Bolitho said sharply, “Admiral Broughton was a fool. If he were one of my officers today I would tell him as much!”
They both became calm again, and Hamett-Parker said, “My record is one to be proud of.” He glanced meaningfully around the room. “I think others must have appreciated that.”
Bolitho said, “What is expected of me, Sir James?” He was surprised how calm he sounded. Inwardly he was burning like a fireship, angered by this unreachable man, angry with himself.
“We need a plan, one that can be exercised with simplicity, one that will not antagonise the flags of nations not already drawn into the fight.”
“You mean the Americans, Sir James?”
“I did not say that!” He wagged one finger and gave a stiff smile. Then he said, “I am glad we met before we meet the others involved.” He pulled some papers towards him. “My flag lieutenant has the address of your lodgings in London, I assume?”
“I imagine so, Sir James.” Probably half of London knew it. “May I ask something?”
He tugged out a bright gold watch and glanced at it. “I must not be too long.”
Bolitho thought sadly of Godschale. One cannot do everything. “What is intended for my last flag captain, Valentine Keen?”
Hamett-Parker pouted. “For an instant I thought you would ask about someone else.” He shrugged, irritated. “He will hoist a broad-pendant when all is decided. If he performs adequately I am certain flag rank will be his privilege, as it is ours.”
Bolitho stood up and saw the other man’s glance fall to the old sword. “May I take my leave, Sir James?” It was over; the rapiers were to be laid in their cases again. For the present.
“Please do.” He leaned back in his great chair, his fingertips pressed together like a village parson. Then he said, “Vice-Admiral Sir Lucius Broughton, the fool you so bluntly described, died doing his duty in the penal settlements of New South Wales.” His pale eyes did not blink as he added, “His position will, I am certain, be ably filled by your friend, Rear-Admiral Herrick.”
Bolitho turned on his heel and flung open the doors, almost colliding with the hovering lieutenant.
Hamett-Parker had got deep under his skin, out of malice or for some other purpose, he did not know or care. What did he want? He had been careful not to mention Catherine, or “the scandal” as he would no doubt call it.
He hurried down the stairs, his mind reeling with ideas and memories. Just the mention of the Euryalus: Thelwall coughing out his life, Broughton watching the terrible flogging unmoved. But most of all, Catherine. He had commanded Euryalus when he had first met her. She had been aboard the merchantman Navarra; her husband had been killed by Barbary pirates, and she had cursed Bolitho for causing his death.
“Would the nice sea officer like a ride in comfort?”
He spun round, half-blinded by the sunlight, and saw her watching him from the carriage window. She was smiling, but her fine dark eyes were all concern.
“How did you know?”
She took his wrist as he climbed into the carriage, and replied quietly, “I always know.”
Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker held the curtain aside and looked down as the woman aided Bolitho into the elegant carriage.
“So that is the notorious Lady Catherine.”
Sir Paul Sillitoe, who had just entered by another door, smiled at the admiral’s back. “Never underestimate that lady, Sir James, and do not make her an enemy.” He walked casually to the littered table and added coolly, “Or you will make one of me. Be assured of it, sir!”
Bolitho sat on a bench in the shade of a solitary tree in the neat little garden behind the house. It was peaceful here, and the clatter of iron-shod wheels and the regular passing of horses were muffled, as if far away. Behind the rear wall were the mews for this row of houses, for horses and a limited number of carriages.
He watched Catherine cutting roses and wondered if she were still missing Falmouth and what must seem the unlimited space of the house there, compared to this small town-house. Her gown was low-cut so that she could feel the benefit of the sun directly overhead, and the darker line on her shoulder where she had been so cruelly burned in the open boat was still visible.
It had been three days since his interview with Hamett-Parker and the uncertainty, the waiting, had unsettled him.
She looked at him and her expression was troubled. “Is there no way we can learn what is happening, Richard? I know what you are thinking.”
He stood up and crossed to her side. “I am bad company, dear Kate. I want to be with you and have no senseless burden hanging above me!”
A breeze turned over the pages of The Times and blew it on to the grass. There was more news of enemy attacks on shipping heading for home around the Cape of Good Hope. Each vessel had been sailing independently and without escort. It seemed likely that that had been what Hamett-Parker had been hinting at. Suppose he were ordered back to Cape Town, Golden Plover ’s original destination when mutiny and shipwreck had erupted like a sudden storm? Were the marauding ships which had carried out these attacks French naval vessels or privateers? Whatever they were, they must be based somewhere.
She touched his face. “You are worrying again. You hate this inaction, don’t you?” She moved her hand across his mouth. “Do not protest, Richard. I know you so well!”
They heard the street bell jangle through the open door and Sophie’s merry laugh as she spoke to someone.
Catherine said, “She is seventeen now, Richard. A good catch for the right man.”
“You treat her more like a daughter than a maid. I’ve watched you often.”
“Sometimes she reminds me of myself at her age.” She looked away. “I would not want her to endure such a life as that!”
Bolitho waited. Like Adam, she would tell him one day.
Sophie appeared at the top of the steps. “A letter, me lady.” She glanced at Bolitho. “For Sir Richard.”
