Heart of Oak (6 page)

The bell was ringing somewhere overhead, and there were whispering voices outside the door, and echoes from the body of the church.

The curate held out his hand. “A pleasure, Captain. I would have spoken to you before, at Sir Richard’s memorial service, but my time was not my own.”

The handshake, like the smile, was genuine. How had he managed to remember, and mark him out? So long ago, and among so many people. He watched the big hands take Lowenna’s.

“I hope we shall meet again very soon. Love is not always the most patient of messengers.” He nodded. “I knew Sir Gregory Montagu quite well.” Adam saw her tense, her chin lifting slightly, as if she were suddenly on guard. “Sometimes our views and concepts were at odds, but he was a man among men. Sorely missed.”

Adam heard her murmur something and wanted to interrupt, but when he saw her face he knew there was no need. She said quietly, “He saved my life. Now I know why.”

They stood outside the little chapel and looked along the nave. Nothing had changed; only the sunlight had shifted.

They began to walk slowly down the aisle, toward the entrance, where Francis was waiting.

There would be people coming to the house this evening, some strangers, curious or with minds already biased. She gripped his arm. Her eyes were no longer in shadow, and she was smiling with a radiance he had not seen before.

She reached up to touch his face. “Take me home, Adam.” Three figures walked past, stepping aside to avoid them. They could have been invisible. “Time is an obstacle. It is not an enemy.”

Francis had the carriage door open and watched them coming down the steps. It was going to be a long day, but he would tell his wife all about it when he got home, if she was still awake.

He was aware of some passers-by who had stopped to stare or smile. She looked so much the radiant bride.

Together.

R
EAR
-A
DMIRAL
T
HOMAS
H
ERRICK
walked slowly across the familiar entrance hall, and then hesitated as if to reassure himself. Somehow it was different from the picture he had fixed in his mind. A fire was burning brightly and to one side he saw a half-opened door. The library, shelved books rising from floor to ceiling. And beyond that, the curving staircase. The portraits.

He turned. “I’m sorry, my dear. What did you say?”

He remembered the servant who had ushered him through the front door. A round, open face: a local girl with a poise that marked her as one of Grace Ferguson’s assistants.

“Lady Roxby is not here, sir.” She seemed to know the time, although he saw no clock. “She’m due back directly. If you would care to sit a while, I can fetch you something.”

Herrick jammed his hat beneath his arm and saw her eyes rest on his pinned-up sleeve. It never failed; so why did he still resent it?

“A drink, perhaps?” She shifted from one foot to the other. “A dish of tea, maybe?”

He ventured, “Some ginger beer? The last time I was here…”

Her smile widened immediately. “You be easy, sir. I recollect when you last came.” She gestured toward another room, facing the sea. “You’ll be snug in there.”

“Thank you, Jenna, that would suit very well. I’m sorry to intrude without warning.” But she had already gone, pleased to be doing something, and that he had recalled her name.

Something else he had learned over the years.
It is sometimes all they have.

He looked toward the portraits, remembering who had taught him that.

He walked to the other room and halted by the door. Like an intruder. He should have sent word, or been here last night, when other guests had been invited. Maybe he should leave now, go back to The Spaniards where he had left his baggage after the journey from St Austell. Less than half the distance from Plymouth, but it had felt longer. He thought suddenly of the conference he had been asked to attend. Asked? There had been no choice. But it had been an opportunity to keep abreast of naval affairs, perhaps the last he would get.

He had found himself at a big house on an estate near St Blazey. They were all senior officers, or had been; most of them seemed to be retired. They had met to discuss the merits of reallocating work from naval dockyards to local, civilian contractors. With their lordships’ blessing, it might become a matter for Parliament.
Might.

Suppose Nancy had already forgotten or withdrawn her offer concerning the management of the estates. She had made light of it.
Like running a ship. You will soon get the feel of things.
Like Ferguson, who had taken to it instinctively, and the portly Yovell. Ashore or afloat, he always seemed able to rise to every challenge.

