Cross of St George (5 page)

He thought of the long journey home on those appalling roads. Catherine had even managed to create happiness then, despite her discomfort. At one point they had been turned back by flooding, and set down at a small, shabby inn which had clearly shocked their fellow passengers, two well-dressed churchmen and their wives who were on their way to meet their bishop.

One of the women had said angrily, “No lady should be expected to remain in such a dreadful place!” To Bolitho she had added, “What does your wife have to say about it, I should like to know?”

Catherine had answered, “We are not married, ma'am.” She had held his arm more tightly. “This officer is running away with me!”

They had not seen their fellow passengers again. Either they had waited for another coach, or had slipped away in the night.

The room had been damp and slightly musty from lack of use, but the landlord, a jovial dwarf of a man, had soon got a fire going, and the supper he had presented would have satisfied even the greediest midshipman.

And with the rain on the window, and the fire's dancing shadows around them, they had sunk into the feather bed and made love with such abandon that they might well have been eloping.

There had been a short letter from Adam, saying only that he was leaving with Valentine Keen for Halifax, and asking their forgiveness for not having visited them in Falmouth.

Whenever he considered their situation his mind seemed to flinch from it. Adam and Keen. The two of them together, flag captain and admiral.
Like me and James Tyacke.
But so different. Two men who had loved the same woman, and Keen knew nothing about it. To share a secret was to share the guilt, Bolitho thought.

That same night at the inn, while they had lain exhausted by their love, Catherine had told him something else. She had taken Keen to Zennor, to the churchyard where Zenoria was buried. It was a good thirty miles from Falmouth, and they had stayed with friends of Roxby's in Redruth overnight.

She had said, “Had we stayed anywhere else there would have been talk, more cruel gossip. I couldn't risk that—there are still too many who wish us ill.”

Then she had told him that while Keen had been alone at the grave she had spoken with the verger. He was also the gardener, and, with his brother, the local carpenter, and had confided that he made all the coffins for the village and surrounding farms.

She said, “I thought I would ask him to see that fresh flowers were put on her grave throughout the year.”

Bolitho had held her in the firelight, feeling her sadness at the memory, and what had gone before.

Then she had said, “He would take no payment, Richard. He told me that ‘a young sea captain' had already arranged it with him. After that, I went into the church, and I could see Adam's face as I saw it that day, when Val and Zenoria were married.”

What strange and perverse fate had brought Adam and Keen together? It could restore, or just as easily destroy them.

Yovell was polishing his small gold-rimmed spectacles. “When will Mr Avery be joining us, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho eyed him thoughtfully. A man of many parts: it was rumoured that Yovell had been a schoolmaster at one time. He could well believe it. It was hard to imagine him as he had been in the boat after
Golden Plover
had gone down, his hands, unused to seamen's work, torn and bleeding on the oars, his face burned raw by the sun. But he could remember not a single word of complaint. A scholar, a man who enjoyed his Bible as another might relish a game of dice: even his casual question about the flag lieutenant held genuine interest. Perhaps they were two of a kind, both enigmatic in their fashion. George Avery was a quiet, often withdrawn man; even Sillitoe appeared not to know much about his nephew. Or care, possibly. Sillitoe's sister had been Avery's mother: of Sillitoe's brother, who had so inspired Avery that he had seemed to look upon him as a father whenever they had met, Bolitho knew nothing. Sillitoe's brother had been a naval officer, and very likely had sponsored Avery for his first appointment as midshipman. Avery's own father, and austere upbringing in a religious family, had never dampened his eagerness to follow the sea. Sillitoe's brother, in the
Ganges,
had fallen at the Battle of Copenhagen, like so many on that bloody day.

There was little to do in London for a lieutenant without connections, he thought, although Catherine had hinted that there had once been a woman in Avery's life.

Only a woman could scar him so deeply.

She was probably right.

He said, “Mr Avery will be coming down in a week or so. Or whenever he likes.” Or perhaps Avery would leave it until the last minute. Maybe he could not bear to see others who did not hide their love from one another, when he himself had no one.

He listened to the muffled thud of hooves. “Her ladyship is home early.”

Yovell was at the window, and shook his head. “No, Sir Richard, it's a messenger.” He did not turn. “Despatches, no doubt.”

Bolitho stood, trying to prepare himself as his secretary went out to deal with it. So soon. So soon. A month more, and already they were warning him of his departure. It would have been better if they had allowed him to remain in
Indomitable;
and in the same second he knew that was a lie. To be with her, only for an hour, would have made all this worthwhile.

Yovell came back, holding the familiar canvas envelope with its Admiralty fouled anchor, to dispel any lingering hope he might have had.

