Ferguson drained the last of his rum.
“I have some things to do. They won’t wait. Give my warmest regards to your dear Unis. She will understand. It’s just that they won’t wait.”
He hurried to the door and dragged it open as Allday had seen him do so many times, swinging it to avoid catching his empty sleeve.
Unis came into the parlour, the child Katie pulling behind her with a huge basket she could barely carry. She liked to be a part of everything.
Unis put a parcel down on the table and said, “That was Bryan, was it? Did he leave because of me?”
The child called, “Uncle Bryan—where is he?” She always called him that.
Allday held Unis with one hand on either shoulder. As if he was afraid of breaking her, as she had sometimes told him.
“He had to get back. I think he’s doing too much.”
She brushed some hair from her forehead and walked to the other door.
“The road workers will be here any minute.” She was dragging on her apron. “Is the food ready? I asked if Nessa would see to that bread. And another thing . . .” She turned. “What is it, John? I wasn’t thinking . . .”
Dick, the local carter, came into the parlour, his arms full of parcels and a sack of turnips.
He grinned. “You good folk talking about Mr Ferguson? He’s not gone far—I think his pony has stopped for a quick nibble!”
Little Katie shouted, “Uncle Bryan! I’m going to see him!”
Unis smiled. “Forgotten something, I expect.”
Allday barely heard her. Poppy the little pony was always greedy, and Bryan often remarked on it.
He said, “Stay here,” and it was as if he had uttered some terrible oath. The carter had dropped one of the parcels on the floor, and the child was staring at him with disbelief, as if she was about to burst into tears.
Only Unis was calm, too calm.
“What is it, John? Tell me.”
Allday looked at her and repeated, “Stay here,” then, “Please.”
She nodded, all else unimportant. She had seen his face, his hand as it moved to his chest and the terrible wound from the Spanish blade.
The door closed and she walked numbly to the window. All as normal.
The two salesmen were about to leave, a group of road workers by the pump, one dousing his bare arms in water.
Ferguson’s little trap was standing out on the road, the pony munching long grass by the stile. All as normal.
She saw Allday, her John, her man, walk slowly up to the little trap and stare into it. She did not hear him call out, but two of the road workers had run to his side, looking around as if uncertain what to do. Allday was not supposed to lift anything heavy because of the wound, although it was often pointless to try and prevent him.
She wanted to cry out, to run to him, but could not move.
The big, shambling figure, whose scarred hands could create delicate and finely detailed ship models, like the one of Hyperion, here in the parlour. The ship which had taken one husband from her, and given her another. The man she loved beyond anything had stooped over the little trap, and was lifting Bryan Ferguson with such care that he could have been quite alone.
She heard herself say quietly, “Fetch my brother. Bryan Ferguson is dead.” She looked at the two empty glasses. “We must send word to the house at once.” She thought of Grace Ferguson, but then she touched one of the glasses and murmured only, “Poor John.”
Lowenna paused on the staircase where it turned to the right, and led to the landing and the main bedrooms which she knew instinctively faced the sea. She wondered what had made her hesitate, when Nancy had insisted that she should feel welcome here.
She rested her spine against the rail and looked at the portrait opposite her. A dark painting, partly because it hung in shadow, but also because of its age. Sir Gregory Montagu had taught her much in his almost off-hand fashion. Only the main subject stood out, a telescope cradled in one arm, a ship or ships burning in the background. Nancy had told her that it was Rear-Admiral Denziel Bolitho, the only one of the family to have reached flag rank until Sir Richard, with Wolfe at Quebec. She almost touched it: the sword he was wearing was the same one she had seen in other portraits in the stairwell, the same sword she had helped fasten to Adam’s belt before he had left her. On that day . . .
She had been in other houses, larger and grander than this. Montagu’s residence in London, sealed by his lawyers after his death, was one of them.
