Herrick said nothing, and did not ask the ship’s name, afraid he would know her, and remember her as she had been.
What did I expect?
Like that last visit to Plymouth: this time he had seen the admiral himself. He could hardly recall the preliminaries, and, in fairness, the admiral had not enjoyed it either.
He had ended it by saying, “You will shortly be receiving a formal appreciation from their lordships, and I feel certain that if your services are ever required in the future…”
Like hearing the door slam in his face, for the last time. He had wanted to tell Nancy about it. But how could he?
Grimes was saying, “Ships today are mostly fir-built, Baltic pine and the like. On active service they’ll last eight, ten years at the most.”
Some one called him away, and Roxby remarked, “Talks too much, but he knows his trade.” He lowered his voice. “This place is far too big. My late father was always too busy to give it the proper attention, and I want my mother to be free to enjoy her life, not be tied to the estate and the constant demands of farmers and tenants.”
Herrick waited. He knew James Roxby was well respected in London; he had a fine mind and was ambitious, where many would be content.
But this was her life. Could he not understand?
Grimes the builder was back, with sawdust in his hair. “When we’ve cleared the old ballroom, we can give you a better idea.” Then, “You have another visitor.”
Herrick thought he sounded relieved.
Flinders spoke for the first time. “Came lookin’ for work—Dan Yovell’s dealin’ with him. Another—” He bit it back, and Herrick saw him avert his eyes. Another lame duck, he had been about to say.
He watched the new arrival as he spoke to Young Matthew, before striding toward them.
Roxby said, “Fellow’s on foot—must’ve walked all the way from the house!”
Flinders scowled as two of the workmen pulled the servant girl’s apron strings and made her protest, still laughing with them.
“Used to be a marine, served with Captain Adam, I heard.”
Tolan crossed the last few yards, his eyes moving between them and settling on Roxby. He held out a sealed envelope, then glanced at Herrick and knuckled his forehead. “Sir!”
Roxby said curtly, “Some one is coming to see me tomorrow,” folding the envelope and jamming it into his pocket. He nodded to Tolan. “Thank you for that. Speak to them over there, and tell them to give you refreshment.”
Flinders said, “I’ll deal with him, sir,” but stopped as Grimes the builder said to Tolan, “A moment.” Smiling, but quizzical. “Don’t I know you?”
Tolan faced him without expression. “Where did you serve, sir?”
Grimes threw back his head and laughed. “I was wrong! The only ships I served were the ones I helped to build. A long, long time ago!”
Roxby tugged out his watch. “Must be getting back. My mother will return this evening, before it gets dark on the roads. We can tell her what we’ve been doing.” He glanced around, but he and Herrick were alone. “I consider it important. I believe she will, too.”
Herrick walked beside him to the carriage. Even now Roxby was opening a sheaf of papers and frowning over the figures. Tomorrow he might be the surgeon again, but at this moment, Nancy would recognize her husband. The King of Cornwall.
Roxby looked up at Young Matthew. “Shall we wait for the fellow who brought the message?”
“Already gone, sir. Cut across the fields, I reckon.”
Herrick looked in that direction. So near the sea, but you could not catch a glimpse of it from here. He reached up to pull himself into the vehicle and thought he saw Young Matthew smile.
As the carriage rolled out on to the road, it halted for a herd of cows meandering toward a wide gate, and a red-haired youth turned to raise his stick like a salute; he had recognized the crest on the door. Herrick ran his hand along the polished sill. Richard would have used this vehicle whenever he came home from sea. And that last time, when he had left here to hoist his flag above Frobisher.
He could see his face, the smile. Sometimes he imagined the resemblance in Nancy, sometimes in Adam, something in the bone structure, or a gesture, or in the voice.
The carriage was slowing, Young Matthew calling to the horses as they topped the brow of a hill. Herrick leaned forward. Here was the sea again, a blue that recalled the Mediterranean…What would Richard say if he knew his true feelings for his sister?
