He glanced up the stairs. He knew this house well, had been a guest here in the past. Its silence was heavy with memory. Adam’s place was at sea. Until…He recalled the men who had sat at the conference table with him. Complacent, even condescending. Impossible to compare with others he had known, and had fought beside, regardless of the odds, or the rights or wrongs of the cause.
“Here you are, sir.” She was back, with a tankard balanced on a tray.
Ginger beer. What would they have had to say about that in the kitchen?
He would have to sit and think it all over again. There was nobody else now to consider. Her memory was never far away. His Dulcie…In his mind he often saw them together. He sighed a little, and his hand moved as if to brush some dust from his uniform, except that he was no longer wearing the King’s coat. Dulcie had died of fever when he had been at sea; she had been nursing prisoners of war. He picked up the tankard and gazed at it. Always the link. Adam had been the one who had carried the word of Dulcie’s death to him, just as he himself had carried the news to Richard that his first wife had been killed with their unborn child.
“He’s in here, sir.”
Herrick swung round, caught off guard, angry that he had allowed the past to distract him.
A man stood by the study door, looking toward him; the girl Jenna was hovering nearby. A heavy jacket with shoulder-capes, and riding boots, one mud-streaked. Not young, not old. Herrick thought he was mistaken, but there was something familiar about his face.
He strode across the polished floor. “Rear-Admiral Herrick? So glad I was in time.” He held out his hand, then paused to wipe it on his breeches. “I’m James Roxby. My mother told me you might be paying her a visit. Hoped you would.” The palm was hard, and Herrick could see the likeness now, the same gestures, the confidence. He was looking at the tankard and the girl explained, “Ginger beer, sir.”
“After that ride, I think I’ll venture something stronger!”
They laughed.
Herrick wondered why he had not remembered. It was not like him. James Roxby was a highly respected surgeon in London. Nancy had joked about it, saying her son occasionally came down to the West Country on a pilgrimage, or to escape his patients.
“I hear that you have only just arrived.” He did not wait for an answer. “Some one taken your things? This is no way to greet an honoured guest!”
Herrick said, “I left them at the inn. I didn’t know…” He broke off, feeling like a fool. What had he expected?
“Somebody will go and get them.” Head on one side, and Herrick could see him in his professional role without effort. Then he nodded. “She’s coming now. She’ll get you settled.” He almost grinned. “My mother gives all the orders around here!”
He turned. “Comfortable, are you?” He did not look at the empty sleeve. There was no need.
But Nancy was here, her eyes moving between them. “Thomas, this is a lovely surprise!” She tossed a bag on to a chair, and a parcel to the beaming Jenna. “We were very concerned!”
Herrick made to take her hand but she gripped his shoulder and turned her face toward him. “Makes it simply perfect.” He kissed her cheek, and she laughed. “For me, in any case!”
Herrick watched her, her smile, the warmth he had never forgotten. “I’m sorry I missed the reception for Adam…” He faltered. “And Lowenna.”
She shrugged. “You would have hated it. They were wonderful, but I expect it was an ordeal for them.” She sat, facing him. “And what of you, Thomas?” She was leaning forward, her eyes never leaving his. “You are looking so well—we’ll not let you escape so easily this time!”
Herrick said, rather stiffly, “I am finished with active service. I might be offered some temporary appointments, but…” It was nobody’s concern. Except my own.
But she was laughing, one hand to her mouth, shaking her head. “So sorry, Thomas, dear Thomas! I remembered what you said to me when we last met!” She shook her head again. “I can pay my way, do you remember saying that?” She calmed herself with an effort. “I loved you for it!”
Her son stood up. “I’ll arrange to have the gear collected from—” His eyebrows went up. “The Spaniards, wasn’t it?”
Herrick saw the mask slip, heard the keen, incisive voice. The surgeon again. No wonder sailors feared them. Hated them. There was no one else to blame, not when you were pinned on your back, helpless, waiting for the blade.
