him better than some of tonight’s guests.
Bent over, with watery eyes, soon due for retirement. Oblivion. Hard to believe he had served aboard Black Dick Howe’s Queen Charlotte at that great victory still called ”The Glorious First of June’.
He paused now, and said, ”I’ll lock up after you leave, Sir Graham.”
Bethune had never seen him at a loss before; it surprised him, and he was moved by it. Vice-Admiral of the Blue. Successful and safe, no matter what happened after this.
The door opened. It was Tolan, his servant.
”The carriage is here, Sir Graham. All stowed.” He must have sensed the atmosphere, the uncertainty between admiral and clerk. ”Mr. Troubridge has gone on ahead.”
”Yes. I told him not to wait.” Tolan had been his servant, afloat and ashore, for as long as he could recall, and would be with him aboard Athena.
When he looked again, the clerk had vanished. Another ghost.
Bethune picked up the letter from the table. Perhaps this was the true moment of decision. He had made several attempts to write it, on Admiralty paper, so that it would not appear unseemly or too personal. In his old office it might have been easier. Where she had visited him, ‘up the back stairs’; they had joked about it. He had pretended, not wanting to shatter a friendship which had existed even then, in his own heart, anyway.
Lady Catherine Somervell. Always so easy to see in his thoughts. Her smile, the touch of hands. His fury and despair when she had almost been raped in that little house at Chelsea. He had walked past it several times, or driven by, knowing it was impossible, dangerous too, for his own security and future in the only life he wanted or understood.
Their last arranged meeting was always there, fixed in his mind. How she had called out to him, her eyes flashing with contempt as she had walked away from him toward her carriage.
”Are you in love with me, Graham?”
He could not remember his answer, shocked by the directness of the question. But he could still hear her response, her dismissal.
Then you are afool.r
It was madness, but he had thought of little else. As if it had given purpose and drive to the immediate future. Madness .. .
And yet when it came to him, he had not hesitated. No doubts.
My dear Catherine ... Regrets might come later.
”See to this, Tolan.”
Tolan took the letter and placed it in his pocket. Their eyes met only briefly.
”Good as done, Sir Graham.”
Together they walked out into the corridor. Mercifully, it was deserted, and unusually still. As if the whole building was holding its breath, listening.
Bethune was suddenly glad to be leaving.
Lieutenant Francis Troubridge jumped lightly from the carriage and peered up at the house. In broad daylight it was not what he had expected or remembered from that one visit with Captain Bolitho and his lovely companion.
He felt the coachman’s eyes on him. A mere lieutenant, admiral’s aide or not, did not, apparently, warrant the courtesy or effort of climbing down to open the carriage door. Or anything else.
Troubridge looked around at the other houses, all of which appeared to join or overlap, fronting a square, somehow apart from the crowded streets he had watched on his journey here.
Whitechapel was very different from what he had come to think of as his London. Thriving markets, streets alive with carriers’ carts or hawkers pushing their barrows, bawling out their wares and swapping jokes with housemaids and passersby. You could still hear them in this quiet square, and see the church tower which the coachman had used like a beacon to steer himself through the bustle and noise.
”Be long, sir?”
Strange to think that after today there would be no more free Admiralty transport, coachmen who were used to taking senior officers and their aides to such outlandish places as Whitechapel.
”As long as it takes. Wait here.” He gazed up at him. ”Please.”
Troubridge was twenty-four years old, but already experienced enough to appreciate that but for his father’s reputation and influence he would never have been offered the post of flag lieutenant. Bethune had wanted to rid himself of his previous aide, related in some way to Lady Bethune. He smiled. That had clinched it.
If he had left the Admiralty a few moments sooner he might have missed being passed the sealed note. Tolan, Bethune’s servant, had somehow intercepted it. Protecting his master, or making a new ally; it was not easy to tell with Tolan.
He faced the front door and examined his feelings. A ruse, or some kind of trap? He thought of the moment when Captain Bolitho had burst into the room with its mirrors and burning lights. The woman with the heavy candlestick in her hand, the sprawled, whimpering figure lying amongst the shattered glass. The bared skin where her gown had been torn from her shoulder. The captain’s face when he had taken her into his arms. And the cocked pistol in my hand. Was that really me?
He almost jumped as the knocker echoed throughout the house. He had used it without knowing, without hesitation.
He could recall catching a glimpse of a fearsome woman, who had confronted them at this same door. Even the captain’s coxswain had bee
n impressed.
