‘We will go inside . . . then you can tell me all about yourself.’ She could not continue. ‘Come, now. Quickly. Banish all doubts!’ She paused only to look at the harbour. ‘All that can wait, this once.’
Even though he had never set foot in the place before, he knew it was the same. Here Catherine had spent her last night with her Richard, in these rooms which Avery had found so difficult to describe, and of which Bethune had carefully avoided speaking, as if it was too painful even for him.
He walked to a window and eased the shutter aside very slightly and looked down into the courtyard, dark now but for the reflected glow from a copper dusk.
He heard the sentry at the gates stamp his feet, and the clink of metal as he shifted his musket, yawning at the dragging hours.
There were no lights in the windows opposite. Forbes had gone to dine with the army; the staff had probably been left to do as they pleased until Bethune’s return.
He felt his muscles contract. Voices now, very low, the sound of glasses. And when he closed the shutter and turned he saw her facing him from the other side of the room, her eyes very clear in the glow of candles which must have been arranged here earlier.
She said, ‘A little wine, Adam. It is as cool as can be expected. Some food can be sent for later.’
She watched him cross the room, and turned slightly so that the piece of silver at her breast shone suddenly like a flame. She wore a plain white gown which covered her from her throat to her feet, now bare on the marble floor.
He put his hands on her arms, and said, ‘You kept it. I thought you’d thrown it away.’
He touched the small silver sword and felt her stiffen as she answered, ‘I am wearing it for you. How could I not wear it?’
He lowered his mouth to her shoulder and kissed it, feeling the smoothness of her skin beneath the gown.
‘The wine.’ She pressed him away. ‘While it’s cool.’
He brought the glasses from the table and held one to her lips, and they looked at one another over the rims, all pretence gone, all reason scattered.
She did not resist or speak as he kissed her shoulder again, and each breast in turn until she gasped softly and put her arms around him, holding him there, her head moving from side to side as if she could no longer contain herself.
He stood, and held her at arm’s length, seeing the darker patches on the silk, where he had kissed and roused the points of her breasts.
There was a tall mirror on the wall and he turned her towards it, his hands around her waist, seeing the reflection of her eyes in the glass, then deliberately he unclipped the little sword, and opened and removed the gown. He looked over her shoulder, his face in her hair as he watched with her, as if they were onlookers, strangers. Exploring her body, feeling every response like his own, until she twisted round in his grip and said, ‘Kiss me. Kiss me.’
He lifted her as he had the night aboard Unrivalled, holding her tightly as they kissed again. And again. He laid her on the broad bed and threw off his coat, and the old sword slid unnoticed to a rug by his feet.
She propped herself on one elbow, and said, ‘No! Come to me now!’
He knelt beside her, his mind and reason gone as she struggled to free him from his clothes, pulling him down to kiss her mouth once more until they were breathless.
He gazed at her, hungry for her, the hair disordered across the pillows, the hands, suddenly strong, gripping his shoulders, one moment holding him away and then drawing him down to her body, her skin hot and damp as if with fever.
He felt her nails breaking his skin as he came against her, and she moved still further, arching her body until they were almost joined. Then she opened her eyes, and whispered, ‘I yield!’ and gave a small, soft cry as he found and entered her.
It was like falling, or being carried along by an endless, unbroken wave.
Even when they lay exhausted she would not release him. They clung to one another, breathless, drained by the intensity of their congress, their need.
Hours later, after they had explored every intimacy, she sat on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chin as she watched him pulling on his breeches and shirt.
‘A King’s officer. To everyone else but me.’ She reached out impetuously and touched him again, held him, while he bent to kiss her. She had found and touched the old wound and had kissed the jagged scar, her passion roused again. No secrets, Adam . . .
When he looked again she was dressed in the thin robe, the silver clasp in place, as if the rest had been a wild dream.
A chapel bell was ringing tunelessly; someone was already awake. She opened the door, and he saw that fresh candles had been brought to light the stairs. Hilda, ensuring that nothing would go amiss.
