She almost fell back from the window. The horse. The one he had ridden here. But that was impossible ...She dragged a shawl around her shoulders, only half aware of some bottles being knocked from the table. It was suddenly clear, like one of Montagu’s quick, rough sketches. There was nobody else. Only the cook, and she was probably asleep at the back of the kitchen.
She flung open the doors and exclaimed, “Where is he?”
The boy gestured towards the gates.
“’E be bleedin’ bad, miss!”
She ran from the house, heedless of the loose stones cutting her bare feet.
He was sitting on a large piece of slate, part of the original wall when the Church had ruled here.
One leg was bent under him and he was leaning forward, bowing his head, eyes tightly closed, his hair plastered across his forehead. She saw his hat lying in the lane. It was as if she had been there, seen it happen. Then she saw the blood, so bright in the cruel sunshine, on the leg of his breeches. It was spreading even as she watched.
Go now. Leave it. You do not belong here. Go now. It was like some insane chorus. As if all the spirits people had spoken of had come to taunt her. To remind her.
But she said, “Help me, Joseph.” She was walking towards him, saw her shadow reaching beyond her, as if the girl from the mirror had taken her place. Then she knelt and put her arms around his shoulders, feeling the sudden, uncontrollable shivering, knowing it was her own.
Joseph was a good, reliable boy. But he was only thirteen.
She heard herself say, “Run to the inn, Joseph, and fetch some men. We must get him into the house.” Her mind was reeling. Suppose there were no men at the inn? They might be back in the fields by now. She could not even remember what time it was.
Somehow she steadied herself, and waited for the understanding to show itself on the boy’s freckled face.
“Rouse Cook. I want hot water and some clean sheets.” She tried to smile, if only to restore his confidence. “Go on, now. I’ll stay here until help comes.”
She watched him scamper along the pathway. She was alone.
She tried to open his coat, but it was fastened too tightly. There was blood on his shirt also, and it was fresh.
She felt the tremor run through her again. It must have been his ship which had been damaged, the rumour which had eventually reached here all the way from Plymouth. It did not seem possible . . .
She realised that he was staring at her, moving his head slightly as if to discover where he was, what was happening.
He said suddenly, “Blood—it’s on your clothing!” He struggled briefly, but she held him.
She wanted to speak, but her mouth seemed dry and stiff. She made another attempt.
“You’re safe here.” She held him more tightly as she felt his body clench against the pain. “What happened?”
She looked along the lane, but there was no one. Only his hat, lying where it had fallen. Like a spectator.
He said hoarsely, “There was a fight.” His head rolled against her shoulder and he groaned. “We drove them off.” It seemed to trigger something in his mind. “Too late. I should have known.”
He was still staring at her with wide eyes, perhaps only just understanding what had happened. She could feel it; he was momentarily without pain. He said, “Lowenna. It is you. I was coming . . .” He pressed his face into her shoulder again and gasped, “Oh, dear God!”
She took his hand, gripping it tightly. “Help is coming! Soon now!”
She twisted round to stare down the lane again, and felt his hand on her breast. She looked at it, seeing the blood on his fingers, and on her gown where he had touched her. The fear, the scream was rising in her throat. But she did nothing, and watched the hand on her breast, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin material, like fever.
And then, all at once, everyone was here, even the landlord from the inn.
“We’ll take Cap’n Adam, miss,” and young Joseph was saying, “There was blood on the road, Miss Lowenna, on the horse too. Must’ve thrown him.”
She stood up as two of the men eased Adam into a chair.
“We kin carry un to the inn, missy!”
She looked down at her gown, the bloodstains, and the smudges of blood around her breast. There was blood on her feet also. She felt nothing. Like taking a pose for a painting. Empty the mind. Wipe away the memory.
She scarcely recognised her voice. Perhaps it was the girl in the mirror.
“Carry him carefully—I will show you the room. I must stop the bleeding. Send someone for a doctor. The garrison will send one if you tell them who it’s for.”