She turned and looked down at the entrance hall, the cut flowers, and the most recent portrait by the tall window: Adam with his yellow rose. But none with such a sense of belonging, and the weight of history. Now the house was completely still, listening, holding its breath.
She had walked through the stable yard, the horses tossing their heads as she passed.
Nancy had said, “If you need anything, the cook can help you.”
She had only met Bryan Ferguson twice, perhaps three times. A quiet, serious face. He had made her feel welcome, not a stranger.
She had seen his wife, Grace, before she had left here for the funeral. It would be over by now, or very soon, and life would return to this old house and the surrounding countryside.
She stroked the banister with her palm. What made this house so different from all those she had known or visited?
She had heard that Bryan Ferguson had no children; he and Grace had lived and served this house and all those who depended upon it. They were the family.
And now more responsibility would rest upon Nancy. Ever since they had returned from the Old Glebe House and received the news of Ferguson’s sudden death, she had not stopped. Now she was at the funeral, separate, but very much a part of it and the world they all shared.
Like this house. The same family, six generations, and now in the stillness she could imagine any one of those faces alive, perhaps on this staircase, or down in the study with its well-worn books and old carvings. And Adam. She glanced up into the shadows. Would he ever leave the sea? When would they be together again? Lie together?
“Is someone looking after you?”
Lowenna turned and saw the other woman halfway up the stairs. She had seen her only once before, at a distance, pointed out by Nancy: the girl Elizabeth’s governess, Beatrix Tresidder. She could even recall her brief description. Her father was a clergyman over Redruth way, Nancy had said, a poor parish, barely earning his keep. She was educated, and had been glad of the opportunity to put it to good use.
Lowenna looked down at her, dressed all in grey, her hair tied back severely with a black ribbon. Her own age, perhaps a year older or younger, it was hard to tell.
She said, “Nancy said I should wait here,” and was surprised that she should feel almost guilty. “You are Elizabeth’s governess.”
“I do recall now—Lady Roxby mentioned it to me. But I’ve had so much to do over the last few days . . . Miss Elizabeth is with me.”
“She did not go with Nancy?”
“She was upset. It is her birthday tomorrow.”
“I know.” She came to a decision. “May I call you Beatrix? We shall know each other faster and better if so,” and smiled. “My name is Lowenna.”
“Well, as you say.” She seemed taken off guard. “Shall you be staying long? I understood you might be returning to London.”
Lowenna descended, knowing the other woman was watching every move. She had blue eyes, like the sea, and clear, pale skin; she could have been pretty if she had allowed herself to be. A defense, a barrier; perhaps she saw her as an intruder, like others she would have to meet if she remained here. She clenched her fist behind her back. Where my heart wants to be.
Beatrix said, “Is there anything I can show you? I come here quite often; Miss Elizabeth likes to visit. It was her father’s house after all. She has the right.”
They had reached the study, and Lowenna paused as she looked at the portrait again. The elusive smile. The young boy loo
king out, as Nancy had described it, and that she would know better than any one.
“Of course, you were employed by the late Sir Gregory Montagu, when he painted this portrait of Captain Bolitho?”
“We worked together, yes. I was his ward.” She stifled her sudden resentment, anger, at the remark. The hostility. No smoke without fire. She should be used to it. Ought to have outgrown it. “He was a fine man. He saved my life. I shall never forget what he did for me.”
Beatrix nodded slowly, as if in thought. “I understand. I was so thankful to be given this appointment. My father was glad for me, too.” Only for an instant, her eyes clouded. “He could have been here in Falmouth today, with a good living, receiving the respect he deserves.” The outspoken resentment was gone as quickly as it had ignited. “Just rewards do not always go to those who have earned them.”
Lowenna allowed her muscles to relax, very slowly. Like finding and holding a pose while the initial sketches took shape.
She said, “Did you know Elizabeth’s mother?”
“Of her. A fine woman too, to all accounts. Killed when she was thrown from a horse. I have tried to shield the child from that, and other memories and implications.”