He retraced his steps across the hall and stood staring at the newest portrait. Adam, illegitimate son of Hugh Bolitho and Kerenza Pascoe. Roll back the years and it might have been Richard. Something in the expression, but not the dark eyes. How was Adam facing up to his own future? Two ships taken from him,
Unrivalled
and now
Athena.
How could any serving captain accept it?

He glanced up the stairs. He knew this house well, had been a guest here in the past. Its silence was heavy with memory. Adam’s place was at sea. Until…He recalled the men who had sat at the conference table with him. Complacent, even condescending. Impossible to compare with others he had known, and had fought beside, regardless of the odds, or the rights or wrongs of the cause.

“Here you are, sir.” She was back, with a tankard balanced on a tray.

Ginger beer. What would they have had to say about that in the kitchen?

He would have to sit and think it all over again. There was nobody else now to consider. Her memory was never far away. His Dulcie…In his mind he often saw them together. He sighed a little, and his hand moved as if to brush some dust from his uniform, except that he was no longer wearing the King’s coat. Dulcie had died of fever when he had been at sea; she had been nursing prisoners of war. He picked up the tankard and gazed at it. Always the link. Adam had been the one who had carried the word of Dulcie’s death to him, just as he himself had carried the news to Richard that his first wife had been killed with their unborn child.

“He’s in here, sir.”

Herrick swung round, caught off guard, angry that he had allowed the past to distract him.

A man stood by the study door, looking toward him; the girl Jenna was hovering nearby. A heavy jacket with shoulder-capes, and riding boots, one mud-streaked. Not young, not old. Herrick thought he was mistaken, but there was something familiar about his face.

He strode across the polished floor. “Rear-Admiral Herrick? So glad I was in time.” He held out his hand, then paused to wipe it on his breeches. “I’m James Roxby. My mother told me you might be paying her a visit. Hoped you would.” The palm was hard, and Herrick could see the likeness now, the same gestures, the confidence. He was looking at the tankard and the girl explained, “Ginger beer, sir.”

“After that ride, I think I’ll venture something stronger!”

They laughed.

Herrick wondered why he had not remembered. It was not like him. James Roxby was a highly respected surgeon in London. Nancy had joked about it, saying her son occasionally came down to the West Country on a pilgrimage, or to escape his patients.

“I hear that you have only just arrived.” He did not wait for an answer. “Some one taken your things? This is no way to greet an honoured guest!”

Herrick said, “I left them at the inn. I didn’t know…” He broke off, feeling like a fool. What had he expected?

“Somebody will go and get them.” Head on one side, and Herrick could see him in his professional role without effort. Then he nodded. “She’s coming now. She’ll get you settled.” He almost grinned. “My mother gives all the orders around here!”

He turned. “Comfortable, are you?” He did not look at the empty sleeve. There was no need.

But Nancy was here, her eyes moving between them. “Thomas, this is a lovely surprise!” She tossed a bag on to a chair, and a parcel to the beaming Jenna. “We were very concerned!”

Herrick made to take her hand but she gripped his shoulder and turned her face toward him. “Makes it simply perfect.” He kissed her cheek, and she laughed. “For me, in any case!”

Herrick watched her, her smile, the warmth he had never forgotten. “I’m sorry I missed the reception for Adam…” He faltered. “And Lowenna.”

She shrugged. “You would have hated it.
They
were wonderful, but I expect it was an ordeal for them.” She sat, facing him. “And what of you, Thomas?” She was leaning forward, her eyes never leaving his. “You are looking so well—we’ll not let you escape so easily this time!”

Herrick said, rather stiffly, “I am finished with active service. I might be offered some temporary appointments, but…” It was nobody’s concern.
Except my own.

But she was laughing, one hand to her mouth, shaking her head. “So sorry, Thomas,
dear
Thomas! I remembered what you said to me when we last met!” She shook her head again. “
I can pay my way
, do you remember saying that?” She calmed herself with an effort. “I loved you for it!”

Her son stood up. “I’ll arrange to have the gear collected from—” His eyebrows went up. “The Spaniards, wasn’t it?”