But he felt his mouth lift into an unaccustomed smile. It had been so long. Nothing else mattered. “I’ve never forgotten it, Nancy.” Like hearing somebody else.
She dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “Adam and Lowenna are down at the waterfront. They’ll be back soon.” She laughed. “It’s perfect!”
More voices, this time Grace Ferguson, one hand holding a bunch of keys. Straight-backed, smiling at him. Altered in some way, but otherwise as he remembered her whenever they had met.
She said, “Good to have you with us, sir. Like old times.”
They must all believe that.
Then they were alone together and Nancy said softly, “We shall make them better, Thomas. No more heartbreaks—it’s never too late.” She examined his face, feature by feature. “Don’t mind James. Sometimes even he can forget he is a surgeon and be human again. Until his fingers start itching for his saw.”
Grace Ferguson paused to rearrange something below the stairs, and listened to their sudden laughter. She remembered when Herrick had first come here, to this house. The young lieutenant with blue, blue eyes and an uncertain frown. And she had been even younger than the girl Jenna.
She thought of the empty sleeve, and began to search abruptly through her keys. There was no value in looking back.
Adam held Lowenna’s arm while some fishermen trundled a barrow loaded with tangled nets along the jetty. It was always busy here, boats being unloaded by hand under the sharp eye of local buyers, and a few larger craft using tackle to shift their cargoes directly ashore. Not very different from when he had first seen it as a youth, and he had always remembered it.
She smiled, face fresh in the cold salt breeze, eyes bright with interest and excitement. Sharing it with him, unconcerned or unaware of the attention from idlers and labourers alike.
But he tightened his grip as two men with arms linked, obviously full to the scuppers, as Luke Jago would have said, lurched aside with elaborate respect as they passed.
“Greetin’s, Captain, an’ yer lovely lady!”
Lowenna said, “The deck looks very lively today.”
The two seamen stared at her and then fell laughing in each other’s arms. There were grins and nods throughout the crowd.
Adam murmured, “You are wonderful. For a second, I thought…”
But she was shading her eyes against the hard light, the moment already past as she watched a vessel moving slowly clear of others moored close by. “Your world, Adam. And I want to be part of it.” She laughed as some gulls swooped down on a few fishheads thrown on the water. “Look, they’re happy, too.”
When she looked at him again her face was serious. “I saw you watching that ship. A brig, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is. Clever of you. Most people would not know.”
But she did not smile. “I saw it in your eyes. An understanding. Almost…a hunger.” She thrust some of her hair under her cloak. “Am I right?”
He stared across the choppy water. The brig was already under way, topsails and jib filling slightly to the brisk offshore wind. Too far out to hear the sounds of a vessel coming alive, the squeal and clatter of blocks, the measured stamp of bare feet. But he could have been there on her deck.
He said, “Small and handy, fourteen guns. Very like Firefly, my first command. She taught me all I know.” He took her arm again, unconsciously. “And you are a part of it. Since that day…” A great chorus of laughter mixed with jeers scattered his thoughts, and he saw a group of onlookers pointing or gesturing toward the brig,
shaking their heads in disgust.
“What is it, Adam?”
I should have known. Been prepared. The time of year did not matter, nor the weather. There were always the old hands, men who had once served in ships of war, and now were unable to stay away from the life which had brutally rejected them. Missing an arm or a leg, permanently scarred, there was not a whole man amongst them.
There was a distant squawk from the brig’s speaking trumpet, doubtless her first lieutenant yelling threats at a small boat carelessly pulling across the bows. It was common enough in confined waters. But somehow a necessary reminder to survivors like these.
“That showed ’em, eh, Cap’n?” More laughs, and hostility too. It was different at sea. So different. The risk and the danger were ever present. The toast to “absent friends” was supposed to soften the harsh reality.
He could feel her hand on his arm, very still, like a small creature, listening, waiting.
He said, “We’ll walk to the end of the jetty now that we’ve come this far.” Suppose they all stood firm. To prove something, take some cheap revenge.