Yovell returned to the window and peered out at the trees. The cat, he noticed, had disappeared. He thought of Allday again. It was going to be difficult.

He listened to the knife slitting the envelope. The messenger was in the kitchen being given something hot to drink, no doubt full of envy for those who lived in great houses such as these. He heard Bolitho say quietly, “It is brought forward by a week. We take passage for Halifax on February eighteenth.” When he turned from the window he thought his admiral seemed very composed: the man everyone expected to see. Beyond the reach of any personal emotion.

He said, “It is not the first time, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho seized a pen and bent over the papers on the desk. “Give the fellow this receipt.” He stood up and held his cuff over his eye as he faced the light. “I shall ride out to meet Lady Catherine. Tell Matthew, will you?”

Yovell hurried away, not wanting to leave, but understanding that he had to confront the prospect of separation alone. Three weeks, then an ocean, a world apart.

He closed the door quietly behind him. Perhaps cats had the right ideas about life, he thought.

They met by the slate wall that marked the boundary of Roxby's estate. She did not dismount until he got down and walked to her, and then she slid from the saddle and waited for him to hold her, her hair blowing out freely in the salt breeze.

“You've heard. How long?”

“Three weeks.”

She pressed her face to his so that he would not see her eyes. “We will make it a lifetime, dearest of men. Always, always, I will be with you.” She said it without anger or bitterness. Time was too precious to waste.

He said, “I don't want to go. I hate the thought of it.”

Through his cloak she could feel him shivering, as if he were cold or ill. She knew he was neither.

He said, “Why must you suffer because of me, because of what I am?”

“Because I
understand.
Like your mother and all those before her. I will wait, as they did, and I will miss you more than any words can describe.” Then she did look at him, her dark eyes very steady. “Above all, I am so very proud of you. When this is over, we shall be together, and nothing will ever force us apart again.”

He touched her face and her throat. “It is all I want.”

He kissed her very gently, so gently that she wanted to cry.

But she was strong, too strong to allow the tears to come. She knew how much he needed her and it gave her the courage that was necessary, perhaps more now than at any other time.

“Take me home, Richard. A lifetime, remember?”

They walked in silence, the horses following companionably behind them. At the top of the rise they saw the sea, and she felt him grip her arm more tightly. As if he had come face to face with the enemy.

C
APTAIN
A
DAM
B
OLITHO
tightened his boat-cloak around his neck as the jolly-boat pulled out strongly into the Solent. A strange departure from Portsmouth, he thought: wpointing out something toithout the snow, everything was normal again. Noise, bustle, marching men, and many boats milling around the stairs, waiting to carry their officers out to the ships at anchor.

Except that this was not his ship. He had paused only briefly to step aboard the frigate
Zest,
to sign some papers, to take his leave as quickly as possible. The ship had fought well; without her, even
Indomitable
's formidable artillery might not have been able to beat the Yankees into submission. But that was as far as it went. He never felt that
Zest
was really his ship, nor had he attempted to make her so. His ship lay on the seabed, her beautiful figurehead staring into the deeper darkness, so many of her company still with her.

The midshipman in charge of the jolly-boat was very aware of his passenger's rank and reputation: even the name of Bolitho had sent a flood of rumours through the ship.

Adam looked at the chests at his feet. All new, everything, even the fighting sword he had purchased with such care. The rest lay with
Anemone
.

He glanced at his small companion. John Whitmarsh, who had been the only one saved from the sea, had served in
Anemone
for almost two years before she foundered. A mere child. He had been “volunteered” by an uncle, if uncle he was, after the boy's father, a deep-water fisherman, had drowned off the Goodwins. John was to be his servant. Adam had never seen such pride or such gratitude when he had asked him. The boy still did not understand the lifeline had been for his captain, and not the other way round.

The midshipman said stiffly, “There she lies, sir.”

Adam tugged down his hat. She was the
Wakeful
,a 38-gun frigate, hard-worked and in constant demand like most of her breed. Now she was completing the last tasks before sailing, taking on fresh water, fruit if there was any available, and, of course, men. Even the most dedicated press-gang would be hard put to find any suitable hands in a naval port.

He looked at the boy again. Not much different in spite of his smart new jacket and white trousers. Ozzard had taught him some of it; the rest he would learn quickly enough. He was bright, and if he was nervous or still suffering from his experiences and the memory of seeing his best friend, another ship's boy of the same age, drift away beyond help, he did not show it.

Adam had sent a letter to the boy's mother. Had she asked for his return, he would have put him ashore and made certain that he reached her safely. She had not acknowledged the letter. Perhaps she had moved from the area, or taken up with another “uncle.” Either way, Adam thought his young charge had been quietly pleased about it.

