He laid the two letters on the table. “For your husband. They were my key to your door. But I failed . . .”
“What did you expect? That I would take you to my bed merely because it is you, because you always get what you want?”
He picked up his hat and pushed his unruly hair from his forehead. He did not see her start at the familiar gesture. “I wanted only you, Zenoria.” It was the first time he had spoken her name here. “I did not have the right, or the courage to tell you that I loved you.”
She pulled a silk bell-cord. “Please go.” She watched him move to the library door, her figure very still. “Perhaps God will forgive both of us, but I can never forgive you.”
The door closed, and for several minutes she stood quite still until she heard a groom calling out his thanks to the young captain for the coins that had been put into his hand. Only then did she take a small book from one of the piles, and after a further hesitation she opened it. Pressed in the middle were a pair of wild roses, now as flat as silk. He had given them to her on that ride, on his birthday. She said to the silent room, “And I loved you, Adam. I always will.”
Then she dried her eyes and adjusted her gown before going to the double doors and out into the sunshine.
The old gardener was still working unhurriedly. Only his barrow and musket had moved. Along the drive and through the gates she could see the road. It was empty. As if none of it had happened.
She heard the child crying, the placating sounds from Val’s sister, who had wanted one of her own.
All was as it had been before. But she knew she had just lost everything.
Bolitho paused by the ballroom’s pillared entrance, using the time it took for a bewigged footman to notice him to accustom his own eyes to the light.
The footman had a reedy voice, and he thought it unlikely that anyone heard his announcement above the scrape of violins from an orchestra and the great din of voices. It was certainly a very impressive house in fashionable St James’s Square, “noble” as Catherine had aptly described it, and far too large for Hamett-Parker alone. The admiral had lost his wife in a hunting accident, but had certainly retained a liking for lavish living. Bolitho had also noticed a marble statue of a centurion in the entrance hall, and had realised then that it had been put there by the house’s original owner, Admiral Anson, to commemorate his own flag-ship of that name.
Footmen and some Royal Marines pressed into service to assist them laboured through the throng. There were red coats and the scarlet of the marines, but the navy’s blue and white made up the majority of guests: there were very few below the rank of post-captain. Of His Majesty there was no sign, and Bolitho had heard that he quite often failed to attend such receptions even though he was reminded of them by his long-suffering staff.
He felt a prickle of annoyance as he saw the large number of women present. Some might be wives: some, with their bold glances and barely-covered bosoms, were unlikely guests. But they did not count because nobody cared. If any ordinary officer were having an affair others would merely ignore it. But if Catherine had been on his arm, looking as she did on these rare occasions, you could have heard a pin drop, and every eye would be staring.
Someone took his hat and was lost amongst the crowd. Another, a Royal Marine, reached him with a tray and turned it carefully towards him. Bolitho glanced at him questioningly and the marine said in a conspiratorial whisper, “That’s the good stuff, Sir Richard.” He nearly winked. “I’m proud to be servin’ you. Wait till I tells the lads!”
Bolitho sipped the wine. It was good. Cold too, surprisingly enough. “Do I know you?”
The man grinned, as if such things were impossible. “Bless you, no, Sir Richard. I was one o’ Benbow ’s after-guard when you came for us.” His face was suddenly grim. “I’d bin wounded, y’see, otherwise I’d ’ave bin lyin’ dead with all me mates.”
Bolitho heard someone snap his fingers, and turned to see a captain he did not know beckoning to the marine.
This was one of Thomas Herrick’s own marines, a man who thought himself lucky to be alive and recovered from his wound, unlike so many on that terrible day.
He snapped, “Have you no manners, sir?”
The captain stared at him and at his rank and seemed to sink into the throng like a fish in a pond.
He said, “Rear-Admiral Herrick was my friend.”
The marine nodded gravely. He had seen the captain flush, then cringe at this man’s sharp rebuke. Something else to tell the lads in the barracks.
