For My Country's Freedom (25 page)

“Of course. There is no stone yet. That is for you to decide.” She held his arm, not daring to look at him. “Of course I will come.”

After a time he said, “You went to the Admiralty. Was there any news of Adam?”

“He is alive and a prisoner of war; it was all they knew. We can only hope.”

She told him what Bethune had said and Keen murmured, “I expect they know more than they care to make public.” Then he turned and looked at her. “There is to be a reception for Sir Paul Sillitoe. I was told of it today.”

She forced a smile. “I know. I was invited to attend.” She thought of Bethune's eyes when he had mentioned it. Perhaps she had imagined what she saw there, but she had never known a man she could trust completely. Except one.

Keen said, “Then let us go together, Catherine. Nobody could say anything about it, and under the circumstances . . .” He did not continue.

As if someone else had answered, she heard herself say, “My dear, I would be honoured.” Richard would understand; and he would know that he might need friends like Sillitoe where their power carried real weight.

Keen said suddenly, “How is Richard?”

“He worries. About me and about Adam, about his men and his duty.” She smiled. “I would not change him, even if I could.”

The light had dimmed. “More rain, I think. We had better go inside.”

The housekeeper was waiting ominously by the stairs, and Lucy could be heard sobbing somewhere.

The housekeeper glanced incuriously at Catherine's hand on the rear-admiral's sleeve. She said, “Just broke two more cups, m'lady! God, that girl will put me in the poorhouse!” She softened slightly. “I'll fetch some tea.”

They sat by the window and watched the leaves shiver to the first heavy drops of rain. The cat had disappeared.

Catherine said, “There was talk of your removal to a house in Plymouth?”

He shrugged. “No longer. The flag-officer there is expected to have a wife by his side.” With sudden bitterness he added, “It will be another sea appointment for me. It cannot be soon enough for my liking!”

“Have you seen your father yet?”

He shook his head. “When I leave you, I shall go. I am sure he will be ‘working late in the City!'”

She wanted to hold him, like a child, or like Richard, ease his grief, heal his despair. There was no one else.

He said, “I should have
known,
don't you see? I had so many plans for her, the boy too. I never once asked her what she wanted. She was like you, Catherine, a living, precious creature. She might have been lost in my world. She never told me. I never asked her.”

The housekeeper came in with the tea and departed without a glance or a word.

Keen was saying, “If I had only been
with
her!” He looked at her sharply. “She did take her own life, is that not true? Please, I must know the truth.”

“She was not herself, Val.”

He stared down at his hands. “I knew it. I should have seen the dangers all along.”

She asked quietly, “Do you remember Cheney, the girl Richard married and lost?”

He hesitated. “Yes. I remember her.”

“Even though
we
are denied marriage and the acceptance of society—even though marriage may have scarred us—even though such things are impossible,
we
found one another again, Richard and I. Might not good fortune take your hand too, Val, and give you happiness once more?”

He got to his feet and released her hand.

“I must leave now, Catherine. I feel better for speaking with you . . . stronger, in some way.” He did not look at her. “If there was ever such a good fortune, and things I have seen of late make me doubt it, then I could hope for no more admirable a woman than one like you.”

She walked with him to the door, knowing very well what he had really meant. He was not just attractive and amusing company, in other circumstances; it went much deeper. It would not be difficult to love a man like him.

“I shall ask Matthew to take you.”

He picked up his hat and looked at it, ruefully, she thought.

He said, “Thank you, but my carriage is waiting in the mews.”

She smiled. “You did not wish to set the tongues awagging by leaving it at my door?”

On the steps he took her hand and kissed it gently. Few passers-by took any notice of them; nor could they or he, she thought, ever guess at her true emotions.

As he turned the corner Catherine stared across the river, remembering those other times. The Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens; laughter through the trees and the dancing lanterns; kisses in the shadows.

She touched her throat.
Dearest of men, come back to me. Soon, soon.

The tray of tea still lay untouched on the table. Sir Paul Sillitoe held out his arms so that Guthrie, his valet, could help him into his fine silk coat. As he did so, he glanced at his reflection in the windows. Guthrie brushed his shoulders and nodded with approval. “Very nice, Sir Paul.”

Sillitoe listened to the sound of music from the wide terrace where the reception would be held. The whole place seemed to be full of flowers; his housekeeper had not spared the purse for this occasion. It was all sheer extravagance. He smiled at his reflection. But he felt elated, light-headed even, an alien sensation for one so habitually controlled.

He could hear carriages already clattering into his large driveway: friends, enemies, people with favours to ask once he had consolidated his position in the Lords.

Power, not popularity, was the key to most challenges, he thought.

He watched the opposite bank of the Thames, the great curve of Chiswick Reach still holding the late sunshine. There would be torches on the terrace, champagne and endless dishes for the guests to sample. More expense. This time he could not take it seriously.

Why had she decided to come? To congratulate him? It was unlikely. For a favour, then, or on some personal mission or intrigue, like the secret she had shared with him even before Bolitho knew it, when she had asked for his help on the death of her hated father in that stinking slum in Whitechapel. Quaker's Passage, that was the name. How could she ever have lived there as a child?

But she was coming. And with Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen, another friend of Bolitho's. Or was he? With his young wife dead—and Sillitoe's agents had insisted that she had taken her own life—might he not look to the lovely Catherine for comfort?

