“I am sorry about my sister—”
She swung round and put her fingers on his mouth. “Think only of what we did together. Even when we are separated, for so must we be, I will be with you as never before. Your ship and your men are a part of me too.” Then she asked tenderly, “How is your eye now?”
Bolitho glanced out at the moon. The misty circle was still around it. “It is much better.”
She leaned against him so that he could smell her perfume, her body.
“I am not convinced. But I shall write to that doctor again.” She hugged him, and gasped as he bent over and kissed her bare shoulder.
“But first, love me. It has been so long. Too long . . .”
Matthew, half dozing on his box, because the horses knew this road like their own stable, jerked awake as he heard their voices, their laughter and then the intimate silence. It was good to have them back, he thought. Complete again.
Allday had told him how she had stood beside Sir Richard and had faced the mutineers fearlessly, until they had won the day.
Matthew grinned, and knew that had it been lighter he might have been seen to be blushing.
With a woman like that, Sir Richard could conquer the whole world.
Bodmin, the county town of Cornwall, was filled with inns and post-houses, as well as cheap lodgings for the passengers of the many coaches that spread their routes eastward to Exeter and as far afield as London, north to Barnstaple and to the great ports of the West Country like Falmouth and Penzance. It was a plain old town, set on the fringes of the forbidding moor, which had long been the haunt of footpads and highwaymen, some of whom could be seen rotting in chains at the roadside as a warning to others.
The parlour of the Royal George was low-ceilinged and pleasant, little different from most other coaching inns where travellers could take a tankard of ale or something stronger to wash down the excellent cheese and cold cuts of meat while the horses were changed for the next leg of the journey to Plymouth.
Captain Adam Bolitho declined to offer his hat and cloak to an inn servant but found a high-backed seat away from the fire, retaining his outer clothing as a kind of protection against local curiosity. In any case he was not particularly warm, despite the body heat of the other passengers and, now, a blazing log fire. He had left Falmouth early, on the first available coach, his collar turned up and the clasp of his boat-cloak fastened to conceal his rank. His fellow passengers had been civilians, merchants mostly, and those who had managed to remain awake during the journey had been discussing the new possibilities they saw in trade with Portugal and later with Spain, as the war expanded. One of them had noticed Adam’s hat, which he had kept more or less discreetly beneath his cloak.
“A commander, eh, sir? One so young, too!”
Adam had said shortly, “Post captain.” He did not intend to be rude, nor to give offence, but those sort of people made him sick. To them, war was profit and loss in business, not broken bones and the roar of cannon fire.
The man had persisted, “When will it be over? Can nobody destroy this Bonaparte?”
Adam had replied, “We do our best, sir. I suggest that if more gold were put into sound shipbuilding, and less into the bellies of city merchants, it would be over much sooner.” The man had not troubled him again.
That particular passenger wasn’t here in the parlour, and Adam guessed, thankfully, that Bodmin was the end of his journey.
One of the maids gave him a quick curtsy. “Something for the cap’n?” She was young and saucy, and no stranger to the attention of lecherous passengers, he thought.
“Do you have brandy, my girl?”
She giggled. “Nay, zur—but to you, yes.” She hurried away and soon returned with a large goblet and some fresh cheese. “From the farm, zur.” She watched him curiously. “Be you in command of a King’s ship, zur?”
He glanced at her, the brandy hot on his tongue. “Aye. Anemone, frigate.” The brandy was excellent, no doubt run ashore by members of the Trade.
She said with a smile, “Tes an honour to serve you, zur.”
Adam nodded. And why not? He did not need to be in Plymouth as early as he had said. His first lieutenant would be enjoying his temporary command in his absence. The next coach would do. She recognised the uncertainty on his grave features and said, “Well, now, if you be a-passing of this way again . . .” She took his goblet to refill it. “My name be Sarah.”
She placed the goblet beside him and hurried away as the redfaced landlord bellowed out some demands from waiting passengers. It did not take long to change horses, and for the guard and coachman to down a few pints of cider or ale. Time was money.
