He reached the top of the steps and saw her waiting for him, as he knew she would be. Exactly as he always saw her in his thoughts, composed, beautiful, unreachable. She was dressed in dark green, her neck and shoulders bare and browned by the sun, her dark hair loose and quite still in the heavy air.
She said, “I received your message. You should not have come. Antigua is like a village. No secrets.”
He glanced at the telescope in its tripod and across the placid water of English Harbour. There were still crowds of small craft moving around the barque, and boats alongside her, tackles busily hoisting and lowering equipment and stores.
A great capture, was how the commodore had described it. The whole of the Caribbean probably knew about it by now.
She hesitated, then held out her hand. “But you are welcome, Graham.” She watched him bow his head to kiss her fingers. “What’s done is done.”
He said, “The barque is the Villa de Bilbao, first registered in Vigo.” She noticed, too, that he did not release her hand.
“I know.” She saw him start. “I was there, a year or so ago, when she was completed.”
She withdrew her hand and walked to the end of the balcony. “I was there.” She shrugged. “And several places in Spain, when I was helping Lord Sillitoe with some business matters. I speak Spanish well, you see.”
She swung round suddenly, her back to the water, her eyes flashing. “Why am I telling you, of all people? You know it already! Everywhere we have been, there have always been questions, and suspicions. Spain, Jamaica, even here in Antigua!”
“And what about Cuba . . . Havana?”
She turned again, slowly, as if the defiance and anger had drained her.
“I heard about the slaver, and the attack on one of your ships.” She shrugged once more, and Bethune felt it like a pain.
She continued in the same unemotional tone, “I shall return to England soon. But you know that too, I suppose?”
He stood beside her and caught a light, intoxicating scent of jasmine. “Captain Adam Bolitho is with me. He knows you are close by, Catherine.”
She hesitated, and said, “Kate.”
He said, “You see the little sloop, the Lotus?”
“I watched her come into the anchorage. Just as I saw her leave, nine, ten days ago. I forget.”
He pointed across the balustrade. “My first ship was very like her. A sloop-of-war, they were called in those days. She was named Sparrow.”
He felt her nod, her voice husky as she murmured, “Richard’s first command. He often spoke of her.”
He said, “This is not like the ‘back stairs’ at the Admiralty, Kate.”
She did not turn or look at him. “Or the park, by the dead trees where foolish young men fought one another, and often died because of a woman.”
“You’ve not forgotten.”
“Did you think I would?” Then she did face him, sharply. “But I’m not young any more, not just a girl who wanted to love and be loved! An affair —is that what they call it? Something those deprived of affection would never understand. Like that night when I was nearly killed, when he was the only one who helped and protected me, did any one really care—”
“I did, Kate, and well you know it. I cursed myself a million times for letting you go alone to your house.”
He watched her, surprised that she was suddenly calm again; or so she appeared. Only her breathing betrayed her.
“What are you saying to me, Graham? You are bored with your personal life as it is? Your wife and children, two, isn’t it, no longer engage all your attention and energy?” She reached up and touched his mouth with her fingers. “No, hear me. The darling of the nation, they called me. The beloved of England’s hero. It soon changed when Richard was killed. You saw the cartoons? The clever cruelty of the news sheets?”
He gripped her hand, and when she tried to pull it away held it more tightly.
“I want you, Kate. I have never stopped wanting you since that very first meeting.”
He felt her fingers relax. “I remember.”
They faced the harbour again, side by side. Then he said, “I shall be leaving the navy soon. Vice-admiral is more than I ever expected to attain.” He laughed hollowly. “But Our Nel rose no higher, so I am satisfied. I may be offered a post elsewhere, perhaps with the East India Company—my aide’s father seems to think it might suit.”
He turned away from the sea, toward her. “But I want it with you.”
She moved to the telescope and touched it uncertainly, her composure shaken.
“I thought you wanted me as something else. There was no hint in your letters . . . I had no real idea.”
Bethune smiled. “So you did read them.”
She looked away, one hand playing with her hair. “And destroyed them.”
He said, after a silence, “Your friend, Sillitoe. He may well be in serious trouble.”
Her hand moved, dismissively.
“I know about the company he deals with in London. He has made no secret of it. He was the Prince Regent’s inspector-general, as you well know.” She added sharply, “As was my late husband, you were no doubt about to remind me.”
“It goes far deeper than that.” Something seemed to move him. He gripped her shoulders and held her directly in front of him, feeling the surprise, the irritation. “I want you to stay here until you leave for England. No matter what is suggested, remain here. I will take care of things.” At any second she would break away, or scream at him. He could feel the warm skin under his fingers, like silk. Once again he had ruined it. Like the stupid midshipman he had just described.
She said quietly, not looking at him, her dark eyes veiled by the lashes, “Do you know what you have done, Graham?” She shook her head, and he saw the gold filigree earrings gleam through her hair, the ones she was almost always wearing when they had met; Richard had given them to her. “You have laid yourself wide open to blame, and worse, if it becomes known that you have warned me. Don’t you care?”