He held her, feeling the supple limbs through the silk, wanting her again in spite of the risks.
She said, ‘No regrets.’ She was still looking after him when he reached the courtyard.
Her voice seemed to hang in the warm air. No regrets . . .
The guard at the gate was being changed, and a corporal was reading out the standing orders, too tired or too bored to see the naval officer striding past.
He paused in a deserted alley, which he thought was the one where he had purchased the little silver sword. He could still feel her, enclosing him, guiding him, taking him.
He might never see her again; if he did, she might laugh at his desire. Somehow he knew that she would not.
He thought he heard the creak of oars, the guardboat, and quickened his pace.
But regrets? It was far too late for them now.
17
The Family
ADAM BOLITHO SAT at his table, a pen poised over his personal log, the sun through the stem windows warming his shoulder. Another day at anchor, and the ship around him was quietly alive with normal working sounds, and the occasional shouted order.
He stared at the date at the top of the page. 30th September 1815. So much had happened, and yet at moments like these it was as if time had been frozen.
He thought of his conversation with Captain Forbes earlier in the evening he had ended in the room above the courtyard. That, too, was like a dream. But Forbes had been right in what he had told him, or rather what he had not told him. It had broken over the squadron just two days ago when Bethune had returned from his inspection of coastal defences with Sir Lewis Bazeley. It was no longer a rumour, but a fact. Bethune was leaving as soon as he was relieved. And that was today.
The two third-rates of which Forbes had also spoken had already been sighted by the lookout post ashore.
Adam laid down the pen and recalled his last meeting with Bethune, who had seemed pleased at the prospect of a new position at the Admiralty as assistant to the Third Sea Lord, with all the promise of advancement it would carry for him. But he had been on edge, evasive, although Adam had not known why. And then, with all the other captains and commanders of the squadron, he had partly understood the reason. The new flagship was Frobisher, which had been Richard Bolitho’s own, and now it was returning to Malta where so much had begun and ended.
The other arrival would be the eighty-gun Prince Rupert, which Adam had seen and boarded at Gibraltar. The big two-decker was no longer Rear-Admiral Marlow’s flagship, although Pym was still in command, and he had heard the flurry of speculation as to why the new flag officer, a senior admiral, should hoist his flag over the smaller of the two ships.
He was convinced that Bethune, better than anyone, would know the answers. Lord Rhodes had been Controller at the Admiralty when Bethune had been there, and those who understood or were interested in such matters had been convinced that Rhodes had been put forward for First Lord, supported by no less than the Prince Regent. Then the appointment had been suspended, quashed, and now it was obvious that Rhodes had been given the Mediterranean station as an honourable demotion. Rhodes would not need reminding that Lord Collingwood, Nelson’s friend and his second-in-command at Trafalgar, had been given the same command
. For some reason Collingwood had neither been promoted to admiral nor allowed to return home, even though illness had forced him to apply many times for relief. He had died at sea, five long years after leading the Lee Division against the combined fleets of France and Spain.
And now Frobisher was here again. Different faces perhaps, but the same ship. New compared to most ships of the line, she would be about nine years old now, French-built, and taken as a prize on passage to Brest some five years back. He turned it over in his mind warily, like a hunter looking for traps. James Tyacke had been his uncle’s flag captain, and his predecessor had been a Captain Oliphant, a cousin of Lord Rhodes, a favour which perhaps had misfired. In one of her letters Catherine had mentioned meeting Rhodes just prior to the choice of flagship, and it had been obvious that she had disliked him. It could be that Rhodes had chosen Frobisher merely because she was the better ship. He considered Bethune’s uncharacteristic evasiveness and doubted it.
There was a tap at the door and Galbraith peered in at him.
‘The flagship has been sighted, sir.’
Adam nodded. Not new flagship; Galbraith would know his captain’s thoughts about Frobisher, and how he would feel when he was summoned aboard for the first time. The memories, and the ghosts.