He looked over at Roxby, but he was already immersed in another document.
That last visit to Plymouth, and the admiral’s condolences, were blurring, out of focus. Like some distant memory. Like those times with Richard. Ahead lay not defeat, but a challenge.
He smiled to himself. So let’s be about it!
“As you can see, my dear, the house is much as Gregory left it.”
Mark Fellowes paused at a bend in the grand staircase and waited for her to join him.
Lowenna looked down at the entrance hall, with its open door. The clatter of carriage wheels coming from the street seemed very loud in the silence. His study, its door half open. A pale rectangle on one wall where one of his favourite paintings had hung. It was strange to hear him named without his title. But Mark Fellowes had been his friend since…It was lost in shadows. But the house was not as he had left it. She ran her fingers along the carved banister. It was dead.
She followed him across the broad landing. Quieter now. Hard to believe that this was one of the busiest streets in London.
She was surprised that she was not tired after two days on the road, with only brief halts for rest and refreshment. True to his promise, Fellowes had ensured that she was watched over all the way by a soft-spoken agent engaged by the lawyers dealing with Montagu’s affairs.
Her escort had not been so quietly spoken on one occasion. They had stopped at an inn for the night, and somebody had called after her. She was not even sure what had been said. He might only have been the worse for drink. But in an instant her unassuming escort had the offender pressed against a wall, and she had heard the level voice take on a very different tone. The other man had fled.
When she had thanked him, he had merely shrugged. “Goes with the contract, miss.”
Then a day with the lawyers. Papers to be signed, and it had been unsettling to see his familiar signature. Discreet enough, but she had seen the curious stares from the younger members of the staff and known they were trying to guess the nature of her relationship with Montagu.
She still found it hard to accept that he should have considered her in such a private matter, when he had already given her so much. Her very life had been his gift.
Even Mark Fellowes, who was used to more unconventional associates, had been unable to hide his surprise. “Five hundred pounds!” He had beamed with genuine pleasure. “And the harp.” It was a replacement for the one which had been damaged beyond repair. She wondered if he remembered her last visit, when she had refused to pose with it.
She lifted her chin. She would keep her promise. Then back to Falmouth.
It was only a promise, not a debt.
And she would have something to contribute to their future. Adam would understand. So unalike, and yet he and Sir Gregory had become fast friends. Together they had created Andromeda…
More stairs, completely quiet now. The whole house standing between the real world and Montagu’s creation.
Fellowes said, “John Fielding is an artist of renown. I believe you have worked with him, and Gregory, of course.”
She nodded. He seemed unsure, even nervous. It was not like him. Most people would think him easy-going, untroubled. An artist in his own right, he came from a wealthy family, which must have helped in this precarious profession.
He said, “He has brought his patron,” he cleared his throat, “his client, with him. He already owns two or three of your studies.”
She looked at the big double doors, and rem
embered the long, bare room beyond, windows on one side, a walled garden below. Recalling his patience, his kindness. And his moments of frustration and anger, throwing brushes and palette in every direction. “It does not speak to me, my girl!” But it never lasted very long.
She halted. There were voices, one of them a woman’s.
“Do I know him?”
He was looking at a clock, which had stopped. “A name in the City, not our world. Meyrick. Lord Meyrick.”
It meant nothing. She touched her gown, testing herself. Tomorrow it would be behind her.
“I think we should go in.” He took her arm. “Together.”
The voices were silent now, but she did not notice them, only the long, littered table with its chalks and crayon, pads that still bore Montagu’s notes and preparatory scribbles. The canvas, propped where it held the light without reflection. A plain stool, and the harp.
Mark Fellowes was greeting the artist, John Fielding, older than she remembered, but the same almost casual stance, which she had soon learned was to put his subjects at their ease. No mean feat in some of the studios to which Sir Gregory had conducted her. He must have had great faith in her, when she had none.
