For My Country's Freedom (34 page)

Unis exclaimed, “Drinks for everybody! Now, Mr Avery, what would please you best?”

Like a reply they heard Ferguson's trap clatter away. He had been waiting, just in case.

Richard Bolitho sat by the great fire and held his hands towards the blazing logs.

“When I saw the carriage, Kate . . .” He held out one hand and touched her as she came to him with goblets of brandy. “I could scarcely believe it.”

She nestled down beside him. “A toast to my admiral! An admiral of England!”

He stroked her hair, her neck where he had seen the pendant. How could she have known? Really known?

So many memories, to share with her when they walked again. Tyacke's moving farewell when
Indomitable
had entered Halifax with her two American prizes, where repairs, some urgent, would be necessary. Bolitho had clasped his hand for the last time when his flag had been shifted to
Zest.

Tyacke had said, “When you need me, Sir Richard, just say the word.”

Together they had looked at the battered prizes, already swarming with men, and Bolitho had said, “It might be over soon. Once and for all.”

Tyacke had smiled. “Then I shall return to Africa. I liked it there.”

The long voyage home, soon to be summoned to the Admiralty. He could even find an ironic amusement in that.
Again.

And Adam's grave pleasure when the guns had thundered out in salute to his new command, and to the man whose flag flew proudly from the mainmast truck.

The formality had been as unexpected as it was moving, after all that had happened. The guns had said it all. Their welcome home to Falmouth's most famous son.

Bolitho looked up at her as she said, “Bring your drink. I have something to show you.”

Hand in hand they climbed the staircase, past each watching portrait and then to their room.

It was already very dark outside, and Bolitho heard an early fox barking harshly.

She had told him about Roxby. He would ride over and see him, but not yet.

Catherine had covered the portrait with a silk shawl. She smiled, but her eyes hinted at uncertainty.

“Ready?”

It was not as he had expected, or was it? Not in one of her fine shot-silk gowns or riding-habit. She was bare-footed, her hair loose to the wind, wearing the same sailor's shirt and breeches she had worn aboard the
Golden Plover
when it had been smashed on the reef and they had suffered the privations of an open boat until, in all the limitless miles of sea, James Tyacke had found them.

She was watching him anxiously. “It is the real me. When we were so close, when we needed each other as never before.”

He took her in his arms and faced her towards the cheval-glass.

“I shall never forget, Kate.” He felt her tremble as she watched his hands in the glass, caressing her, undressing her like a stranger, all else forgotten.

She whispered, “I love you so . . .” The rest was lost as he came to her.

Out in the darkness on the crumbling cliff path, a sleeping gull was suddenly awakened.

But on the wind, it could have been mistaken for a girl's last cry.