He answered evenly, “When you see an enemy, and his gun-ports are staring at you like pitiless eyes, it is too late to bargain, or count the costs.” Then the smile came, easily. “I want you, Kate. No bargains. I have always loved you.”
A door opened and as suddenly slammed shut. She said, “My maid, Marquita. I shall ask her to prepare some wine. Surely we can sit together now, and be friends, before you leave?”
Later the little maid Marquita carried a message down to George Tolan.
He was no longer required to stand watch.
He did not return to the ship. Neither did his admiral.
John Bowles, the cabin servant, held up the captain’s discarded coat at arm’s length and exclaimed, “This will not tolerate many more days at sea, sir! It was a blessing you didn’t go aloft in your best uniform—I’m not sure what we could ’ave done.”
Adam leaned back in the chair and allowed his mind to drift. After Lotus, everything seemed to have changed. As if he had been away from the flagship for months instead of days; or as if he had never taken command. Athena felt so heavy and secure. She could have been aground but for the shifting patterns of reflected sunlight on deckhead and screens as she nudged occasionally at her cable.
Troubridge was by the stern windows, watching the harbour and the anchored barque. A different Troubridge from the one in the cabin below when Bethune had lost his temper. That had changed, also, when Bethune had learned about the cargo of gold, and some consignment documents for delivery in Havana.
Adam was surprised that he was not exhausted; he had scarcely slept aboard the barque, even though Lotus’s tough and experienced second lieutenant had been ready and able for the passage to Antigua.
When he had left the little sloop to be pulled over to Athena it had been a moving and unexpected moment. It seemed that, without planning or prompting, Lotus’s company had manned the side and the yards to cheer him.
He had said to Pointer, “The c
redit goes to your lookout. He had his suspicions from the very beginning. There are not many like that!”
Pointer had been grinning all over his face and had shouted above the wild cheering, “With respect, sir, I don’t know of any post captain who’d shin up the shrouds to hear anybody’s views!”
Troubridge was saying, “You may not have seen her, but the frigate Audacity anchored an hour before you did.”
Adam stared at him.
“Any messages?”
Jago was standing by the screen, running a cloth up and down the old sword, and frowning as he rubbed. He said, “Young Mister Napier will still be finding his feet after the long haul from Plymouth.”
Troubridge clapped his hand across his mouth. “I forgot, sir! There was a letter sent across with the despatches. I was kept so busy . . .”
Adam recalled Bethune’s display of temper, and said dryly, “I’m not surprised.”
Bowles gathered up some empty plates and, with the tar-stained coat held at a distance, said, “I’ll see about some fresh shirts, sir.”
Troubridge said, “I must have a word with Paget, just in case . . .”
Adam held the letter in both hands.
“You stay, Luke. Have another wet. The admiral’s ashore, so you can rest easy.”
Jago opened, then closed his mouth again. The letter would be from her. She must have written it almost before Athena’s top-sail yards had dipped over the horizon.
He thought about Bethune and a lower deck–rumour he had picked up about his unescorted trip ashore. Unescorted, that was, but for the efficient Tolan. But it was impossible to get anything out of him. Like trying to open an oyster with a feather.
Adam held the letter to a lantern; outside the stern windows it had become quite dark. Lights were already moving on the current, and somewhere on the main deck he could hear water being pumped into the boats on the tier. Heat and sun could open up a boat like a basket without regular soaking in this climate.
The harbour, the unexpected prize, the short, savage fight and the death of a young midshipman seemed to fade; he was with her again.
He recognized the paper, some of Nancy’s, the old Roxby crest another poignant memory.
My dearest Adam, my love . . .
Jago poured himself another measure of cognac. In some ways it was better than grog, he decided. He sat in a chair and studied the old sword, back on its rack once more. So many sea fights, the names and the places too mingled for him to remember; but that sword must have seen ten times as many.
He thought of the slaver, the whining sailors who would now face trial, and very likely a Tyburn jig at the end of it. They were scum. But neither were they worth dying for. He looked across at the tall-backed chair which had some fancy foreign name he could not recall, where the captain sat rereading his letter. He smiled to himself. In case he missed something.
“Good news, Cap’n?” He still found it hard to credit that he could speak to an officer in this fashion, let alone a captain. Pride was not a term he used easily. But there it was.
Adam said, “She wrote from Falmouth, but she is going to London very soon.” He glanced at the letter. “She will be back there by now, I expect. Some legal business.” He pushed his fingers through his unruly hair. “She wishes us well.”
He could almost hear her. I want you. I feel you. I reach out for you.
Jago asked, “What d’you reckon’ll happen to that gold?”
He folded the letter carefully. “All those slaves which have been shipped out to these waters. Hundreds, maybe thousands. Slavers like Cousens take all the risks, but their rewards are greater than anything they could earn in honest trade. And now, because of greed or mistrust, we have that gold under lock and key.” He remembered the boatswain’s mate Todd’s summing up, like a Chatham whorehouse, and found that he could smile. The tiredness was gone. He touched her letter.