He tried to imagine Catherine at sixteen, as Sophie had been when she had been taken into the household. Like Jenour she seemed to have matured suddenly after the open boat and their experiences at the hands of the mutineers.
She gave the square envelope to Bolitho. “Nice young officer it was, me lady. From the Admiralty.”
Catherine recognised the card in Bolitho’s sunburned hands. It was a beautifully etched invitation, with a crest at the top.
“From Hamett-Parker. A reception to mark his appointment. His Majesty will be in attendance, apparently.” He felt the anger mounting inside him, and when she took the card from his hand she understood why. She was not invited.
She knelt down by him. “What do you expect, Richard? Whatever we think or do, others will believe it improper.”
“I’ll not go. I’ll see them all damned!”
She watched his face and saw something of Adam there, and the others in the portraits at Falmouth. “You must go. To refuse would be an insult to the King himself. Have you thought of that?”
He sighed. “I’ll lay odds that somebody else has.”
She looked at the address on the card. “St James’s Square. A very noble establishment, I believe.”
Bolitho barely heard. So it was beginning all over again. A chance to isolate one from the other, or to eagerly condemn them if Bolitho chose to take her with him.
“I wonder if Sillitoe will be there?”
“Probably. He seems to have many irons in the fire.”
“But you quite like him.”
He thought she was teasing him to take his mind off the invitation; but she was not.
“I am not sure, Kate.”
She laid her head on his lap and said softly, “Then we shall wait and see. But be sure of one thing, dearest of men. He is no rival—nobody could be that.”
He kissed her bare shoulder and felt her shiver. “Oh, Kate, what should I be without you?”
“You are a man. My man.” She looked up at him, her eyes very bright. “And I am
your woman.” Her mouth puckered and she exclaimed, “And that’s no error!” Then she relented. “Poor Allday, what must he have thought?”
She recovered her roses and added evenly, “They may try to discredit me through you, or the other way round. It is a game I know quite well.” She touched her shoulder where he had kissed it and her expression was calm again, faraway. “I shall accept Zenoria’s invitation to visit Hampshire.” She saw the sudden cloud cross his face. “Only for that day. It will be a wise precaution. Trust me.”
They went into the house, where they heard Sophie talking with the cook in the kitchen.
She looked at him, smiling faintly when she said, “I think I strained my back.” She saw his understanding and added, “Perhaps you could be the navigator again and explore it?”
Later as she lay in his arms she whispered, “Sometimes, dearest of men, you have to be reminded of what is important . . .” She arched her back as he touched her again.
“And what is not . . .” The rest was lost in their embrace.
4 STRATEGY
CAPTAIN Adam Bolitho reined the big grey to a halt and stared across a flint wall towards the great house. The wall was new, probably one of the many being built by French prisoners of war, he thought. He stroked the horse’s mane while he gazed at the rolling Hampshire countryside with its air of timeless peace, so different from his home county where the sea was rarely out of sight.
People had glanced at him curiously as he had ridden through villages, following the old coaching road. A sea officer was obviously rare in these parts, while the military were only too common.
He looked at his hand and extended it in the hot sunshine. It was quite steady, untroubled. He almost laughed at himself. He felt far from either, and doubted more than ever the wisdom of his having come here.
Anemone lay at Spithead awaiting orders, but he was so short of hands after the port admiral had insisted on transferring some of his men “to more deserving vessels” that the frigate would not move for a few more days. As he had expected he had lost his senior lieutenant Peter Sargeant. It had been a sad parting but Adam had not hesitated, knowing too well how important it was to grasp the chance of promotion, in Sargeant’s case the command of a fleet schooner. You rarely got a second opportunity in the navy.
Aubrey Martin, the second lieutenant, had moved up, and they were hourly expecting another junior officer and some midshipmen. Having lost some of his most seasoned warrant officers to the needs of the fleet as well as his first lieutenant and good friend, Adam knew it would be a long haul to regain Anemone ’s status as a crack frigate with a company to match.
The captain of the dockyard had discovered that he was going for a ride, if only to free himself from the constant stream of orders and requests which were the lot of every captain under the watchful eye of a flag officer. The captain had received two letters for Valentine Keen, which had followed him from the flagship Black Prince in the West Indies and had eventually arrived in Portsmouth.
The dockyard captain had commented dryly, “One is from his tailor, same as mine in London. I’d know that skinflint’s scrawl anywhere. But you never know.” He added helpfully, “Nice canter anyway.”
That at least was true. The powerful grey had been loaned to him by a major of marines at the barracks, an officer who was apparently so well supplied with horses that he would have had to serve for a hundred years in the Corps to pay for them if he depended on his service allowance alone.
Adam studied the house again. About five miles to the east of Winchester at a guess, and not many villages nearby. Five miles—it could be ten times that, he thought.
But why was he here? Suppose Keen suspected something, or Zenoria had blurted out the truth. He made himself face it without embroidering the facts. He had taken her. A moment of despairing passion when each had thought they had lost someone loved in the Golden Plover.
