It was brief; the wild need of each other driving away patience and bringing instead a culmination which made Catherine cry out as if she had no care for those who might hear and wonder.
Later, Bolitho opened his eyes and found himself still in her arms, their bodies entwined as if they had never moved. The room was full of silver light, brighter even than the sun; or so it seemed.
“How long . . . ?”
She kissed him. “Not long enough. I have been with you all the while. Did you know there is a pale patch on your neck where the skin was shaded by your hair?”
“Don’t you like it, Kate?”
She pulled his head down to her breast. “I will grow used to it. The man I love is unchanged!”
She stroked his hair. “I must bring you something to eat. The whole house is abed. What must they think of us—of me?”
Bolitho propped himself on one elbow, watching the moonlight, knowing she was staring up at him, knowing that he wanted her again, and again.
“It is so warm.” As if to a secret signal they both left the bed and stood side by side at the window, feeling the soft warm air about their nakedness, the sense of peace as the sea boomed faraway on those hidden rocks which guarded the approaches like black sentinels.
He put his arm around her waist and felt her body respond to his touch. Then he looked up at the moon. It was full, like a great silver dish.
“I need you, Kate.” He was almost afraid to say it. He was unused to speaking out about something so secret and yet so powerful.
“And I you.”
Bolitho hugged her. “But I will close the windows. There will be no food tonight, dearest Kate, and with that halo around the moon I think it may come on to blow before dawn.”
She drew him down again and without effort roused him to match her own excitement, until they were once again joined, and he lay across her, breathing hard, his heart beating against her body like a hammer.
Only when his breathing became regular and he lay close by her side did she allow the tears to come; she even spoke his name aloud, but he was in a deep sleep once more.
She turned her head to look at the window and felt the wetness of her tears on the pillow. The moon was as bright as before. She felt him stir and held him more tightly as if to protect him even in sleep. But there was no halo, and the sky was clear but for its stars.
So it was not over. In spite of his high hopes, the damaged eye was waiting; like a thief in the night.
9 SUMMER WINE
BOLITHO reined his horse to a halt beside a low mossy wall and stared across the fields to a cluster of tiny cottages beside the Penryn road. It had been three days since his unexpected arrival in Falmouth and he had never felt so well nor known such happiness. Every hour seemed to be filled with exciting discoveries, although he knew it was only that he was sharing them with Catherine. He had been born here, had grown up amongst these same villages and farms until, like all the Bolitho ancestors, he had gone off to join his first ship, the old Manxman of eighty guns which had been lying at Plymouth.
For England it had then been a rare moment of peace, but to the twelve-year-old Midshipman Bolitho it had been the most awesome experience of his life. The very size of the ship, or so she had appeared at the time, had taken his breath away, the towering masts and spread yards, the hundreds of busy seamen and marines and the terrible thought that he would never be able to find his way about, were unnerving enough.
He was quick to learn and had managed to laugh off, outwardly at least, the usual taunts and the brutal humour which he came to recognise as part of any ship, as much as the tar and cordage which held them together. He had never even laid eyes on an admiral until he had joined his second ship, and at no time had he believed he would reach the lordly heights of lieutenant, let alone live to see his own flag leading the line of battle.
Catherine edged her horse closer to him and asked, “What are you thinking?” She leaned over to put her gloved hand on his. “You were so far away from me.”
He looked at her and smiled. She wore a dark green riding habit, and her hair was plaited above her ears, shining in the bright sunshine.
“Memories. All kinds of things.” He squeezed her hand. “Of the past three days. Of our love.” Their eyes seemed to lock. Bolitho thought of the time they had found a quiet cove and left the horses to graze while they had explored it. By the tiny beach he had uncovered an old rusting and weed-covered ringbolt hammered into the stone. It was where, as a boy, he had come in his little dory, and had once been cut off by the tide and unable to pull the boat clear. They had found him clinging halfway up the cliff, the waves spitting at his ankles as if to pluck him down. His father had been away at sea, otherwise Richard doubted if he would have been able to sit down for a week.
