Roxby exclaimed, "There's one!" He pointed with his riding crop, his face even redder than usual in the bitter air.
Two masts?" She looked at him, her dark eyes questioning. "A brig?"
He hid his surprise that she should know such things. "Not just a brig but a collier brig, broad in the beam, and deep holds that make them reliable craft for any cargo."
She shaded her eyes and watched the collier brig tack and head slowly towards the harbour entrance, her heavy tanned sails framed against the headland and the St. Mawes hillside battery.
Two thousand pounds, you say?"
Roxby replied glumly, "Guineas, I'm afraid."
He saw the same mischievous smile he had watched at his own dinner table. She said quietly, "We shall see."
Seeing her determination Roxby said, "I will arrange it. But it is hardly the work for a lady, and my Nancy will scold me for allowing it!"
She recalled the young midshipman who had been Richard's closest friend, the one who had given his heart to the girl who had eventually married Roxby. Did Roxby know anything about it? Did Richard's sister still grieve for the boy who had died so young?
It made her think of Adam, and she wondered if Richard had yet been able to speak with him.
Roxby said, "I'll ride with you. It's on my way." He beckoned to his groom, but she had already pulled herself into the saddle.
They rode almost in silence until the roof of the Bolitho house showed through the ragged, windswept trees. Solid, reliable, timeless, Roxby thought. He had imagined that one day he might make an offer for it, when things had been bad here.
He glanced sideways at the woman in green. That was in the past. With a woman like her, his brother-in-law could do anything.
"You must sup with us again soon," he said affably.
She tightened the reins as Tamara quickened her pace at the sight of home.
"That is kind of you. But later on, yes? Please convey my love to Nancy."
Roxby watched her until she had gone through the weathered gates. She would not come. Not until she knew, until she had heard something of Richard.
He sighed and turned his horse back on to the track, his groom trotting behind him at a respectful distance.
He kept his mind busy and away from the lovely woman who had just left him. His morning would be full tomorrow. Two men had been caught stealing chickens and had beaten the keeper who had challenged them. He would have to be present when they were hanged. It always drew a crowd, although not as large as for a highwayman or pirate.
The thought of pirates made him reflect again on the collier brig. He would provide a letter of introduction for Lady Catherine to give to his friends, as well as one for their eyes only. He was honoured that he could afford her some protection, even if he did not agree with her mission to Fowey.
He was tired and vaguely depressed when he reached his own grand house. The drive and outbuildings were well tended, the walls and gardens in good condition. French prisoners of war had done much of it, for the most part glad to be free of the jails or even worse, the hulks. It made him feel charitable again, and he was in better spirits when his wife met him in the hall brimming with news. It seemed Valentine Keen, who had been made commodore, and his young bride would be calling to see them before Keen took up some new appointment.
Roxby was pleased but he scowled as he said, "If they bring that brat with them, keep him away from me!" Then he laughed. It would be good for Nancy to have some company. He thought of Catherine. And for her too.
"We'll invite a few people, Nancy."
She asked gently, "How is Catherine?"
Roxby sat down and waited for a servant to drag off his boots, while another approached with a goblet of brandy. As a magistrate he believed it wiser not to enquire too closely into its origins.
He thought about her question.
"Missing him, m'dear. Drives herself hard to make the days pass."
"You admire her, don't you, Lewis?"
He looked into her pretty face and the eyes which, in his ardent youth, he had fancied were the colour of summer lavender. "Never seen a love like theirs," he said. As she moved to his chair he slipped his arm around her substantial waist, which had once been so slender. "Except for ours, of course!"
She laughed. "Of course!"
She turned as rain rattled suddenly against the windows. Roxby, earthy landowner that he was, could ignore it. But she was a sailor's daughter, and the sister of the most respected officer in the navy now that Nelson was no more, and she found herself murmuring, "Lord, to be at sea on a day like this..."
But when she looked at him Roxby had fallen into a doze by the fire.
She had everything, she told herself. A gracious house, a prominent position in society, two fine children and a husband who loved her dearly.
But she had never forgotten the young man who had offered his heart to her all those years ago, and in her dreams sometimes she still saw him in his blue coat with its white patches on the collar, his open face and fair hair like Valentine Keen's. But she thought of him now as if he were still out there somewhere, braving the seas and the storms, as if one day he might stride up to the house, and neither of them would have aged or changed.
She felt a lump in her throat and whispered, "Oh, Martyn, where are you?"
But only the rain answered.
Lady Catherine Somervell walked into the bedroom and paused to listen to the heavy rain drumming against the roof and pouring down from the overflowing gutters.
There was a cheerful fire in the grate and despite the bitter cold outside the house, in here it was warm and welcoming. She had had a hot bath and her body still tingled from the rubbing Sophie had given her back and shoulders. It was as well she had not waited longer in Fowey or with Roxby's friends at St. Austell: every road, even the high coaching way, would be flooded or a muddy trap for horse and carriage alike.
