Nancy had closed the carriage partition then, and said, “But I can’t expect him to do everything, now that poor Bryan is no longer with us.”
She sensed that Yovell disliked working with Flinders. He had already showed his willingness to help here, in the church, where the Falmouth Sunday school was being extended to include day education, the first, she thought, in Cornwall.
Something would have to be done. Lawyers could not round up sheep, or arrange the cutting of slate for barns and walls.
She shifted her position in the hard pew; her body was very aware of its riding lessons. With distaste, she recalled Flinders’s remark about her bare feet in the sand.
She tried to shut it from her thoughts. She was a visitor, with no right to criticize or interfere.
Her mind lingered on Adam’s letter, and the longing that matched her own. Did one ever get used to it, and if one did, did one lose something, some independence, some essence of self?
“Ah, there you are, my dear!” Nancy came to the door of the pew and paused, looking around the church, at the shadows and the shimmering colours from the windows. “You must meet the curate, Lowenna, when you have a moment. He will want to know you.” She touched her arm impulsively, like Adam, or a young girl again. “Before Adam comes home.”
Lowenna stepped from the pew. When he had touched her . . .
“If only . . .” She stopped and reached out. “What is it, Nancy? Is something wrong?”
Nancy shook her head, but seemed unable to speak. One of the isolated figures had stood up to leave a smaller chapel, where Lowenna had seen old flags and banners hanging. A man dressed in dark clothing, moving stiffly past a table laden with books. Only his hair stood out, grey, but in the occasional shaft of sunlight it looked nearly white.
He seemed to realize they were there, separated by the rows of empty pews, and the little cleaning woman by the font.
Nancy called out, and her voice rang in the dim air.
“Thomas!” She was almost sobbing. “Thomas Herrick! It really is you!”
Herrick pushed past the last barrier and stared from one to the other before taking Nancy’s hand in his and studying her, his cocked hat falling unheeded to the tiles. It was then that Lowenna saw that he had only one arm.
Nancy said softly, “This is Thomas Herrick, my brother Richard’s best friend, who became part of our lives a long, long time ago.” She watched as he lifted her hand to his lips, saw the face she remembered so well, aged and tanned like leather, but the eyes the same, blue and clear: the young lieutenant still there, looking out. She smiled. “Rear-Admiral Herrick, as he now is.”
Herrick bowed to Lowenna as she was introduced, and said, “To think that we might not have met! It must be fate.”
“We heard you were returning to Africa?” She hesitated. “Have you finished with the sea, Thomas, is that it?”
Herrick released her hand, his features partly hidden by shadow.
“The sea is done with me, Lady Roxby.”
“Nancy, Thomas. There are no ranks or titles with us, here of all places.”
Herrick glanced at the nearest plaque. Who fell in battle, for King and Country. He said without bitterness, “He was lucky.”
They walked together toward the big doors.
Lowenna thought: beyond those doors there will be a crowd, noise, like an enemy.
She walked beside the man who had been a rear-admiral, one of Adam’s world. Her world, if she could seize it.
Herrick said, “I went to the house. I was going to ask Bryan Ferguson to drive me over to Fallowfield, to the inn. There would be friends there, I thought.” He winced; the pain of the amputation had not left him. “I knew nothing about his death. It was like a door slamming when I heard. I was planning to go back to Plymouth . . . something made me come in here.” The clear blue eyes moved once more. “Many memories linger in these walls . . . Nancy.”
“You should have come to us, Thomas.” Although her lips were smiling, she seemed close to tears. “And the Old Hyperion is probably too full, even for a friend, with all these tradesmen and salesmen using the new road.”
The doors opened and two people entered the church, seeing nothing, and unaware of the moment.
“I shall call Francis.”
Herrick moved as if to stop her, but Lowenna said, “Please, let her. I am a stranger here, but I have heard her speak of you many times, with much warmth.”
Herrick was looking down at her hand on his sleeve.
“You are a very beautiful girl.” Then he raised his chin a little. “I am glad you are her friend.”
They walked slowly into the hard light, and Herrick shaded his eyes from the glare.
“Like being cast adrift.” He might have been talking to himself. “All the ships, thousands of faces, good will, and hatred, gone. I knew it was coming. Have done for months, maybe years. But I could not accept it.”
He looked up as the bells began to chime. “I was here when Richard was married, you know. John Allday—you’ll not know him,” he almost smiled, “the rascal. He was there when Richard fell. Told me he was asking for me, even at the end.” He seemed to take a grip on himself. “But then you’ll know about the Bolitho legend?”
Lowenna put out her hand and said softly, “I am going to marry Adam Bolitho. God willing, I may become part of that legend.”
Nancy paused at the foot of the steps, looking up at them.
“Ride with us, Thomas. There is plenty of room at the house.” She saw the stubbornness in the blue eyes. He, at least, would never change, and she was suddenly grateful for it.
“I can pay my way . . .” He turned as the coachman and a porter from the posting house, pushing a large black chest on a barrow, appeared around the corner of the church. It was probably all he possessed in the world, Nancy thought.
