Second to None (21 page)

John Allday was not very good at hiding things from her, neither his love for her and their child, nor his grief.

People who did not understand always wanted to know, were always asking him, despite her warnings, about Sir Richard Bolitho. What he was like, truly like as a man. And always asking about his death.

Allday had tried, and was still trying, to fill every day, as if that was the only way he could come to terms with it. As his best friend Bryan Ferguson had confided, ‘Like the old dog losing his master. No point any more.'

And Unis knew that the old wound was troubling him, although if she had asked him he would have denied it. Ferguson had said that he should have quit the sea long ago, even as he had known, better than anyone, that John
Allday would never leave the side of his admiral, his friend, while they were both still needed.

Unis saw the pain in his face more frequently now, as he made himself useful about the inn, especially when he was lifting barrels of ale on to their trestles. She would get some of the other men to do it in future, if she could manage it without Allday finding out.

She knew that he went occasionally across to Falmouth, and this was something she could not share, nor attempt to. The ships, the sailors, and the memories. Missing being a part of it, not wanting to become just another old Jack, ‘swinging the lamp', as he put it.

Unis often thought of the ones who had become close to her. George Avery, who had stayed here several times, and who wrote her husband's letters at sea for him, and read hers to him. John had told her that Avery never received any letters himself, and it had saddened her in some way.

And Catherine, who had called here when she had needed
to be with friends.
Unis had never forgotten that, nor would she.

Nothing was the same, even at the big grey house below Pendennis Castle. Ferguson had said little about it, but she knew he was deeply concerned. Lawyers had been to the house from London, pursuing the matter of a settlement, he had said. The estate had been left to Captain Adam Bolitho; it had been signed and sealed. But there were complications. Sir Richard's widow and his daughter Elizabeth had to be considered. No matter what Sir Richard had wanted, nor what Catherine had meant to him.

Where would she go now? What would she do? Bryan Ferguson would not be drawn on the possibilities. He was worried about his own future; he and his wife had lived and worked at the estate for many years. How could lawyers from London know anything about such things as trust and loyalty?

She thought, too, of the memorial service at Falmouth. She had heard of the grander services at Plymouth and in the City of London, but she doubted they could match the united bond of pride and love, as well as sorrow, that day in the crowded church.

Her brother walked into the kitchen, his wooden leg thumping heavily on the flagstones.

He reached for his long clay pipe. ‘Just spoke with Bob, the farrier's son.' He took a taper from the mantel and held it to the flames, careful not to look at her. ‘There's a frigate in Carrick Roads. Came in this morning.' He saw her fingers bunch into her apron, and added, ‘Don't fret, lass, none of her people will come this far out.'

She looked at the old clock. ‘He'll be down there, then. Watching.'

He studied the smoke from his pipe, almost motionless in the warm air. Like that day when he had been struck down. All in a line, like toy soldiers. The smoke had lingered there too. For days. While men had called out, and had eventually died.

‘He's got you, and young Kate. He's lucky. Luckier than most.'

She put her arms round him. ‘And we've got
you,
thank God!'

Someone banged his tankard on a table and she dabbed her face with her apron.

‘There now, no rest for the wicked!'

Her brother watched her bustle out of the kitchen, and heard her call out to somebody by name.

Hold fast there, John
. He did not know if he had spoken aloud, or to whom he had been speaking, himself, or the sailor home from the sea.

He heard a gust of laughter and was suddenly proud of his neat little sister, and even perhaps ashamed that he had given way to his bitter memories. It had not always been so. He squared his shoulders and tapped out his pipe in the palm of his hand, carefully, so as not to break it. Then he strode in to the adjoining room and picked up an empty tankard. Like the old Thirty-First.
Stand together, and face your front
.

He was back.

Catherine Somervell gripped a tasselled handle and leaned forward as the carriage with its matching greys turned into the imposing gateway. The sky over the Thames was clear, but after several days of thunderstorms and heavy rain nothing seemed certain.

She was alone, and had left her companion Melwyn to pay the men who were repairing the front door of her Chelsea
house. Sillitoe had sent his carriage to collect her, and she had seen several people in the Walk turn to watch, some to smile and wave.

It was still hard to accept. To come to terms with. To understand.

Some had left flowers for her; one had even placed an expensive arrangement of roses on her doorstep with the simple message,
For the Admiral's Lady. With admiration and love
.

And by contrast, last night, probably during the thunderstorm, someone had scratched the word
whore
on the same door. Melwyn had been outraged, the affront sitting strangely on one so young. Because she felt a part of it.

She watched the horses' ears twitching as the carriage rolled to a halt. She could see the Thames again. The same river, but a world apart.

As speculation about the war had hardened into fact, she had wondered how the news would affect Adam. She had written to him, but she knew from bitter experience that letters took their time reaching the King's ships.

Once, when she had been passing the Admiralty, she had realised how complete her isolation from Richard's world had become. She knew no one in those busy corridors, or even ‘by way of the back stairs', as he had called it. Bethune was in the Mediterranean, in Richard's old command, and Valentine Keen was in Plymouth. She thought of Graham Bethune's concern for her, and his furious estrangement from his wife. He was an attractive man, and good company. It was probably for the best that he was so far away.

A boy in a leather apron had opened the door and was lowering the step. He, at least, should be spared the suffering and the separation of war.

She climbed down and looked up at the coachman.

‘Thank you, William. That was most comfortable.' She sensed his surprise, that she had remembered his name, or because she had spoken at all. She saw his eyes move to her breast and the diamond pendant there, and just as swiftly move away. Like the men painting the front door. She had seen their expressions. Their curiosity.

Then she thought of the blind lieutenant and the crippled
sailors at the cathedral. It made the others seem lower than the dust.

