She had told him to remain by the stile, to recover his breath or because she needed to be alone, he did not know. He watched her with silent admiration. Her hair, loosely tied, was whipping in the wind, her gown pressed to her body, making her look like some enchantress in an old poem or folk-tale, he thought.
The household had accepted her warily, unwilling to discuss her presence here with the local people, but, like Ferguson, prepared to defend her right as Bolitho had instructed.
Ferguson and his wife, who was the housekeeper, had expected Bolitho’s lady to remain detached from the estate and its affairs. He shook his head as he saw her turn and begin to descend the pathway towards him. How wrong they had been. Almost from the moment she had returned from Portsmouth after saying farewell to Bolitho, she had displayed an interest in everything. But she had always asked, not ordered. Ferguson tried not to think of Lady Belinda who had been rather the opposite. It made him feel uneasy and vaguely disloyal.
She had ridden with him to visit the surrounding cottages which were part of the Bolitho heritage; she had even managed to get him to reveal how much larger the estate had originally been in the days of Bolitho’s father, Captain James. Much of it had been sold to clear the debts amassed by his other son Hugh, who had deserted the navy and joined the Americans in their fight against the Crown.
Ferguson glanced down at his empty sleeve. Like Allday he’d been pressed not far from here and taken to the frigate Phalarope, Bolitho’s own command. Ferguson’s arm had been taken off at the Saintes. He gave a wry smile. And yet they were still together.
At other times, like today, she had walked with him, asking about crops, the price of seed, ploughing, and the areas where grain and vegetables from the estate were sold. No, she was like nobody Ferguson had ever met.
He had come to understand her during her first days here, when he had been taking her around the old house, showing and naming the grave-faced portraits of Bolitho’s ancestors. From old Captain Julius who had died right in Falmouth trying to break the Roundhead blockade of Pendennis Castle, to the recent past. In a small bedroom, covered by a sheet, she had discovered the portrait of Cheney. She had asked him to put it by the window so that she could see it. In that silent room Ferguson had heard her breathing, watched the quick movement of her breasts while she had studied it before asking, “Why here?” He had tried to explain but she had interrupted him with quiet emphasis. “Her Ladyship insisted, no doubt.” It had not been a question.
Then, after considering, it, “We will have it cleaned. All of them.” He had seen a rare excitement in her dark eyes and had known a sort of pride at sharing it. A woman who could make a man’s head swim; but he could just as easily picture her with a Brown Bess to her shoulder, the way Allday had described.
She had stepped back to look at Cheney’s portrait again. It had been Cheney’s gift, as a surprise for Bolitho when he had returned from the war. Instead he found only the portrait waiting. Cheney and their unborn child had been killed in a coaching accident.
Catherine had faced Ferguson when he had tried to tell her about it, had gripped his arm with compassion. “You were the one who carried her.” Her eyes had moved to his empty sleeve. “You did all you could.”
Then she had remarked, “So when I came here you all decided to conceal it further. What did you expect of me, envy?” She had shaken her head, her eyes misty. “Like the ocean, his ocean, some things are permanent.”
And so the portrait was returned to its original place, facing the window and the sea beyond, the colour of Cheney’s eyes.
He straightened his back as she strode down to the stile and held out his hand to steady her while she climbed over. Even now, with her hair breaking away from the ribbon which she had used to control it, with wet sand and dust on her gown, she seemed to give off some inner force. She was taller than Ferguson; there could not be much difference between her and Bolitho, he thought. She squeezed his hand. A casual thing, but again he could feel it; strength, tenderness, defiance, it was all there.
“That land yonder. What has been done with it?”
Ferguson replied, “Too many rocks washed down from the hill. No place for a plough. There’s that old copse too.” He watched her lip curve, and imagined her and Bolitho together. When he spoke again his voice was hoarse, so that she looked directly at him, her eyes like dark pools; as if she saw right through him and into his passing thought.