She had listened to him and said, “We shall make it our cove.”
It still made him feel dazed to think about it. How they had made love on that tiny crescent of sand, as if the world were abandoned but for themselves.
She said quietly, “Then I was sharing your thoughts.”
They sat in silence for a long time while the countryside left them untroubled. The horses nuzzled one another, insects kept up a steady chorus and invisible birds joined in. A church clock seemed to rouse them, and Catherine took her hand away. “I like your sister Nancy very much. She has been most kind. I suspect she has never met anyone like me before.” She looked up directly at the sprawling house which lay beyond a pair of open gates as if it were waiting for them. “Her husband, too, has offered his services and advice without my asking.”
Bolitho followed her glance. It was huge, this place which Nancy and Lewis Roxby called their home; it had been in the Roxby family for generations, and yet Bolitho knew that for years Lewis, “the King of Cornwall,” had had his eye on the grey house below Pendennis Castle. His ancestors had perhaps been content to be the landowners and magistrates their position dictated. Not so Nancy’s husband. Farming, tin mining, even a local packet company were all a part of his empire. He was a hard-drinking, hunting squire when he was not dealing in business or hanging local felons for their crimes. He had little in common with Bolitho, but he had treated Nancy well and was obviously devoted to her. For that, Bolitho would have forgiven him almost anything.
Bolitho urged his mount forward once more, wondering what awaited them. He had sent a note to Felicity to tell her that they were coming. The horses rather than a carriage had been his idea, to give the impression of a casual visit rather than any sort of formality.
As they clattered into the courtyard two servants ran to take their bridles while another brought a dismounting stool, only to stare with astonishment as Catherine slid easily to the ground.
She saw Bolitho’s smile and put her head on one side, the unspoken question in her eyes.
Bolitho put his arm round her shoulders and said, “I am so proud of you, Kate!”
She stared at him. “Why?”
“Oh, so many reasons.” He hugged her. “The things you do, the way you look.”
“And there is someone peeping at us from an upstairs window.” For a brief instant her confidence seemed to falter. “I am not sure I should have come.”
He looked at her and replied, “Then here is something more to peep at!” He kissed her hard on the cheek. “See?”
She seemed to shake it off, and when a footman opened the tall doors and Lewis Roxby, red-faced and rotund, bustled to greet them, she returned his welcome with a warm smile and offered her hand to him.
Roxby turned to Bolitho. “Dammee, Richard, you’re a sly old dog! I’d been hopin’ you’d stay away a bit longer so that your lady and I could get the better acquainted, what!”
He put his arms round them and guided them to the great room which overlooked his rose gardens. The doors were open and the room was filled with their scent.
She exclaimed, “What perfume!” She clapped her hands together and Bolitho saw the young girl she had once bee
n in London. Not Belinda’s town, but the other London of rough streets and markets, pleasure gardens and bawdy theatres, water-men and beggars. He still knew so little about her, but all he could feel was admiration for her, and a love he had never known before.
Bolitho turned to another glass door and through it watched two women walking up towards the house.
Nancy never seemed to change, except that she was plumper each time he saw her. But with the kind of life she shared with Roxby it would have been surprising otherwise. She was the only one of his family who had their mother’s fair looks and complexion; her children were the same. But Bolitho could only stare at her companion with a kind of disbelief. He knew it was Felicity, who would be about fifty-one; she had the same Bolitho eyes and profile, but the dark hair was gone, replaced entirely by grey, while her face and cheeks were ashen as if she had only recently recovered from a fever.
Even when she entered the room and nodded her head to him, very slowly, he could sense no contact. She was a complete stranger.
Nancy ran forward and threw her arms around him, kissing him. She smelt fresh and sweet—like the garden, he thought.
“After all these years, here is our Felicity back home again!” Her voice was too bright, and Bolitho thought he saw a warning glance from her husband.