She held the door open wide and the men lurched against her.
She saw his hand reaching for her, although he could not know what was happening. She seized it, holding it against her, ignoring the people all around her, not even aware of them.
“You are safe now, Adam.” And she thought she felt his hand respond. She had called him by name.
16 “WALK WITH ME”
ADAM BOLITHO lay quite still, for how long he could not tell, counting seconds, waiting, finding himself.
He moved slightly, waiting for the pain to bite into him. It was late, sunset. He tried again, and realised that there was a curtain drawn across a window; the sun was still shining, he could see it bringing colour to the bed.
He closed his eyes tightly again, and attempted to fit the pieces together. He was in a bed, covered up to his chin by a sheet. His hand explored his body, his side, and the bandages. Different ones, and there was no blood.
As if through a haze he saw his coat hanging from a chair, the buttons glinting dully in the filtered glow.
His hand moved again, touching his skin, damp, but without the terrible pain. And he was naked.
He groped above the sheet to push the hair from his eyes, but someone had already done that for him. It was like seeing a picture at the end of a dark corridor, remembering. The horse trotting steadily into the lane, the vague outline of the old house through a rank of trees. He had pulled one foot from its stirrup to lessen the strain, the raw reminder of the wound in his side.
A shadow; it might have been a fox, or even a stoat, but it had taken the horse by surprise. At any other time. But it was not any other time, and he had pitched headlong from the saddle. How long? How long? He moved his legs, afraid of losing the fragments of memory. Faces and voices, more pain while he was carried somewhere. He felt the bed beneath him. Then other voices, firm, deliberate fingers. He must have fainted again.
But he had not been alone. He was certain of that. Perhaps O’Beirne had been right about his stubbornness, the admiral, too. Pride is one thing. Conceit is an enemy. He let his head fall back again. He could remember! He listened to the sounds. Some birds, rooks most likely. Voices, not in the yard but somewhere in the house. Perhaps they had already sent word to the ship? He tried to move on to one elbow, the returning memory like a threat.
Only then did he see her figure beside the window. In shadow, but she was watching him, he could sense it. Just as he could recall her being here, with him, in that lost space of time before someone else, a professional, had come to attend him.
“Lowenna?” His voice seemed like an echo in this strange room. He did not see her move, but felt her sit carefully on the bed and take his hand in hers, as he thought he could remember before . . .
She said, “Easy, now, Captain. Your wound is dressed. I am sorry you were caused such pain.” He felt the fingers moving in his, as if she were suddenly aware of something. “I have sent word to your aunt.” She must have sensed his surprise. “She told me I could call upon her. As a friend.”
More voices, louder now. One was Montagu’s. Not yet. Adam said, “You were with me. I can just recall it. You stayed with me.” He tightened his grip as her hand attempted to pull away. “No, Lowenna, don’t go. You took care of me.” He made another effort and raised his body but she laid the hand on his bare shoulder and pressed him down.
“Please, don’t.”
Adam stared at the ceiling. The voices reminded him of the men who had carried him here. When she had stroked his face with the cloth, when he had protested at the blood on her gown.
He gazed at her. Seeing it. Like a word or a sound bringing back a dream. She had stood beside the bed and had dropped the stained gown to the floor. Then she had laid down beside him, dabbing his face with a damp cloth, stiffening when he had reached out for her, and had touched her.
She was looking down at him now, her hair hiding part of her face, lying against his shoulder like warm silk.
She said, “You kept saying that you wanted to save me. I worried so much—every effort seemed too much for you.” She looked away, the hair now concealing her eyes. “You wanted to save me. Perhaps you saw me as the captive in the painting. Andromeda?” Her hand touched his mouth. “Don’t say anything. I will think of it like that.”
He said quietly, “I was coming to see you, Lowenna. Because I wanted to, needed to. But for my horse throwing me, I might have been unable to tell you things. Riding here was madness anyway. I have been at sea too long, I fear . . .” He held her hand to his lips. “And I must go back to it soon.”