Then she smiled broadly and said, “I can see I shall have to watch you, Mr Ferguson, one arm or no!”
Ferguson flushed, which after serving at sea and then running the estate for so long, was almost unique.
He stammered, “I beg your pardon, m’lady.” He looked away. “We’ve not the men, you see. All taken by the press, or gone for a soldier. Old men and cripples, that’s all we’ve got.”
When he looked at her again he was surprised by the emotion in her eyes.
She said, “You’re no cripple. Together we’ll make something of that land.” She was thinking aloud, her voice suddenly fierce. “I’ll not stand by and see him milked by everyone who seems to have lived well off his courage! I don’t believe the squire—” her mouth puckered “— the King of Cornwall as he is called, I believe? He seems to have no difficulty managing his land!”
“French prisoners, m’lady. He is a magistrate, too.” He was glad to change the subject. Again he felt the guilt, when he had known she was referring to Belinda in her great house in London.
She said, “He is a fair man nevertheless. In any case I like his wife—Sir Richard’s favourite sister, is she not?”
Ferguson fell into step beside her, but had to walk fast to keep up. “Aye, m’lady. Miss Nancy, as she once was, was in love with Sir Richard’s best friend.”
She stopped and gazed at him searchingly. “What a lot you know! I envy you the smallest detail, every hour when you have known him and I have not.” She walked on, more slowly now, plucking a flower from a stone wall as she passed. “You are very fond of him also?”
Ferguson waved to some workers in the field. “I’d serve none other.”
She looked at the figures, who were pulling a large cart. Most of them were women, but she caught her breath as she recognised the old sailor, the one-legged man named Vanzell. Even he was adding his strength to the load.
Ferguson saw her face and knew she was remembering how Bolitho had taken her from the filth and horror of the Waites jail in London.
Her husband had connived and lied to have her transported. From what Allday had told him it seemed likely she would have died first. Allday had said that Bolitho had been beside himself, had half-carried her from the jail, bringing old Vanzell who had been a guard there out with him. There were several such on the estate. Men like Vanzell who had once served with Bolitho, or women who had lost husbands or sons under his command.
She said, “He’s done so much. We shall repay some of it by making the land come alive again. There’s Scotland—they always need grain, surely?”
Ferguson grinned. “Ships are expensive, m’lady!”
She looked at him thoughtfully, then gave the bubbling laugh he had heard when Bolitho had been with her. “There are always—”
She broke off as they reached the gate to the stable-yard.
Her skin was still sun-burned despite the winter here, but Ferguson later swore to his wife that she had gone as white as death.
“What is it, m’lady? Is something wrong?”
Her hand went to her breast. “It’s the post-boy!”
The youth in his smart cocked hat and breeches was gossiping with Matthew, the head coachman.
Ferguson said, “He’ll be from the town, m’lady. Unusual time of day though.” He beckoned the youth urgently. “Here, lad, lively now!”
The post-boy touched his hat and showed a gap-toothed smile. “Fer ’ee, ma’am.”
Ferguson muttered, “Show respect, or I’ll—”
She said, “Thank you,” then
turned away from the sunlight and stared at the letter. “It bears no mark!”
Ferguson stood by her elbow and nodded. “A clerk’s hand, I’ll wager.”
She gazed at him but he knew she could not see him. “Something has happened to him. In God’s name, I cannot—”
The youth, who was willing but not very bright, said helpfully, “ ’Tes off the mail coach, y’see.” He grinned again. “They ’ad to sign for that ’un.” He looked at their faces and added importantly, “’Tes from Lunnon!”
“Easy, m’lady,” Ferguson took her arm. “Come into the house.”
But she was tearing open the cover which revealed another sealed letter inside.
Ferguson sensed his wife come down the stone steps to join them and was almost afraid to breathe. This was how it would happen. Those family portraits told the same story. There was not a single male Bolitho buried in Falmouth. All had been lost at sea. Even Captain Julius had never been found when his ship had exploded down there in Carrick Road in 1646.
