Relentless Pursuit (27 page)

She had heard Bryan Ferguson say that Sir Richard and her John were like master and loyal dog, each afraid of losing the other. Perhaps that was so. She clenched her fists. She would allow no harm to come to him now.

She had asked John how he had found Captain Adam. He had thought about it, his chin in the big, awkward hands which could be so loving and so gentle in their private world.

He had said, “Like his uncle, a good and caring captain to all accounts, but stands alone. Shouldn't be like that.” As if he felt somehow responsible.

She entered the parlour, so familiar now, the shining copper and pewter, the lines of tankards, and the mingled smells of food, flowers, and people. In the place of honour was the beautiful model of the old
Hyperion,
exact in every detail and scale, and made by those same big, scarred hands. But it had been moved, something forbidden to everybody except . . . She walked into the next room, the one with the fine view of a long line of evenly matched trees; when the light was right you could see the river, like molten silver beyond them.

John Allday was sitting at the table, his face deep in thought as he studied the canvas roll of tools, blades and strips of bone arranged in front of him.

Like many sailors, he could take on most jobs. He could make furniture, like the beautiful cot he had fashioned for little Kate, and the chest he had built for the lieutenant named George Avery who had become so much a part of Unis's life. Because Allday was illiterate, Avery had written his letters to her, and had read her letters to him. It would have been a rare and wonderful relationship in any walk of life, let alone aboard a man-of-war. Now the quiet, almost shy Avery was gone, one more name on the roll of honour.
For King and Country.

“What is it, John?”

She put her arm around his massive shoulders. Sir Richard had called him
my oak,
but she could feel his slow, careful breathing even now. The terrible wound in the chest left by a Spanish sword, at a place no one could remember, and it was getting worse. But he had always insisted he could manage, when Sir Richard had needed him.

Now I need you, dearest John.

“When I gets time on my hands.” He did not look up at her. “I gets to thinking, another model, mebbee?”

She hugged him. “You're
always
busy! Make some of the youngsters sit up an' take notice, I can tell you!”

He sighed. “You knows me, love, I'm not one for passing time with the old Jacks, swinging the lamp with every tankard of ale! Your brother's got the right idea, puts 'em in their place!” He looked round. “Where's Kate?”

“Resting. Nessa'll keep an eye on her.”

She remembered his dismay when the child had turned away from him, when they had met for the first time on his return from sea. To her he must have seemed like a stranger, an inter-loper. But he had won her over in his own patient fashion. He could even pick her up and play with her now without fear of damaging her in some way. And Unis loved him for it.

Allday said suddenly, “I meant to ask about young Elizabeth, Sir Richard's daughter—she'll be growing up now, right enough. I wonder what the King of Cornwall thinks about having her in his great house.”

She hugged him again, and said nothing. Sir Lewis Roxby had died back when Lady Catherine was still living at the Bolitho house.

She said, “You're going to make a model of the
Frobisher,
” and bit her lip to steady herself. “We'll have to find a real special place for that!”

Then Allday did look at her, his eyes very clear, the frown gone.

“I shall give it to Cap'n Adam. From both of us.”

Afterwards, alone in their room, she wondered.
Who did he really mean?

Nancy, Lady Roxby, saw the rambling old building swing into view as the carriage swayed over the rutted track.

It was an open vehicle, and she could feel the dust gritting between her teeth, but she liked it this way, always had since she was a small girl, the younger daughter of Captain James Bolitho. She often thought about her father, the man; she sometimes felt that the one she knew existed only in the portrait at the Bolitho house, while his character and upbringing were like entries in a diary or history book.

“Go straight in, Francis. I doubt this will take long.”

The shadow of the old glebe house rose above her, as always grim and unwelcoming. Ideal perhaps for an artist and a recluse, but few others.

She felt a twinge of excitement and rebuked herself. Roxby would have called her too curious for her own good. She smiled sadly. But he would have loved her for it.

The dark windows were blind to the outside world, the ruined chapel adding to the air of mystery. Gossip, more likely; this place was well known for its tales of witchcraft and evil spirits.

The coachman said doubtfully, “I don't think we are expected, m' lady.”

He had not been with her very long. Otherwise, he would have known about her impulses. She heard Roxby again.
Damn impudence, more like!

The sky was bright and clear, without even a wisp of cloud over the hills or the sea beyond.

Adam would be out there now somewhere, doing what he had always wanted and dreamed about. She thought of his face, so near, when she had last spoken to him, and then had pressed his cheek against her own.
Doing what he wanted and believed in.
But this time had been different. As if he was leaving something behind.

She said impatiently, “Get down and knock on the door, Francis!”

She saw the horse shaking its ears, irritated by the buzzing insects. She could remember a time when she would have ridden here herself, and across country if the mood took her. It was wrong to look back too often . . . perhaps because since Roxby had died there had been so little joy, and nothing to anticipate.

So many things had changed. Like young Elizabeth, who had been so surprised at the way local children lived and played . . . how could it be, that she had been so sheltered from an endless war which had threatened every mile of this coastline? She thought of the girl's mother, Belinda, and tried once again to come to terms with it.

She heard voices, Francis, tall and ramrod-straight like the soldier he had been until a year ago, and the servant she had met on her previous visit, when she had called to arrange for the portrait.

She climbed down, and grimaced a little. Her breathing was fast.
Just to remind me.
On her next birthday she would be fifty-seven years old. People told her to settle down and enjoy these years. She was secure, and had two fine children, and now two grandchildren.
She should be more than satisfied . . .