Everyone had been kind to her, and even the prize agent at the harbour had eventually been able to overcome his surprise at dealing with a woman.
She poured some of Grace Ferguson's coffee, beside which someone had discreetly placed a glass of cognac.
It was good to be back, especially when she discovered that Valentine Keen and his young wife had arrived at the house just before her.
She imagined them now in the large room at the end of the corridor. In one another's arms perhaps, already spent with lovemaking. Or quiet, as they had been at dinner, unable to think of anything but that they were soon to be parted. Commodore Keen, as he was now, was full of news about his tiny son whom they had left in Hampshire. One of Keen's sisters had insisted on taking care of the baby so that they could make this journey together.
Catherine had wondered if the real reason was to spare her feelings, because she had once told Zenoria that she was unable to bear children. She had not told her why, nor would she.
Whenever she had encouraged Keen to talk of his new appointment she had seen the pain in Zenoria's eyes. Separation so soon after the Golden Plover's dreadful end and their discovery of one another again, their joy at the birth of their son; it might all be lost once Keen had joined his squadron.
She had felt a dagger of jealousy when Keen had mentioned the likelihood of meeting with Richard, before or after he had led his ships to Cape Town. There would be an invasion of
Mauritius, Keen had seemed certain, to stop the attacks on the trade routes once and for all.
"Will it be difficult, Val?"
Keen had seemed almost remote. "It is always easier to defend an island than to capture it. But if enough soldiers can be spared, and with Sir Richard at the helm, it should be possible."
Catherine had not dared to look at the girl when Keen had exclaimed with sudden enthusiasm, "It will be like a family again with Adam there!"
Perhaps that, too, had blown over. Sailors had to go to sea: even poor Allday had had to make a difficult choice.
She thought of the letter which had been waitin
g for her upon her return from Fowey. Richard had written it at Gibraltar. She looked suddenly at the window as the rain lessened, and a great shaft of moonlight probed against the house. November, and his first letter. It might mark the arrival of many more.
It was a letter of love and tenderness, which with so many miles between them was all the more moving. He had written little of Valkyrie and her captain, not even much about Adam except to say that they would be leaving the Rock without waiting for Anemone to catch up.
Every day is an obstacle without you, dear Kate, and if you do not come to me in the night watches my whole being aches for you. Some nights ago when we were weathering Cape Finisterre and the winds sought to put us ashore, you did come to me. The cabin was as black as tar, but you stood by the stern windows, your hair waving in the wind although the place was sealed against it. You smiled at me and I ran to hold you. But when I kissed you, your lips were like ice. Then I was alone, a complete man again because of the strength your visit had given me.
She sat on their bed and opened the letters once more. Shy, sometimes over-sensitive, he was a man who gave so much while others demanded more. It is easier to defend an island than to capture it. How strange it had been to hear Keen's opinion. Something he had learned from Richard. Like others she had come to know. Oliver Browne, Jenour, and soon perhaps his new flag lieutenant, George Avery.
Next month they would all be preparing for Christmas. How quickly it had come around again. And all the while she would be craving news, waiting for the post-boy; writing to him and wondering how each letter would reach him.
She stroked the bed with her hand. Where she had given herself, again and again. The bed was turned down, and Sophie had laid out a gown for her as she always did.
How would Zenoria accept this latest parting? She could barely have recovered from the last one, when the devastating news had broken about the shipwreck.
Adam had taken her that news himself. Was that when it had happened?
She got up and walked to the window. Most of the clouds had gone, and those still moving to a wet south-westerly glided from the moon's path like solid things.
Catherine picked up the gown and for a few moments stood naked while she threw her heavy robe on to a chair.
She stared at the tall cheval glass where she had stood with Richard, watching his hand uncover her with exquisite slowness. The strong hand had moved over her body, exploring her as she had heard herself beg him to do.
Then she stood at the window again and flung it open, gasping as the bitter air attacked her nakedness.
"I am here, Richard. Wherever you are, I am with you!"
And in the sudden stillness she thought she heard him call her name.
Sir Paul Sillitoe paused beside one of the tall windows in the Admiralty building and watched the carriages shining like polished metal in the persistent drizzle, and wondered how or why he should tolerate such an existence. He had two estates in England and plantations in Jamaica, where he could soon drive the chill from his bones.
He knew exactly why he did it, and even this momentary dissatisfaction was merely a facet of his own impatient nature.
November and barely three o'clock in the afternoon, and already he could not see clearly across the road. London was wet, cold and miserable.
He heard Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker re-enter the room and said, "Is the squadron ready to sail, Sir James?" He turned lightly and saw the weight of worry on the admiral's face. Hamett-Parker was finding this project more difficult than he had believed, perhaps. He thought suddenly of Godschale, who was now in Bombay. Even he had been better in some ways; he would certainly have found a woman somewhere to ease his burden. Sillitoe knew that Hamett-Parker's wife had died. He smiled to himself. Of boredom, probably.