Adam sank back against the tall chair and let the din of voices wash over him. The dinner; Lady Catherine’s sharp exchange with Aunt Felicity, who would never acknowledge him as her nephew. His uncle . . . His thoughts stopped there. It had been like finding a brother, after fearing him to be dead.
He was glad to be returning to Plymouth for orders: despatches for the Channel Fleet, patrols in the Bay of Biscay or around Brest to assess the enemy’s strength or intentions. Anything to keep him busy, his mind too full to allow any thought of Zenoria. In the same instant he knew he could not forget her, any more than he could stop himself remembering their lovemaking, her lithe body naked in his arms, her mouth like fire upon his. He had known several women, but none like Zenoria. Her fear had gone, and she had returned his passion as if it were all new and unspoiled, despite what she had endured.
He glanced at the goblet. Empty, and yet he had barely noticed it. When he looked again it was refilled. Perhaps he could sleep for the rest of the journey, and pray that the torment did not return.
Now she was with her husband, offering herself out of duty, out of guilt, but not out of love. It made him sick with jealousy even to think of them together. Keen touching her, brushing away her shyness, and possessing her as was his right.
He could not hate Valentine Keen. He had, in fact, always liked him, and knew that Keen felt as deeply towards his uncle as Adam himself did. Brave, fair, a decent man whom any woman would be proud to love. But not Zenoria. Adam sipped the brandy more carefully. He must be doubly careful in everything he did and said. If he were not, Valentine Keen would become a rival, an enemy.
I have no right. It is not merely a matter of honour, it is also the name of my family.
Horses clattered in the yard, and more voices announced the arrival of another coach; it would be the one that had left Falmouth this morning too, but which had travelled by way of Truro and outlying villages. The landlord’s face split into a fixed grin. “Mornin’, gentlemen! What’ll it be?” The girl named Sarah was there too, running her eye over the incoming faces.
Adam ignored them. What if he and Zenoria were brought together again? And if he persisted in avoiding her, would that not make it even more obvious? How would she behave? Submit, or tell her husband what had happened? That was unlikely. Better so, for all their sakes.
He would go outside and let the air clear his head until the coach was ready to proceed. He reached for his hat and then his hand poised, motionless, as he heard someone mention the name “Bolitho.”
Two men were standing by the fire, one a farmer by the look of his clothing—sturdy boots and heavy riding gloves. The other was plump and well-dressed, probably a merchant on his way to Exeter.
The latter was saying, “Such a commotion while I was staying in Falmouth—I was glad not to miss it. All the town turned out when Sir Richard Bolitho came back. I never knew that any man could inspire such affection.”
“I was there too. Often go for the market sales. Better ’n some, as good as most.” He tilted his tankard and then said, “The Bolitho family’s famous thereabouts—or notorious, should I say?”
“Are they, by God? I’ve read something of their exploits in the Gazette, but nothing . . .”
His companion laughed. “Rules for some, but not for t’others, that’s what I say!” Their coach must
have stopped at other inns longer than the Royal George. His voice was loud and slurred.
He continued, as if addressing the whole room. “Sleeping with another man’s wife, an’ talk of rape an’ worse. Well, you know what they say about rape, my friend—there’s usually two sides to it!”
Adam could feel the blood pounding in his brain, the man’s voice probing his mind like a hot knife. Who was he talking about? Catherine? Zenoria? Or was he even hinting about Adam’s own father, and his mother who had lived like a whore to raise the son Hugh Bolitho had not known about until it was too late?
He stood up and heard the girl ask, “Be you a-goin’, zur?”
“Directly—er, Sarah.” She was staring at him, unsure what was happening. He added, “A tankard, if you please. A large one.” She brought it, mystified, as Adam moved out of the shadows and to a hatch which opened on to the inn kitchen. A face peered out at him. “Zur?”
“Fill this with the filthiest scummy liquid you have.” He pointed at a large tub where a young girl was rinsing out the bedroom chamber pots. “That will do quite nicely.”