He ran his eye critically over the frigate. Rigging well set up, sails neatly furled. She was smart enough. He could see the scarlet and blue of the receiving party by the entry port. He knew nothing of her captain, other than that this was his first command. He found he could shut it from his mind. It was not his concern. He, like Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen, who was arriving tomorrow, was a passenger. He smiled briefly. An inconvenience.

He thought with affection of his uncle, and how close they had been after his escape from the Americans. They would all meet again in Halifax. He still did not know why he had accepted Keen's offer. Because of guilt? To allay suspicion? He knew it was neither. It was simply a feeling, like someone or something leading the way. He recalled Zennor, the quietness of the place, the hiss of the sea on the rocks beneath the cliff. Her grave. He had touched it, and had felt her spirit watching him. The little mermaid.

“Bows!” The midshipman's voice was loud. Perhaps he had taken Adam's silence for disapproval.

The bowman was on his feet, boat-hook poised as rudder and oars brought the boat hard round toward the main chains. The oars were tossed, showering the seamen with salt water as the boat swayed and bounced alongside.

He looked at the midshipman. “Thank you, Mr Price. That was well done.”

The youth gaped at him, as if surprised that his name was known. He thought once more of Bolitho, all the lessons learned.
They have names.
He could almost hear his voice.
In this life we share, it is often all they do have.

He stood up, ensuring that the new sword was safely in position on his hip. He had never forgotten Bolitho's cautionary tale of the senior officer who had fallen headlong over his sword, in full view of the side party.

He glanced down at the boy. “Ready, young John?” He knew that above his head they were all waiting: the ritual of receiving a captain on board. But this, too, was important.

Whitmarsh picked up his bag, his brown eyes unblinking as he stared at the tapering masts, the ensign curling out from the taffrail.

“Ready, sir.” He nodded firmly. “Aye, ready.”

Adam smiled, and climbed swiftly up the side. He still wore a dressing on the jagged wound, but it was only to protect the tender scar from the pressure of his clothing.

He stepped onto the deck and removed his hat as the Royal Marines presented arms in salute.
And to remind me, so that I never forget.

“Welcome aboard, Captain Bolitho! It is an honour!”

Adam shook his hand. Very young, and in the gleaming new epaulettes, he was like a youth playing the role of captain. He thought,
as I once did.

The captain, whose name was Martin Hyde, led the way aft, and said almost apologetically, “A bit crowded, I'm afraid. Rear-Admiral Keen will have my quarters, and there is an extra berth for you. I've arranged for your section to be screened off. I see you have a servant with you, so you should be comfortable enough.” He hesitated. “I must ask this. What is the rear-admiral like? It is three thousand miles to Halifax, and he will be used to rather more luxury than I can offer, I imagine.”

Adam said, “He is very agreeable, and a good man in every way.”

The other captain seemed relieved. “I understand that his wife died recently. It can change one.”

Adam heard himself answer levelly, “He will leave you free to direct your ship as you will.” He would have to become accustomed to it. People would always want to know.

He saw a corporal of marines pointing out something to Whitmarsh, and the boy nodding in agreement. He belonged. But just once Adam saw him glance uncertainly along the busy deck, where the guard was falling out and the hands were returning to their work.

Hyde said, “He looks a likely lad. Young, but I'm often so desperate for bodies I'd take them from their mothers' arms if I could!”

An officer hovered nearby, obviously the first lieutenant. Hyde said, “I am needed, Captain Bolitho. We will talk later.” He smiled, and looked even younger. “It is a privilege to have you aboard, although after three thousand miles you may feel differently.” Then he was gone.

Overhead, the familiar sounds resumed, the twitter of bosun's calls, the “Spithead Nightingales,” the thud of bare feet, and the squeal of tackles through their blocks.
His world, but not mine.
Adam sat on a chest and stared around at the great cabin, where he would live, and attempt to accept a future with Keen.

He heard Whitmarsh walking behind him, still very careful of his shining new shoes with their bright buckles.

Adam said, “In that chest.” He tossed him the keys. “There's some cognac.” He watched the boy opening it. Like the others, it could have belonged to a stranger. All new. He sighed.

John Whitmarsh asked quietly, “Be you sad, sir?”

He looked sharply at the boy. “Remember what I told you aboard
Indomitable,
when I asked you to come with me?”

He saw him screw up his eyes. “Aye, sir. You said that when we were sad we should remember our old ship, an' our lost friends.”

Adam took the cup of cognac from his hand. “That is so.”

The boy watched him anxiously. “But we
will
get another ship, sir!”

The very simplicity of it moved him. “Yes. We will, John Whitmarsh.”