Bolitho said, “I should like to introduce you to Catherine.”
Felicity studied her coldly, then gave a brief curtsy. “My lady. I cannot bid you welcome here, as this is not my house . . . nor do I have one at present.”
Roxby said, “We’ll soon take care of that, what?”
Bolitho said, “I was sorry to learn of Raymond’s death. It must have been a terrible shock.”
She did not appear to hear. “I have sent word to Edmund by way of the regimental agents, Cox and Greenwood. My other son Miles has returned to England with me.” Her deepset eyes turned to Catherine again and seemed to strip her naked, as she added, “It was not an easy life. I had a little girl, you know, but she died out there. Her father always wanted a girl, you see.”
Catherine looked at her gravely. “I am sorry to hear that. I grew up in a demanding climate and I can sympathise.”
Felicity nodded. “Of course. I had forgotten. You were married to a Spaniard before you met your present husband, the viscount.”
Roxby said thickly, “Some wine, Richard?”
Bolitho shook his head. What had happened to Felicity? Or had she always been like this?
He said, “Catherine sent word that you were always welcome at our house while you are deciding where to settle. While I was away at sea—and Catherine had no idea when I was returning home—she acted as she knew I would wish.”
Felicity sat down in a high-backed gilt chair, “It has not been my home since I met and married Raymond. There is certainly no place there for me now.” She turned her gaze on Bolitho. “But you always were a thoughtless fellow, even as a child.”
Catherine said, “I find that hard to believe, Mrs Vincent. I know of no one more thoughtful when it comes to others.” Her eyes flashed but her voice remained calm. “Even when that compassion is not returned.”
“Of course.” Felicity dusted a speck of dust from her sleeve. “You would be in a better position than anyone to know his qualities, or otherwise.”
Catherine turned away and Bolitho saw her fingers digging into the fold of her riding skirt. It had been a mistake. He would make his excuses to Nancy and leave.
Felicity said, “However, there is a favour I will ask of you, Richard.” She looked at him, her face quite composed. “My son Miles has quit the East India Company. Perhaps you could arrange for him to be accepted for the King’s service? I have but few funds, and he would be quick to gain promotion.”
Bolitho crossed the room and took Catherine’s arm. “I will do what I can for him. Perhaps I could meet him at some time.”
Then he said, “I can accept the hurt which Raymond’s loss has done you. But I cannot, will not, tolerate your rudeness to Catherine. This house is not mine either, otherwise I might forget myself further!”
In those few seconds he saw it all. Catherine, very still, Nancy, fingers to her mouth and near to tears, and Roxby puffing out his cheeks, doubtless wishing he was anywhere else but here. Only Felicity seemed cool and unmoved. She needed a favour of him, but her dislike for Catherine had almost ruined even that.
Outside the tall doors Roxby muttered, “Sorry about that, Richard. Damn bad business all round.” To Catherine he added, “She’ll come round, m’dear, you’ll see. Women are a funny lot, y’know!” He took her proffered hand and touched it with his lips.
She smiled at him. “Aren’t we, though?” Then she turned as the two horses were led around the house from the stable-yard. “I never knew her poor husband, of course.” When she looked at Roxby again the smile was gone. “But it sounds as if he is well out of it. And as far as I am concerned I don’t care if she comes round or not!”
Once outside the gates again Bolitho reached over and took her hand. Her whole body was shaking.
He said, “I am so sorry, Kate.”
“It wasn’t that, Richard. I am used to bitches, but I’ll not have her talking to you like that!” The horses waited as if sensing her anger. Then she looked at him and said, “She is your sister but I would never have guessed it. After all you have done, for me and everyone else, and how you have paid dearly for it—” She shook her head as if to drive it all away. “Well, she can just go to hell!”
He squeezed her arm and asked quietly, “Tiger?”
She nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her glove.
