Second to None (29 page)

It was one of fate's cruellest ironies that Richard Bolitho and his ‘oak' had found Belinda in almost exactly the same circumstances after an accident on the road.

Her face was unsmiling, the mouth tighter than he remembered it. He tried not to think of Allday's pungent summing-up.
High and mighty
.

She was speaking to the lawyer, a watchful, bird-like man, while Grace waited to one side, her bunch of keys in her hand.

Ferguson saw her expression, and felt his own anger rising again. Grace, the finest housekeeper anyone could wish for, and a wife who had nursed him through pain and depression after losing his arm at the Saintes, hovering like a nobody.

‘There you are, Ferguson. I shall be leaving now. But I expect to return on Monday, weather permitting.' She walked across the yard, and paused. ‘And I should like to see a little more discipline among the servants.'

Her eyes were amused, contemptuous. Ferguson said, ‘They are all trained and trustworthy, m' lady. Local people.'

She laughed softly. ‘Not foreigners like me, you mean? I think that quaint.'

He could smell her, too. Heady, not what he might have expected. He thought of the delicate scent of jasmine in his estate office.

She said, ‘Are all the horses accounted for among the other livestock?'

Ferguson saw her eyes move to the nearest stall, where the big mare Tamara was tossing her head in the warm sunlight.

He said, ‘That one was a gift from Sir Richard.'

She tapped his arm very gently. ‘I am aware of it. She will need exercise, then.'

Ferguson was suddenly aware of the hurt, like that which he had seen in Grace's eyes.

‘No, m' lady, she was ridden regularly, until . . .'

She smiled again; she had perfect teeth. ‘That has an amusing ring, don't you think?' She glanced towards the carriage, as though impatient. ‘I might take her for a ride myself on Monday.' She was looking at the house again, the windows where the room faced the sea. ‘You have a suitable saddle, I trust?'

Ferguson felt that she knew, that she was enjoying it, mocking him.

‘I can get one if you intend . . .'

She nodded slowly. ‘
She
used a saddle like a man, I believe? How apt!'

She turned away abruptly and was assisted into the carriage. They watched it until it was out on the narrow road, and then walked together to their cottage.

Ferguson said, ‘I'll take John back to Fallowfield presently.'

Grace took his arm and turned him towards her. She had seen his face when they had been in the room with the three portraits, and the admiral's bed. Lady Bolitho had got rid of Cheney's portrait before; it had been Catherine who had found and restored it. Bryan was a good man in every way, but he would never understand women, especially the Belindas of this world. Catherine would always be an enemy to Belinda, but Cheney's love she could never usurp.

Allday made to rise from his chair as they entered, but Grace waved him down.

‘Bad?' was all he said.

Ferguson answered sharply, ‘We shall have no say in things, that's certain.'

Grace put down another glass. ‘Here, my love. You deserve it.' She looked from them to the empty hearth, the old cat curled up in one corner. Home. It was everything; it was all they had.

She remembered how Bryan had described those moments of Adam's first visit here after his uncle's death, when he had picked up the old sword and read the letter Catherine had left for him.

Like rolling back the years, he had said, like seeing the young Captain Bolitho again. Surely nothing could destroy all that.

She said with soft determination, ‘I must lock up,' and looked at them both, saddened rather than angered by one woman's petty spite. ‘God will have His say. I shall have a word with Him.'

It was Tom, the coastguard, who found her body. A year or so ago, he would have done so earlier. He had been riding loosely in the saddle, his chin tucked into his neckcloth, his mind only half aware. Like his horse, he was so familiar with every track and footpath along this wild coastline that he had always taken it for granted. Behind him, his young companion was careful not to disturb him or annoy him with unnecessary questions and observations; he was a good fellow, inexperienced though he was, and should make a competent coastguard. He had been thinking,
and he is replacing me next week.
It had been hard to accept, even though he had known to the day when his service was to be ended, and he had already been offered employment with the mail at Truro. But after all he had seen and done on these lonely and often dangerous patrols, it would be something unknown, and perhaps lacking in a certain savour.

