For My Country's Freedom (24 page)

That night while
Indomitable
thrust her heavy bows into open sea, Bolitho awoke with that same dream still fixed in his mind. Carrick Roads and Pendennis Castle, the ships as clear and familiar as ever. Each one taking in her cable. Where bound? Who manned these phantom ships? There was an additional vessel this time, with the gilded figurehead he knew so well.
Daughter of the Wind.
And when she swung to her cable, he saw that it was Zenoria. Even then, as he fought his way out of the dream, he heard her last scream.

“All right, Sir Richard?” It was Allday, his powerful frame leaning over with the ship.

Bolitho held on to the cot as his feet touched the deck.

“Tell me something, old friend. Do
you
think he is still alive?”

Allday padded after him to the stern windows. The moon was making a ragged silver path on the lively crests. So that was what troubled him, he thought, as much or more than ever. All this time, with officials and officers coming and going with their offers or demands—mostly the latter, no doubt—planning what he should do, placing his ships where they would make the most difference, he had been fretting about Captain Adam. His nephew, but more of a son, a friend, than anyone else really knew.

Then he walked to the sword-rack, and waited for the moonlight to touch the old blade he had proudly buckled or clipped into place before so many fights, so many deeds, which he had shared.

“When we're gone, Sir Richard . . .” He knew Bolitho was watching him in the eerie light, “An' we can't live for ever, nor have I a mind to . . . this old blade will be
his.
Must be.”

He heard him say quietly, his voice suddenly calm again, “Aye, old friend. The last of the Bolithos.”

Allday watched him climb into his cot. He seemed to fall asleep instantly.

Allday smiled. The squall was over; the storm still to come.

13
L
ONELINESS

L
ADY
Catherine Somervell rose from the tall leather-backed chair and walked to the window. Down in the street in front of the Admiralty main building, it was raining quite heavily.

She toyed with one of the thick gold ropes that held the curtains, and watched people hurrying for shelter. Heavy, cleansing rain, thinning the traffic, causing steam to rise from the dirty cobbles, refreshing the avenues of trees so richly green on this late summer's day.

She turned and glanced at the empty fireplace, the old paintings of sea-battles. Richard's world. She shook her head, rejecting the antiquated ships. No, more his father's navy. She had learned much merely by listening, by being with him, just as he had shared her London, and, she hoped, learned to enjoy it in a manner he had not found possible before.

She studied herself in a gilded tall looking-glass, imagining nervous sea officers here, examining their reflections before being summoned to meet whichever admiral would decide their fate.

A plain green gown, the hem and sleeves of which were spotted with rain even as she had alighted from the carriage. She wore a wide-brimmed hat with a matching green ribbon. She had dressed with care, as she always did, not from vanity or conceit, but out of defiance, and because of Richard. Sixteen months now, and the ache was as cruel as ever.

The room was much as she had expected it would be. Unwelcoming, aloof from the rest of the building, a place of decisions, where men's lives could be changed with the stroke of a pen.

She could imagine him here, as a very young captain, perhaps. Or afterwards, as a flag-officer, when their affair had become common knowledge. The whole world knew about them now. She half smiled, but the Admiralty would not be impressed by her position in his life, or by her rank. If anything happened to Richard, it was ironic that Belinda would be the first to be told. Officially.

Over the months she had kept busy, helping Ferguson, or independently with her own projects. But each day was an eternity, her rides on Tamara her only escape. She had not been near the cliff path and Trystan's Leap since the day of Zenoria's death.

An old servant stood now between the tall double doors. Catherine had not noticed him, nor heard the doors open.

“Sir Graham Bethune will see you now, my lady.”

He bowed slightly as she passed him. She could almost hear him creak.

Sir Graham Bethune strode to meet her. She had resented the fact that he had once been one of Richard's midshipmen in his first command: even though he had explained the complexities governing seniority, it still seemed deeply unfair. Only one rank lower than Richard, and yet he was a lord of admiralty, a power who could help or dismiss as he chose.

But Bethune was not what she had expected. He was slim, energetic, and was wearing a genuine smile to greet her; suddenly and rather unwillingly, she understood why Richard had liked him.