“I knows it, Sir Richard. Beggin’ yer pardon, I think it’s wrong to send ’im to New South Wales.”
Bolitho took another goblet from among the good stuff and nodded. Why had he said, “ was my friend”? Was there no hope? Was friendship really dead between them? Herrick had always been a stubborn man, sometimes beyond sense or reason. He could still not accept Bolitho’s love for a woman not his wife, even though Catherine had been the only one to stay with Herrick’s own beloved Dulcie when she had been dying so horribly of typhus. It was a miracle that Catherine herself had not fallen to the same fate.
He looked through a gap in the crowd and saw Hamett-Parker watching him intently, his pale eyes reflecting the hundreds of candles like chips of glass.
Bolitho walked towards him. The marine had vanished for another tray. Bolitho had smelt brandy on his breath: he had better watch his step if his officer noticed it.
Hamett-Parker bobbed his head. “I was aware of the charisma they say you possess, Sir Richard. That common fellow was obviously an admirer.”
“I always draw comfort from such men, Sir James. I saw what he and his comrades endured. He and others like him make me very aware of what we owe them in leadership.”
The admiral grunted. “I’ll not deny that. But we must all take care that popularity does not win more friends than leadership.” He glanced around at the noisy crowd. “Lord Godschale would have approved, don’t you think?”
“What has become of him?” He sensed that Hamett-Parker was trying to goad him.
“He should be well on his way to Bombay by now.” The admiral appeared indifferent, but his voice was sharper. “A most important position with the Honourable East India Company. Extremely lucrative, I would surmise.”
Bolitho could not imagine Godschale willingly exchanging the pleasures of London for the intense heat and fevers of India. Hamett-Parker remarked, “I believe it was not unexpected. An indiscretion can often be overlooked. A political scandal cannot.” He gazed at him coldly. “As I said, one must lead by example!”
“Is Captain Keen to be here tonight, Sir James?” Hamett-Parker offered a faint smile. “No. He is not long married, and I can spare him a while.”
“I had hoped that he would be promoted directly to flag rank.”
“Were you? ”
Bolitho prayed that someone would come and interrupt this verbal fencing match. “No, I was not. I was commodore first.” Hamett-Parker would know that better than anyone. He contained his anger and added, “I have known Captain Keen for a long time. He was a midshipman under my command. He is a fine officer and a decent man.”
“And comes from a powerful and influential family, yes? I respect your concern, of course, but you must accept that Captain Keen must be more than a fine officer to hoist his flag as rear-admiral. But we shall see. He will have every chance to prove himself, that I promise you.”
A footman came towards them, a single goblet in the centre of his tray. The admiral took it and said, “Refreshing at times like these.”
Bolitho noticed that he was drinking lime juice. Perhaps so that he could watch the antics of his subordinates and equals as the hock and madeira flowed freely.
Hamett-Parker frowned but instantly contained it as Sir Paul Sillitoe, elegantly dressed in dark grey silk and wearing a slender court sword at his hip, strode across the floor.
“My apologies for my late arrival, Sir James.” Several guests nearby were making
a pretence of not listening. They were not to be disappointed. “I have been with the prime minister—we saw His Majesty together. The King will not be coming here after all.”
Hamett-Parker regarded him balefully. “What ails him now?”
Sillitoe smiled at Bolitho for the first time, then said, “We have just received word, Sir James, from Talavera. General Wellesley has won a great victory over Marshal Soult. The war on the Peninsula is all but won.”
There was a stunned silence, then as the word spread across the room and into other parts of the house a great burst of wild cheering made the chandeliers quiver like pieces of ice.
Hamett-Parker nodded. “Earlier than expected.” He sounded completely unmoved.
Sillitoe took a glass of wine and smiled again. “A perfect way to celebrate your appointment, Sir James. Congratulations!” He looked at Bolitho. “A great moment for you also, sir. Without you and your seamen no soldier could have set foot on enemy soil!”