A servant opened the doors for her, a man she did not know. He gave a quick bow.

‘If you will wait in the library, m' lady. Lord Sillitoe will join you presently.'

She walked into the room and saw the chair where she had sat, waiting for Sillitoe on the day of the memorial service. Only two weeks ago. A lifetime.

And now she was here again. Sillitoe had taken it upon himself to deal with the legal complications; she had seen another carriage in the drive, and somehow knew it was that of the City lawyer, Sir Wilfred Lafargue. Sillitoe seemed to know everyone of consequence, friend or enemy. Like the private article someone had shown her in the
Times
newssheet, a very personal appraisal, a dedication to the one man she had loved.

Sir Richard practised total war, and inspired others to seek a total victory. To the Navy, his will remain an abiding influence. We shall never forget him, nor the woman he loved to the end.

Her name had not been mentioned. There was no need.

Sillitoe had said nothing about it. There had been no need for that, either.

The door opened and he strode into the room, his quick, keen glance taking in the dark green gown, the wide-brimmed straw hat with its matching ribbon. Perhaps surprised to see her out of mourning; the hooded eyes gave little away, but she recognised approval in them.

He kissed her hand, and half-turned as horses clattered across the drive.

‘Lafargue can make even a single word into an overture.' He waited for her to sit and arrange her gown. ‘But I think the way has become clear.'

She felt the eyes upon her, the power of the man. An intensity which so many had found cause to fear.

She had only once seen him off guard, that day at the cathedral, when he had pushed through the silent crowd to be at her side. As if he believed he had failed her in some way, something which he was unable to conceal.

And other times. When he had arranged passage for her to Malta . . .
For that last time.
She clenched her fist around her
parasol. She must not think of it. She had often found him watching her, like this moment, in this great, silent house overlooking the Thames. Perhaps remembering yet again the night he had burst into her room, and had held her, shielded her, as his men had dragged away the madman who had attempted to rape her.

He had made no secret of his feelings for her. Once, in this house, he had even mentioned marriage. But after that terrible night, how did he really regard her?

She thought of the lightning over the river last night, probably while the unknown pervert had been scratching his poison on the door. It had all come back to her. Melwyn had felt it too, and had climbed into bed with her, holding her hand, a child again, until the storm had abated.

Sillitoe said, ‘Lady Bolitho will have the right to visit Falmouth. A lawyer acceptable to Lafargue,' he almost smiled, ‘and, of course, to me, will be present. Certain items . . .' He broke off, suddenly tired of evasion. ‘It would not be advisable for you to be present. Captain Bolitho is the accepted heir, but in his absence we may have to make allowances.'

She said quietly, ‘I had no intention of returning to Falmouth.' She raised her chin and regarded him steadily. ‘There would be some who would say that the mare was hasty to change saddles!'

Sillitoe nodded. ‘Bravely spoken.'

‘Time will pass. I shall become a stranger there.'

‘Adam will ask you to visit or take up residence, whichever you choose. When he eventually returns.'

She was on her feet without knowing that she had left the chair. She looked down at the river: people working on barges, a man walking his dog. Ordinary things. She bit her lip. Beyond her reach.

She said, ‘I think that might be dangerous.'

She did not explain. She did not need to.

And she spoke the truth. What would she do there? Watch the ships, listen to the sailors, torture herself with memories they had shared with no one?

Sillitoe waited, watched her turn, framed against the sun-dappled window, her throat and shoulders as brown as any country lass working in the fields, the pendant glittering
between her breasts. The one woman he truly wanted; he had never considered it as a need before. And the only one he could never have.

He said abruptly, ‘I have to leave London. Tomorrow or the next day.' He saw her hand close into a fist again. What was troubling her? ‘To Deptford. I was going to suggest that you stay here. You would be well taken care of, and I would feel safer.'

She looked at the river once more. ‘That would do your reputation injury, surely?'

‘It is of no consequence.' He was standing beside her, like that day at St Paul's. ‘After this
duty
I shall be spending more time in the pursuit of my own affairs, unless . . .'

She turned towards him, unnerved by the realisation that this was the true reason for asking her here. ‘Unless?'

‘The Prince Regent seems to feel that my work as Inspector-General has run its course.' He shrugged. ‘He is probably right.'

She could feel the beat of her heart, like a hammer, and said again, ‘Unless what?'

‘I think you know, Catherine.'

‘Because of me. What they will say. How it would look. They would pillory you, just as they tried to destroy Richard.' She repeated, ‘Because of me.'

‘And do you think I care what people say about me? What they have always been careful to conceal to my face? Power is like a fine blade – you must always use it with care, and for the right purpose!'

A bell was ringing somewhere, another visitor. But she could not move.

It had been wrong, stupid, to allow herself to become dependent on this hard, remote man. And yet she had known it was there. As at St Paul's, when he had risked the stares and the condemnation.

She said softly, ‘You should have married someone suitable.'

He smiled. ‘I did. Or I thought she suited. But she went with another. Greener pastures, I believe it is called.'

He said it without anger or emotion, as though it were something forgotten. Or was that, too, another form of defence?

There were voices now, probably the secretary Marlow or one of his burly servants.

He put his hand on her arm and held it, and she watched, detached, as if she were watching someone else.

She said, ‘Would you have me as your mistress, my lord?'

She lifted her eyes and looked at him. Angry, wanting to hurt this unreachable man.

He took her other arm and turned her towards him, holding her only inches away.

‘As I said before, Catherine. As my wife. I can give you the security you need and deserve. I loved you at a distance, and sometimes I fought against it. So now it is said.'

She did not resist as he pulled her against him, did not even flinch when he touched her hair and her skin. A voice was screaming,
what is the matter with you?
But all she could see was the damaged door.
Whore
.