He heard the clink of glass. Morgan had roused himself and was preparing his own remedy. But if he gave in to it now…
“How is—” He had to grope for the name; he was in worse condition than he thought. “Dimmock?”
“He’ll live.” Murray might have smiled; it was difficult to see in the half light. “Slept like a log throughout the whole episode, too full of grog to know or care.”
Adam heard voices, Jago talking to the sentry. What did he think about being called at this hour to take the gig across to Nautilus? He had not left his side all day, except when he had been here with young David.
“Midshipman Napier…”
Murray was ready for that. “I’m satisfied. Surprised, too, I must confess. A word of advice for some one, however. If a masthead lookout is required urgently, let young Napier wait a while before he puts up his hand again.”
Adam felt his dry lips break into a smile. “I’m grateful. For all you’ve done.”
Murray looked toward the stern windows. The sea was flat and unmoving, molten gold in the dying light. “I keep thinking of those poor devils today. My trade requires of me both impartiality and compassion.” He turned back, his face in shadow. “But I thank God for our survival, and the quick wit of the man who kept us alive.” He thrust out his hand. “Be proud!”
Adam could still feel the palm, as rough as any seaman’s, long after the door had closed behind him.
The cabin seemed to swim in the dimness. What of tomorrow? And the next decision? He could see his small desk, replaced exactly where it had stood; Morgan might have measured it. The blank sheet of paper was lying in the centre as before. He could almost see the words flowing from his pen.
My darling Lowenna…
The door opened and he turned away, abandoning her once more.
“Are you ready, Luke?”
“Gig’s alongside, Cap’n.”
Proud.
11 REFUGE
GEORGE TOLAN EASED HIS BACK against the hard seat and felt the cart swaying around a bend in the lane, like a jolly-boat in a lively sea. Every muscle ached; he had given up counting the days and the miles. And the doubts.
He glanced sideways at the driver. His name was Dick, and he had described himself as a carter. He must have overheard him asking directions to the Bolitho house when he had been left by the coach at the Spaniards Inn.
Friendly enough. “I’m goin’ that way m’self. Tes some far to walk with that great bag!”
Captain Bolitho might have been making a gesture, nothing more, no matter what his coxswain had insisted. They would both be at sea now in any case. And this was Cornwall, not London or some familiar port. Even the air was different: clean, indefinably tinged with the sea. He watched the passing colours in the hedgerows, foxglove, vetch, campion; the carter named them for him. Then, “You’ll be a stranger in these parts?” Tolan had felt the warning. It had never left him, despite moments when he had begun to believe that he was safe. Out of reach.
He thought of Sir Graham Bethune, the vice-admiral he had served from his time as captain. Servant, aide, unofficial bodyguard: as close as any one could hope to be, while he had still been needed.
“Workin’ up at the old house, then?”
Tolan said, “I think so, yes.”
He nodded. “Be seein’ Mister Yovell, I s’pect. Nice old stick, but sharp as a tack, so watch out!” He laughed and flicked the reins. “Don’t tell he I said so. I does a good bit o’ trade at the Bolitho house!”
Tolan loosened his coat. The sun was warmer than he had expected, or is it me? They might slam the door in his face, of course, as if he were some vagrant. Bolitho would have forgotten all about their last meeting, although the flag lieutenant, Troubridge, had done his best, providing Tolan with a warrant for travel by coach as far as Plymouth, and even for the final leg of the journey as an outsider with a few other passengers, swooping along narrow roads with branches almost brushing their heads.
He saw the sea again, dark blue, and hard in the reflected glare, a few whitecaps weaving a pattern closer to the land. Like claw marks.
There was a small white-painted cottage now, a man with a long clay pipe standing to wave as the cart clattered past.
“Coastguard.” The carter pointed to a cluster of trees, dark green against the road and the sea beyond. Bent, but surviving the worst this storm-lashed coast could offer.
