For My Country's Freedom (16 page)

She tore herself free and ran to the open windows, and stared out at the well-cut grass and formal flower beds, where her little son would sit and play with his nurse or Val's bereaved sister.

She peered blindly at the tall shadows which were already crossing the lawn.

“Dear God! Perran!”

But only the startled crows replied.

She heard someone cry, “Quick! Hold her!”

Then there was nothing.

9 THE MARK OF
S
ATAN

L
ADY
Catherine Somervell allowed herself to be guided to some cane chairs and a table arranged in the shadow of one of Roxby's big oaks, pleased that she had thought to bring a pair of shoes to exchange for her riding-boots. She sat down and adjusted her wide-brimmed hat to keep the sunlight from her eyes while Bolitho's sister Nancy directed a servant to bring tea.

It was a lovely summer day, the air full of birdsong and insects, and the sounds of men haying in the adjoining fields.

Nancy said, “I'm pleased for Lewis, of course—he's such a dear, and never says a harsh word to me.” She chuckled. “Not within earshot, in any case. But, really, can you imagine my feelings when they bow and call me m'lady?”

She reached out impulsively. “For you it is different, Catherine. But I shall never get used to it.” She glanced across to the stone terrace where Roxby was studying some plans with two visitors. “Lewis adores it, as you can see. He never stops. Now he's discussing the folly he wants built, can you credit it?”

Catherine let her chatter on while the table was being laid. Summer in Cornwall. How perfect it could be, if only he were here. He had been away so long, and there was still no word. She had read in the newspapers that some of the mail-packets had been attacked and plundered. Might their letters have gone astray?

She looked up and found Nancy watching her. “What is it, my dear?”

Nancy smiled. “I worry about you. And I miss him too—he is my brother, after all.” She sat down comfortably, spreading her skirts. “Is something else troubling you?”

Catherine shrugged. How pretty Richard's younger sister must have been. Pretty and fair, like their mother.

“Richard spoke to me about his daughter. It is her birthday quite soon.”

“There is nothing you can do, Catherine. Belinda would never allow her to accept a gift, or anything else.”

“I know. I do not want to see her anyway. When I think of what she tried to do, how she intended to hurt Richard, I know the true meaning of hate.”

She took the cup offered to her and sipped the tea, conscious of the sun's warmth on the one shoulder turned to its light. She hoped her fatigue did not show in her eyes: she had been sleeping badly, sometimes hardly at all.

Every night she dreamed or thought of Richard, imagined him coming into the room and touching her, arousing her. And yet every day increased the distance between them, as if the ocean had swallowed the ship and all aboard her.

He was still with her, even though the seas divided them, so that she found herself unwilling to visit people, even to discuss the collier brig and the day-to-day running of the estate with Bryan Ferguson, not that he needed her help.

She thought of the other faces she knew and loved. Valentine Keen, last heard of at Cape Town; Adam, who had called briefly to see her before sailing to join his uncle, Allday and Tyacke, Avery and the portly Yovell. At least they had one another to sustain them.

She heard Roxby's resonant voice bidding his visitors farewell. She watched him as he strolled across the lawn, his hands in his breeches' pockets. He loved riding and blood sports, but his fondness for good living was exacting a toll. She hoped that Nancy had noticed, and would use her influence to good effect. His face was very red, and it was all too apparent that he was breathing with difficulty. As if he had read her thoughts, he dragged out a large handkerchief and mopped his streaming face. Sir Lewis Roxby, Knight of the Hanoverian Guelphic Order, landowner and magistrate, described in London as “a friend of the Prince of Wales.” He had come a long way for the son of a local farmer.

Roxby waved the tea aside. “Something a bit stronger for me, m'dear!”

“Catherine's still waiting for a letter, Lewis.”

Roxby nodded gravely. “Bad business. Understand how you feel.”