"I have sent word today. As soon as Commodore Keen is satisfied, I will tell him to prepare for sea."
He looked at Sillitoe, barely able to hide his dislike. "And what of the Prime Minister?"
Sillitoe shrugged. "When the Duke of Portland decided to resign that illustrious position, owing, he claimed, to ill health, we were prepared to accept changes, in strategy at least. Next month we are to be blessed with another Tory, Spencer Perceval, who given time may make a stronger mark than the Duke."
Hamett-Parker was astonished that Sillitoe found it easy to display his contempt so openly. It was dangerous, even amongst friends. There was worse to come.
"You realise, Sir James, that without proper leadership we have been laid open to all manner of dangers."
The French?"
Sillitoe's hooded eyes gleamed as he answered, "For once, the French are not the enemy. This time the rot is from within." He became impatient again. "I speak of His Majesty. Can nobody see that he is a raving lunatic? Every order of command, at sea or on land, has to be laid out before him."
Hamett-Parker glanced at the closed doors and replied uneasily, "He is the King. It is everyone's loyal duty to..."
Sillitoe seemed to spring at him. Then you are a fool, sir! If this Mauritius campaign is ruined because of his prevarication, do you imagine that he will shoulder the blame?" He watched the sudden anxiety on the admiral's severe features. "By the Grace of God, remember? How can a monarch be held responsible?" He tapped the table with his fingers. "He is mad. But you will be the scapegoat. But then you know all about courts-martial. You will not need reminding."
Hamett-Parker snapped, "I'll have no more of your impertinence, damn it! What you describe is treason!"
Sillitoe looked down at the road again as a troop of dragoons cantered past, their cloaks black with rain.
"His eldest son will be crowned one day. Pray that it is not too late."
Hamett-Parker forced himself to sit upright in his chair. No matter who had the prime minister's ear, or even the attention of royalty, Sillitoe appeared to be at ease with them. He tried not to think of his grand house, which had been Anson's. Like Godschale, he could lose everything. Even the lords of Admiralty were no longer immune to penalties.
"Are you saying that the people do not like their King?"
Sillitoe did not smile. It had cost the admiral a great deal to ask something so indiscreet.
"It would be fairer to say that the King does not know or care about themV
He waited a moment. "Suppose you were to hold a very splendid reception at your London address?" He knew that Hamett-Parker had no other address, but this was the moment for flattery.
The admiral said, "What good would it do?"
"For you, d'you mean?" He hurried on before Hamett-Parker could rise to his casual insult. "Invite guests who are known, cared about, hated even, but not merely the King's officers and officials who have favours to offer."
"But next year..."
"Next year, Sir James, the King will be beyond help or manipulation. His son will take responsibility." He waited and saw the doubts and fears of a man who was said to be little short of a tyrant.
"Invite him, is that what you imply?"
Sillitoe shrugged. "It is a suggestion. I am certain that the prime minister would favour it." He saw the shot go home, like watching a duel list fall when you had believed that your ball had missed the target.
"I will have to give it a good deal of thought."
Sillitoe smiled. The battle was almost won. He said gently, "You have reached as high a position in the navy as any officer might hope. Others would have thought it impossible from the start." He counted the seconds. "It would help nobody, least of all yourself, to lose it."
"I have never sought favours from anybody!"
Sillitoe regarded him impassively. He sounds just like Thomas Herrick. But all he said was, "Admirable."
The same lieutenant entered the room and said, "Sir Paul's carriage is here, Sir James."
Hamett-Parker waved him away and wondered how long he had been listening outside.
Sillitoe picked up his cloak and turned towards the doors.
"I shall walk. It keep
s my head clear." He gave a slight bow. "I bid you good-day, Sir James."
He descended the elegant staircase and went briskly out past the porter's chair into the drizzle.
His coachman acknowledged him with his whip. He knew where to find him. He was reliable, otherwise he would not be in Sillitoe's employment.
There were few people in the streets. As he walked, ignoring them, Sillitoe was deep in thought. He was still surprised that Hamett-Parker had not put up any fight.
His thoughts ranged on to Catherine Somervell and what he would say to her. She was not on this earth to be hidden away in Cornwall with fishermen and labourers. Nor was she meant to spend her life conducting a hopeless liaison in a little house in Chelsea. Sometimes she must recall her previous marriage to the Viscount Somervell, the grand occasions, being presented as she should be. She would be aware of Sillitoe's influence at the Admiralty and with Parliament. A few words, spoken or written, could bring Bolitho from his constant campaigning, and its ever-present fear of death. She would also be well aware that he could persuade a bigot like Hamett-Parker to prevent Bolitho's return, as they were doing to Nelson's best friend, Lord Collingwood.
Alexander Kent - Bolitho 20 Darkening Sea Page 16
