Bethune snapped his fingers and a servant hurried to uncover a chair.
“What are our chances of making a rendezvous with . . .” He snapped his fingers again and Troubridge called from the open trunk, “Villa de Bilbao, Sir Graham.”
Bethune leaned back slowly, as if the chair were hurting him.
“Well, what are our chances, overall, I mean?”
“She’s a sound ship, Sir Graham, and manned by trained seamen. Volunteers. Pointer is in command, and his second lieutenant from Lotus. Grimes was with the original prize-crew, and is more than capable.”
Bethune leaned over in the chair as if to see Troubridge. “Yes indeed, Commander Pointer as he is now!” It sounded like an accusation.
Adam said, “He is all but due, Sir Graham. It is not an easy plan that we are about to execute.”
Bethune rubbed his chin. “Pointer will enter San José as if he is being pursued, by Audacity, or Hostile if Captain Munro is off station due to the storm or whatever. We shall be close by, should the slavers attempt to break out.” The fingers had moved to one arm of the chair, tapping a slow tattoo. “Well? What are the chances of success, in your opinion?”
“I doubt if local shipping has been on the move in San José’s area. Bad coast, and the slavers are not going to take unnecessary risks.” From a corner of his eye he saw Troubridge’s hand grip the edge of the leather trunk. A caution. Or a prompt? “Unless they’ve already been warned, of course.”
Bethune did not rise to it.
“The weather is our ally, you said? That may be so . . . I’ll not detain you, Adam. I’ve not forgotten what it’s like to walk that deck with only my own wits to rely on.” He was almost jocular now. “Duties permitting, sup with me this evening, eh?” He spoke to the cabin at large. “Just the two of us.”
Adam left the cabin and climbed slowly to the quarterdeck.
The sky was already clearer, the horizon like burnished copper. And not another living thing in sight.
He glanced up through the shrouds and stays and the barely filling topsails, to the vice-admiral’s flag at the fore.
As if it were yesterday, he could remember the stir Richard Bolitho had caused at the Admiralty and throughout the fleet when he had said that the days of the line of battle, the symbol of sea power, were numbered. Perhaps Bethune, sheltered for so many years behind those walls of Admiralty, was only just coming to see the strength of that argument. The Saintes, the Nile, and finally Trafalgar, had seen the last of the great squadrons, gun to gun at point-blank range. Lord Exmouth, still a frigate captain at heart, must have realized it at Algiers. Risk, courage, and Lady Luck, as Thomas Herrick called her, had been his true strength.
He thought of Bethune’s words. The weather is our ally. You said? Doubts? Second thoughts? Suppose the mock attack failed, or the slavers had vanished? How resolute might he be then?
He looked up at the admiral’s flag again, cracking out to a freak gust of wind.
Bethune knew it; so did Troubridge. If the plan misfired, the blame would only rest with one.
It was calm, even peaceful in the admiral’s quarters later, when Adam returned. Storm lashings had all but vanished, and every piece of furniture shone in the glow of candles and lanterns.
Bethune was more his old self, elegant, assured, eager to make his guest comfortable and welcome.
“The beef will probably be like leather, Adam, but the wines are good enough to hide the cook’s errors!”
Tolan and two other servants waited on table without bustle or noise. Adam relaxed very slowly. In two or three days’ time Athena could be quivering to the crash and recoil of gunfire, and even in a hit-and-run skirmish there would be casualties. He thought of the small frigate Audacity, knowing the risk she might have to take, and all the similar risks he had known and shared since he had worn the King’s coat.
Bethune said abruptly, “Of course, Adam, I sometimes forget. How well do you know Lady Catherine?”
Adam met his eyes across the table. Troubridge’s unspoken warning; Tolan’s anger and something more, after his errand ashore in English Harbour.
He answered, “She was very good to me when I needed help, and understanding.”