The man still gaped at him. “Oi don’t understand ’ee, zur . . .” He hesitated, and then something in Adam’s face made him hurry away to the tub. Adam took the tankard and carried it towards the fire.
The landlord, polishing a jug, called out, “Plymouth Flier be ready to board, gentlemen!”
But nobody moved as Adam said, “I gather you were speaking of the Bolitho family in Falmouth.” His voice was very quiet and yet, in the silent parlour, it was like a clap of thunder.
“And what if I was?” The man swung on him. “Oh, I see you’re a gallant naval gentleman—I would expect the likes of you to disagree!”
Adam said, “Sir Richard Bolitho is a fine officer—a gentleman in the truest sense, which obviously you would never understand.”
He saw the bluster begin to fail.
“Now, just a minute—I’ve had enough of this!”
The landlord called, “I’ll have no trouble here, gentlemen!”
Adam did not drop his gaze from the other man. “No, landlord, not here. I am offering a drink to this loud-mouthed oaf.”
It took him off guard. “Drink?”
Adam said gently, “Yes. It is piss, like the foulness of your mouth!” He flung it into his face and tossed the tankard to one side. While the other man spluttered and choked he threw back his cloak and said, “May I introduce myself? Bolitho. Captain Adam Bolitho.”
The man stared at him wildly. “I’ll break your back, damn your bloody arrogance!”
“How much more must I insult you?” Adam struck him hard in the mouth, and said, “Swords or pistols, sir? The choice is here and now, before the next coach.”
The landlord said urgently, “You take it back, Seth. The young cap’n ’ere d’have a reputation.”
The man seemed to shrink. “I didn’t know. It was just talk, y’see!”
“It nearly cost you your wretched life.” He glanced at the sweating landlord. “I beg your pardon for all this. I will make it worth your while.” There were gasps and a sudden, hurried grating of chairs as he produced a pistol and examined it, giving himself time. He knew he would have killed him. It was always there—lies about his family, several attempts to tarnish their honour, while the liars hid themselves in secret cowardice.
The man was practically in tears. “ Please, Captain—I’d had too much to drink!”
Adam ignored him and turned towards a solitary brass candlestick where the flame was always kept burning for the tapers of customers wishing to light their pipes.
The crash of the shot brought shouts of alarm and screams from the kitchen. The flame had gone, but the candle was still intact. Before thrusting the pistol beneath his coat he asked quietly, “Who told you these things?”
A coach guard stood in the doorway, a blunderbuss in his hands, but even he fell back when he saw the gleaming epaulettes of a naval captain.
The man hung his head. “Some young blade, sir. I should’ve guessed he were a liar. But he said he was connected with the family.”
Adam knew instantly. “Named Miles Vincent? Yes?”
The man nodded unhappily. “In the market, it were.”
“Well. We shall just have to see, won’t we?” He walked from the silent parlour and paused only to put some coins in the landlord’s fist. “Forgive me.”
The landlord counted it at a glance: it was a large amount. The ball had smashed into the wood panelling. He smiled. He would leave it there, and perhaps put a little plate above it to tell its story for the benefit of customers.
The girl was waiting beside the coach, while passengers bustled past averting their faces, in case they too provoked some violence.
Adam took out a gold coin and said, “Live your life, Sarah. And don’t sell yourself cheap.” He slipped the coin between her breasts. “For a place that sells no brandy, you certainly know how to fire a man’s spirits!”
The coach was long out of sight and its horn almost lost in distance as it approached the narrow bridge and the road for Liskeard before anyone spoke in the inn parlour, where the pistol smoke hung near the low ceiling like some evil spirit.
The man protested, “How was I to know?” But nobody would look at him.
Then the landlord said, “By God, Seth, it was nearly your last hour!”
The girl Sarah plucked the coin from her bodice and gazed at it intently, remembering the touch of his fingers, the easy way he had addressed her. She had never been spoken to like that before. She would never forget. She carefully replaced the coin, and when she stared down the empty road her eyes were filled with tears.