“Never doubt it!” Then she laughed, “I’ll race you back to the house.” Then she was gone, the horse kicking up dirt from the road before Bolitho could move.
Roxby watched from the steps of his great house until they had both vanished into the fields.
Beside him his groom, who had worked for him for many years, remarked, “A lively mare an’ no mistake, sir.”
Roxby stared at him but the man’s eyes were devoid of amusement. “Er, yes, quite so, Tom.” Then he ambled into the house, adjusting his face for whatever was waiting.
What a woman, he thought. No wonder Bolitho looked so well, so young. He caught sight of himself in a tall mirror as he passed through the hallway. Bolitho was about his own age, and looked years younger. With a woman like that . . . He closed his mind and strode into the room they had just left, and felt a sudden relief at finding his wife alone.
“She’s gone to lie down, Lewis.”
Roxby gave a noncommittal grunt. But he was angry at seeing the tearstains on her cheeks.
“I’ll see what I can manage about finding her a suitable house, m’dear.” He walked round the chair and patted her hair fondly, his mind busy with how soon he could rid the place of her sister.
Then he said abruptly, “I wonder how she knows so much about Catherine’s past? I certainly didn’t tell her anything. Don’t know anythin’ neither, dammit!”
Nancy took his hand and kissed it. “I wondered about that too.” She stood up, the mood passing. “I’ll go and arrange supper for this evening, Lewis.” Then she added, “Richard looks so much better than when he lost his ship last October. They must be good for one another.”
Roxby made certain there were no servants nearby and patted her buttock as she passed.
“You’re not so bad yourself, m’dear!” He saw the flush mount to her cheeks, and the way she tidied her hair. Perhaps she was remembering how they had been before the children, and all the work to increase their wealth and living standards. Maybe like the two people he had seen galloping down the lane as if they hadn’t a care in the world.
It did not occur to him that his homely wife might have been thinking back down the years about the young midshipman she had fallen in love with; and had been seeing herself with him.
For two whole weeks life continued for Bolitho and his Catherine in the same unplanned, idyl
lic fashion. Rides down forgotten lanes, or long walks above the sea, never at a loss for words, each ready to contribute towards their new-found isolation.
It was as if the other world of war and threats of invasion lay out of reach, and only once when they had been standing on the headland above the Helford River had Catherine mentioned it. A frigate had been tacking away from the land, her sails very pale in the bright sunshine, her hull low and sleek like the one which had done for Tyacke’s Miranda.
“When will you be told?” He had put his arm around her shoulders, his eyes distant as he watched the frigate. Was all this just make-believe after all? Any day he might receive new instructions, perhaps a summons to the Admiralty. He was determined that they would spend every possible minute together until . . .
He had replied, “There was a hint from Their Lordships about a new squadron. It seems the most likely. Provided enough ships can be found.”
The frigate had been setting her topgallants, shaking them out to the offshore wind like a creature awakening from a brief rest.
He thought suddenly of his nephew, Adam. That was one piece of good news he had come by at the Admiralty. He had commissioned his new command, a fifth-rate of thirty-eight guns named Anemone. What a proud moment it must have been for him. Captain of a frigate, his dream, at the age of twenty-six. Anemone, Daughter of the Wind. It seemed very suitable. He had Allday’s son with him as coxswain exactly as he had promised, and the ship had been ordered to the North Sea to carry out patrols off the Dutch coast.
He had hoped that the news might pull Allday out of his present gloom. When he had reached Falmouth with Ozzard and Yovell with all the baggage which Bolitho had left in London, he had gone straight to the inn to see the landlord’s only daughter.
Yovell had mentioned it to Bolitho in confidence. Not only had the inn passed into new ownership, but the young woman in question had gone away and married a farmer in Redruth.
At the end of the second week Bolitho was reading a copy of the Gazette where the recapture of Cape Town was mentioned for the first time. Time and distance had sharpened the memory for him, but the Gazette seemed to take it as a matter of course. There was no mention of the fireship at all.
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