The Only Victor

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho left the room and hurried down the gilded circular staircase. A grand house and yet somehow spartan, like the man.

  She stood up as a servant opened the doors for him, her dark eyes filled with questions. He pulled her against him and kissed her hair.

  “He said nothing bad, dear Kate.”

  She leaned back in his arms and searched his face. “I nearly lost you. Now I know it. It is all there in your eyes.”

  Bolitho stared past her at a window. “We are together. The rain has stopped. Shall we send Young Matthew away and walk back? It is not far, and I need to walk with you. It is not the lanes and cliffs of Cornwall, but with you it is always a kind of miracle.”

  Later, as they lingered together on the wet pavements while the carriages and carts clattered past, she told him of a report she had seen in the Gazette. “There was nothing written about you or Sir Charles Inskip.” It sounded like an accusation.

  He held his cloak across her as a troop of soldiers trotted past, their hooves throwing up muddy water from the many puddles.

  He smiled at her. “My tiger again?” He shook his head. “No, it was a pretence that neither of us was aboard at the time. No longer a secret from our enemies, but it will throw some doubts amongst them. They will not be able to use it against the Danes, to bring more threats against them.”

  She said softly, “It tells of Poland fighting his ship against all odds until your nephew’s arrival.” She halted and faced him, her chin lifted. “It was you, wasn’t it, Richard? You beat them off, not the captain.”

  Bolitho shrugged. “Poland was a brave man. He had it in his eyes. I think he knew he was going to die . . . he probably blamed me for it.”

  They reached the house just as the rain began again. Bolitho remarked, “Two carriages. I’d hoped we might be alone tonight.”

  The door was opened even as their feet touched the first step. Bolitho was surprised to see the red-faced housekeeper Mrs Robbins peering down at them. She had been away at Browne’s big estate in Sussex, but had been here when Bolitho had rescued Catherine from the Waites prison. A formidable Londoner born and bred, who had had some definite ideas about keeping them both apart during their stay in his lordship’s house.

  Catherine threw the hood back from her head. “It is good to see you again, Mrs Robbins!”

  But the housekeeper peered at Bolitho and exclaimed, “I didn’t know where you was, sir. Your man Allday was out, yer lieutenant gone ’ome to South’ampton to all accounts—”

  It was the first time Bolitho had seen her distressed or so anxious. He took her arm. “Tell me. What has happened?”

  She raised her apron and held it to her face. “It’s ’is lordship. He’s been callin’ for you, sir.” She looked up the stairs as if to see him. “The doctor’s with ’im, so please be quick.”

  Catherine made to move to the staircase but Bolitho saw the housekeeper shake her head with quiet desperation.

  Bolitho said, “No, Kate. It were better you stay and look after Mrs Robbins. Send for a hot drink.” He held her gaze with his own. “I’ll be down directly.”

  He found an elderly servant sitting outside the double doors of Browne’s rooms. He looked too shocked to move, and for some reason Bolitho thought of Allday.

  It was dark in the big room except around the bed. There were three men sitting by it; one, apparently the doctor, was holding Browne’s hand, perhaps feeling his pulse.

  One of the others exclaimed, “He’s here, Oliver!” And to Bolitho, “Oh, thank God, Sir Richard!”

  They made way for him and he sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked at the man who had once been his flag lieutenant until he had succeeded to his father’s role and title.

  He was still dressed in his shirt, and his skin was wet with sweat. His eyes as they settled on Bolitho seemed to widen with effort, and he gasped, “I—I heard you were safe! A while I—I thought—”

  “Easy, Oliver, it will be all right.” He shot a glance at the doctor. “What is it?”

  Without a word the doctor raised a dressing from Browne’s chest. The shirt had been cut open and there was blood everywhere.

  Bolitho asked quietly, “Who did it?” He had seen enough wounds left by pistol or musket to recognise this one.

  Browne said in a fierce whisper, “No time—no time left.” His eyes fluttered. “Closer, please closer!”