There were sounds in the yard, a carriage, dogs barking. Nancy was back. They would leave here soon.
Her nails were biting into her palm; she had clenched her fist without realizing it.
I walked here with Adam. I was a part of it. Of him.
The doors were open; a breeze moved a bell-pull by the great fireplace, as if some phantom hand had called for attention.
Elizabeth walked across the polished floor, the sound of her riding boots sharp and clear.
She said, “I am going for a ride, now that they’re all coming back.” She looked directly at the tall, dark-haired girl with her governess. “Will you go with me?”
“I don’t ride, I’m afraid.” Lowenna could feel the other woman watching her, judging her. “Perhaps I will learn some day.”
Elizabeth smiled, for the first time since she had come in.
Lowenna had seen the entry of her birth in the Bible in the study. Tomorrow she would be fifteen years old. Had nobody else noticed it? She was no longer a child, but a young woman.
Beatrix said quickly, “I think we should speak with Lady Roxby first, my dear!”
Elizabeth ignored her, and said, “I can teach you, Lowenna.” Her smile broadened. “It is a nice name. I shall soon show you the rules.” She glanced at her tutor. “Easy!”
Beatrix persisted,“I think we should wait until Lady Roxby. . .”
“I’m not having my birthday spoiled because of the funeral, miss! I am a Bolitho—I will not be treated like some of those people out there!”
Nancy walked up the steps, and said, “Enough of that, Miss Elizabeth. I’ll not have any showing off, today of all days.”
Lowenna could not see her expression, as the sunlight was streaming in behind her. But there was no mistaking her tone, and she was suddenly sorry for her. Her children, grown up long since and in London, and nobody to make the decisions but herself. And she owned one of the largest estates in the county.
She stood in the sunlight, her face quite composed.
“Furthermore, my child, I’m glad you remembered that you are a Bolitho. Now try to behave like one!”
She turned to Lowenna, seeing what many would miss. “Hard, was it?” She slipped her hand through Lowenna’s arm. “The others will be here presently. I want you to stay.”
Lowenna thought of the stares and the unspoken comments.
“You mean it, don’t you.” She felt the pressure of the hand again. “Then I shall stay.”
Nancy turned her easily toward the newest portrait again, her grip surprisingly strong.
“I know love when I see it, Lowenna. Cherish it, and this sweet sorrow will soon pass.”
They were all arriving now, Daniel Yovell, his round shoulders stooped, his gold spectacles perched on top of his head. Young Matthew, the coachman, unsmiling, shocked by the death of his friend. Servants, estate workers somehow unfamiliar in their best clothes, and old Jeb Trinnick, his one eye averted to avoid unnecessary conversation. Nancy introduced her to only a few. The rest could draw their own conclusions.
And there was one who stood out, big, broad, and shaggy-haired. Nancy introduced him quietly as John Allday, Sir Richard’s friend and seagoing companion. She remembered seeing him the day Adam had been recalled to duty.
Allday took her hand; it seemed to disappear into his powerful grip, and she felt defenseless under his steady gaze.
“I served with young Cap’n Adam as well, Missy, when he was just a lad. I heard about you an’ him, o’ course.” He touched her cheek momentarily with his free hand, and she could feel the strength of the man, and something deeper. She shivered as if she stood in a chill wind, but she remained very still, her hand in his, her skin alive to the roughness and the gentleness, and the years which had left this man so loyal.
She heard herself ask softly, “How is it, John Allday? Do I measure up?”
For a moment she imagined he had not heard, or that he would resent her directness.
Then he nodded very slowly. “If I was a much younger fellow, Cap’n Adam wouldn’t get a chance in hell, Missy!” Then the grin came through, as if he had no control over it. “As it is, I’d say you’ll be flying with the wind afore you knows it! An’ that’s no error, neither!”
He looked at the open doors. “Old Bryan said as much, bless ’im. An’ he was right.”
She kissed his cheek, and said, “And bless you, too.”