Tolan saw the house. Journey’s end. He had learned the hard way: hope had to be proved. And it was dangerous.
He relaxed the hand which had been gripping his knee. Hope could be fatal…
Past some gates and turning now into another lane. People, a boy leading an unsaddled horse across cobbles. Some one polishing a smart landau, turning without curiosity at the sound of the cart. Stables, and some kind of tower, a weathervane turning to flash in the sunlight. Doves taking flight as the wheels braked to a halt beside a water trough.
Dick the carter murmured, “Watch this un, my son.” But he smiled and raised his battered hat. “Good day to ’ee, Miss Bolitho!”
Tolan caught a brief glimpse of the girl as she strode toward the house, in riding habit, a crop swinging from her hand. She ignored the greeting.
“I pity the poor devil who tries to make his way with she!”
Tolan jumped down to the cobbles and reached into his coat pocket. The carter shook his head.
“Nay, tes my pleasure, this time.” He winked. “We’ll meet again!”
Tolan picked up his bag. One step at a time. No stupid mistakes. Like the girl who had walked past. He had not even seen her face, but he had been reminded of his sister. Where was she now; had she married? Would she think of me without shame? Something like panic gripped him for a moment. Had he expected to stay safe, living a lie forever?
Some one touched his arm. “Nobody looking after you?” and laughed. “Sorry to make you jump!”
Tolan faced him, calm again, on guard. “Mr Yovell?”
“I’ll take you to him.” Over his shoulder, “Come a long way, have you?”
Tolan followed him; the carter was already talking to somebody else, but raised his hat casually as he passed.
He replied, “Far enough,” but he thought it went unheard.
His guide said, “There ’tis. He’ll be in the office.” He smiled and went back into the yard.
Courteous. No questions. So far, just as Luke Jago had described. He swung round as he reached for the door handle and almost collided with a young, fair woman wearing an apron. She stared at him, startled.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t know—”
Upset, angry; it went deeper than that.
Tolan reached inside his coat, making no sudden movement.
“I was told to see Mr Yovell.” He saw her breathing slow, one hand thrust some hair from her forehead. “I’m George Tolan.” There had been voices beyond the door. Now there was silence. “From London.”
Her eyes were still fixed on his face. He had learned a great deal about people and their reactions during the time he had been serving Bethune. You didn’t last long if you were too slow to measure up: his own words on more than one occasion. And this girl was…
She bent her head slightly, looking away at last. “I b’lieve I heard about it, zur.”
He said quietly, “‘George’ will suit.”
She gestured to the door. “He’m in there,” and seemed to tense as the voices resumed. “I have to go. My place is in the house.” She turned, but something made her say over her shoulder, perhaps out of mere politeness, “Jenna is my name.”
The boy who had been leading the horse was coming back, and she took the opportunity to hurry away.
Tolan rapped on the door and pushed it open.
Daniel Yovell was standing by a desk, facing him as he stepped into the office. Even this seemed familiar, because of Jago’s descriptions: the shelves and ledgers, and a few framed prints and maps on the wall, one awry because the door had been slammed shu
t once too often. Even the stove, unlit now, where Jago had shared a wet from time to time with this neatly dressed, corpulent figure.
Yovell held out his hand. “Take a seat. You are George Tolan, if I am not mistaken.” He plucked a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles from his forehead and laid them on the desk. “We had word you would be arriving.” He permitted himself a slight smile. “Eventually.”
Tolan touched his coat again. “I have a letter…”
“Later. Captain Adam gave us all the details. The rest we can deal with in our own good time.” He moved a file of papers as if to cover something, a Bible or prayer book, Tolan thought. Strangely, that fitted, too.
Yovell was saying, “We function here not unlike a ship of the line. Requiring loyalty, honesty and no fear of hard work. How does that suit you?”
Tolan saw his irritation as another door banged, and he recognized the second voice he had heard. A tall man, built like a prizefighter, about his own age. What Jago would call full of himself.