  Bolitho lowered his face to his. The young flag lieutenant who had walked the deck with him, as Jenour had done, with all hell around them. A fine, decent young man who was dying even as he watched him fighting a hopeless battle.

  Browne said, “Somervell. A duel.” Each word was a separate agony but he persisted, “Your lady—your lady is a widow now.” He clenched his jaw so that his teeth brought blood to his lips. “But he’s done for me all the same!”

  Bolitho looked desperately at the doctor. “Can’t you do something?”

  He shook his head. “It is a marvel he has lived this long, Sir Richard.”

  Browne gripped Bolitho’s cuff and whispered, “That damned rogue killed my brother—like this. I have settled the score. Please explain to—” His head lolled on the pillow and he was still.

  Bolitho reached out and closed his eyes. He said, “I shall tell Catherine. Rest now, Oliver.” He looked away, his eyes smarting worse than before. Browne with an “e.” He walked to the doors and said, “Tell me when—” But nobody answered him.

  In the room where he had told Catherine about the battle, she was waiting for him. She held out a goblet of brandy and said, “I know. Allday heard it in the kitchen. My husband is dead.” She put her hand up to the goblet to press it to his lips. “I feel nothing, but for you . . . and your dead friend.”

  Bolitho felt the brandy sting his throat, remembering, putting each picture in place.

  Then, while she refilled the goblet, he heard himself say, “Oliver used the phrase, We Happy Few. The few are much fewer, and now poor Oliver has paid the price.”

  In the kitchen Allday sat with a half-demolished mutton pie and paused to refill his pipe. He said,“’Nother stoup of ale would not go amiss, Ma Robbins.” He shook his head and was surprised how much it ached. “Second thought, I’ll take some more o’ that rum yonder.”

  The housekeeper watched him sadly, grieving over what had happened, but apprehensive about her own future. Young Oliver, as he had been known in the kitchen, was the last in direct line for the title. There was talk of some distant cousin, but who could tell what might become of her?

  She said, “I’m surprised ’ow you can carry on at a time like this, John!”

  Allday focused his red-rimmed eyes with difficulty.

  “Then I’ll tell you, Ma Robbins. It’s ’cause I survived!” He gestured vaguely to the room above them. “We’ve survived! I’ll shed a tear with the next bugger, beggin’ yer pardon, Ma, but it’s us I cares about, see?”

  She pushed the stone jug across to him. “Just you mind your manners when the men come to take ’is lordship away. Quality or not, it’s against the law, wot they done!”

  She reached out to save the rum as Allday’s head thudded down on the table. In this gracious house the war had always been at a distance. There had never been any shortages, and only when young Oliver had been away at sea had it meant much to those who served belowstairs.

  But in Allday’s last burst of despairing anger, the war had been right here on the doorstep.

  She heard a door close and knew they were going upstairs, perhaps to sit with the body. Her red features softened. Young Oliver would rest easy with the man he had loved more than his own father so close at hand.

  The doctor who had attended both participants in the duel scrutinised his watch repeatedly, and made no secret of his eagerness to leave.

  Catherine sat by a low fire, one hand playing with her necklace, her high cheekbones adding to her beauty.

  Bolitho said, “So Oliver left a letter. Was he so certain that he was going
to die?”

  The doctor glanced unhappily at Catherine and murmured, “Viscount Somervell was a renowned duellist, I understand. It would seem a likely conclusion.”

  Bolitho heard whispers on the staircase, the sounds of doors opening and closing as they prepared Browne for his final journey to his Sussex home.

  Catherine said sharply, “This waiting! Is there no end to it?” She reached out and took his offered hand, and held it to her cheek as if they were alone in the room. “Don’t worry, Richard. I will not disappoint you.”

  Bolitho looked at her and wondered at her strength. Together and with the doctor’s aid they had discovered the whereabouts of Somervell’s seconds, and his body. It had already been taken to his spacious house in Grosvenor Square. Was she thinking of that? That she would be required to go there and complete the process of her dead husband’s burial? He tightened his hold on her fingers. He would be with her. There was already scandal enough; a little more could do no further harm.