She knew that Nancy was smiling, saying something unheard, and that conversation had broken out again on every side.
And here was Grace Ferguson, very straight, her emotion contained, perhaps until she was alone and realized that it would be forever.
She did not resist when Lowenna hugged her, and said steadily, “John speaks the truth and always did. You’ll be right for young Captain Adam. After this, you come back to us. You belong here, and that’s all about it.” She returned the embrace, suddenly unable to go on. “You take care, y’ hear?”
Nancy had called it sweet sorrow. It was far more than that.
It was nearly dawn when, in a strange bed, Lowenna finally fell asleep.
Perhaps then, in fantasy, he would come again to her.
10 CHASING SHADOWS
ADAM BOLITHO moved his shoulders very slightly and winced as the heat seared his skin, as though he were naked, or his coat had been hanging on the door of a furnace. He had been on deck since first light, when the sun had found them and pinned the ship down as if motionless. It was now almost noon and he felt he had scarcely moved from his place by the quarterdeck rail, watching the land, which never seemed to draw any nearer.
A landfall was always exciting, to landman and old Jack alike. Few sailors ever questioned how or why it was achieved, or even the reason for arriving in a different place or harbour.
Adam glanced up at the topsails, barely filling with wind, and flattened occasionally against stays and yards, the flags all but unmoving. English Harbour, Antigua, was the most important headquarters for the fleet which served the Caribbean far beyond these Leeward Islands, a fine, sheltered harbour with a dockyard which could accommodate even the larger men-of-war like Athena.
Adam shaded his eyes and studied the white buildings beneath the shadow of Monk’s Hill, all shimmering in a heat haze, and small local craft, like insects on the milky blue water.
June was almost gone, and this was now the hurricane season: old Caribbean hands would know it well. Becalmed one minute and then caught in a roaring gale, with waves which could swamp any lesser vessels or run them ashore.
Both of Athena’s cutters were in the water, one on either bow, ready to take their parent ship under tow, if only to maintain steerage way should the wind desert them altogether. As it was, she was scarcely moving.
Adam plucked at his
shirt. Like another skin. A good land-fall, nevertheless.
He saw the officer in the starboard cutter stand to peer at the land as it moved out on either beam. It was Tarrant, the third lieutenant. Stirling had detailed him for the task, just in case something had gone amiss on their final approach. He had put an experienced leadsman in the chains for the same reason. Athena might be taken by a freak wind where she was denied the room to manoeuvre or change tack. It would not look well if Bethune’s flagship ran into shallow water within sight of the anchorage.
Stirling had even checked each flag before dawn had opened up the horizon, fresh and clean to replace the ones worn by weather which they had hoisted the first day out of Plymouth.
Details, great or small, made up the first lieutenant’s life. Caution, perhaps, was his true strength.
Adam said, “My respects to Sir Graham, and please inform him that we are about to begin the salute.”
He heard the midshipman mumble something and rush away to the ladder, and imagined Troubridge bearing the news to his lord and master. He studied the land again and saw tiny, blinking lights on the foreshore and near some of the buildings, like fireflies braving the harsh glare: sunlight reflected from a dozen or more telescopes. Athena’s arrival would not be unexpected, but her timing would cause some confusion. He thought of the courier brig Celeste, which had blown to pieces, and her sole survivor, the acting sailing-master named Rose, who had come from Hull. They had buried him at sea. Adam had never known Athena so quiet; every man in her company had been present. On gangways and in the shrouds, shoulder to shoulder on the main deck. Perhaps the closest in spirit they had yet been.
Celeste would have been carrying all the details of Bethune’s arrival, both for the governor and the commodore in charge.
Adam touched the rail, like heated shot, his mind lingering on the burial. He wondered why he had never become used to it. Hardened. He had seen plenty of them, and as captain had committed more men to the deep than he could name or remember. But he was always moved by it, by the sense of community. Of one company.
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