His eyes took in her sun-browned shoulder, the proud or perhaps defiant manner in which she held her head. He had heard all about her boarding his brother-in-law's flagship at Falmouth. Up the side like a powder-monkey, to raise cheers even from the pressed men whose fate would be in Richard's hands.

What a woman. He thought with dislike of Nancy's sister, Felicity. She would have something vicious to say about it. Mercifully she did not come to the house very often now with her stupid son, and when she did call Roxby was careful to keep away, in case he lost his temper again.

He said, “He'll be home before you know it, m'dear.” He punched the back of his chair. “By God, he'll soon drub those damn' Yankees as he did Baratte!”

Nancy held up one hand, something she rarely did to her husband.

“Now, Lewis. Don't agitate yourself so.”

Catherine saw the quick exchange. So she
had
noticed. It was just as well.

Roxby grinned. “I'll go and fetch a drink for meself.” He shook his head. “I don't know. You women . . .” He walked away heavily, and Catherine watched as Nancy gestured for fresh tea. How different her life might have been had she been allowed time to fall in love with Richard's young friend Martyn, when they had both been midshipmen together. Here, she had comfort and respect, and she did not have to lie awake at night listening to the wind or the boom of surf below the cliffs. But Nancy was a sea officer's daughter, and the sister of England's most famous living sailor. She might still have preferred that other life.

She saw Nancy look up, surprised. Roxby was coming back from the house, carrying a sealed envelope with a perplexed expression on his face. In those remaining seconds Catherine realised he had even neglected to bring himself the promised drink.

Nancy stood up. “What is it?”

Roxby stared at them. “Not sure, m'dear. It was sent to your house, Catherine. Special courier.”

Catherine felt her heart leap. Like a pain. Then she said, “Let me see.” She took the envelope, seeing at a glance that it carried a crest which was vaguely familiar. But she did not recognise the handwriting.

Roxby had drawn close to his wife's side and had put his arm around her shoulders. He could feel the tension like something hostile. An enemy.

Catherine looked up at both of them. “It is from Valentine Keen's father. He thought I should be told without any delay. Val and Zenoria's child is dead. It was an accident. Suffocated.” The words were falling from her lips without order or understanding. “Zenoria was not at the house when it happened. She collapsed. Val's father has written to him. The Admiralty has been informed.” She turned away, seeing and hearing nothing, feeling only the scalding tears which would not come. How long had all this taken? To write the letters, to mourn the child, to arrange for a special courier. She almost spat out the word.
Eventually.
While the family stood together in grief, and turned their backs on the girl who had come amongst them. Was it so cruel?

She heard Ferguson's voice. So he was here too. She reached out to grip his hand, unable to see him.

Roxby asked gruffly, “Have you heard something?”

“Yes, Sir Lewis.” But he was looking at Catherine. “One of the stable lads thought he saw Mrs Keen in Falmouth.”

Roxby exploded. “That's impossible! It's miles to Hampshire, man!”

Catherine said quietly, “So they let her go. Allowed her to leave the house, after what had happened to her.” She thrust out the letter. “I think you should read it.” She put her other hand on his arm. “As a dear friend, and perhaps later as a magistrate.”

Roxby cleared his throat and peered at some figures beyond the trees who had paused to discover what had happened.

“You, Brooks! Ride like the devil to Truro and fetch Captain Tregear with his dragoons! Tell him I sent you!”

“No.”
Catherine released their hands. “I know where she is. When I rode here I knew someone was watching me. I did not know she was saying goodbye . . .”

Ferguson took her hand. “Let me take you home, m'lady.” He was pleading, trying to help, as Allday would have done.

Roxby called, “Carriage! Fetch some men!”

But it was already too late. They left the carriage where Catherine had waited with Tamara to watch
Indomitable
clear the harbour, all those weeks ago.

Then along the winding cliff path, which had crumbled away in so many places, dangerous even for a sure-footed Cornish girl in the dark. But it had not been in the dark, and as they scrambled up the last stretch Catherine saw the familiar landmark, like some crouching thing, known locally as Trystan's Leap.