Galbraith said, ‘I have made certain that all hands will be properly turned out. Yards will be manned, and we will cheer-ship if necessary.’ He smiled. ‘I understand that Admiral Lord Rhodes will expect it. Two or three of the older hands have served under him.’
Adam closed his log. That said it all. It was a long time since Rhodes had walked the deck of his own flagship; he would be looking for flaws, if only to prove he had forgotten nothing. Galbraith watched him impassively, recognising the signs.
‘Our new lieutenant has settled into his rank quite well, sir. Though I fear Mr Bellairs will need a larger hat if he continues in this fashion!’
But there was no malice in the comment, and Adam knew he was as pleased as most of the others when Bellairs had returned from his promotional examination with his scrap of parchment, as the old timers called it. An extra lieutenant. That would not be tolerated, beneficial though it might be for running the ship.
Adam leaned back slightly. ‘There will be an opening in the squadron, or perhaps within the fleet before long.’ He saw Galbraith stiffen. It was the moment he had been hoping for, what every lieutenant dreamed of. ‘You held a command before you came to Unrivalled. Your experience and example did much to iron out the wrinkles, so to speak, before we were all put to the test. Perhaps we did not always agree about certain matters.’ He smiled suddenly, the strain and the tension dropping away like the years. ‘But as your commanding officer I, of course, always have the advantage of being right!’
Galbraith said, ‘I am well content here, sir . . .’
Adam held up his hand. ‘Never say that. Never even think it. My uncle once described a command, especially a first one, as the most coveted gift. I have never forgotten it. Nor must you.’
They both looked at the glittering water beyond the anchored vessels astern as the first crash of cannon fire rolled across the harbour. The response, gun by gun, from the battery wall seemed even louder.
Adam said, ‘We’ll go up, shall we?’
He clipped on the old sword, then he said, ‘Mr Bellairs will have no sword as yet.’ He gestured to his own curved hanger in its rack. ‘He may have that one if he chooses to wait until his parents do him the honour!’
He touched the sword at his hip. So many times. So many hands. And he was reminded of the note Catherine had written for him, and had left with the sword at Falmouth.
The sword outwore its scabbard. Wear it with pride, as he always wanted.
Frobisher was back. And he would know.
Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune winced as the Royal Marine guard of honour slammed to attention once more, a cloud of pipeclay floating over their leather hats like smoke while the band struck up a lively march. The ceremony was almost finished. Bethune could not recall how many he had witnessed or participated in since he had entered the navy. Probably thousands. He tried to relax his muscles. Why, then, was he so disturbed, even agitated, when this was opening new doors to his own future?
He glanced at the man for whose benefit this ceremony had been mounted. His successor: to him it might seem the end of everything, rather than a fresh challenge.
Admiral Lord Rhodes was shaking hands with the governor’s representative, but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Rhodes had been at the Admiralty when Bethune had been appointed there, and for a good many years before that, and they had met occasionally, but Bethune had never really known him. His elevation to First Lord had been taken for granted, until the day Sillitoe had burst unannounced into the office and had demanded to speak with Rhodes. Bethune had learned only then that he had been appointed the Prince Regent’s Inspector-General.
It had been Rhodes’ cousin, once Frobisher’s captain, who had attempted to rape Catherine. Because I allowed her to go home unescorted. He thought of Adam’s face when he had mentioned Rhodes’ particular interest in Sir Richard Bolitho’s flagship. He had been ashamed that he could conceal the full truth, but it would have helped no one, least of all Catherine, and he had to consider what old hatreds might do to his own future, as well as Adam’s.
But the much-used code of conduct failed to afford him any comfort. It seemed in this instance merely a device which placed expediency before honour and friendship.
He studied his successor once more. Rhodes was tall and heavily built, and had once been handsome. His face was dominated by a strong, beaked nose which made his eyes appear small by comparison, but the eyes, overshadowed though they were, missed nothing. The band was comprised of soldiers borrowed at short notice from the garrison commander, a friend of Captain Forbes; the frigates carried Royal Marine drummers and fifers but they had not yet paraded together. Rhodes had commented on the music, a military quick march, which he thought inappropriate.