He had heard all about the comings and goings at the old grey house, the Bolitho home for generations. Lawyers and clerks, officials, all Londoners and strangers to him. What did they know of the man and the memory? Tom had been there at the harbour when news of the admiral's death had arrived. He had been at the old church for the memorial service, when the flags had been dipped to half-mast, and young Captain Adam Bolitho had taken his place with Lady Somervell. He had thought of the times he had met her along this same coast, walking or riding, or just watching for a ship.
His
ship, which would never come any more.

And at first he had thought that it
was
her, that patch of colour, a piece of clothing moving occasionally in the breeze off Falmouth Bay. It was one of her favourite places.

Like that other time when she had joined him in the cove below Trystan's Leap and had cradled the small, broken body of the girl named Zenoria. All those times.

He had found himself dropping from the saddle, running the last few yards down the slope where the old broken wall stood half-buried in gorse and wild roses.

And then he had seen her horse, Tamara, another familiar sight on his lonely patrols above the sea.

But it had not been Catherine Somervell. He had thrust his hand into her clothing, cupping her breast, aware of her eyes watching him through the veil over her hat. But the heart, like the eyes, had been still.

He should have known; the angle of the head told him some of it, the riding crop on its lanyard around the gloved, clenched hand and the bloody weals on the mare's flank told the rest.

Tamara would have known. Would have pulled back, even if beaten, from jumping the old wall. She would have known . . .

‘What is it, Tom?'

He had forgotten his companion. He stared up at the dark outline of the old house, just visible above the hillside.

‘Fetch help. I'll stay here.' He glanced at the side-saddle, which had slipped when the woman had been thrown.

‘It's got a lot to answer for.' He had been describing the house. But his companion was already riding hard down the slope, and there was no sound but the wind off the bay.

EIGHT DAYS AFTER
her arrival at Gibraltar,
Unrivalled
was to all intents once more ready for sea. Pym, the rear-admiral's flag captain, had been true to his word, and had supplied as much as he could to speed repairs and replace standing and running rigging which was beyond recovery.

But it went far deeper than that. Adam Bolitho had seen and felt it from the first day. There was a new stubbornness in the men, and a kind of resentment that anyone should think
Unrivalled
's own ship's company could not manage without outside help or interference.

Some of the wounded who had been transferred ashore to more comfortable surroundings had returned on board, eager to help, unwilling to be separated from the faces and voices they knew.

Adam had imagined that he would be able to weigh and sail unimpeded by the passenger Rear-Admiral Marlow had described. The written orders had explained little, merely emphasising the need for haste and, above all, safety. As Pym had said, ‘No more battles, Bolitho!'

Curiously, it had been the third lieutenant, Daniel Wynter, who had been able to supply more information. Sir Lewis Bazeley was well known in the political circles frequented by Wynter's father. A hard-headed businessman who had been largely responsible for designing and building defences along England's south coast from Plymouth to the Nore when a French invasion had seemed a very real possibility, he had been knighted for his efforts, and it was suggested that his next
appointment was Malta, where the fortifications had altered little since the first cannon had been mounted. If there had been any lingering doubts about Malta's future, they had been dispersed. A fortress in the Mediterranean's narrows, who commanded it held the key to Gibraltar and the Levant.

But Adam's hopes were dashed by the arrival at the Rock of the
Cumberland
, a stately Indiaman; he had been with Galbraith the previous morning when she had dropped anchor. Like most of John Company's ships she was impressively armed, and, he had no doubt, equally well manned. The H.E.I.C. paid generously, and offered other financial benefits to officers and seamen alike. Adam's thoughts on that score were shared by most sea officers: if as much money and care had been lavished on the King's navy, the war might have ended in half the time.