  When the news got out there were many who might think he had killed Somervell. He looked away, his eyes bitter. I would that I had.

  Word had been sent to Browne’s country estate at Horsham. They would be coming for him. Today.

  Bolitho said, “I gather that Oliver’s older brother died in a similar affair with Somervell. It was in Jamaica.” Who could have guessed that someone like the outwardly carefree Browne would set out to find Somervell and settle the debt, in the only way he knew?

  A red-eyed servant opened the door. “Beg pardon, but the carriage is ’ere.”

  More feet and murmured exchanges, and then a powerfully-built man in sombre country clothing entered to announce he was Hector Croker, the estate manager. Three days since they had sent a message by post-horse. In rain-washed lanes and pitch-dark roads, Croker must have driven without any rest at all.

  The doctor handed him some papers, his relief even more obvious, like a man ridding himself of something dangerous or evil.

  He saw Mrs Robbins waiting with her bags and said kindly, “You’ll ride with us, Mrs Robbins. His lordship left word you were to stay in your employment.”

  Catherine walked to the doorway and gave the housekeeper a hug. “For caring for me as you did.”

  Mrs Robbins gave an awkward curtsy and hurried down the steps, with barely a glance at the house where she had witnessed so much.

  From the lower floor Allday peered up through the small window, and watched in silence as Browne’s body was carried down the steps to the carriage by several men in dark clothing. Aloud he said, “An’ there’s an end to it.”

  Bolitho followed the men to the carriage and gave some money to their leader. More quick glances, men who were used to this kind of work. Theirs was not to ask questions.

  Bolitho felt her slip her hand through his arm and said, “Goodbye, Oliver. Rest in peace.”

  Rain pattered across their bared heads but they watched until the carriage had turned up towards Piccadilly. In his letter Browne had requested that if the worst should befall him, he was to be buried on the family estate.

  Bolitho turned and saw her looking at him. Now she is free to marry me, but I am not. The thought seemed to torment him.

  She said softly, “It changes nothing, you know.” She smiled, but her dark eyes were sad.

  Bolitho replied, “I shall be with you until—”

  She nodded. “I know. That is my only concern. What it may do to your reputation.”

  Bolitho saw Yovell waiting inside the door. “What is it?”

  “Shall I pack our things, Sir Richard?”

  He saw her look up at the staircase. Remembering how this place had been their haven in London. Now they must leave it.

  Then she said, “I shall deal with it, Daniel. You assist Sir Richard.” Her eyes were quite calm. “You will have letters, I expect. To Val, and perhaps Rear-Admiral Herrick?”

  Bolitho thought he saw a message in her eyes but wasn’t sure.

  “Yes, Val would wish to know.” He thought how busy Keen would be, preparing to commission the newly completed Black Prince. It was a nightmare for any captain of a large man-of-war, let alone one which was to wear a vice-admiral’s flag at the fore. Shortage of trained hands and seasoned warrant officers, obtaining raw recruits by any manner or means, always more difficult in a naval port like Chatham where the press gang would be betrayed by anyone from tailor to beggar. Arguing with the victualling yards and making sure that the ship’s purser was not doing deals to procure rotten stores, so that purser and supplier could pocket the difference between them. Making a forest of oak into a fighting ship.

  Bolitho smiled grimly. And yet Keen had found the opportunity to visit Catherine until he himself could reach London and report on the battle.

  He would also send word to Adam, although his Anemone had barely had time to anchor after escorting the leaking Truculent to the security of the dockyard. Adam, too, had once been Bolitho’s flag lieutenant. More than most, he would appreciate how closely the appointment joined the man to his admiral.

  He heard Allday’s heavy tread on the kitchen stair. Except for him, of course.

  Catherine said thoughtfully, “He had no relatives to speak of, and most of them live abroad.”

  Bolitho noticed that she never spoke of Somervell by name. “He had friends at Court, I believe.”