“My dear Lady Somervell, this is indeed an honour. When I heard you were in Chelsea and I received your little note, I could scarce believe my good fortune!”

Catherine sat in the proffered chair and regarded him calmly. He was charming, but he was quite unable to hide his curiosity, and the interest of a man in a beautiful woman.

She said, “We were deeply concerned at Falmouth to learn of
Anemone
's loss. I thought that if I came in person you might give me more news—if there is any, Sir Graham?”

“We will take refreshment in a moment, Lady Somervell.” He walked to his desk and rang a small bell. “Yes, we have indeed received more news, first by telegraph from Portsmouth yesterday, and then confirmed by courier.” He turned and rested his buttocks on the table. “It is much as I expected. After the sinking, the American frigate
Unity
took what prisoners could be saved from
Anemone,
and because of her own damage was forced to cancel any further attempts on our convoy. It was a brave act on Captain Bolitho's part. It will not go unrewarded.” She put her hand on her breast and saw his glance follow it and linger there for a few seconds.

She said, “Then he is alive?”

A servant entered with a tray. He did not look at either of them.

Bethune watched the servant opening the bottle with the deftness of one who was called to perform the task often.

“I was told that you enjoy champagne, my lady. I think we have something to celebrate. Don't you agree?”

She waited. Bethune was probably imagining other reasons for her concern.

He said, “He was badly wounded, but our informants have told us that, thanks to the American commodore, he was well cared for.” He hesitated for the first time. “We are still uncertain as to the extent of his injury.”

Catherine took the tall glass and felt its coolness through her glove. Word for word, Richard's letter was engraved on her memory: Adam's arrival at English Harbour, and his anguish at the news of Zenoria's death.

It was like some playlet, in which they all had lines to speak. Richard and his dead brother; Adam and Zenoria; and yet to come, Valentine Keen.

Bethune held his glass to the window. “We have not been told officially what the Americans intend. Captain Bolitho, in the normal course of events, would be exchanged with one of our prisoners. However, as a frigate captain of some stature, with many prizes and successes to his credit, they might decide to keep him, if only in a mood of self-congratulation.”

“Or perhaps to goad his uncle into some reckless action?”

“Has he written to that effect, my lady?”

“You know him, do you not? You should not need to ask me.”

He smiled and refilled her glass. “True.”

Then he said, “I hope you will do me the honour of allowing me to escort you to a reception.” He hurried on, as if he already knew that she would refuse. “Sir Paul Sillitoe, whom I believe you know, wishes to celebrate his new title. He goes to the House of Lords shortly. He will be a powerful adversary there, by God.”

Is
a powerful adversary, she thought. “I cannot be certain, Sir Graham.” She smiled faintly. “Would not your reputation be a trifle smudged by me?”

He looked away, and for only an instant she saw the freckled midshipman.

It was quickly past. “I would relish your company, Lady Somervell.”

She said, “The rain is finished, and here comes the sun. I worship it, despite what it once tried to do to us.”

He nodded gravely. “The
Golden Plover,
yes, I understand. May I enquire as to your plans for the remainder of the day?”

She faced him, unmoved by the hint in his tone.

“I shall interview a new personal maid, Sir Graham. But first, I must go to St James's.”

“The palace, my lady?”

She held out her gloved hand and felt him lingering over it. Then she laughed. “No, the wine shop, of course!”

Long after a servant had accompanied her downstairs, Bethune stood staring after her.

His secretary entered and placed some papers on the desk.

He said, “There is bad news, Sir Graham.” He waited patiently for his lord and master to notice him.

Bethune asked, “Did you see her, man?” He seemed to realise what his secretary had said. “What news?”

“Not confirmed, Sir Graham, but we have received a despatch concerning our frigate
Guerrière
of
38
guns, which was overwhelmed and captured by the U.S.S.
Constitution
after a fight lasting only two hours.”

Bethune stood up again and walked to his window. “You are a melancholy fellow, Saunders. You make it sound both trivial and disgraceful in the same breath. Only two hours, you say? I have endured just such a trivial amount of time!” He swung away from the window. “Believe me, it is like
hell.
”

“As you say, Sir Graham.”