Catherine stood motionless, her gown and hair moving slowly in the light breeze off the water. She was aware of nothing but the rise and fall of the sea's glistening face, the longboat, so tiny from up here, backing oars like a water-beetle to avoid the hissing rocks which the receding tide would soon reveal to the sun.

They were lifting a small figure from the undertow, an oar moving this way and that to maintain control of the boat.

She heard herself say, “I am going down. I must.”

She felt a hand seize her wrist, to guide her as she began her descent. But there was nobody beside her. Aloud she said, “Richard, it's you.”

When she reached the suddenly bare, shining crescent of beach her gown was torn, her hands cut and bleeding.

One of the coastguards stepped between her and the little bundle on the sand.

“No, my lady. You can't go no further.” It was Tom, who had so often seen and spoken with her when they had met on these same cliffs. He dropped his eyes as she stared at him. “'Er face is gone. The rocks—”

“Just for a moment—I beg you!”

Another voice called, “I've covered she some, Tom.”

The coastguard let her pass him then, and she walked blindly to the body. She knelt down on the hard wet sand and grasped the out-thrust hand. So cold, so very still. Even the wedding ring had been battered by the rocks.

Very gently she raised the corpse, so that the bandaged head drooped against her shoulder as if she were listening.

Then she opened the neck of the torn clothing until she could see the beginning of the scar where the whip had laid open Zenoria's back on the transport, from which Val had rescued her. On their walks along this coast Zenoria had referred to it as the mark of Satan.

She could hear Roxby gasping and panting down the last part of the track, then his hands firm on her shoulders as some of the others took the girl's body from her.

“Was it her?”

“Yes. There can be no mistake.” Then she said, “Perhaps she cried out. I might have heard, or thought it was a seabird.” Then she shook her head, rejecting it, knowing she must. “No. She wanted to go. We who are closest to her might have helped her more. But the pain is only just beginning.”

Ferguson asked, “What shall we do, m'lady?”

She said, “We must do what Richard would have done, were he here. We must take her back to the sea, to Zennor, from whence she came. Perhaps her spirit will be at peace there. God knows she had little of it elsewhere.”

Afterwards, Bryan Ferguson knew it was something he would never forget. Nor want to.

Sir Richard Bolitho walked slowly across the stone-flagged terrace and felt the heat coursing up through his shoes. It was very hot, and the sun seemed to stand directly above Monk's Hill, unwavering, and appearing to discourage even the movement of small craft in the wide expanse of English Harbour. Other houses, used mostly by senior officials and dockyard officers, stood out white and stark against the lush greenery, like this building, to which he had come seven years ago, and where he had found Catherine again. Seven years. It seemed impossible. So much had happened since that time. Friends killed: fine ships lost or battered into hulks in every corner of the world and across every ocean.

He reached the stone balustrade and touched it with his fingers. Like a heated gun-barrel. Just as it must have been when she had stood here in this very place and position to watch the painful approach of his ship,
Hyperion.
The old ship's name had meant very little to her, and she had been totally unprepared for the shock when she had heard her husband mention that
Hyperion
had become a flagship.
My flagship.

He cupped one hand over his left eye and looked at the ships anchored here. Part of his squadron sprawling untidily to their cables in the airless heat.

Beyond the larger
Indomitable,
the three frigates,
Zest, Virtue
and
Chivalrous,
made perfect reflections on the still water, their ensigns and pendants barely moving. The big frigate
Valkyrie,
now commanded by Captain Peter Dawes, lay at Halifax, with two sixth-rates in company. Together they and three brigs represented the Leeward Squadron. Only one was still missing, and she should arrive here very shortly. Adam's
Anemone,
fresh from her refit and manned almost completely by strangers, would complete a lively and useful force. Adam might miss the faces lost in the last fight with Baratte, but improving the performance of the new men and the ship herself would keep him too busy to brood. He loved
Anemone
more than any ship: he would not rest until she responded to his hand like the true thoroughbred she was.