But it was a small, pale-faced maid who opened the door now.
”Who shall I say?” A local girl. He heard the same accent on the streets, and in some of the houses where he had left senior officers to enjoy themselves.
Troubridge. I have come to .. .”
He got no further. The small person even executed a hasty curtsey.
”You are expected, sir!” She smiled, and it made her look younger still. ”This way, if you please.”
It was a room apparently on the other side of the house; there were windows from floor to ceiling, with some sort of garden beyond. Not normally in use. He took it in quickly, the easel with what he thought was a canvas cover, what looked like a page of scribbled notes pinned to it. A dying fire in the grate, and chests lying in a corner with some of the baggage they had brought from Southwark, still packed.
The strangest thing of all was a harp, standing by an upturned stool. It was badly burned, blackened by smoke, and most of its strings were broken.
He heard the door close behind him. It was hard to imagine the noise of a few minutes ago; the house was very quiet, so still that he flinched as a dying log collapsed in the grate.
She had written to him. He was surprised she could remember his name; there had been no time. And yet ... He walked to the easel and lifted the cover. As if some one had burned away one side of the canvas, the wooden frame split and blackened. Like the harp.
But the painting itself was otherwise intact, or perhaps it had been carefully cleaned. He moved slightly to allow the filtered sunlight to bring it to life.
The lovely girl, head flung back, her face filled with terror and the pain of the chains which held her against the overhanging rock. Her taut breasts and naked limbs almost touching the sea and leaping spray, where the shadow of some monster merged with the charred canvas.
No wonder the captain was in love with her. Who would not be?
He covered the painting. Lowenna. She had signed her note simply that. He moved away from the easel, unnerved in some way, as if he had stumbled on somebody’s secret. Like an intrusion. A breach of trust.
”I am glad that you could come, Lieutenant.”
He swung round and saw her watching him from that same door.
She was dressed from throat to toe in a loose blue-grey gown; when she moved it seemed to swirl around her, and she seemed insubstantial, unreachable. He noticed that her feet were bare on the thick rug, despite the coldness of the room. When she turned to glance at the ashes in the grate he saw her hair as if for the first time, falling to her waist, shining like glass in the April light. Like the hair in the painting, across the straining shoulders and bared breasts.
He heard himself exclaim, ”Andromeda!” and could feel himself flushing. ”I do beg your pardon. You see .. .”
She smiled, and reached out to take his hand, all tension gone.
”You saw the painting, Lieutenant? You are full of surprises!”
He said, ”My father is an admiral, but his brother chose the Church. My education, such as it was, bordered on the classical!”
He found it easy to laugh at the absurdity of his explanation, and his own confusion. He tried again. ”I came as soon as I was able.”
She looked at her hand on his. Surprised? No, deeper than that.
She said, ”I had a letter from Captain Bolitho.” Her chin lifted slightly. Defiance, a challenge. ”From .. . Adam. I should have been brave, sensible. Or tried to explain.” She moved away, her hand lifting as if to pluck one of the twisted harp strings.
Then she faced him. ”His ship has left Portsmouth?”
Troubridge nodded, and found his lips were bone-dry; he wanted to lick them.
”Athena will arrive at Plymouth tomorrow, according to the telegraph.” He knew she did not understand, or perhaps want to, and hurried on. ”Sir Graham Bethune will hoist his flag in ten days’ time, the roads permitting.” It was a little attempt to bring back her smile. It failed.
She said, ”I may not see him again. He could be away for a long time. He will forget
Troubridge had scant experience of women, and none with some one like this. But he knew she was going over and over the same arguments, fears even, which had caused her to send him the message. Before he could reply she said almost abruptly, ”Your captain is a man of war,” and shook her head, so that some of the hair spilled unheeded across her arm. ”At war with himself too, I think!”
He saw her hand on his cuff, gripping his wrist, as if it and not she were pleading.
”Now there is so little time.” Her eyes were dry, but her voice was full of tears. ”I wanted to tell him so much. So that he would not be hurt, not be damaged because of me.”
Troubridge put his hand reassuringly on hers and felt her stiffen immediately. Was that what had happened? Like the man on the studio floor, or others before that? He recalled Adam Bolitho’s face. He would have killed for her. He tried not to look at the baggage, the unopened boxes. She was Sir Gregory Montagu’s ward, or had been. It seemed as if she had no one to watch over her now. Montagu’s property was in the hands of lawyers, leeches, he had heard his father call them. Where would she go? Posing for some so-called artists, like the painting under the cover .. .