He dismissed the unctuous insincerity, recalling instead Bolitho's voice in this very building, and the disbelief, even amusement in the room when the role of the fixed line of battle had been criticised. They might think differently now. A frigate was already reported missing in the Caribbean. With
Anemone
destroyed and now
Guerrière
beaten and captured so easily, some might remember Bolitho's words.

He looked out of the window again, but her carriage had gone.

Then he smiled, picked up Catherine's half-empty glass and put his lips where hers had been.

Aloud he said, “We shall see!”

By the time Catherine reached Chelsea the sky had cleared, and the houses along the Thames embankment were basking in brilliant sunshine once more. Young Matthew lowered the step and offered his hand to assist her, his eyes everywhere like a watchful terrier.

“I'll put the wine in the house once I've taken care of the horses, m'lady.”

She stopped by the steps and looked at him. “You hate London, don't you, Matthew?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Not used to it, m'lady—that's all, I suppose.”

She smiled. “Only until next week. Then we shall go home to Falmouth.”

Matthew watched her open the front door and sighed. She was doing too much, taking too much on herself. Just like him.

Catherine pushed open the door and stopped dead in the entrance hall. There was a gold-laced hat on the hall table. Like Richard's.

The new girl, Lucy, came bustling from beneath the stairs, wiping her mouth with her hand, flustered by her mistress's unexpected return.

“Sorry, m'lady—I should have been here, ready like.”

Catherine barely heard her. “Who is here?” It could not be. He would have let her know somehow. If only . . .

Lucy glanced at the hat, unaware of its significance. “He said you wouldn't mind, m'lady. He said he would leave his card if you didn't come, otherwise he'd wait in the garden.”

She asked,
“Who?”

Lucy was a decent girl; she had been recommended by Nancy. But another Sophie she was not. Good in the house and as a personal maid, but slow and sometimes maddening in her inability to think for herself.

Catherine brushed past her and walked blindly down the passage to the garden door.

Valentine Keen was standing by the wall in profile to her, only his hand moving as he stroked the neighbour's cat. Unfamiliar in his rear-admiral's uniform, his fair hair bleached almost white from the African sun.

Only when he heard her footstep on the terrace did he turn, and she saw the change in him: deep shadows beneath his eyes, the harsh lines around his mouth which even a smile failed to erase.

She said, “Dear Val, I'm so glad you waited. I had no idea.” She clasped him in her arms. “How long have you been back?”

He held her tightly, with affection or desperation; it could have been either.

“A few days ago. I came to Portsmouth. I was told you were in London. I thought, I
must
see her.”

The words seemed to jerk out of him, but she did not interrupt. Who could have told him she was in London?

Arm in arm, they walked around the small garden with the sounds of London beyond the wall.

She said, “You should be careful of that cat. He uses his claws when you play with him.”

Keen looked at her searchingly. “Your letter was such a help to me. I wish it had not fallen on your shoulders.” He swallowed hard. “She was buried in Zennor. How so? You must not mind my asking. I still cannot accept it.”

She said gently, “There was no proof of suicide, Val. It may have been an accident. The church could not begrudge her a grave in her own parish churchyard.”

“I see.”

Catherine thought of the reluctant curate. The bishop had been signalling his disapproval because it was rumoured that the girl had taken her own life.

“The magistrate was very definite. Her death resulted from misadventure. It is small comfort, I know, but she rests in peace.”

Roxby had been the magistrate, otherwise . . .

“And you were there. I should have known you would be.”

She waited, knowing what was coming next.

He asked, “Were some of my family at Zennor when she was buried?”

“There were flowers. Do not feel bitter about it. There was grief enough, I expect.”

He did not reply. He was going over it again and again. Trying to understand the reasons, trying to assemble the truth, even if he could never accept it.

He said, “I loved her so. Even she never knew how much.”

“I think she did, Val.”

“I must go there and see the grave. As soon as I have dealt with things here.” He looked at her, his face drawn, as though grief had made him ill. “Will you come with me, Catherine? To that church where we were married?”