The walls had been lined with people watching the ceremony, and Bethune had found himself wondering how long it would take news of Rhodes’ appointment to reach the Dey of Algiers.
He walked across the dusty jetty as the guard was dismissed and the onlookers began to disperse. He saw Sir Lewis Bazeley standing in the shade of a clump of sun-dried trees; how would he get along with Rhodes, if he stayed in Malta? An energetic man, eager, Bethune had thought, to impress on younger men what he could do, although Bethune could not imagine him having anything in common with the girl he had married. He had never known if Lady Bazeley had really been in ill health when she had declined to accompany them in the brig. He had thought about Adam’s presence here during that time, but Forbes had said nothing to him on the subject, and he was, after all, his flag captain.
And finally, he considered England, the grey skies and chill breezes of October. He smiled. It would be wonderful.
Rhodes strode over to join him. ‘Smart turn-out, Sir Graham. Standards – they count more than ever, eh?’
Bethune said, ‘I shall show you the temporary headquarters building, m’ lord. I have sent for a carriage.’
Rhodes grinned. ‘Not a bit of it, we’ll walk. I can see the great barn of a place from here!’ He gestured to his flag lieutenant. ‘Tell the others!’
Bethune sighed. Another Bazeley, or so it seemed.
By the time they had gone halfway Rhodes was breathing heavily, and his face was blotched with sweat, but he had never stopped firing questions. About the six frigates in the squadron, and the expectations of getting more. About the many smaller craft, brigs, schooners and cutters which were the eyes and ears of the man whose flag flew in command.
They paused in deep, refreshing shadow while Rhodes turned to stare at the anchored men-of-war, shimmering in haze above their reflections.
‘And Unrivalled’s one of them, is she?’ He looked at Bethune, his eyes like black olives. ‘Bolitho, what’s he lik
e?’
‘A good captain, m’ lord. Successful as well as experienced. What the navy is going to need more than ever now.’
‘Ambitious, then?’ He looked at the ships again. ‘He’s done well, I’ll give him that. Father a traitor, mother a whore. He’s done very well, I’d say!’ He laughed and strode on.
Bethune contained his fury, at Rhodes and with himself. When he reached the Admiralty perhaps he could discover some way to transfer Adam. But not without Unrivalled. She was all he had.
Rhodes had stopped once more, his breathless retinue filling the street.
‘And who is that, sir?’
Bethune saw a flash of colour on the balcony as Lady Bazeley withdrew into the shadows.
‘Sir Lewis Bazeley’s wife, m’ lord. I explained –’
Rhodes grunted, ‘Women in their place, that’s one thing.’ Again the short, barking laugh Bethune had often heard in London. ‘But I’ll not have them lifting their skirts to my staff!’
Bethune said nothing. But if it came to drawing a card, his own money would be on Bazeley rather than Rhodes.
And then he knew he was glad to be leaving Malta.
Luke Jago bowed his legs slightly and peered at Halcyon’s stout anchor cable to gauge the distance as the gig swept beneath her tapering jib boom, then glanced at the stroke oar and over the heads of the crew, easing the tiller-bar until the flagship appeared to be pinioned on the stemhead. They were a good boat’s crew, and he would make certain they stayed that way.
He saw the captain’s bright epaulettes catch the sunlight as he leaned over to gaze at the anchored seventy-four.
Professional interest? It was more than that and Jago knew it. Felt it. There were plenty of other boats arriving and leaving at God’s command.
Vice-Admiral Bethune at least had seemed human enough, and had obviously got on well with the captain. Now he had gone. Jago had seen Captain Bolitho and the first lieutenant watching the courier brig as she had made sail, with the vice-admiral her only passenger. Most senior officers would have expected something grander than a brig, he thought. Bethune must have been that eager to get away.
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