Hamett-Parker said, “We shall sup very shortly, while some of them can still stand. Pass the word!”
As the admiral turned away to play the host, however ungraciously, Sillitoe said lightly, “You are alone tonight, Sir Richard?” His hooded eyes gave nothing away.
“I came only because Lady Catherine insisted.”
He nodded impassively. “Very wise. There are times when discretion is worth more than a squadron.”
Bolitho was suddenly tired of it. “I’ll not wait. I shall make my excuses.”
Sillitoe shrugged. “We shall meet again very soon. There is work for both of us now that Arthur Wellesley has dished up his old enemy.”
“What is it to be?” He wanted to leave, but needed to know.
Sillitoe took his arm and guided him to an anteroom where the din of cheers and tipsy laughter were muffled, if not quenched completely.
“Advise me, Richard, and I will advise the Duke of Portland. The French intend to strangle our trade—our lifeline, if you like.”
“I read of the latest attacks. If we had not captured the French rear-admiral André Baratte I would see his hand in this.”
Sillitoe smiled gently. “You are very shrewd. But Baratte was released, exchanged for Lord Derwent who was captured in Spain. You see? So soon back in England and already you are proving your worth.” The smile widened but did not reach his eyes. “Especially to me!”
He pulled out his watch and yawned. “My carriage is outside.
I will take you to Chelsea, if you like. We can talk in peace.”
In sight of the Thames again, the street deserted in an unexpected rainfall, Sillitoe lost no time in questioning Bolitho about the threat to merchant shipping.
“I am all ears, Richard, eager for knowledge. I would never make a sailor in five hundred years!”
Bolitho was still pondering the stupidity of those who had chosen to exchange Baratte for some English aristocrat. Baratte had had a high reputation as a frigate captain and then as commodore of a squadron before being promoted to his rank. Several attempts had been made to capture him in battle, all unsuccessful. It had fallen to Bolitho’s Tybalt to change matters by seizing Baratte’s frigate and the man himself when all the odds had decreed otherwise. It was said that Baratte hated the English as much as he loved France; and now he was gone, probably better aware of England’s strength or weakness than before his capture.
Sillitoe remarked, “We hold Good Hope, largely thanks to you. Surely that should be enough?”
Bolitho saw the straggling trade routes in his mind, from India and the East Indies, as far as New South Wales and the expanding colony there. Baratte would have the pick of any ship or cargo he chose to attack. But he would need a base, somewhere to water and provision his ships and unload his prizes. It could be no halfhearted operation like the haphazard killing and plunder practised by common pirates.
He said, “We would need a small, fast-moving squadron, a flotilla even. Six frigates with a competent captain . . .” He sensed Sillitoe’s reaction and said, “I know. It is like asking for the moon. But without a planned and practical strategy the losses will become worse and their lordships will be forced to release more men-of-war, no matter how badly they are needed in home waters.” He glanced out of the window and wished that Sillitoe were sitting on his right. His eye was sore, and he wanted to touch it even though he knew it would not help.
He said, “Like Baratte, I suppose I have always been a frigate captain at heart. I commanded three. It was like nothing else.”
“Oh? What of Sparrow? ”
He tensed. “She was a sloop-of-war, not even as big as a sixth-rate.” Like Hamett-Parker, the mysterious Sillitoe had done his research well.
“I see.”
Bolitho continued. “There are the anti-slavery patrols that run out of Good Hope and Freetown. Their aid could be useful. They would know all the likely anchorages, if only from interrogating the slavers when they catch them.” He was reminded again of Tyacke. A dedicated seaman, alone because of his terrible disfigurement, and yet able to command respect and a kind of strange affection from the men who served with him. That day when they had been close to death, the sight of Larne had made even the hardest survivor gasp out his thanks to heaven.
Sillitoe was saying, “That is one of the things I like about you. You don’t merely toss away ideas without consideration. You think them through, as only a professional officer can. Our new lord of Admiralty is not yet ready to bend. In time he will have to.”