There was to be no ceremony, he had been told; the great man would transfer to the more spartan comforts of the frigate and be on his way.

The sooner the better, Adam thought.

He had visited the flagship this morning, and Pym had congratulated him on the appearance of his ship, and the speed with which the scars of battle had been hidden, if not removed. Tar, paint and polish could work wonders, and Adam was proud of the men who had done it.

The severe bruising to his groin had been given little opportunity to improve, and inevitably the pain returned when he most needed all his energy and patience.

The greater, and far more pleasant, surprise had been at the twenty or so seamen who had volunteered to sign on, after his promise to do what he could for anyone who would fight for
Unrivalled
. Galbraith had not shared the surprise, and said only that he thought the whole lot should have put their names down without question. Ten of those same men had been killed or wounded in the fight.

Adam wondered what Lovatt would have made of it.

As he had written in his report to the Admiralty,
‘I gave them my word. Without them, my ship would have been lost.'
It might blow a few cobwebs away from that place. He also wondered what Bethune might have done, given the same choice. A man between two separate roles. The
one he had known as a young captain. The one he was living now.

Unrivalled
's gig was turning in a wide arc as she returned from the flagship. Adam leaned forward, his eyes slitted against the glare, studying the line and the trim of his command. He had been pulled around the ship every day, making certain that the additional stores, even the movement of powder and shot from one part of the hull to another, would in no way impede her agility under all conditions. He smiled to himself. Even in action again.

He thought of the noisy celebration to welcome Bellairs to the wardroom. He had made the right decision; Bellairs had all the marks of a fine officer. He recalled the rear-admiral's interest.
Has he family? Connections?
But there were many senior officers who thought exactly like Marlow when it came to promotion; he could recall one post-captain who had been quite frank about his reluctance to promote any man from the lower deck to commissioned rank. ‘All you do,' he had insisted, ‘is lose a good man, and create a bad officer!'

Midshipman Fielding had the tiller, and Adam guessed it had been Galbraith's decision. Homey, the midshipman who had been killed, had been his best friend. A good choice for two reasons.

Fielding said, ‘Boats alongside, sir!'

Sir Lewis Bazeley and his party had arrived in his absence. No ceremony, Marlow had said.

Adam said, ‘Pull right round the ship, Mr Fielding. I am not yet done.'

Jago was watching Fielding's performance on the tiller, but his thoughts were elsewhere, on the day when the dead Lovatt's son had been sent for. Told to collect his gear and report to the quarterdeck. Just a boy, with a long journey before him, to caring people in Kent. Jago had heard the captain dictating a letter to his clerk. And all paid for out of Adam Bolitho's pocket. There had been a sea fight and men had died. It happened, and would continue to happen as long as ships sailed the seven seas and men were mad enough to serve them. Lovatt had died, but so had the flag lieutenant who had served the captain's uncle. And young Homey, who had not been a bad little nipper for a ‘young gentleman'. He thought
of the other one, Sandell.
San-dell.
Nobody would have shed a tear for that little ratbag.

He looked over at the captain now. Remembering his face when he had torn open his breeches, the dead midshipman's blood and bone clinging to his fingers. Then the surprise when he had found the smashed watch, pieces of broken glass like bloody thorns. Why surprise?
That I should care?

He felt the captain touch his arm. ‘Bring her round now.' They both looked up as the jib boom swung overhead like a lance, the beautiful figurehead too proud to offer them a glance, her eyes already on another horizon.

He heard him say, ‘Fine sight, eh?'

But all Jago could think of was the small figure of Lovatt's son, his father's sword tucked under one arm, pausing only to hold the hand of the cabin servant Napier, who had cared for him.

Jago had felt anger then. Not even a word or a look for the one man who had tried to help his father. And him.

He stared over towards the two prizes. They had done it, together . . .

Adam was watching the Indiaman, already making sail, her yards alive with men, and imagined what Catherine must have felt, leaving Malta for the last time in such a vessel.