He said calmly, ”I could arrange a carriage for you. You can pay me back when you feel like it.” He saw the sudden anger fall away, like a cloud passing from calmer water. ”For the first part of the journey, at any rate.”
She put her hand to his face, and touched it very gently.
”Forgive me. I am not good company today.” She swung away from him. ”Sir Gregory left me well provided. With money.” She seemed to shiver, with either laughter or despair. To think that
I dared to stand on the shore and watch his ship sail away. Say nothing, do nothing, let him fade out of reach!” She turned back, and her composure was gone, her body trembling within the loose gown. ”I want to stand beside him with pride, not endless guilt and the terror of what I might do to him. To us.”
Troubridge made up his mind. Stupidly, he remembered what a senior post captain had once told him. Warned him. ”A flag lieutenant does not make decisions. He merely acts on those determined by his betters!”
He said, ”Athena cannot sail without her admiral. Sir Graham will not be joining her for ten days. Even then, there will be matters to deal with before we weigh anchor.”
Her eyes filled her face; she was close enough for him to feel her quick breathing, catch the scent of her body.
She said, ”What must I do?”
”I am going to Plymouth ahead of Sir Graham.” He swallowed. What are you saying? ”Three carriages and a wagon of some kind.” He was seeing it in his mind, and later he might see the risks even more clearly.
”You would do that for me?”
He felt the tension running out, like sand. ”For both of you.”
She walked back and forth across the room. ”And you ask and expect no reward?” She did not look at him. ”Sir Gregory would have approved of you.” She put her hand to her breast and held it there. Recovering herself, like preparing for a painter’s pose, and beyond. The enemy.
Troubridge looked down at his sweating hands, surprised that they appeared normal. Relaxed. He said limply, ”It were better that you should have a maid for company.”
Afterwards, Lieutenant Francis Troubridge thought it was probably the first laughter that room had heard for a long time.
Adam Bolitho nodded in passing to the Royal Marine sentry and continued into his cabin. A cold, brilliant morning, everything familiar and yet at once so strange. It was always a demanding time, for captain or newly signed land man alike. The time to up-anchor, to bring the ship to life, so that every block and piece of cordage worked as one: the ship under command.
Bowles’ tall, stooping shadow moved into the sunlight slanting from the stern windows.
”Somethin’ to warm you, sir?”
Adam smiled, and could feel th
e tightness of his mouth and jaw. He had held a command since he was twenty-three. Surely there was nothing new to catch him unawares. He had seen many eyes darting glances at their new captain, a few threatening fists when this man or that was slow at the braces or running to lend his weight to a capstan bar. There was even a fiddler, although you could hardly pick out the tune above the bang and thunder of released canvas, the rigging creaking as the fresh northeasterly filled sails and heeled Athena hard over to lean above her own reflection.
The harbour mouth, always a challenge with no time for second thoughts. Even Fraser, the sailing master, had remarked, ”Don’t look wide enough to drive a four-in-hand through it!” Outwardly calm, as Adam had always remembered him. Something to cling to when surrounded by faces still mostly unknown, unproved.
He cradled the mug in both hands, relaxing very slowly, his ear still tuned to the thud of the tiller head, the scamper of bare feet overhead and the occasional bark of commands.
It was strong coffee, some of his own stock which Grace Ferguson had packed for him, in between her farewell sniffs and sobs, laced with something even stronger, and he saw Bowles’ private smile when he nodded his approval.
He thought of Stirling, the first lieutenant. He had handled the chaos of weighing anchor and had directed the seamen to their immediate duties of making sail and then shortening it again in a sudden squall, with apparent ease and confidence. His powerful voice was quick to point out a clumsy mistake or lack of purpose. But rarely it seemed to offer encouragement or praise when they were equally deserved.
Barclay, the second lieutenant, who had first greeted Adam’s arrival, was Stirling’s opposite, never still. He was in charge of the foremast with all its complicated rigging and the ever-busy jib sails, a vital part of any ship’s workings, leaving or entering harbour. Adam put down the mug and stared at it. Or when called to fight.
Athena, like most of the ships he had seen, might never stand in the line of battle again. But the Algiers campaign, and the events leading up to it, had taught him lessons he would, must,
never forget. It took more than a flag to determine who was an enemy.
Alexander Kent - Bolitho 26 Page 9