She looked at him and said, “He is in London.” She looked at the letter as if she were dreaming. “The fight is over at Good Hope. Cape Town has fallen.” She began to shake but no tears came.
Grace Ferguson put a plump arm round her waist and whispered, “Thank God! ’Tis only right!”
Ferguson asked, “What is the date, m’lady?”
She appeared to bring herself under control with a physical effort. “It does not say.” She stared at his handwriting. So few lines, as if to reveal his haste, his need for her.
She exclaimed, “I felt it. A few nights ago. I got out of bed and looked out to sea.” When she turned, her eyes were shining with happiness. “He was there, on passage for Portsmouth. I knew.”
Ferguson thrust a coin into the post-boy’s grubby hand. It had been a nasty moment. Now he guessed that the outer envelope had been to disguise its true contents from prying eyes. That was what he was returning to this time. What they would have to face together.
The post-boy had not gone, and seemed determined to discover what he had stumbled upon.
He said, “Th’ coachman was a-tellin’ Oi, zur, why the mail is late, y’see? One o’ they coaches cast a wheel along the way— proper excitin’ it were!”
Ferguson glared at him. So the letter was late. He looked at her profile, the joy she had always tried to control while he was away. In case . . .
He said, “He might he here in a day or so, m’lady.” He ticked off the points in his mind. “He would have to see them at the Admiralty. There would be a report.” He smiled, remembering Bolitho’s constant frustration at the delays which had always followed the heat of action. “Then, of course . . .” He glanced round at the sound of hooves on the track which led down towards the town square and the church where the Bolithos were remembered.
Matthew said doubtfully, “’Tis not one o’ my horses, m’lady.”
But she was already running, her arms outstretched, heedless of the staring eyes and gaping faces.
It was impossible; it could not be him so soon. Almost blinded, she ran through the gates as the horse and rider clattered over the cobbles towards the yard.
As Bolitho slipped from the saddle and caught her in his arms she pressed her face to his and gasped, “Oh, dearest of men, what can you think? How must I look—when I wanted to be ready for you!”
He put his hand under her chin and gazed at her for several seconds, perhaps to reassure them both that it was no mistake, nor was it the dream which maybe they had shared.
He said, “There were delays. I could not wait. I was afraid you might not—”
She put her fingers on his mouth. “Well, I have, and I want you to know . . .”
The rest was lost as their mouths came together.
“There. I was not too long, was I?”
Bolitho turned from a window and watched her come from the foot of the stairs. Her dark hair was still loose but brushed back across her shoulders, and she had changed into a simple dark green gown.
He walked to meet her and held her at arm’s length. “You would be beautiful if you wore a seaman’s smock!”
She turned in his arms. “When you look at me like that I feel I am about to blush like a silly young girl.” She searched his face. “How are you? Your eye . . .”
He kissed her cheek, his whole being aware of her closeness, the pressure of her body against his. All the doubts, all the misgivings were as if they had never been. Like shadows which die in the dawn. It was as if he had never been away. Holding her, talking with her, seemed so natural that it excluded every other sound and feeling.
“It has improved, I think. Even in the African sun, I was rarely troubled.”
She tried to conceal her relief, so that he should not know how her mind had ached for him while he had been away.
Bolitho asked, “And you? Has it been too bad?”
She laughed and tossed her hair on her shoulders. “They do not think I am an ogre—in fact I believe they quite like me.”
She became serious again, putting her arm through his and guiding him through to the adjoining room.
“There was some bad news.” She met his gaze as he stopped and faced her. “Your sister Nancy brought it a week ago. Your other sister has returned from India.”
Bolitho held her gently. “Felicity?” He saw her nod and tried to picture his sister. She was two years his senior, and he had not laid eyes on her since he had been a lieutenant. She was married to an officer in the Eighty-First Foot, who had later been seconded to the service of the Hon. East India Company. It was strange, but he could remember her husband better than he could Felicity. A pleasant, unassuming officer who had met her when his company had been stationed in Truro.
