The Darkening Sea

by Alexander Kent

  They sat at the littered table, where Avery said uncertainly, ‘Quite a feast, Sir Richard.’ He seemed nervous, disquieted.

  Bolitho reached for one of the bottles.

  He said, ‘Be easy, Mr Avery. There are no officers here tonight, only men. Friends.’

  They solemnly raised their glasses.

  Avery said, ‘To friends then! No matter where they are!’

  Bolitho clinked his glass against the others. ‘So be it!’

  He drank, recalling Herrick in his black coat. When he wrote to Catherine again he would not mention the fiasco of their meeting. She would have already known, while he had continued to hope.

  It was over.

  * * *

  9

  Intrigue

  * * *

  LEWIS ROXBY, SQUIRE, landowner and magistrate, nicknamed with some justification the King of Cornwall, stood at the foot of the bell-tower of the Church of King Charles the Martyr, his eyes watering in the chill breeze from Carrick Roads. Beside him the curate of Falmouth’s famous church was droning on about the need for further alteration to the interior so that the new Sunday Schools which he had helped to found could be extended to the opening of a day school. But first more work was needed on the roof, and something had to be done to prevent the spread of rot in the bell-chamber.

  Roxby was well aware of the importance of helping the church and the community, or rather to be seen doing it. Richard Hawkin Hitchens was a good enough clergyman, he supposed, and he took a great interest in the education of local children under the church’s influence. The actual Rector of Falmouth only rarely visited the place, and his last appearance had in fact been at the memorial service for Sir Richard Bolitho, then believed lost at sea in the Golden Plover.

  Roxby remembered the wild excitement when two of Adam’s lieutenants had galloped into the square with the news that Bolitho was safe. The unfortunate Rector’s words had been lost in the bedlam as people had surged outside to the various inns to celebrate.

  He realised that the curate had stopped speaking and was looking at him earnestly.

  Roxby cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes, there is some value in it.’ He saw the man’s bewilderment and knew he had got it wrong. ‘I shall look into it. It does appear necessary, I suppose.’

  It seemed to work and the curate beamed at him. Roxby turned on his heel, angry with himself, knowing it would cost him more money. He saw his horse waiting beside the groom’s and summoned up happier thoughts, of the next hunt ball he would give.

  The groom said, ‘She be comin’, zur.’

  Roxby watched as Lady Catherine Somervell on her big mare cantered round a corner by The King’s Head and moved across the square. It was a tasteless name for an inn when you thought about it, Roxby reflected, considering the fate of King Charles.

  He doffed his hat and tried not to stare. She was dressed from head to toe in dark green velvet, with a hood partly drawn over her hair, accenting the beauty of her features.

  He made to help her down but she withdrew one booted foot from its stirrup and landed beside him without effort. He kissed her hand and could smell the perfume she wore, even through her thick riding glove.

  ‘It is good of you to come, Lewis.’

  Even her easy use of his name made him shiver. No wonder his brother-in-law had fallen in love with her.

  ‘I can think of nothing more pleasant, my dear.’ He took her elbow and guided her around the corner of a grocer’s shop. He apologised for his haste and added, ‘The curate has a hungry look. I fear he may think of something more he needs!’

  She walked easily beside him and barely hesitated when they left the shelter of the houses and the keen air blew the hood down on to her shoulders. Roxby was already short of breath and made every effort to hide it from her as he did from his beloved wife, Nancy. It never occurred to him that as he drank heavily and consumed far too much rich food, it was not surprising.

  Roxby said, ‘I must warn you, my dear, that what you intend could be an expensive failure.’

  She looked at him, a faint smile on her mouth. ‘I know. And I am grateful for your advice and concern. But I want to help the estate. What use are crops if the prices are controlled by the markets? There are plenty of places where they need every kind of grain, where bad harvests have been commonplace to a point of poverty.’