And I reach out for you.
The captured barque and others which had been reported were fast and well armed, but to crew and run them without the promise of rich reward was impossible. Bethune and his advisors at the faroff Admiralty were convinced that, without payment, no one would risk mounting opposition and the chance of being captured.
The major slaving countries, the United States, Cuba, and Brazil, would find it even harder to lure men like Cousens, or others willing to face death at the end of a halter.
Outside the screen door, in another world, the marine sentry brought his heels together with a click.
“First Lieutenant, sah!”
Adam faced the door. Someone for promotion or two dozen lashes. Taking on stores or recaulking part of the deck. Routine. Maybe the Stirlings of this world were right. Carry out orders and do your duty; leave the risks and the dangerous decisions to others. Perhaps a lesson he had learned the hard way and could never forget.
He remembered Bethune’s casual comment after Celeste’s sole survivor, the only witness to murder, had died.
Don’t become too involved. You lead, they follow—there is no room for sentiment beyond that.
He examined his own immediate reaction. Like a witness at a court martial. Pointer may have suspected it. Jago had known it when he had pushed his captain aside as they had boarded the barque. Duty had nothing to do with it. I am involved. I wanted revenge.
He realized that Bowles had quietly returned and was opening the screen door. Like the flag-lieutenant, he had thought it important that he should be left in peace to read his letter.
Stirling waited for the door to close.
“The wardroom have asked you to be their guest tomorrow for dinner in the mess. With the garrison so near, the food might be better than usual.” He did not smile, concentrating, as if to ensure that he had forgotten nothing. “The wardroom” made certain that this invitation was not too personal.
“I would like that very much. Please thank them.”
Stirling nodded and produced a sheaf of paper. “Now, about Mr Midshipman Vincent’s promotion . . .”
Adam felt the tension slipping away.
It was the closest they had been.
Bethune sat up in the chair and touched his face.
“A good shave, Tolan, as ever!”
There was a taste of fine coffee in his throat, an inner excitement which he was still unable to contain, or come to terms with.
He recalled the consternation on deck when he had returned on board the flagship. Royal Marines taking up their positions, boatswain’s mates moistening their silver calls so as not to scramble the salute as the vice-admiral stepped aboard.
He had spoken only briefly with Captain Adam Bolitho, who had been there to greet him. Clear-eyed and alert, with nothing to show of the sea fight and the unexpected capture.
Now the ship was fully awake, hammers thudding somewhere, while the sailmaker and his mates squatted about the main deck, the “market place” as it was termed on most working days, needles and palms going like Maltese tailors.
Tolan was saying, “Mr Paget is waiting to see you, Sir Graham.” He was thinking about the quiet house overlooking the harbour, and the woman, and wondering just how much Frogface Paget knew.
Bethune picked up the cup. It was empty. Again.
He recalled the wine, the last glimpse of the harbour and the winking lights. She had known almost from the beginning. He had felt it, as if she had been fighting a battle, against herself, perhaps. And who else?
He had never really believed it would happen. A word or a glance, he never remembered.
She had said, “You must leave, Graham.” Even his name on her tongue had excited him.
He had held her, like two people frozen in a waltz without music. He had tried to kiss her, but she had turned her face away, had pushed at his shoulders, shaking her head, words lost in her hair, body tensed as he held her, tightly and without pretence. Then she had said, “I don’t love you, Graham. You know what I said.”
Her arms had fallen to her sides, like th
at moment on the balcony.
“I have never stopped loving you, Kate!”
He had held her, her waist, her back, her shoulders, had felt her body trembling, as if she were going to break away and run from him.
The room had been almost in darkness, but he had seen her eyes, and her mouth, the lips parted as if she wanted to say something. To explain, to protest; he did not wait.
But she did not resist; her mouth met his. It seemed to be endless, uncovering her, touching her body, her skin, then finding her, taking her.
He was still not certain if he would have pulled away, if she had tried to stop him.
Afterwards they lay together in the humid room, the overhead fan unmoving.
There had been no words, as if each was afraid to shatter the moment.
Tolan said, “Flag-Lieutenant, Sir Graham.”
Bethune stood up and faced him. “Send them both in.” He regarded him for several seconds, lost for words, which was unusual. “Thank you, Tolan.”
“Sir Graham?”
“I shall not forget.”
He walked to the quarter windows and shaded his eyes, the water hard and bright, unmoving.
And she was over there. And he had once described Adam Bolitho as reckless.
Catherine folded the letter with great care, but hesitated before sealing it.
The house seemed very still, only the fan swaying slowly back and forth to stir the heavy air. The shutters were lowered so that the sunlight criss-crossed the room in fiery bars.
It was probably noon. She propped the letter against the ink-stand and plucked at the loose robe which covered her body from throat to ankle. Beneath it she was naked, still damp from bathing, as if to wipe away the feel and touch of each vivid memory.
She could open the blinds and go out on the balcony, and the view would be the same. The ships, the harbour’s unending panorama of coastal and local trading craft.
Man of War Page 22