Yovell said, without warmth, “Leaving, are you?” and did not wait for an answer. “This is Mr Tolan, who is staying with us a while. Mr, ah, Flinders is steward of the adjoining estate, Roxby’s. Lady Roxby is Captain Bolitho’s aunt, as you will discover.”
Tolan could feel the eyes, and the questions.
Yovell added smoothly, “Mr Tolan was an aide to Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune.”
“An’ you’ll know some good stories to tell, I expect?” Flinders turned toward the door, “I shall send—” He seemed to be listening to something, and changed it to, “I shall bring the estimates for those repairs, and we can fix a price.” He looked directly at Tolan this time. “There was a deal of talk about your Sir Graham a while back. Had a real eye for the ladies, I hear. An’ not just an eye, neither!” The door slammed behind him.
Daniel Yovell replaced his spectacles and studied the newcomer. What next? Nothing was ever straightforward.
But he said, “I believe you were speaking to our Jenna just now. A local girl, very respectable. Mrs Ferguson’s right hand these days.”
Tolan said nothing, recalling the carter’s amiable warning. Sharp as a tack, so watch out! He was right.
So it had been Flinders who had upset the girl. Used to getting his own way. A bully, and possibly a lecher. Nothing new, but not to be ignored.
“I shall take you over to the house and introduce you to Mrs Ferguson. She’ll be glad of some help, I daresay.” He did not elaborate. “Then I shall find you a corner to call your own.” Again that calm, owlish gaze. “While you’re with us.”
Tolan picked up his bag and followed him into the yard. He felt the sun on his face and breathed the warm air with an odd sense of relief. Captain Bolitho had kept his word.
One of the stable hands looked over and gave him a grin. He quickened his pace. Yovell was holding open a door for him.
So cool and still after the noise of the stable yard. And right or wrong, it was his decision. There was no turning back.
Lowenna looked down at the portmanteau open on the floor, and touched the gown carefully folded on the top. She had worn it on their last day together.
It was too late now. She had said she would go.
She walked to the window and stared out across the terrace, toward the sea beyond. The letter had been brought by messenger from Mark Fellowes, Sir Gregory Montagu’s closest friend. Two days in London, three at the most. The will had been settled; there were more papers to sign. Fellowes would take care of everything, even a carriage and accommodation in both directions. He was a good man, and a friend still, despite their mutual loss.
She looked around the room. Impersonal, perhaps deliberately so. She was still a visitor here, while work was being done on the roof of the Roxby house where she was officially in residence. As Nancy had said, “For appearance’s sake. Give all the busy tongues something else to wag about!” She felt herself smile.
When Adam came home. But when would that be? How long before…
Nancy was in Bodmin, on family business. She had asked her advice on the proposed trip to London.
“Better to do it yourself, my dear, rather than involve yet another lawyer looking to line his purse!”
It had made sense. But that was then.
There was a light tap at the door.
“Just looking to see if you needs any help?” It was Grace Ferguson’s girl. Friendly, feminine, efficient and always ready to offer a hand or pass the time of day when she felt it was welcome.
“Have you been to London, Jenna?”
She clapped her hands together. “Never been out of Cornwall—Lowenna.” She hesitated. “We’m surely going to miss you.”
“I shall be back before you know it. Who was that I saw you talking to earlier? I didn’t see him leave.”
Jenna reached out to adjust a curtain. “A man called Tolan. Mr Yovell knew all about him.” She did not look at her. “Served with Captain Adam and an admiral.”
Lowenna smiled. Adam had told her about Tolan, a loyal servant to Bethune, and discarded without a thought. Like the flotsam on the beach where she sometimes walked.
“What was he like? Did he seem a nice person?”
“I s’pose.”
Lowenna crossed to the window again, touching the girl’s arm gently. She should not have asked. Jenna had been sent out to work when she was very young. Walking home late one night, she had been raped by a soldier from the local garrison, although no one was ever charged or convicted. She had borne a child, which had lived only a few days.