Lord Meyrick was not what she expected. Tall, with an athlete’s body in expensively cut clothes. A bony, hawk-like face. A countryman, perhaps once a soldier.
“With all respect to the late Sir Gregory Montagu, his paintings do not do you justice.” His voice was low, almost soft. Unlike the hand that took hers and brushed it against his lips.
Lowenna saw the woman who had accompanied him, lounging in one of the tall gilt chairs. Not comfortable enough to encourage sightseers, Montagu had said dryly.
She turned her attention to the canvas. Her own face, gazing out at her, the rest roughly sketched from the painter’s imagination. It gave her time. The woman was hardly what she had expected, either, even as a casual companion.
Meyrick was saying, “I have another fine likeness of you, one of his most explicit, I believe. ‘The Rape of Helen.’” He laughed. “I felt only envy!”
She said, “But there was nothing that…”
Mark Fellowes moved the harp slightly.
“While the light is so favourable, I think we should begin.”
Meyrick gave a slight bow. “Please do. I am all attention.” To the woman he said, “Be patient. You need not have come here.”
John Fielding was already stooping over the table, selecting and discarding brushes. “You will recall where everything is kept, Lowenna.”
Fellowes called, “I shall be back in a moment,” and the doors clicked shut.
Lowenna walked behind the screen and looked from the window to the sheltered garden below. All green now, with few flowers, overgrown and uncared for. Like the house. The last time she had stood behind this lovely old Oriental screen, all the leaves had been brown, or scattering in the wind.
She saw the smock draped over a bench and held it to her face. The same one. Even the dried paint where she had wiped her fingers…
She was conscious of urgency, and a determination not to reveal it. The voices were speaking again, but she ignored them, shut them out. It was done. Her gown folded over the bench, her reticule beside it. She saw herself reflected in the window. The loose smock, the feet bare on the floorboards.
She walked deliberately into the studio, and felt nothing. Like being guided. When Fielding spoke, and touched her shoulder, it could have been Montagu.
She was sitting on the stool, and if she reached out she would feel the harpstrings. Like that day when Adam had ridden away, after seeing her. Perhaps wanting her even then. She must not think, where was he now?
Shall I always be asking, hoping?
“The hair should be free, looser. You can change it, can’t you?”
The soft hands were on her neck, and she could feel the weight of her unbound hair dragging at the smock as it slipped from her shoulders.
“Like this.” She heard the woman say something, but the hands remained.
Another voice. “If you’re certain, my lord?”
“Very, very certain.”
She could feel his breath on her neck where the hair had been pulled aside, then the smock had fallen and she felt his fingers around her breast. She was on her feet, clutching the robe, attempting to cover herself. A laugh, cracking into a gasp and a curse of pain, and the hand was suddenly gone.
Like madness. Or like being an onlooker.
Mark Fellowes bursting through the double doors, a tray perhaps with glasses splintering on the floor. And Meyrick’s hand pressed to his eye, reeling from the blow she could still feel burning through her arm, as if she herself had been struck.
Meyrick was shouting, “You bitch! I should have known!” His woman was pulling at him, calling out, laughing or sobbing, it was impossible to tell. “You can whistle for your bloody money after this!”
Fielding said nothing, standing with one arm across the canvas, as if to protect it.
Mark Fellowes was staring at the doors as they banged together. “If I had thought for an instant—”
She shook her head. Later, every detail would be clear. She walked to the windows again and stared out at the garden, then at her own reflection. It had to be now, or she might break.
“Finish the painting. For me. You will be paid.” She turned with that new, cold deliberation and returned to the stool and the harp, drew her fingers across the strings, heard the sweet notes in the utter silence. She knew the others were watching her as if unable to move.
She arched her shoulders and felt the smock fall around her ankles.
No fear. His final gift.
12 THE LONGEST DAY
“CAPTAIN, sir!”