She said, “And pay you will, sir!”
Francis had taken in the plain, heavy coat and unfashionable cocked hat. He was still a King’s officer, no matter what. That was good enough for him.
Lowenna looked at the passing crowd, heard someone playing a violin, and another shouting his wares.
She would write of it all in her next letter to Adam.
She watched Nancy’s face, her expression, but knew she would not be able to describe either.
It was sad; it was beautiful. And it might never have happened.
Francis lowered the step and held her gown clear of the door. For a second their eyes met, and he murmured, “Turned out a better day than I thought, Miss Lowenna.”
She was no longer a stranger.
Unis Allday walked across the inn yard and looked up at the sky. Not much cloud, but it was a hard blue, without warmth. She tugged her shawl across her shoulders and heard the Old Hyperion’s sign swinging now, creaking in the breeze from Falmouth Bay. The nights were drawing in; there would not be much business tonight. But they could not complain, far from it. They would have to hire more staff if trade continued to grow. The new road, which she could see from her bedroom window stretching away across the fields, had brought more travellers than any one had expected.
Today there were still a few customers unwilling to leave, some pitching horseshoes for bets, others simply yarning; all nodded to her with a measure of respect as she passed. A few might try to take liberties with the woman of the house, but they only attempted it once with Unis.
She had heard one of the local traders who had called into the Old Hyperion for some of her apple pie reading extracts from the Gazette aloud for the benefit of some illiterate farm workers. It was the latest report from Africa, where two of the King’s ships had been in action with slavers intent on running the blockade.
Unis had been married to a sailor long before she had wed John Allday, and was no stranger to such news. But it worried her, more so now that Bryan Ferguson had died not far from this yard. The best of friends, although as her brother, the other John, had often remarked, he and Allday had always been like c
halk and cheese.
When her John had been forced to quit the sea, after Sir Richard Bolitho had been killed, he had depended on Ferguson to keep the old links and memories intact. A man-of-war entering Falmouth would see John and his friend there on the jetty, taking in every detail, recalling all the names and places. Like the time when a frigate had anchored in the Roads when Allday had been watching from the jetty; the captain had seen him and sent a midshipman with a boat to collect him and take him to the ship like an honoured guest. She had never forgotten his face as he related the story, and the part when the young midshipman had called him “sir.”
She saw Jack, the inn’s latest recruit, hurrying across the yard to the cellar door.
He saw her and called, “You said I was to put up another cask of ale if we needs one. A pin will do it!” He was about fourteen, and pleased with his authority.
“You’re a good lad, Jack.” She knew from experience that if her husband knew about it he would try and do such tasks himself. A sword thrust in the chest had almost killed him. She had sworn that no more harm would come to that big, shambling figure. Clumsy, some might think. But he could fashion beautiful ship models with every spar and block in perfect miniature with those hard, scarred hands.
She brushed some flour from her bare elbow and smiled to herself. The same man had given her their little Kate. No longer so little . . .
Two more traders rode noisily from the yard, each waving his hat to the slightly built woman who had made this the most popular inn between Falmouth and Helston.
She thought about the girl Lowenna who was staying with Lady Roxby. Her John had met her after Bryan’s death. Beautiful, he had called her, and she had heard him threaten to throw out two men who were the worse for drink, because they had tried to repeat some alleged scandal about her.
There was bound to be gossip; this business thrived on it. She saw the last horseshoe catch around its stake, heard laughter and the clink of money. Especially where men were concerned . . .
And they said Captain Adam was going to marry her. Her heart softened.
What that old house needs. She turned as she heard Allday’s voice from the stable. What we all need.
Allday was standing, hands on hips, surveying the horses being led out for three of the departing visitors.
“That’s all of ’em, Unis. I’ll give a hand with the kitchen before the carter arrives.” He scowled. “Not sorry to see the stern of that one!”
It was Harry Flinders, the Roxby steward, until recently a rare visitor to Fallowfield. Always polite and careful to show her every courtesy, but not popular with the local people.
He turned easily in the saddle and touched his hat.
“I’ve been telling my friends here that there’s no finer hostelry on Falmouth Bay, no warmer welcome neither!” He grinned, his teeth very strong. Like the man. He looked directly at Allday. “There was a French ship in Carrick Roads yesterday. I’d have thought you would have been across to see her. There was quite a crowd of old sea dogs.”
Allday said, “The day I shakes ’ands with a Frog will be the first time, Mister Flinders.”
Flinders shook his head. “The war’s over and done for, man.”
Allday remained very calm. “I knows that too. ’Cause Jacks like me won it, no other poxy reason. That’s it an’ all about it!”
The horses clattered out on to the road, Flinders raising his hat again, this time to the dark-haired girl, Nessa, who had become so much a part of their family after being disowned by her parents. Unis had already noticed that she ignored him.
He had better watch his step with our Nessa.
Allday must have read her thoughts. He was still brooding, and annoyed at himself for showing it to the one he loved beyond measure. “Thinks every woman wets ’er bed over his good looks!”
Two ostlers turned to watch as Unis clutched Allday’s arm and fell against him, shrieking with laughter.