  She seemed to become aware of the concern in his voice and looked up. “Yes, so he did. But even the King was angered by his behaviour—his quick temper and his craving for the tables. He took all that I owned.” She touched his face with sudden tenderness. “Another of Fate’s little whims, is it not? For now, what there is left will come to me.”

  That afternoon Jenour arrived quite breathless after changing six horses on the ride from Southampton. When asked why and how he had heard the news, Jenour explained, “Southampton is a great seaport, Sir Richard. News flies on the wind there, although the circumstances were not known.” He added simply, “My place is here with you. I know how you valued Lord Browne’s friendship, and he yours.”

  Catherine had gone to visit a lawyer with Yovell as her escort. She had declined Bolitho’s offer to accompany her and had said, “It is better I do it without you. You might be hurt . . . I could not bear that, dearest of men.”

  He said now, “You are just in time, Stephen. We shall quit this place today.”

  Jenour dropped his eyes. “It will be painful, will it not, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho touched his sleeve. “So old a head on so young a pair of shoulders!”

  Somehow Jenour had guessed his innermost feeling, even though he was young and inexperienced. Catherine was free now, and soon, it seemed, she would be independent again. Might Falmouth and his constant absences at sea seem a poor replacement for the life she had once known, and might want again?

  Life was like the ocean, he thought; sunshine one moment, a raging storm the next.

  He found that he was touching his eye, and felt his heart sink lower. What might she think of him if the worst happened?

  “Is there something you wish me to do, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho had forgotten Jenour was there. “We shall be going to Kent shortly, to the new flagship.” He let his mind dwell on the prospect. He knew that once he would have been on board immediately, no matter what anybody said or thought. But to be so near to death, and to lose another friend, put caution where recklessness had once ruled.

  “And there is something else,” he said.

  Jenour said, “I know, Sir Richard. The court-martial.”

  “Aye, Stephen. War is no place for personal greed and selfish ambition, though God knows you might not be blamed for thinking otherwise. Captain Varian betrayed his trust, just as he did those who depended on him in their greatest need.”

  Jenour watched his grave profile, the way he occasionally touched his eye. As if he had something in it.

  The door opened and Bolitho swung round, ready to greet her. But it was a messenger
boy, one of the servants watching him suspiciously from the hall.

  “I have brought word from Doctor Rudolf Braks, Sir Richard.” He screwed up his face as if to help memorise his message. “You may visit him on the morrow at ten o’clock.”

  Jenour looked away but was very aware that Bolitho showed no resentment at the curt message. It sounded more like a summons. Jenour had thought Bolitho would be at the Admiralty at about that time. Braks. A foreign-sounding name, one he was almost certain he had heard his father mention; but why?

  Bolitho gave the boy a coin and thanked him, his voice distant. Then he heard the carriage returning and said abruptly, “No word of that to Lady Catherine, Stephen. She has enough to face up to as it is.”

  “Yes, I see, Sir Richard.”

  “Damn it, you don’t, my lad!” Then he turned away and when she entered the room, he was smiling.

  She gave her hand to Jenour and then embraced Bolitho.

  He asked quietly, “Was it bad?”

  She shrugged, that one small gesture which always touched him like a sensitive nerve.

  “Enough. But ’tis done for the present. A report will go to the magistrates.” She looked at him steadily. “But both men are dead. No one can be charged for what happened.”

  Jenour discreetly left them alone and she said, “I know what you are thinking, Richard. You are so wrong. If I did not love you so much I would be angry that you could harbour such ideas. You took care of me when I had nothing . . . now we shall take care of each other.” She gazed at the fire and said, “We shall leave now. Quit this haven where we shared our love, and the world was a million miles away.”

  They looked at the window and the rain which ran down the panes.

  “Very apt.” She was speaking to the room. “There is no more light here.”

  The day ended more quickly than either of them had believed possible. There were many comings and goings, friends of the deceased and those who were merely curious, as their stares betrayed.

  The same doctor was in attendance, and when he asked if Catherine wished to see where the body of her husband was laid out she shook her head.