  Roxby watched her, still baffled by her involvement. He knew she had recovered a lot of money from the estate of her dead husband, but he would have thought it better if she had spent it on clothes, jewels, property and the like. But he knew she was very determined, and said, ‘I’ve found the vessel you wanted. She’s the Maria José and she lies at Fowey. I have had a friend look her over. He is well used to the prize courts.’

  ‘Prize?’

  Roxby continued to hurry beside her, pacing himself to her stride. ‘She was taken by the revenue cutters. A smuggler. You could change the name, if you wanted to.’

  She shook her head so that some of her dark hair tugged free of her combs and whipped out in the wind. ‘Richard says it is bad luck to change a vessel’s name.’ She looked at him directly. ‘I suppose I need not ask what happened to her crew?’

  He shrugged. ‘They’ll not be smuggling, m’dear, ever again.’

  ‘Are we close to Fowey?’

  ‘’Bout thirty miles by the main coach roads. But if the weather breaks …’ He paused doubtfully. ‘I would not let you go unguarded. I’d go with you myself but …’

  She smiled. ‘It would do very little for your reputation, I think.’

  He flushed. ‘I would be honoured, Catherine, proud to take you. But I am needed here until the winter sets in. You could break the journey at St Austell – I have friends there. I will arrange it.’ His tone implied if you must go.

  She looked past him at the cruising white cats’paws around the anchored merchantmen, at the boats under oars pitching and tossing while they went about their business. She could feel the cold even through her cloak. There were leaves floating on the water, and the bare trees were shining and black from the night’s rain. And yet it was still only October, for a few more days anyway.

  She had discussed the proposed purchase of a vessel with a lawyer who had come all the way from London upon confirmation of her plans. He had been as doubtful as Roxby. Only Ferguson, the one-armed steward, had shown excitement when she had explained it to him.

  ‘A fine, sound boat, Lady Catherine, one able to take passage to Scottish harbours or across to Ireland if need be. They’re no strangers to famine. It will make good sense to them, right enough!’

  Roxby exclaimed, ‘There’s one!’ He pointed with his riding crop, his face even redder than usual in the bitter air.

  ‘Two masts?’ She looked at him, her dark eyes questioning. ‘A brig?’

  He hid his surprise that she should know such things. ‘Not just a brig but a collier brig, broad in the beam, and deep holds that make them reliable craft for any cargo.’

  She shaded her eyes and watched the collier brig tack and head slowly towards the harbour entrance, her heavy tanned sails framed against the headland and the St Mawes hillside battery.

  ‘Two thousand pounds, you say?’

  Roxby replied glumly, ‘Guineas, I’m afraid.’

  He saw the same mischievous smile he had watched at his own dinner table. She said quietly, ‘We shall see.’

  Seeing her determination Roxby said, ‘I will arrange it. But it is hardly the work for a lady, and my Nancy will scold me for allowing it!’

  She recalled the young midshipman who had been Richard’s closest friend, the one who had given his heart to the girl who had eventually married Roxby. Did Roxby know anything about it? Did Richard’s sister still grieve for the boy who had died so young?

  It made her think of Adam, and she wondered if Richard had yet been able to speak with him.

  Roxby said, ‘I’ll ride with you. It’s on my way.’ He beckoned to his groom, but she had already
pulled herself into the saddle.

  They rode almost in silence until the roof of the Bolitho house showed through the ragged, windswept trees. Solid, reliable, timeless, Roxby thought. He had imagined that one day he might make an offer for it, when things had been bad here.

  He glanced sideways at the woman in green. That was in the past. With a woman like her, his brother-in-law could do anything.

  ‘You must sup with us again soon,’ he said affably.

  She tightened the reins as Tamara quickened her pace at the sight of home.

  ‘That is kind of you. But later on, yes? Please convey my love to Nancy.’

  Roxby watched her until she had gone through the weathered gates. She would not come. Not until she knew, until she had heard something of Richard.

  He sighed and turned his horse back on to the track, his groom trotting behind him at a respectful distance.