Bethune touched his lower lip with an empty glass. “I heard something about that. And she wanted you to have Richard’s Nile medal. I thought that was a fine thing to do. Had fate decided differently I would have relieved his squadron earlier. Fate indeed, Adam? Then I might have been the one to fall in battle.”
Adam tried not to listen to the thud of the tiller head, the clatter of blocks in a strengthening breeze. Stirling was there. He would call his captain if need be.
He said, “We’ve all been close to death from time to time, sir.”
Bethune put down the glass sharply. “That is not what I am saying. Lady Catherine is a fine person in every way. Brave and caring, as she showed every one when she was in an open boat with that wretched vessel’s survivors. Anything might have happened. To her, I mean!” He waved one hand, lace spilling from the coat sleeve. “To be truthful, I care for her very much.” He stared at him, his eyes reflecting the candlelight. “Why am I telling you this? How may it concern you?” He shrugged. “Perhaps because I feel I owe that much to you. Because of Sir Richard.”
Adam said quietly, “Baron Sillitoe is somehow involved in the slave trade, directly or otherwise we cannot know. Lady Catherine feels indebted to him. He saved her life, protected her reputation.”
Bethune banged the table. “Nobody knows that better than I do, dammit!” He calmed himself, the effort almost physical. “But gratitude is never enough.”
He glanced round and snapped his fingers. “Cognac, Tolan. Then leave us.”
Adam stared at the plates. He could still taste the food, but did not recall eating anything, or if the beef had been like leather or otherwise.
Only the cognac seemed real. He said, “Lady Catherine told you she was returning to England?”
“Eventually. I’d hoped to see her when this so-called campaign is finished.” He regarded him steadily. “The terms would be her own, but that she has always known. I would not betray her, be assured of that.”
Adam wondered if any one had ever seen or heard this Bethune, let alone shared something so significant, and so dangerous.
Bethune said, “Walk from this cabin, and I will never mention this matter again. You are my flag-captain—that must be enough, more than enough, some would say.” He tried to smile, but it would not come. “But as a friend, tell me what you think.”
Adam thought he heard a door click. Maybe Tolan was listening, gauging his own future perhaps. Bethune’s wife came of a rich and influential family. An affair would not be allowed to melt away so easily.
He heard himself say, “I think she will have tried to warn Sillitoe, although I’d have thought that he of all people would be on his ready guard.”
“Warned him? Because I told her of the danger to her, if she remained in Antigua?”
“Loyalty reaches two ways, Sir Graham, as I have learned to my cost.”
Bethune was on his feet. “Then I have put her in peril, is that what you are saying?” He came around the table, his coat sweeping his glass to the deck in fragments. “Tell me, Adam—it’s all I care about!”
Adam measured his words with care.
“If the ships are gone when we reach San José, no harm will have been done but to our reputations. Our pride.”
He felt Bethune’s grip on his shoulder, heard one word. “Mine!”
He persisted, “If not, we can put our plan into action. This man Carneiro will not risk being expelled from Cuba when he already has his eye on making Brazil separate from his own country. Independence or rebellion, what matters is at which end of the gun you are standing.”
Bethune let out a slow breath.
“Old head on young shoulders, Adam. I should have remembered.”
He swung away and slopped more cognac into unused tu
mblers.
When he faced him again his eyes were very bright, with alcohol, emotion, or sheer excitement.
He thrust out his glass.
“To us, then! Captains all!”
Adam knew it was not something he would ever forget.
15 REACHING OUT
THE GIRL named Lowenna paused on the steeply sloping path that ran down from the narrow coastal road, and stared across Falmouth Bay. She had been warned about loose stones on this uneven track; in bad weather it could be treacherous.
She looked at the small, fan-shaped beach directly below her, which she had visited several times. It had become special to her, although she could not explain why. And always at this moment, with the tide on the turn, the sand hard and unmarked even by the rapacious gulls. Soon the tide would fall still further, and this small beach would join hands with the larger expanses around the immediate headland.
The breeze off the bay was cool, but she hardly felt it beneath the heavy cloak she had borrowed from Nancy.