Adam Bolitho opened his eyes, his mind reluctant to respond. It was too early; he had only just fallen asleep. But the shadowy figure beside the chair was real, the midshipman’s white patches visible against the cabin’s dim backdrop.
“Thank you, Mr Hotham. Right on time.”
“Morning watch, sir.”
Adam allowed his body to relax, hearing the muffled sounds of the ship around him, the occasional thud of the rudder head. Four o’clock in the morning. And it would be exactly that: Monteith had been standing the middle watch, and he would make certain that the half-hour glass was turned only when the last grains had run through it. No “warming the glass” to shorten the watch for those on deck. He could remember being told to do it himself when he had been like young Hotham.
He rolled over and felt the ship come alive beneath him. Slow, uneven; the wind had dropped again. He peered aft at the stern windows. Utter darkness, but in a few minutes his mind would be fully awake, and the gloom would be gone.
A visit to the chart room. The latest calculations on the chart. Reality. He felt for his shoes, a foot at a time. No pain. Luke Jago or some mate of his had done a good job of stretching the one that had been too tight.
“Mr Vincent sends his respects, sir, and do you require some refreshment?”
He felt the deck shudder again, heard the far-off squeal of blocks.
“I think not. It sounds as if Mr Vincent has other tasks more pressing. You’d better go to him.”
He heard the door close. Hotham would carry it all with him back to the midshipmen’s berth. Good or bad. As I once did.
He walked aft, his body angled unconsciously to the deck. Today, he would meet with the purser and discuss his complaint that some of the stores were unsatisfactory. Some one else had doubtless signed for them in Gibraltar when he was looking the other way. Two hands for punishment: minor offenses, with which Vincent could deal. Gun drill again. Yesterday it had been impossible to exercise the larboard battery at all; the gunports had been almost awash as Onward, alive and demanding, had heeled over on the opposite tack.
He stared at the whitecaps beneath the counter. The first hint of dawn lay on the water. Tomorrow they would anchor at Gibraltar once more. What next? And what had the
y achieved?
Something broke the pattern, a leaping fish, or perhaps the cook had thrown scraps overboard.
He recalled the explosion, the great spread of wreckage and grisly fragments which had followed. There were no cheers or celebrations, just two ships, dipping flags. How would that look eventually in his report? Would any one care?
He thought of their departure from Aboubakr. Coastal craft in plenty, but keeping their distance. People on the beach and along the headland, others by the battery and its hidden artillery. Friends or enemies?
Nautilus had been lying at her anchor, awnings spread and boats alongside, but her captain would be very conscious of the potential danger. Even now, many of those watching would view him not as a protector but an invader.
During his visit to Nautilus, Adam had been aware of the tension as he was greeted. Enemies for so many years, victories too often stained by sorrow and tragedy.
There had been moments when the shadow of the past was put aside. A French seaman had pushed through his comrades and held out both hands.
“M’sieu, you save our ship!” He had broken off, embarrassed or overwhelmed, or because his English had run its course. But he had grasped Adam’s hands in his, and his face had spoken the words which had eluded him.
Their meeting had been brief. Marchand had produced wine and two glasses and together they had drunk a toast which had remained unspoken. Then Marchand had seen him over the side, where Jago had been perched in the gig, unconvinced by this display of friendship.
Marchand had saluted him. And his last words, “Stronger than wine, Capitaine Bolitho!” still lingered in Adam’s memory.
He pulled on his old seagoing coat with its frayed and tarnished epaulettes and walked to the screen door. There would be new orders at the Rock. To take despatches to another squadron, or to relieve some man-of-war in need of refit or overhaul. Vigilance remained high in these waters, and there was always the possibility of local uprisings which could lead to renewed conflict. Pirates, slavers and smugglers all made their own rules along this endless coastline. Others, like Marchand’s masters, saw it as the gateway to Africa itself, a new challenge. An empire.
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