  He kept his mind busy and away from the lovely woman who had just left him. His morning would be full tomorrow. Two men had been caught stealing chickens and had beaten the keeper who had challenged them. He would have to be present when they were hanged. It always drew a crowd, although not as large as for a highwayman or pirate.

  The thought of pirates made him reflect again on the collier brig. He would provide a letter of introduction for Lady Catherine to give to his friends, as well as one for their eyes only. He was honoured that he could afford her some protection, even if he did not agree with her mission to Fowey.

  He was tired and vaguely depressed when he reached his own grand house. The drive and outbuildings were well tended, the walls and gardens in good condition. French prisoners of war had done much of it, for the most part glad to be free of the jails or even worse, the hulks. It made him feel charitable again, and he was in better spirits when his wife met him in the hall brimming with news. It seemed Valentine Keen, who had been made commodore, and his young bride would be calling to see them before Keen took up some new appointment.

  Roxby was pleased but he scowled as he said, ‘If they bring that brat with them, keep him away from me!’ Then he laughed. It would be good for Nancy to have some company. He thought of Catherine. And for her too.

  ‘We’ll invite a few people, Nancy.’

  She asked gently, ‘How is Catherine?’

  Roxby sat down and waited for a servant to drag off his boots, while another approached with a goblet of brandy. As a magistrate he believed it wiser not to enquire too closely into its origins.

  He thought about her question.

  ‘Missing him, m’dear. Drives herself hard to make the days pass.’

  ‘You admire her, don’t you, Lewis?’

  He looked into her pretty face and the eyes which, in his ardent youth, he had fancied were the colour of summer lavender. ‘Never seen a love like theirs,’ he said. As she moved to his chair he slipped his arm around her substantial waist, which had once been so slender. ‘Except for ours, of course!’

  She laughed. ‘Of course!’

  She turned as rain rattled suddenly against the windows. Roxby, earthy landowner that he was, could ignore it. But she was a sailor’s daughter, and the sister of the most respected officer in the navy now that Nelson was no more, and she found herself murmuring, ‘Lord, to be at sea on a day like this …’

  But when she looked at him Roxby had fallen into a doze by the fire.

  She had everything, she told herself. A gracious house, a prominent position in society, two fine children and a husband who loved her dearly.

  But she had never forgotten the young man who had offered his heart to her all those years ago, and in her dreams sometimes she still saw him in his blue coat with its white patches on the collar, his open face and fair hair like Valentine Keen’s. But she thought of him now as if he were still out there somewhere, braving the seas and the storms, as if one day he might stride up to the house, and neither of them would have aged or changed.

  She felt a lump in her throat and whispered, ‘Oh, Martyn, where are you?’

  But only the rain answered.

  *

  Lady Catherine Somervell walked into the bedroom and paused to listen to the heavy rain drumming against the roof and pouring down from the overflowing gutters.

  There was a cheerful fire in the grate and despite the bitter cold outside the house, in here it was warm and welcoming. She had had a hot bath and her body still tingled from the rubbing Sophie had given her back and shoulders. It was as well she had not waited longer in Fowey or with Roxby’s friends at St Austell: every road, even the high coaching way, would be flooded or a muddy trap for horse and carriage alike.

  Everyone had been kind to her, and even the prize agent at the harbour had eventually been able to overcome his surprise at dealing with a woman.

  She poured some of Grace Ferguson’s coffee, beside which someone had discreetly placed a glass of cognac.

  It was good to be back, especially when she discovered that Valentine Keen and his young wife had arrived at the house just before her.

  She imagined them now in the large room at the end of the corridor. In one another’s arms perhaps, already spent with lovemaking. Or quiet, as they had been at dinner, unable to think of anything but that they were soon to be parted. Commodore Keen, as he was now, was full of news about his tiny son whom they had left in Hampshire. One of Keen’s sisters had insisted on taking care of the baby so that they could make this journey together.