He looked toward the stern windows, streaked now with salt spray like ice rime.

“But there will always be thoughts.”

The boy had not heard him, or perhaps he had spoken only to himself: he was unpacking one of the chests in an orderly fashion, as Ozzard had taught him. He was content.

Adam stood up.
And so must I be. Others depend on me. It has to be enough.

But when he had knelt by her grave, he had known then that it was not.

George Avery paused to get his bearings, and reconsider what he was doing. When he had watched her drive away in the smart blue carriage, he should have left it right there, put it back into the past with all the other memories and bitter experiences. He had returned to Jermyn Street and prowled up and down, simply to reawaken the breathtaking sensations of that chance meeting. He had almost expected to see the same two tattered veterans begging for food, but they had receded into the day's unreality. He frowned. There had been plenty of others, though.

She had been right about one thing. Her house was close by; he was not even breathless from the walk. It was cold, with watery sunlight, but he had not needed the new boat-cloak which he carried loosely over his arm. The house, though, was enough to chill his blood. He did not quite know what he had expected, but it was large and elegant, with a presence to match. He stopped again. He should turn and go, now. And there were several carriages outside: she was not alone. Perhaps he should have gone to the house when she had asked him, to take tea. But that invitation had been two days ago. He had looked at her little card several times since then, unable to decide what to do.

And then an Admiralty messenger had brought him the letter, and the sailing date. They would leave from Plymouth, so it was time he began the long journey to Falmouth, where Sir Richard Bolitho would be requiring his presence.

Instead, he was here.

What would she say? She might not even consent to see him. He stared at the house again, trying to remember his captain, her husband. He had assumed that Mildmay had been given the old
Canopus
as an insult, because of some past misdemeanour. Perhaps he had offended someone in high places: it was not uncommon.
That was why I was sent to her.
Taken originally as a prize from the French at the Nile, she had received such a battering and had subsequently been worked so hard that her greatest enemy was rot.

But Mildmay had left the ship while she had been in dock, and had been promoted to flag rank, with further promotion two years later. Now he was dead.

He felt his confidence, never very great, wavering. He would make an even bigger fool of himself this time.

The double doors of the house were before him, although he did not recall having mounted the steps. As though he had been secretly observed, one of them swung inward, opened by a tall, rather severe-looking woman dressed from neck to toe in grey, with a bunch of keys hanging from the chatelaine at her waist.

“Yes?” Her eyes moved over him swiftly. She was probably more used to senior officers and the quality, he thought, and, surprisingly, it made him smile. It was the same assessment and dismissal that the Jermyn Street tailor had given him.

He said, “I wish to speak to Lady Mildmay.”

The eyes moved on, looking for a carriage or some other evidence of respectability.

“She is not expecting your visit?” It was not really a question.

Avery heard music, a pianoforte, and in the sudden stillness applause, like a scattering of dry leaves.

“No, not exactly. I—”

“What is it, Mrs Pepyat? I thought I—”

Avery removed his hat. “I am sorry, my lady.” She was standing by the great, curving staircase, one hand to the bosom of her gown, as if she had been surprised or annoyed by the intrusion.

She said, “
Mister
Avery, you keep a poor diary!” But she smiled, and walked to meet him. “Is something amiss?”

He took the cool hand she offered and kissed the back of it. “I am recalled, my lady. I must leave for Cornwall shortly.” The pianoforte had started to play again, and Avery said, “I will leave. You are entertaining.”

She watched him, her blue eyes questioning. “No, no. That is a Mr Blount—he comes from Highgate to play for us, to raise money for the sailors' hospital at Greenwich.” She shrugged. “It is an amiable way to meet old friends, or acquaintances, if you prefer …” She smiled. “You like music, Mr Avery? It is Mozart, very fashionable, it seems.”

Avery was listening. “Yes. His Fantasy in C Minor.” He did not see her raised brows. “I sang in the choir, and my father's organist used to entertain us with that music afterwards.”

He must go. The formidable Mrs Pepyat obviously thought so.

“Take this gentleman's hat and cloak.” A footman darted out from nowhere, and took them from him. His line of retreat was severed.

She slipped her arm through his and guided him toward a tall doorway.

“We will sit by this pillar. See? No one has noticed a thing.”

He sat beside her. Although she had released his arm he could still feel her touch. The room was full, the women, some young, some not so young, sitting attentively, with here and there an expensively shod foot tapping in time to the music. The men were mostly older, and there were several red uniforms: senior officers putting on a brave face for society's sake, but, for the most part, obviously bored. The pianist named Blount was very small, with the frame of a youth, but his face could have been that of an old portrait, and Avery knew simply by watching him that he had completely dismissed his audience from his mind.