“Why did Godschale leave?”
Sillitoe said coolly, “You are also very direct. Godschale, as I think you know, was fond of the ladies. But he was neither consistent nor careful. He compromised a lady of quality, then spurned her for another. It was unfortunate that the one he turned his back on was the wife of a certain member of the House of Lords. More I cannot say.”
“He will not like Bombay.”
Sillitoe watched him from the shadows. “That is an under-statement.”
It was very dark when they reached the house but the rain had stopped, and there were stars already showing between the clouds.
“I have a favour to ask you, Richard.”
Bolitho half-turned, one hand on the carriage door. “Well?”
“You will need a good flag lieutenant when you take up your next appointment, now that young Jenour has become the amateur captain. I think I have the right one for you.” He sounded as if he were smiling in the darkness. “My nephew, to be exact. At present serving as lieutenant in the old Canopus. The ship is undergoing extensive repairs at the Nore.”
“I would have to see him.”
“Naturally. I will arrange it. He is not one of those pompous little upstarts . . . he is intelligent, better educated than many who wear the King’s coat.”
“I cannot promise anything.” It was strange to think of Sillitoe having a nephew, or any relations for that matter. Catherine had told him that Sillitoe had known her dead husband, Viscount Somervell. In what role, he wondered. Gambler, duellist, or cheat? One usually led to the others. But not Sillitoe. He was too clever, too secretive.
He was looking out at the darkened house. “My regards to Lady Catherine. A pity she is not at home.” He rapped the carriage roof. “Drive on!”
Bolitho touched his eye. He always trusted Catherine’s instincts about people. Wait and see, she had said. Where Sillitoe was concerned it was sound advice.
The housekeeper opened the door and said, “I’ve a table laid for you, Sir Richard.”
“Thank you, no, I’ve no appetite. I shall go to our room.”
Our room. He closed the door behind him and looked around at their other haven. Her perfume was here; the gown she wore so often when she came to bed because he liked it so much, as if she might enter at any moment.
He hurried to the window as a carriage slowed down at the street comer. But it carried on past the house. They had been separated only because she had feared he could be blamed for snubbing the recep
tion. Hamett-Parker would know he had left early; he would also be told that he and Sillitoe had been together. He tossed his heavy dress coat on to a chair, and smiled when he thought how indignant Ozzard would be about it.
He lay staring at the dancing shadows cast by a solitary candle and thought of her kneeling over him, or lying with her dark hair spread out in disorder across the pillows while she waited for him, unashamed, even proud of the body which he would explore until they could delay no longer.
He was soon asleep, and even then she was with him.
5 NO SECRETS
BY MID-AUGUST 1809 the general attitude of England’s population was one of apathy and disinterest, except for those who had loved ones at sea or in the army abroad. With Wellesley’s victories in the Peninsular War and his return home to receive the title of Duke of Wellington from the King, the real enemy, France, seemed suddenly remote. Only in the City of London, in the counting houses and the world of insurance, was the true damage to trade and shipping really understood.
Bolitho had been twice to the Admiralty where he had been welcomed by four of their lordships, two of whom were senior officers and the others civilians. He had come away bemused by the casual fashion in which the Admiralty Board appeared to be run, with hundreds of instructions and orders being despatched every week to squadrons and solitary vessels, many of which were already obsolete by the time they were delivered.
Reunited with Catherine, he had been troubled by her reluctance to discuss her visit to Zenoria. He had gathered that the girl was still overwhelmed by the Keen family, suffocated by kindness; and when they received an invitation to the christening in Hampshire he had sensed that Catherine’s mood went even deeper.
He knew she was disturbed by the lack of confirmation of his next appointment: the news of Collingwood’s worsening health made the Mediterranean a possibility for the first time, and yet the Admiralty, and some said the King himself, whose mental state was rumoured to be deteriorating, continued to refuse Collingwood’s plea for a recall to England.
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