  Catherine had wondered if the real reason was to spare her feelings, because she had once told Zenoria that she was unable to bear children. She had not told her why, nor would she.

  Whenever she had encouraged Keen to talk of his new appointment she had seen the pain in Zenoria’s eyes. Separation so soon after the Golden Plover’s dreadful end and their discovery of one another again, their joy at the birth of their son; it might all be lost once Keen had joined his squadron.

  She had felt a dagger of jealousy when Keen had mentioned the likelihood of meeting with Richard, before or after he had led his ships to Cape Town. There would be an invasion of Mauritius, Keen had seemed certain, to stop the attacks on the trade routes once and for all.

  ‘Will it be difficult, Val?’

  Keen had seemed almost remote. ‘It is always easier to defend an island than to capture it. But if enough soldiers can be spared, and with Sir Richard at the helm, it should be possible.’

  Catherine had not dared to look at the girl when Keen had exclaimed with sudden enthusiasm, ‘It will be like a family again with Adam there!’

  Perhaps that, too, had blown over. Sailors had to go to sea: even poor Allday had had to make a difficult choice.

  She thought of the letter which had been waiting for her upon her return from Fowey. Richard had written it at Gibraltar. She looked suddenly at the window as the rain lessened, and a great shaft of moonlight probed against the house. November, and his first letter. It might mark the arrival of many more.

  It was a letter of love and tenderness, which with so many miles between them was all the more moving. He had written little of Valkyrie and her captain, not even much about Adam except to say that they would be leaving the Rock without waiting for Anemone to catch up.

  Every day is an obstacle without you, dear Kate, and if you do not come to me in the night watches my whole being aches for you. Some nights ago when we were weathering Cape Finisterre and the winds sought to put us ashore, you did come to me. The cabin was as black as tar, but you stood by the stern windows, your hair waving in the wind although the place was sealed against it. You smiled at me and I ran to hold you. But when I kissed you, your lips were like ice. Then I was alone, a complete man again because of the strength your visit had given me.

  She sat on their bed and opened the letters once more. Shy, sometimes over-sensitive, he was a man who gave so much while others demanded more. It is easier to defend an island than to capture it. How strange it had been to hear Keen’s opinion. Something he had learned from Richard. Li
ke others she had come to know. Oliver Browne, Jenour, and soon perhaps his new flag lieutenant, George Avery.

  Next month they would all be preparing for Christmas. How quickly it had come around again. And all the while she would be craving news, waiting for the post-boy; writing to him and wondering how each letter would reach him.

  She stroked the bed with her hand. Where she had given herself, again and again. The bed was turned down, and Sophie had laid out a gown for her as she always did.

  How would Zenoria accept this latest parting? She could barely have recovered from the last one, when the devastating news had broken about the shipwreck.

  Adam had taken her that news himself. Was that when it had happened?

  She got up and walked to the window. Most of the clouds had gone, and those still moving to a wet south-westerly glided from the moon’s path like solid things.

  Catherine picked up the gown and for a few moments stood naked while she threw her heavy robe on to a chair.

  She stared at the tall cheval glass where she had stood with Richard, watching his hand uncover her with exquisite slowness. The strong hand had moved over her body, exploring her as she had heard herself beg him to do.

  Then she stood at the window again and flung it open, gasping as the bitter air attacked her nakedness.

  ‘I am here, Richard. Wherever you are, I am with you!’

  And in the sudden stillness she thought she heard him call her name.

  Sir Paul Sillitoe paused beside one of the tall windows in the Admiralty building and watched the carriages shining like polished metal in the persistent drizzle, and wondered how or why he should tolerate such an existence. He had two estates in England and plantations in Jamaica, where he could soon drive the chill from his bones.

  He knew exactly why he did it, and even this momentary dissatisfaction was merely a facet of his own impatient nature.

  November and barely three o’clock in the afternoon, and already he could not see clearly across the road. London was wet, cold and miserable.