She said, “Your steward is here.”
“Bryan Ferguson?” Remembering what he had told Lieutenant Bellairs. “But then Falmouth is a small place.”
She did not take her hand away but watched as he kissed it. She could recall the eyes of the men who had come from the inn, and her gown in disarray. It would make a good yarn over a glass or two of ale. She had seen and heard it all before, like the creeping terror which she had fought, year after year . . .
She removed her hand. “I never forgot your kiss, my tears, when you left.” And today, here, in this room, she had lain beside him, nude, like one of the poses she performed for Sir Gregory. Which had taught her to fight and defy the shame and disgust, and the faces that turned to stare and condemn her.
He had been lost in pain, but aware of her. His hand had found her, and she had done nothing to prevent it.
She still could not believe it. She had wanted to end it then and there, but her mind had cried out for it to continue.
She must face it. Not merely give in like some innocent child.
She said, “I must go to London.” She felt his eyes on her. “Tomorrow.”
Adam said, “I behaved badly. Abused you, when pain and sickness are no excuse.” He kissed her hand again. “But I must see you. It was intended, fate if you like. But I have to be with you.”
She saw the smile, the edge of sadness which was lacking in the portrait. She hesitated; this was their last moment alone. “Perhaps . . .”
The door opened and Montagu, with Ferguson peering anxiously over his shoulder, strode into the room.
Adam released her hand. Perhaps. It was enough.
John Allday seized his friend’s arm and all but pushed him through the doorway into the parlour.
“I’ll fetch you a wet meself, Bryan. You sit here—an’ I’ll want to hear everything about the battle.” He paused in his stride. “An’ you says young Cap’n Adam is all right?”
Bryan Ferguson glanced around the room, at the model of the Hyperion on the table, and Allday’s kit of tools beside a rough plan of another fine piece of work.
Unis hurried through to the Long Room but paused to greet him. “Good to see you again. We’re busy today—the new road, y’ know.”
Allday shouted from the cellar, “Only just heard about Unrivalled an’ the battle—wouldn’t have known anything but for one of the revenue men passin’ through! My God, Bryan, what are we here? Six miles from Falmouth? You’d think we was on the other side o’ the real world!”
Unis touched his shoulder and carried on with her work, but not before Ferguson had seen the hurt on her pretty features.
He took the mug from Allday and waited for him to settle in another chair.
“I see you’ve started on Frobisher, then?”
Allday waved a hand. “Tell me about the battle. Did Unrivalled dish the buggers up? Who were they anyway? Why, in our day . . .”
Ferguson sipped the rum, recalling all the excitement, but not the sort his old friend wanted to hear. The urgent message from the glebe house, and going over with Young Matthew to collect Captain Adam. Everybody wanted to know about it. Even Lady Roxby had driven over to see her nephew. A surgeon from the garrison had examined and treated him and had offered a few blunt warnings of his own.
“If you were one of my dragoons, sir, I’d have you flogged in front of the troop for your behaviour. What the hell did you expect to happen?”
And he had met the girl, the one who had brought Captain Adam from the town that day when he had got his orders to report back to Plymouth.
He had recognised the change in her, even on so slight an acquaintance. There were rumours about her, how she posed for an artist, no matter that he was one of England’s greatest painters to all accounts. His wife Grace had relatives still living in Bodmin, where the girl Lowenna had been born. Lowenna’s family had not approved of the match. Hard-working farming people, and the biggest corn chandlers in that part of the county, they had considered their daughter to be out of her depth marrying a scholar, a man who had never known the demands of bending his back and working with his hands. They had moved away after the birth. Vanished, “foreigners” again.
There had been some scandal, although Grace had said little about it. He had not pressed her; he knew what he owed her for nursing and restoring him after the Saintes. He glanced at the model again. Before Hyperion’s time, that was . . .