Something they could share. Perhaps without knowing why.
Lowenna opened her eyes wide and lay very still; for how long, or what had awakened her she did not know. For a few moments she imagined she had overslept, that it was morning, even though she knew it was impossible.
Very slowly the big, high-ceilinged room took shape above and around her; the house was completely silent. So bright that it was a wonder she had been able to fall asleep in the first place. The food and wine, and the fascination of listening to the conversation had worked well.
Something made her swing her legs over the bed and walk to the windows. The moon seemed to fill the sky, so that the stars were almost incidental.
She eased open one of the windows and felt the air around her body, not cold, as she might have expected at this time of year. She thought of Nancy’s pleasure, her unusual animation as she had spoken with, and listened to, Thomas Herrick.
It seemed strange that a man who had seen and done so much, and had indirectly been a part of the Bolitho family’s life should seem so reticent, even shy, until Nancy had triggered off a name or memory which then they both shared.
Through Montagu Lowenna had met several senior officers, both naval and military, and had gained an overall impression of supreme confidence, a quality which usually became evident in the subsequent portrait.
Herrick was not like that. Modest to a point of humility, he spoke openly of his humble upbringing, and his own surprise when he had been awarded the King’s commission, the one desire in his life which had never deserted him.
As the logs had burned low in the grate, he had talked of the ships he had served and known over the years, battles which he had described with the easy skill of a painter with a new canvas, without bluff or exaggeration, evoking them so clearly that she could see what he had seen, even hear it, like thunder in the hills. Names became faces; she had watched Herrick’s eyes as he had recounted some experience where an admiral or a common seaman had taken over the stage at some point of his life. A storm at sea, the cheerful aftermath with the backbreaking work, and “too much grog,” as he had put it.
And Richard Bolitho was never far away, sometimes as if he had been there with them. As I was with Adam. Walk with me . . .
He spoke of their first service together, when Herrick had become his first lieutenant.
He had looked over at Nancy, and said, “I was there, at the house, when your father brought out the old sword and gave it to Richard.” He had gazed at his empty sleeve, perhaps without seeing it, and said softly, “There was no finer man on God’s earth.” He had paused. “I beg your pardon, ladies. Blame this good wine for my loose tongue.”
Nancy had waited for her moment. “You are going back to Plymouth in a few days’ time, Thomas?”
He had nodded, perhaps trying to face the reality of his immediate future. His life.
“I am to make a report for Their Lordships.” Again, the painful shrug. “The slave trade, what steps remain to be taken. After that . . .”
Nancy picked up her glass and tasted some wine, and for a second Lowenna saw her as a young woman again. Choosing the words.
“You have seen some of the estate, Thomas, the Bolitho house and holdings. You must have been aware of the problems which daily arise, on the farms, with the livestock, to say nothing of what the new road will bring. Is bringing. Too many able men taken away to fight, too few returning to honest work on the land.”
“I have heard it mentioned often enough. I have been a sailor all my life, but I appreciate the difficulties.”
She had reached out impetuously and grasped his hand.
“Then stay with us, Thomas. Share it with us. Who better to prepare the way for Lowenna, and for Adam when he eventually comes home?”
Herrick had stared at her as if he’d somehow misunderstood.
“But I have no training, no experience!”
Nancy had kept her hand on his. “My father once said—I forget what roused him at the time— any man who can command a King’s ship, with his
inbuilt sense of order, discipline, and loyalty, should be well able to run the world!”
Herrick had looked from her to Lowenna as if to reassure himself.
“I would take no favours, m’ lady, and not because I’ve run my course . . .”
Nancy had shaken her head. “I despair of you sometimes! What do they say up north? Nothing for nothing and not much for a penny! Will you take it, Thomas? Join us?”
“If I failed you in some way . . .”
Nancy had stopped him. “The folk around here do not forget. Many of them know and respect you. You have more than earned your right to live in peace.” She had hesitated. “And to be amongst friends who care for you.”
Another bottle of wine had appeared. It was settled.
Lowenna opened the window wider and stared into the deeper shadows beyond the trees. The Old Glebe House lay in that direction. What would become of it, she wondered. Perhaps after Sir Gregory’s will had been settled, the place would be torn down. Forgotten.
She shivered, and walked to the small table where roses stood in a vase.
She held them to her face and felt some moisture from the petals against her skin. Like her tears, when they had touched for the last time.
She saw her full reflection in the tall glass by the window. It would not be for the last time. Soon, sometime, Adam would be coming back. Like the ship and the mermaids. Coming back . . .
And together they would walk through the old house again. It would not be a dream.
Herrick had spoken of the Caribbean, names and places, experiences which Adam would recognize, and in turn describe to her.
Very deliberately she faced the glass and pulled the ribbon of her gown, like watching a stranger as it fell around her feet. In the clear, glacier light she stood like a statue, her bare shoulders silvered as she reached out and took the roses, holding them to her breast.
How long she had been standing there she did not know; there was no sound or movement. She could have had the house to herself.
Man of War Page 27