She walked slowly down the remainder of the slope, and stepped onto a slab of rock which must have been washed from the cliff in some forgotten storm. It was perfectly shaped, like a giant doorstone.
She tucked some rebellious hair beneath the cloak’s hood and gazed once more across the bay. It was almost noon, and opposite her St Anthony Head was partly hidden in mist, or spray blowing in from the sea.
A private place. She knew that if she looked back up the path the coastal road would be invisible, as would the stable boy who was minding the pony and Elizabeth’s horse. She could almost feel the girl watching her. Curiosity, amusement, she still did not know her well enough to determine.
They had ridden three times together. This would be the fourth.
The pony, Jory, had been the model of behaviour; he had apparently been around as long as any one could remember. Elizabeth had remarked, “Something bigger and little more lively soon, Lowenna.” She was very much at home in the saddle, and knew it.
Lowenna sat down on a piece of rock and dragged off her boots. They were made of soft Spanish leather, and fitted her perfectly, and she wondered where Nancy had got them in the first place.
She stood slowly. Jory was gentle enough, but she could feel the effort of gripping him with her knees. She wondered what had made her do it, her legs bare astride the well-worn saddle.
Elizabeth had pronounced a side-saddle too dangerous. “More so on these roads!”
Lowenna could imagine that, too. When a storm rolled into the bay they had told her that the road, no more than a track at the best of times, became impassable, and some parts had been washed away. She took the first steps on the hard, wet sand and watched the bubbles exploring her toes, the pressure of her feet changing the colour from gold to silver. It was cold, too, and she shivered.
She thought of the letter which had been brought to the Roxby house that morning, crumpled, stamped and counter-stamped. She had pressed it to her face and mouth. It even tasted of the sea, of Adam. It was not like watching the ships entering Falmouth, and Carrick Roads. Clinging to those few precious, desperate memories.
Adam had been here, with her. She had read it three times, but Nancy had said nothing, not even remarking on the fact that she’d forsaken her breakfast before joining Elizabeth in the stable yard.
Like hearing his voice, seeing that little smile. Feeling his hands on her.
She cherished the memory of that last time together. Her fear, her anxiety, and then a wanton, uncontrollable desire which she had believed she would never experience.
He had written very little about the ship, or his relationship with his vice-admiral.
I would that I could deliver this letter myself, dearest Lowenna.
She staggered as her feet sank into a softer layer of sand.
When would he come back to England? She had to shut her ears to those who spoke of commissions extended at the whim of some politician or senior officer. It was still another world. So much to learn and understand.
She turned and looked up the beach and the fallen cliff beyond. She could see the boy’s head over a slate wall, but nothing else.
What must she do? She felt it sweep over her again, like panic. I cannot stay here forever, although Nancy makes it easy enough. I am still a stranger. Only my past is remembered.
She thought of that last visit to London, to Montagu’s lawyer. The will was being contested, and in any case . . . But while she had been there she had met Sir Gregory’s oldest friend, Mark Fellowes, soon, it was said, to be honoured by the Prince Regent for a portrait he had completed. The subject had not been mentioned.
Fellowes had asked her if she would pose for him while she was in town. Natural enough, especially after all that Sir Gregory had taught her.
Elizabeth had touched on it unknowingly shortly after her return to Cornwall; she must have been giving it a good deal of thought. Like the discussions they had had about her sketches of mermaids. She’d heard herself say, when you pose you become a study, not a body.
It had been with her ever since, when she allowed it to take her unaware.
The studio beside the Thames, like any other. Mark Fellowes and two or three associates. She could not even remember that clearly.
It was like the recurrence of a nightmare.
When she had started to disrobe, something had snapped within her. Like that moment when Adam and young Troubridge had burst into that other studio, and she had nearly killed the man who had tried to take her like a common whore.
I would have killed him . . .
She had run out of the room. Fellowes had written to her since, but she had not known how to reply.
I did not feel like a subject. I felt like a living woman.