He had taken her. Had she refused him he dared not think what might have happened. He would have been ruined, and it would have broken his uncle’s heart. Of her they would have said, no smoke without fire. The easy way for the liars and the doubters.
He often remembered his fury when he had heard the stranger at the inn insulting the Bolitho name. Each time he’d come to the same desperate conclusion. I nearly killed him. Another instant and I would have done it.
You fool. Go back while you can. Even as he thought it his heels dug into the grey’s flanks and he was trotting down a slope towards the tall gates, each with a bronze stag on the top. The family was very rich and influential, and Keen’s father was known to think his son mad for remaining in the navy when he could have almost any career he wanted.
An old gardener was stooping amongst flower beds, his barrow nearby. Adam touched his hat as he rode up the sweeping drive, and noticed that there was a long fowling piece propped against the barrow. This place must be very isolated, servants or not, he thought. How would an untamed girl like Zenoria settle to this after Cornwall’s wild coastline?
The house was even larger and more imposing than he had imagined. Pillars, a magnificent portico adorned with carvings of lions and strange beasts, and steps clean enough to eat from.
He would have smiled but for his inner tension. The old grey house at Falmouth was shabby by comparison. A place that welcomed you. Where you could live.
A small, wizened man darted from somewhere and held the reins while Adam dismounted.
“Give him some water. I shall not be long.” The man nodded, his face completely blank.
He did not turn away from the house as the man led the big horse around the corner of the building. He thought his nerve would break if he did.
One of the paired doors swung inwards even before he could reach it, and a prim-looking woman with keys at her waist stood facing him without warmth.
“Captain Adam Bolitho, ma’am. I have letters for Captain Keen.” Or was he already promoted to flag rank?
“Are you expected, sir?”
“No. Not exactly.” Used to sailors jumping to his every command, he was taken aback by her chilling tone.
She remained firmly in the centre of the doorway. “Captain Keen is away, sir.” She may have considered telling him where he was, but changed her mind. “Will you leave a message?”
There were voices and then he heard Zenoria call, “What is it, Mrs Tombs?”
Adam felt his heart beating faster. The housekeeper was aptly named.
The door opened wide and she was there, staring at him. She wore a simple flowered gown and her dark hair was piled above her ears. Her only adornments were some pearl earrings and a pendant, which he guessed was worth a small fortune. He did not quite know what he had been expecting, but she looked like a child dressing up in adult’s clothing. Playing a part.
“I am sorry, er, Mrs Keen, I have some letters.” He fumbled for them, but his cuff caught on the short fighting sword he always favoured. “My ship is still at Portsmouth. I thought—”
The forbidding housekeeper asked, “Is everything in order, ma’am?”
“Yes.” Zenoria tossed her head as he had seen her do when her hair had hung down like glossy silk. “Why should it not be?”
“Very well, ma’am.” She stood back to allow the newcomer to enter. “If you require anything . . .” She glided away soundlessly on the marble floor but her words remained like a warning.
Zenoria stared at him for several seconds. “You know you are not welcome here, Captain. ” She glanced around as if afraid someone would hear. But the house was completely silent, as if it were listening. Watching.
“I am so sorry. I shall go directly.” He saw her draw back as he took a pace towards her. “Please. I didn’t mean to offend you. I thought your husband would be here.” He was losing her, even before he had made any contact.
She was very composed, dangerously so. “He is in London. At the Admiralty. He will be back this evening.” Her eyes blazed. “You should not have come. You must know that
.”
A door opened and closed discreetly and she said, “Come into the library.”
She walked ahead of him, very erect and small in this great cathedral of a house. The girl with moonlit eyes, as his uncle had called her.
There were books piled in little heaps on a table. She said in an almost matter-of-fact voice, “All mine. Waiting for our new house when it is ready for us.” She stared at the tall windows where a bee was tapping on the glass. “They are so kind to me here . . . but I have to ask. I have no carriage and I am told not to ride alone. There are footpads and they say deserters always close by. It is like the desert!”
Adam thought of the gardener and his musket. “When will you leave here?” He barely dared to speak.
She shrugged. Even that sent a pain to his heart. “This year, next year—I am not sure. We will live near Plymouth. Not Cornwall, but close. In truth I find this life daunting. The family is away in London for the most part, and Val’s youngest sister never wants to leave the baby alone.”
Adam tried to remember the sister. She was the one who had lost her husband at sea.
“I see nobody. Only when Val comes back can I . . .” She seemed to realise what she was saying and exclaimed, “And what of you? Still the gallant hero? The scourge of the enemy?” But the fire refused to kindle.
He said, “I think of you so much I am almost beside myself.” A shadow passed the window and he saw a girl carrying the baby across a neatly trimmed lawn. “It’s so little,” he said.
“You are surprised, are you? You thought perhaps he might be older—even your own son?”
She was taunting him, but when he turned towards her he saw the real tears in her eyes.
“I wish to God he were mine. Ours!”
He heard his horse being led to the front of the house again. The housekeeper would feel happier if he left without further delay. She would likely tell Keen about his visit.
Darkening Sea Page 6