On this occasion the girl had been warmer, but outwardly correct despite all the upheaval. Withdrawn, many would have said. But Ferguson had recognised something which was still as clear as yesterday. When Sir Richard had brought Lady Catherine to Falmouth for the first time . . . If only . . .
Allday leaned forward. “He was wounded, y’ say? Is he taking it well?”
“The ship’s repairing at Plymouth.” He saw the old light in his friend’s eyes. Living it. “The fleet’s standing to, if you ask me.”
“We should have finished the job last time, matey! Them buggers don’t understand a soft hand, that’s it an’ all about it!”
Ferguson looked at the tools on the table. Captain Adam had told him about Frobisher, and that he had seen her at Gibraltar, maybe for something to say as they had driven back together in the new dog-cart, as it was called. More comfortable on that rutted track, it had bigger wheels than his little trap, but Poppy had pulled it like a champion. He thought Adam must have felt every stone and hole on that journey, but his mind had seemed elsewhere. He had been wounded, but in some way, Ferguson thought, he looked better than when he had been here before, only weeks ago.
Afterwards Young Matthew had said with unusual vehemence, “So that was the girl? I heard about her from a loudmouth I used to know.”
Ferguson had waited; Young Matthew was not by nature a gossip.
“In Winchester, I was told. Beaten an’ raped, an’ left for dead, the story had it. Tried to end her own life, poor lass.”
He had said no more. Nor would he.
Perhaps Grace also knew.
He felt Allday’s big hand tap his knee. There was no avoiding it.
“Well, they sighted these two vessels, and right away Captain Adam guessed what they were up to.”
Unis paused at the door, and after a few seconds smiled at what she heard and saw.
Her John was back at sea again. He had never really left it.
The wine cooler stood in one corner of the cellar, its polished woodwork and silver mounts gleaming in the flickering light of the lanterns.
Adam Bolitho ran his hand over the inscription and crest, identical to that carved on the fireplace in the room above. For My Country’s Freedom. He thought again of the forlorn hulk at Gibraltar; it was hard to imagine this wine cooler on board, with men working and following
their daily routines, like the world he had left in Unrivalled.
Catherine had given this fine piece of furniture to his uncle; its predecessor lay on the seabed in the old Hyperion . It was a marvel that it had reached here unscathed, changing ships, being signed for again and again, until eventually it had arrived in Falmouth. And the chair she had given him.
He heard Ferguson’s breathing behind him; he had scarcely left his side since the accident.
“I think we should move it upstairs, Bryan.” He looked at the chair, covered with a sheet. “I might have that taken to the ship.”
Ferguson nodded, unwilling to speak, and strangely moved.
“And the wine cooler, Captain?”
“It were best kept in the house. To come home to.”
He turned away, suddenly lost within himself. Still the inter-loper, always feeling that the house waited for someone else.
“I shall attend to that.” Ferguson followed him up the stone steps.
It should have been so different, he thought. This was another homecoming which would soon be interrupted by some urgent message. He had heard more about the sea fight in which Unrivalled had been damaged, and men had died. He closed the iron-studded door. It could have been Adam. And next time . . .
He shook some dust from a heavy curtain and looked at the flowers in the walled garden. To come home to, he had said. But this was no home. Not anymore.
He thought again of what Young Matthew had told him. Maybe someone should consider the girl’s feelings, and this spec-tre which still obviously haunted her. He sighed. Anyway, she had gone to London, so that was the end of it. But her eyes had said something else. He smiled awkwardly. How Grace would laugh if she knew. But he had not forgotten how it felt.
Or how it looked. He glanced down at his empty sleeve. The past was the past.
Adam was only partly aware of Ferguson’s concern as he walked through to the study, where John Allday had seen Captain James Bolitho hand the old sword to his younger son.
He felt the leather case in his pocket, the Nile medal which Catherine had sent to him by special messenger. Somebody must have arranged it. There was only a brief note, echoing the one she had left for him in this house with the sword. He would have wanted you to have it.
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