It might have been me. And the brutal aftermath, the rumours, the whispers that would never die. There’s no smoke without fire.
But now she was here, safe and cared for.
Like me.
“If you needs me…” The door closed softly.
Lowenna stared out at the sea, at a tiny sliver of sail unmoving on the shimmering water. Probably a fisherman coming in to port to sell his catch. Like that last time: the idlers on the waterfront watching the comings and goings of every vessel. Critical, but wistful too.
The only life they knew. Now only memories remained.
She thought of Jenna, and the new arrival, Tolan. Making new lives, starting again. They were to be envied.
She remembered Adam’s face, his pleasure when she had recognized the vessel leaving Falmouth on that last day. Would he recall that? I want to belong, to share it and play a part, not just be a privileged possession. A rose in his lapel…
She thought of Nancy again: the daughter, sister, aunt of naval officers, and descended from generations of others, she understood better than many the iron grip of ships and the sea on those who had served and been rejected by them. Like Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick. Herrick would be such a good partner for the widowed Nancy, but pride or something fiercer stood in his way. And John Allday, Sir Richard’s old coxswain, who had held him in his arms as he had died, and who was now the popular landlord of The Old Hyperion inn over at Fallowfield: he had in spirit never left that same deck. Dan Yovell, Bryan Ferguson, so many others: no wonder this old grey house held such strength.
She stared at the tiny sail again. It had barely moved.
Tomorrow, then. She was afraid and she was determined.
She said aloud, “Walk with me.”
No longer alone.
Thomas Herrick climbed down from the carriage and peered around, recovering his bearings, aware that Young Matthew had already left his box and was murmuring something to his horses. Careful to display no undue concern for his passenger, but always ready, in case he was needed.
He would never forget that other visit, the first time they had seen him with the empty sleeve, and his own outburst. “I’m not a cripple, for God’s sake!” And his instant apology, ashamed that he had turned on a friend who could not answer back.
His companion on this short journey, James Roxby, had already descended and was speaking with two men on the drive before the imposing house. As old or
even older than the one he had just left, but sprawling and a little shabby, and built on several levels, enlarged as required over the years. It must have seen many changes, and dominated an estate which was one of the largest in this part of the county.
Herrick recognized one of the men. Flinders had been steward of the estate for a good many years. Tough and competent: he would have needed to be, to satisfy his late master, Sir Lewis Roxby. “The King of Cornwall,” as people still called him.
He saw them turn, and James Roxby smiled.
“This is Henry Grimes.” He waved his hand vaguely. “He is putting the old house to rights for us.”
Herrick had already noticed the gaping holes in one of the many rooftops, with workmen, stripped to the waist, crawling through them. All very industrious, and well aware of them. Like hands working ship, he thought, when an officer made an unexpected appearance on deck.
“This is Rear-Admiral Herrick, a visitor.” He did not introduce Flinders.
Grimes was small and wiry, with grey hair pulled back in a tight, old-fashioned queue. Keen, brilliant eyes, which Herrick sensed missed nothing. He felt the familiar pain in his shoulder and realized he had straightened his back, out of habit, at the mention of his rank.
Grimes smiled broadly. “Glad to know you, sir.” He did not offer his hand. “I’ve been trying to explain about timber to my people—like talking to blocks of wood these days, if you’ll pardon the expression! But you’ll understand what I mean. When I first started work in a shipyard, timber was of the finest quality, from the Growth of England, they always insisted.” He shook his head. “The way things are going, there won’t be an oak left standing in the country!”
“How have you managed here?” Roxby sounded impatient, perhaps thinking of the final bill.
Herrick turned to watch as a young woman appeared by a builders’ shack carrying a tray of glasses and mugs, and laughing as some of the men stopped work and gathered around her.
Grimes was saying, “They’re breaking up an old two-decker down at the yard. Her old timbers are still rock-solid, despite her thirty-odd years.”
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