“Everything in order, Captain Bolitho?”
Adam had not even seen them approach. Two uniforms, gilt buttons; one was wearing a sword. Authority, from the revenue cutter he had seen earlier when they had reached the waterfront.
“Thank you, yes.” He touched his hat and saw the other man respond. He felt her fingers tighten on his arm as he added, “We are amongst friends here.”
They walked on, the way suddenly cleared. Nothing was said; there was only a smile or a brief nod of recognition here and there, and once a hand reached out as they passed.
“I shall not forget that, Adam.” She turned and looked at the moored vessels, and the brig, which was under more sail and leaning slightly on a new tack. “And neither will they.”
Together they paused to look up the slope toward the town. The square tower of the church was just visible above the surrounding roofs.
Adam thought of the imposing curate and said, half to himself, “God and the Navy we adore.”
She pressed his arm.
“I cannot wait. Is that so wrong?”
They walked back along the jetty. The onlookers had vanished.
Absent friends.
David Napier walked steadily toward the house, his feet avoiding the loose cobbles by instinct; they were already familiar, after so short a time. He paused, noting the wind’s direction as sunlight lanced off the Father Tyme weathervane. He had walked as far as the little coastguard cottage where a dog always rushed out to bark at him, and there had been no more pain in his leg. He had not even been out of breath. He had seen a few people on his way, most of whom he had come to recognize, or thought he did. It was wrong to pretend, deceive himself, but he could not help it. While he lived here, it was his home. His life.
It could have been so much worse. But every day it was getting better. He raised his foot and took his weight on it. Surely by now…
“I ’eard tell you was up an’ about when the cock crowed, young David. You’m missing walking that deck, my son!”
Old Jeb Trinnick was standing at an open stable door, a mug of something gripped in his hand. Tall and fierce-looking, with only one eye, he would take no arguments from any one. But this morning his habitual grimace seemed to be a smile.
A boy called something and he turned away, scowling now. “Never gets a bloody minute!”
Napier smiled. Jeb Trinnick would have it no other way, from what he had seen and heard. Perhaps it was the best way. When you were trying to forget, afraid of what might lie in wait. Crying out in the night, even here, where there was nothing to fear.
Our secret.
He had never known any one like her. Lowenna meant “joy” in the old Cornish tongue.
What must it be like? Really like? When they were together…
He looked up toward the windows of the estate office. Yovell never probed or asked questions, and might even be called secretive, but he cared enough about those he worked for. He could almost hear him saying it. Otherwise, my boy, I wouldn’t be here.
It was warm in the office, but not the oven it had been when Jago had been acting the barber. The cat was back in its usual place, and Yovell was at his desk.
“Ah, here he is. Mister Midshipman Napier in person!” He said it lightly, but Napier was staring at the man with him, a courier, booted and spurred and dressed in a heavy riding coat. He must have ridden up to the house from the main road. “He has a letter for you.” He peered over the spectacles at the courier. “And Mrs Ferguson will no doubt give you something to keep out the cold.”
The courier grinned at Napier. “I’d take kindly to that,” and walked to the door, spurs jingling, his duty done.
“A letter—for me?” He tried again. “Is it—my mother?”
Yovell said kindly, “Sit you down. It might be a mistake.” He slid the letter across the desk, his hand resting on it, as if to give him time. “But it’s addressed to you right enough.”
Napier took the letter and the knife he had always seen Yovell use, here and aboard Unrivalled. So long ago. There were several addresses and directions, all scored out, the final one reading In the care of Captain Adam Bolitho, Falmouth.
Yovell said, “Open it, David.” His spectacles had slipped, but he did nothing to adjust them. “I shall be here.” He did not elaborate.
Napier slit open the envelope and pulled out the letter. His mind barely kept pace with the meaningless details, the lines of copperplate script and the remains of a broken seal. Like drops of blood. His hands were steady, but his mouth was completely dry.