She heard feet on the wet sand, and wondered what the girl would think if she really knew her thoughts.
“What is it?”
Elizabeth said, “I don’t like that man.”
Lowenna realized that there was another shadow moving below the path.
Nancy had introduced him once, following Bryan Ferguson’s funeral, and she had seen him on the Roxby estate a few times. Harry Flinders was Roxby’s steward, and at one time his senior bailiff, when “the King of Cornwall” had been a magistrate here. Tall, strongly built, with the brisk and efficient manner of a soldier. But she’d heard Francis, Nancy’s coachman, who was ex-cavalry himself, observe on one occasion, “Soldier, that one? We weren’t that short of men, even when Boney was just across the Channel!” Obviously not popular. But why Elizabeth?
“Well, ladies, a bit off your usual promenade, ain’t you?”
Lowenna smiled coolly. “Keeping an eye on us, were you, Mr Flinders?”
About forty, maybe older. A man who took care of himself, and one with ambition.
She realized that Flinders was carrying her boots.
“I wouldn’t leave these lying about, Miss Lowenna. Too many light-fingered folk around, even out here!” He laughed. “You’ve a lot to learn, if I may say so.” He laughed again. “Bare feet, too!”
Lowenna found another rock and sat. It was no longer a private place.
“I can manage, thank you.” She pulled on each boot slowly and deliberately, feeling the breeze on her legs, like being in a studio. The eyes. The anticipation.
“I’ll walk you to the road.” He waved up to the stable boy. “Jump, lad! You’re not here to dream!”
He half turned and winked. “Though there’s a lot to dream about, eh, Miss Lowenna?”
She walked past him, Adam’s letter coming to her mind as if she had heard him speak. I want you as my wife, my lover, my friend.
Elizabeth pointed out to sea and said, “Fishing boats coming back! Let’s go and have a look at them!” She did not turn as Flinders heaved himself into his saddle and wheeled round in the road.
She repeated softly, “I don’t like that man. He watches.”
Lowenna touched her shoulder and felt her flinch.
&nbs
p; She said quietly, “Anything, Elizabeth—tell me first.”
They walked back to the road in silence.
The parish church of King Charles the Martyr was all but empty; it seemed as if everybody who had nothing else to do was down by the water, watching the fishing boats unload. Traders jostling with one another to catch the barker’s eye, innkeepers and housewives looking for bargains as the fish were arranged in baskets along the jetty.
In the church it was quiet, timeless. Lowenna sat at the end of a pew, one hand on the prayer book shelf, recalling the day she had met Adam here; the sunlight was streaming through the great window above the high altar, exactly as it had been that day.
She glanced along the pews; there were three or four bowed heads in private prayer, or simply enjoying the solitude. A tiny woman in a smock was polishing the big marble font and its finely carved cover, neither of which looked in need of her care.
She heard a man’s voice, like an echo, coming from behind one of the galleries, and Nancy Roxby’s in answer. She had come to see the curate about something, and had asked Lowenna to join her.
Lowenna looked at the plaques and memorial inscriptions, the busts, and here and there a carved likeness of one of Falmouth’s sons. Campaigns in foreign lands, sea battles and shipwrecks around the pitiless Cornish coastline: many a hero was remembered here. Nancy would be thinking of them, and her own family, her father and brothers, all those watching faces that lined the walls and stairwell of the old grey house.
On the way from the house she had said, “I heard you were down on your little beach again?” She had not waited for a reply, or a denial. “Yes, Flinders told me. He doesn’t miss very much, you know. Does a good job of work, honest, and reliable. Roxby chose him for those very reasons.”
Lowenna smiled. She always referred to her late husband as Roxby, never by his first name. As if his presence, even now, was too powerful to suppress. Because she still needed him.
Nancy had also confided her concern over the affairs of the two adjoining estates. Daniel Yovell had been a tower of strength and had helped Bryan Ferguson greatly in his ever demanding bookwork and dealings with tenants and farmers.
Man of War Page 26