She grimaced again. She was not.

Francis called, “He says that his master is not here, m' lady. He will gladly take a message.” It was as if the servant was invisible. Perhaps they were like that in the cavalry.

She said, “It is about my nephew's portrait.” Even that made her sound ancient. “In Captain Bolitho's absence I thought I should enquire . . .”

“May I be of any help, my lady?”

Nancy turned in the direction of the voice.

“Thank you, my dear. Have we met before?”

The girl looked towards the house, as if regretting her first impulse. But she said, “I am Lowenna. I am staying here.”

Nancy took a deep breath and stepped into cool shadows. In her heart, she had hoped for this meeting with one who until now had been little more than a name, an occasional visitor to these parts, and then only in the company of Sir Gregory Montagu.

She followed her along the deserted passageway, conscious of her poise, her apparent confidence. She remembered her vaguely as a child; it was coming back to her like her father's history, like fragments from the pages of a diary. She had been born in Bodmin, where the family name had been Garland. A successful arrangement, they had said at the time, between a promising scholar soon to be appointed to a prestigious college in Winchester, and the daughter of a Bodmin corn chandler . . . Nancy saw the girl pause, as if to ensure that she was still following . . . She saw the date in her mind. Around
1790,
when news had reached her of Richard's fever in the Great South Sea; he had been in command of the frigate
Tempest.
Allday had been with him even then.

“We may talk in here, if you wish.” Very composed, and, in the filtered sunlight, quietly beautiful. A woman then, aged about twenty-six or twenty-seven.

Nancy glanced around the room. Untidy, but she was aware of the order of things in this, a painter's domain. A place wherein he could work, leave for a week or a month if he chose, and know that it would be exactly how he wanted it when he returned.

She often spent her spare time painting flowers, or scenes on the shore, and she had been moved by Elizabeth's readiness to copy her. It had been their first real point of contact.

She observed the girl. Dressed in a pale blue robe without any sort of decoration, or even a belt. Loose and airy. She had already noted the long hair, and the easy way she walked, but now that she was facing her she was more aware of her eyes. So dark that they concealed her thoughts, like a barrier between them.

Lowenna said, “The portrait is over here. Sir Gregory is pleased with it, I think.”

Nancy waited as she uncovered the canvas; she even did that with a graceful, unhurried movement. She knew she sat for Montagu: perhaps that was it. Poise . . .

She studied the unfinished portrait; unbelievable that one man could possess such a great talent. It was Adam to the life, the way he held his head when listening, or answering a question. The dark eyes, like the eyes of the girl she knew was watching her, instead of the painting. There was an uncompleted yellow rose in Adam's coat and she almost mentioned it, but some deeper sense seemed to warn her that this tenuous contact would be broken instantly. And Adam's small, elusive smile; Montagu had caught it precisely. No wonder he could turn any woman's head, and break his own heart.

She said, “It is exactly right. How I think of him when he's away. Which is too often these days.”

She turned, and saw the astonishment which for only a second had broken through the girl's composure.

Lowenna said quietly, “I had not realised . . .”

“That we were so close?” Nancy looked at the portrait again, the flood of memories pushing aside all reserve. “He came to me when his mother died. He had walked all the way from Penzance. He was only a boy.” She nodded slowly, without knowing she had done so. “Came to
me.
”

“Thank you for telling me.” So simply said, like a very young girl again.

“Will you be staying here long, Lowenna?”

She shook her head, the sunlight touching her hair like fine gold. “I don't know. I may be going back to London. Sir Gregory has several paintings to finish.” She glanced at the portrait again, almost shyly, as if she were testing something. “But he will complete this first.”

Nancy walked to a window, seeing the harp and the stool beside it. Then she saw the other unfinished painting, the naked girl chained to a rock, the sea monster about to break surface beside her.

She looked at her again. Defensive, or defiant? The dark eyes gave nothing away.

She said softly, “You are very beautiful.”

“It is not what it may appear, my lady.”

“I am far older than you.” She shrugged. “Unfortunately. I have been in love twice in my life. I know how it feels.” She made to hold out her hand, but instinct prevented her. “I also know how it looks. I care deeply for my nephew, perhaps, dare I say it, more than a son. He is brave, loyal and compassionate, and he has suffered.” She saw the words reaching her. “As I believe you have.”

“Who said that of me?”

“Nobody. I am still a woman, still young at heart.”

She tried not to listen to the sound of carriage wheels. Montagu was back, but it would make no difference who it was. She made up her mind. “You see, I believe my nephew has lost his heart to you. It is why I came here today.” She walked towards the door. “Now that I have met you, I am glad I came.” She turned, one hand on the door. “If you feel the need, Lowenna, come to me.”

She did not move. But the hostility was gone.

She said, “As Adam came?” It was the first time she had used his name.

Then Nancy did reach out and take her wrist. “As a friend, if you like.” She felt that in another moment the girl would have pulled away.

She said calmly, “A friend, then, my lady.”

Along the same bleak passageway, and the bright square of sunshine through the opened doors.

It was not Montagu, but a man she recognised from a wine merchant's in Falmouth. He touched his hat and beamed at her.

“'Tes a fine day, m' lady. Summer at last, mebbee?”

Nancy looked back at the pale blue figure by the stairway. “Yes, Mr Cuppage, it is a fine day.” She raised one hand to the girl and added, “
Now
it is.”