My dear Mister Napier,
At the earliest opportunity it is my wish to speak with you in person, to offer my gratitude and heartfelt thanks for your courageous attempt to save the life of my only son Paul, after the loss of Audacity.
No written words can convey my true feelings when the news reached me of his death, and your determined efforts on his behalf.
Napier moved the letter; it was shaking, blurred. Tiny, unreal sounds intruded. A horse on the cobbles, a man whistling, breaking off in a fit of coughing. His eyes fell to the foot of the page.
I look forward to the day of our meeting.
I am, believe me, yours sincerely,
Charles Boyce, Rear-Admiral.
“Drink this.” Yovell had come around the desk and was leaning over him.
Napier sipped at the glass and coughed, and felt Yovell’s hand on his shoulder. A latch clicked and he heard him snap, “Not now! Find somebody else!”
Perhaps that did more than anything to steady him. But his vision was still blurred. Like drowning. He said, “I didn’t even know his name. He was Boyce, that was all I knew.”
Yovell’s hand moved slightly. “You are doing well.” He raised the glass again. “And his father is a rear-admiral, no less.”
Napier hardly heard him. “We never shared anything aboard Audacity. There were six of us in the gunroom. There was always trouble…” He halted, shocked that all he could recall was hate. He touched his leg, without realizing that his hand had moved. The ship heeling over, explosions muffled and terrible as the sea burst into the hull. The screams, wild and unreal, others trying to cheer as Athena surged past, all her guns firing. Then the emptiness, drifting fragments, boats too far away to help. And through and above the smoke, sunlight touching the crest of a hill. Too far, too late. It was all he had.
He saw that Yovell was gazing at him, behind the desk once more.
“You’ve had quite a load to carry on your back, young David.” He gestured to the letter. “Some I heard, some I guessed. And you, I know.” He gave his owlish smile. “The rest can wait. But for the courier’s untimely visit, you might never have received this. Not for a while, in any case.”
Napier said, “I wondered why…” and saw Yovell’s irritation as more shouts came from the stables, and then Jeb Trinnick’s harsher tone brought an in
stant silence.
Yovell folded the letter and pushed it discreetly across the desk. Then he said, “It seems impossible to keep a secret in this place. The courier brought word to Captain Bolitho. It was his main purpose in coming, otherwise…” He unlocked a drawer and dragged it out until it was pressed against his stomach. “We will talk again soon. Together we shall think of a suitable response to Rear-Admiral Boyce.”
Napier saw the long, buff-coloured envelope, another, unbroken red seal. He heard himself ask, “Is he recalled?”
Yovell seemed preoccupied, patting his pockets. “I do not expect you to betray a confidence.” He peered around for his hat. “That was unfair, and uncalled for…Stay a while, if you wish. This, I fear, must not wait. Damn their eyes!”
Napier watched him in an awed silence. Mild enough, but from Yovell it matched a hardened seaman’s crudest oath.
The door slammed and there was silence. Napier folded the letter slowly and replaced it in the torn envelope. He was a bully, a coward, and a liar. Aloud or to himself, he neither knew nor cared. He thought of the dark-eyed girl who had tried to drive away those same bitter memories.
Our secret. Now she would be separated from the man who was her life. He thrust the letter into his coat.
Our captain. Nothing else mattered.
She sat in one of the high-backed, matching chairs, her hands clasped in her lap, only her eyes moving as Adam Bolitho strode restlessly about the study. The fire in the grate had all but died, but the door was closed; they would not be disturbed. Her cloak was still lying across the old chest by the window, where she had thrown it when they had arrived back from the harbour.
She had been expecting it, dreading it, but surely not so soon?
She said only, “When?” and saw him twist the envelope in his hand. “Is it a ship?”
He turned toward her, with the same expression she had seen when Yovell had brought the letter. And before that, when they had walked from the stable yard and the eyes had watched them pass. He had known then.
Heart of Oak Page 5