If he held out such hopes, she would soon dissuade him, Sillitoe thought. And if he persisted, his next appointment might well take him back to Africa and beyond.

He patted his stomach. Flat and hard. Unlike so many men he knew, he took care to use his energy in play as well as work. He enjoyed riding and walking; for the latter he usually had his secretary Marlow trotting beside him while he outlined the letters and despatches for the day. It saved time.

Swordsmanship was another of his interests, and he was rarely beaten in mock duels at the academy where he exercised.

And if the need commanded him, he would go to a particular house where he was known to the proprietor and her girls, and where his peccadilloes would be respected.

When he received his title he would have achieved everything he had planned, and would still retain his influence over the Prince Regent when he was eventually crowned King.

A complete life, then? He thought of Catherine Somervell again. Perhaps it still could be.

His valet saw him frown and asked, “Is something amiss, Sir Paul?”

“I shall go down, Guthrie. It would be churlish not to be present from the beginning.”

As his guests were announced Sillitoe smiled, and said much the same to each one. Not precisely a welcome, but an acknowledgement that they came out of respect. Or fear. The thought gave him immense satisfaction.

His eyes moved restlessly to the great arched entrance, then to the bewigged footmen sweating in their heavy coats as they bustled with trays of glasses, while others stood at the long tables of food, bowing over their charges like priests at an altar loaded with offerings.

Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune and his frail-looking wife. Two or three generals and their ladies, politicians and merchants from the City. Rear-Admiral Keen's father had at first been unable to accept the invitation, pleading a previous engagement. Sillitoe had seen to that.

The footman tapped his staff on the marble floor.

“The Viscountess Somervell!” A pause. “And Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen!”

The noise of conversation faded away like surf dying on a beach as Sillitoe took her hand, and kissed it.

“It was so gracious of you to come, Lady Catherine.”

She smiled. “How could I not?”

Sillitoe offered his hand to Keen. “It is good to have you back at home, sir. Tragic news, of course. My sincere condolences.”

To Catherine he said, “I will see you again very shortly.” His eyes lingered on the diamond fan at her breast. “You do me too much honour.”

Catherine and her escort walked out on to the terrace as the conversation buzzed into life once more.

Keen said, “I am never certain of that man.”

“You are not the first, Val.” She took a goblet from a tray. “Or the last. It is as well to be wary of him.”

She had not expected to be participating in any social activities during what had been intended as a brief visit to London, and had brought only one suitable evening gown, a particular favourite of Richard's. It was of kingfisher-blue satin, so that her piled hair seemed to reflect in it as if she stood above moving water.

But it was cut very low, and she knew that the sunburns she had suffered in the shipwreck were still visible after nearly four years. So long, she thought, how could the time have passed so quickly? She would not allow herself to dwell on the precious hours and days she had spent with Richard since then, because they could never be relived, could never be had back again.

The torches were lit, and the lights and the river reminded her sharply of the pleasure gardens where she had taken him.

To her surprise she recognised Valentine Keen's father, who had been ushered in without any announcement and presented to Sillitoe. She heard Sillitoe say silkily, “I am so
grateful
you changed your arrangements.” Neither of them smiled.

Sillitoe glanced up at an overly ornate clock and left his place by the doors.

Then he saw them and came to join them, taking a glass as he passed a footman.

“I have done my part as host, Lady Catherine. Now let me bask in the light which you seem to create wherever you go.” He barely glanced at Keen. “Your father is here, sir. He craves a word. I think it may be useful if you oblige him.”

Keen made his excuses and left to look for his father. He had said nothing of his relationship with the rest of his family, but he appeared angry at the interruption.

“Was that true, Sir Paul?”

He looked directly at her. “Of course. But I do see a rift between father and son, which is a pity. Over the girl from Zennor, no doubt.”

“No doubt.” She refused to be drawn.

“Why, Sir Paul!” It was Vice-Admiral Bethune, with his wife. “May we both offer our congratulations?” But his eyes moved too often to Catherine.

Bethune's wife said, “A pity Sir Richard cannot be so rewarded for all that he has done for England.”

Sillitoe was, for once, caught off guard.

“I am not certain what . . .”

She said rudely, “A peerage such as yours, Sir Paul. After all, Lord Nelson was so honoured!”

Bethune said angrily, “You have no
right!
”

Catherine took another glass of champagne and found a few seconds to thank the footman. She was inwardly burning with anger, but her voice was quite calm.

“If Sir Richard and I were parted,
madam,
he would still not return to his wife, but then I am certain you know that already.”

Bethune almost dragged his wife away, and Catherine heard him muttering, “Do you desire to ruin me?”

Sillitoe said, “I should have prevented it. I know something of that woman's spite.”

Catherine smiled but her heart was still beating furiously. No wonder Bethune had eyes for other women. He surely deserved better.

Sillitoe said abruptly, “Let me show you something of the house.”

She said, “Very well, but not for too long. It would be dis-courteous to my escort.”

He smiled. “You seem to have a habit of provoking sea officers, my dear.”

They walked along a colonnade and up a staircase, which was bare of any paintings except one, of a man in dark clothing, a sword with an outdated basket hilt at his hip. Despite the neat Spanish-style beard and the clothing, it could have been her companion.