“God keep you safe, young cap’n!”
The landlord ambled from the inn door and put his arm around her shoulders. “I knows, my dear. There’s not many d’ think much o’ they hereabouts, and what they risk every time they do leave harbour.” He gave her a squeeze. “I’d not care to fall afoul o’ that fiery young master!”
Aboard the Plymouth Flier Adam stared out of the dusty window at the passing countryside. Whenever he glanced at his travelling companions they were all either asleep or pretending to be. But sleep was denied him, and in the window’s reflection he seemed to see her face. The girl with the long, beautiful hair: the girl with moonlit eyes, as his uncle had once called her.
He had been a fool back there at the Royal George. Postcaptain or not, he would have been ruined if he had killed the other man in a duel. It would have meant disgrace for his uncle yet again. Was it always to be so?
. . . Miles Vincent. Yes, it would be. Perhaps his mother had put him up to it. Adam doubted it: the motive was too obvious. Hate, envy, revenge . . . his fingers tightened around his sword and he saw a flicker of apprehension cross the face of the man opposite him.
He thought suddenly of his father. He had heard from an old sailing-master who had known Hugh that he had been violent and quick-tempered, ready to call any one out if the mood took him: the memory of him still hung over the old house at Falmouth like a storm-cloud. I will not make the mistake of following in his wake.
Watery sunlight played across the sea for the first time in this journey.
He thought of his Anemone, daughter of the wind. She would be his only love.
Bryan Ferguson sat at the kitchen table of his cottage and surveyed his friend, who was standing by the window. He wanted to smile, but knew it was far too important a moment for amusement.
Allday plucked at his best jacket, the one with the gilt buttons, which Bolitho had given him to mark him as his personal coxswain. Nankeen breeches and buckled shoes: he was every inch the landsman’s idea of the Jack Tar. But he seemed troubled, his deeply-sunburned features creased with uncertainty.
“Lucky I didn’t lose this on that damned Golden Plover. ” He tried to grin. “Must have known there was something wrong with that little pot o’ paint!”
Ferguson said, “Look, John, just go and see the la
dy. If you don’t, others will. She’ll be a rare catch if she gets the Stag on its feet again.”
Allday said heavily, “An’ what have I got to offer? Who wants a sailor? I reckon she’d have had a bellyful o’ that after losing her man in Hyperion. ”
Ferguson said nothing. It would either blow over, or this time it would be in earnest. Either way, it was so good to have Allday back again. He marvelled at the fact that Grace had never lost faith; she had earnestly believed that they would be saved.
Allday was still talking himself out of it.
“I’ve no money, just a bit put by, nothing for the likes of her . . .”
Ozzard came through the door. “You’d better make up your mind, matey. Young Matthew’s brought the cart round to drive you to Fallowfield.”
Allday peered at the looking glass on the kitchen wall and groaned. “I don’t know. I’ll make a fool of myself.”
Ferguson made up his mind. “I’ll tell you something, John. When you and Sir Richard were said to be lost, I went over to the Stag.”
Allday exclaimed, “You didn’t say nothing, for God’s sake?”
“No. Just had a stoup of ale.” He prolonged it. “Very good it was too, for a small inn.”
Allday glared at him. “Well, did you?”
Ferguson shook his head. “But I did see her. Done wonders for the place.”
Allday waited, knowing there was something else.
Ferguson said quietly, “I’ll tell you another thing. She came all the way into town just to be at the memorial service.” He grinned, the relief still evident on his face. “The one you missed!”
Allday picked up his hat. “I’ll go then.”
Ferguson punched his massive arm. “Hell, John, you sound as if you’re facing a broadside!”
Ozzard said, “Her ladyship is coming.”
Ferguson hurried to the door. “She’ll want to see the books. ’Tis a fair tonic to have her here again.”
Ozzard waited for him to bustle away and then, secretively, laid a leather bag on the table. “Your half. Sounds as if it might come in useful.”
Allday opened the string and stared with disbelief at the glittering gold inside.
Beyond the Reef Page 21