Herrick saw the mask slip, heard the keen, incisive voice. The surgeon again. No wonder sailors feared them. Hated them. There was no one else to blame, not when you were pinned on your back, helpless, waiting for the blade.

But he felt his mouth lift into an unaccustomed smile. It had been so long. Nothing else mattered. “I’ve never forgotten it, Nancy.” Like hearing somebody else.

She dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “Adam and Lowenna are down at the waterfront. They’ll be back soon.” She laughed. “It’s
perfect!
”

More voices, this time Grace Ferguson, one hand holding a bunch of keys. Straight-backed, smiling at him. Altered in some way, but otherwise as he remembered her whenever they had met.

She said, “Good to have you with us, sir. Like old times.”

They must all believe that.

Then they were alone together and Nancy said softly, “We shall make them
better
, Thomas. No more heartbreaks—it’s never too late.” She examined his face, feature by feature. “Don’t mind James. Sometimes even he can forget he is a surgeon and be human again. Until his fingers start itching for his saw.”

Grace Ferguson paused to rearrange something below the stairs, and listened to their sudden laughter. She remembered when Herrick had first come here, to this house. The young lieutenant with blue, blue eyes and an uncertain frown. And
she
had been even younger than the girl Jenna.

She thought of the empty sleeve, and began to search abruptly through her keys. There was no value in looking back.

Adam held Lowenna’s arm while some fishermen trundled a barrow loaded with tangled nets along the jetty. It was always busy here, boats being unloaded by hand under the sharp eye of local buyers, and a few larger craft using tackle to shift their cargoes directly ashore. Not very different from when he had first seen it as a youth, and he had always remembered it.

She smiled, face fresh in the cold salt breeze, eyes bright with interest and excitement. Sharing it with him, unconcerned or unaware of the attention from idlers and labourers alike.

But he tightened his grip as two men with arms linked, obviously full to the scuppers, as Luke Jago would have said, lurched aside with elaborate respect as they passed.

“Greetin’s, Captain, an’ yer lovely lady!”

Lowenna said, “The deck looks very lively today.”

The two seamen stared at her and then fell laughing in each other’s arms. There were grins and nods throughout the crowd.

Adam murmured, “You are wonderful. For a second, I thought…”

But she was shading her eyes against the hard light, the moment already past as she watched a vessel moving slowly clear of others moored close by. “Your world, Adam. And I want to be part of it.” She laughed as some gulls swooped down on a few fishheads thrown on the water. “Look, they’re happy, too.”

When she looked at him again her face was serious. “I saw you watching that ship. A brig, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is. Clever of you. Most people would not know.”

But she did not smile. “I saw it in your eyes. An understanding. Almost…a hunger.” She thrust some of her hair under her cloak. “Am I right?”

He stared across the choppy water. The brig was already under way, topsails and jib filling slightly to the brisk offshore wind. Too far out to hear the sounds of a vessel coming alive, the squeal and clatter of blocks, the measured stamp of bare feet. But he could have been there on her deck.

He said, “Small and handy, fourteen guns. Very like
Firefly
, my first command. She taught me all I know.” He took her arm again, unconsciously. “And you
are
a part of it. Since that day…” A great chorus of laughter mixed with jeers scattered his thoughts, and he saw a group of onlookers pointing or gesturing toward the brig, shaking their heads in disgust.

“What is it, Adam?”

I should have known. Been prepared.
The time of year did not matter, nor the weather. There were always the old hands, men who had once served in ships of war, and now were unable to stay away from the life which had brutally rejected them. Missing an arm or a leg, permanently scarred, there was not a whole man amongst them.

There was a distant squawk from the brig’s speaking trumpet, doubtless her first lieutenant yelling threats at a small boat carelessly pulling across the bows. It was common enough in confined waters. But somehow a necessary reminder to survivors like these.

“That showed ’em, eh, Cap’n?” More laughs, and hostility too. It was different at sea. So different. The risk and the danger were ever present. The toast to “absent friends” was supposed to soften the harsh reality.