“Her husband is dead, Richard. So she is come to live in Cornwall again.”
Bolitho waited, knowing there was more. “She has two sons. One in the regiment, the other a sea-officer in John Company’s fleet, as I recall. How did he die?”
Catherine replied, “His horse threw him.”
“Have you met Felicity yet?”
He saw her chin lift, then she said, “She would not come with Nancy.” She added defiantly, “Because of me.”
He put his arm about her, hating how it must have been, how unfair. He said, “I would to God I had been here!”
She touched his face and smiled gently. “I had to tell you. But I did not want to spoil anything. Not now. Not with you here again . . .”
“Nothing will. Nothing can.” He felt her tremble and held her more tightly. “It is so good to be home again.”
“How was it out there, Richard?”
He tried to think clearly. All the faces. Commodore Warren, Captains Poland and Varian, Tyacke and all the others. In the halls of Admiralty it was as if nothing had really happened; or so it had felt.
He said slowly, “We lost some men, but it could have been worse. I saw Admiral Godschale in London.” He smiled, remembering his new pomposity. “Lord Godschale as he now is.”
She nodded. “I know. It seems to pay to remain at home while others fight and dare.”
He gripped her hands in his. “Nelson once wrote as much to me. I see that my tiger is still ready to leap out and protect me!”
She smiled despite her sudden bitterness. “Always.”
Bolitho looked out at the flowers and rustling trees. “I wanted to get away, to be here with you.” He felt her watching him but hurried on as if to rid himself of a burden. “I left poor Allday to follow with our baggage. He complained, but I think he understands.”
“It was strange to see you without him, your shadow.”
Bolitho said, “Homeward bound we laid off Madeira to take on fresh water and supplies. I bought you some lace there. When Allday arrives you will see for yourself if it is any use, or that I am less of a shopper than I am a sailor!” He released her and picked up his coat from a chair where he had thrown it. “I thought you might like this.” He took out a Port
uguese fan of silver filigree and held it out to her. “To replace the one you gave me and which I always have nearby.” He watched her pleasure, the expert way she flicked open its blades and held it to the sunlight.
“How beautiful!” When she faced him again her expression had changed, her dark eyes very steady. “Is it so wrong of me, Richard?” She went to him and placed her head on his shoulder as if to hide her feelings. “I cannot wait. I want you now. It is like a hunger, and I should be ashamed.” She looked at him, her faces inches from his. “But I am not.”
Then she pirouetted round and walked away from him. “The sun shines on lovers too, my darling Richard!” He heard her laugh as she ran up the stairway and knew she had understood his uncertainty, his awkwardness when he had returned to her.
He found her by the window which faced the headland, her hands parting the curtains, so that she appeared to be held in the sunlight as if she were floating. She wore a long white robe with a plain gold cord around her throat, her hair hanging down her back. She neither moved nor turned as he came up behind her and after the briefest hesitation put his arms around her, pulling her against him. He stared at the same view and felt her gasp as his hands moved over her body, touching the nakedness of her limbs beneath the thin gown.
She whispered, “Don’t stop, for God’s sake. Never cease to love me like this!” She arched her back as he ran his hands up and over her breasts, then she turned and waited for him to find and release the gold cord so that the gown fell about her ankles.
He barely remembered the next frantic moments as his shirt and breeches went unseen to the floor.
She was on the bed, her lips moist while she watched him.
“I am so cruel, Richard! You must ache from a dozen horses, and yearn for a good meal and some of your own wine.”
Then he was beside her, his hand exploring her while she returned his kisses, her fingers around his neck, caressing the short hair where his queue had been.
She wanted to ask him why he had done away with it; to learn how long they might be together, so many, many things, but neither her will nor her body could prolong the moment another second.
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