He thought of Catherine's suggestion concerning duty ashore and was almost surprised that he did not regret his decision to quit the sea, nor that he had shared his determination with her. The sea would always be there, and there would always be wars: the Bolitho family had shown their mettle in enough of them in the past, and there was no reason why greed and the search for power should not continue.
He stroked her hair and her neck until she stirred slightly in her sleep, recalling the love they had shared, even on the endless journey from Cornwall. Beaming landlords, curtsying maids, waving customers: it had all blurred together now. Only the nights were real. Their need for one another, and other nights when they had merely lain close, in silence, or shared the cool of an evening at some window in a sleeping village, or a town where wheels rattled through the night and a church clock kept a count of the hours.
Once, when he had confessed how much he was dreading leaving her, she had faced him in the darkness, her long hair loose about her bare shoulders.
'I love you, Richard, more than life itself, for without you there is no life. But after what we endured in Golden Plover we can always be together. Wherever you are I shall be with you, and when you need me I will hear your voice.' She had taken his face in her hands and had said, 'You are so many things to me, dearest of men. You are my hand in yours; you are one so unsure sometimes that you cannot see the love others hold for you. You are my lover as I am your mistress, or whatever they choose to call me. And you are also a friend, one I can turn to without fear of rebuff. I would not have you change, nor would I try to change you. But if others attempt to harm you or to force us apart, then…'
He had held her very close and had murmured into her hair, 'Then my tiger will show her claws! '
It was dusk when they finally approached the Thames, not far from the tavern where Bolitho had met secretly with Herrick before his court-martial to ask if he might act in his defence. Herrick's refusal had been like a door slammed in his face. Last year, and yet it seemed so long ago. Over the great bridge with the gleam of black water below where ships lay moored like shadows, yards crossed and sails tightly furled, waiting for the next tide perhaps, when they would quit the Pool of London and spread their wings for the open sea and maybe the vast oceans beyond. The lifeblood of commerce and survival, envied and hated by others in equal proportions. The navy was stretched to the limit and could barely maintain the blockade of the enemy's ports and the convoy of vital shipping, but every master down there in those drowsing vessels would expect their protection, and it was right they should have it.
There were a few lights at the water's edge, wherry men plying for hire as they would throughout the night. Young bloods coming and going from their gambling and their women, and across the river to the pleasure gardens where Catherine had taken him to show him part of her London, of which he knew so little.
Eventually the river ran closer to the road and the horses trotted into the tree-lined street called Cheyne Walk.
Bolitho climbed down, stiff from so many miles, glad there were no curious onlookers this time. Her tall, narrow house with its iron balcony and the room which faced the river had become their other haven. Here people minded their own affairs, and showed no surprise at those who owned or rented such property. General or pauper, artist or mistress, there was privacy here for all.
Sophie, Catherine's half-Spanish maid, had been sent on a day ahead, and had prepared the place and the housekeeper for their arrival.
Allday helped Catherine down from the carriage and said quietly, 'Don't you fret for me, m'lady. I'm just thinking it all out.'
She smiled at him. 'I never doubted it.' She turned away. 'And that's no error either! '
Bolitho touched his arm. 'Strike now, old friend, the battle's already lost! '
Later they stood on the small iron balcony and watched night closing over the city. The glass doors were wide open so that the air from the river was quite cool, but the housekeeper had with the best intentions lit fires in every hearth to drive out the damp in the unused rooms. Catherine shivered as he put his arm around her and kissed one bare shoulder. Together they watched two lurching soldiers, probably officers from the barracks, as they made their way unsteadily back to their quarters. A flower girl was going past, a huge empty basket on her shoulder. It was likely she would be up and about to gather her wares long before sun-up.
Catherine said quietly, 'I wish we were at home.'
She spoke in the same steady voice as on that terrible day when they had abandoned Golden Plover. Don't leave me.
How had she had such faith even then that she had truly believed they would see home again?
'Soon, Kate.'
They went inside and undressed before lying down together in the darkening room. Wearied by memories and by the uncertainty of the future, they lay unspeaking. Only once Bolitho seemed to come out of his sleep, and imagined her sitting on the bed beside him, her fingers on his skin. He thought he heard her say very softly, 'Don't leave me.' But it was only part of a dream.
Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho stepped down from the smart carriage while Allday held the door for him. Like Matthew the coachman, his burly coxswain was turned out in his best coat and breeches, and Bolitho had already noticed that the carriage was clean and shining although it had been pitch-dark when they had reached Chelsea the previous night. His glance lingered on the family crest on the door, and thought of it carved above the great stone fireplace at Falmouth. Only days ago. He could not recall ever missing it so much, so soon.
He said, 'I have no way of knowing how long this may take.' He saw Matthew squinting down at him, his face like a red apple in the fresh morning sunshine. He was still known on the estate as Young Matthew, a constant reminder of the years he had worked with the horses since he was a young lad. 'Return to Chelsea and drive Lady Catherine anywhere she wishes.' He looked meaningly at Allday…'I'd take it as a favour if you would stay in company with her.'
He thought he saw a small crinkle around the man's eyes, as if he were saying privately, Told you you couldn't manage without me! '
Allday grunted. 'I'll be there, Sir Richard, an' that's no…' He did not finish it but grinned, obviously remembering how Catherine had teased him with his favourite expression.
Bolitho glanced up at the austere Admiralty building. How many times had he come to this place? To receive orders; to beg for a ship, any ship; to be employed again when the clouds of war had spread once more across the Channel. Where he had met Herrick and where they had shaken hands as friends, but parted as strangers in this same building. Bolitho had sent word here by messenger, and wondered if Godschale's successor would keep him waiting, or perhaps delay the meeting altogether. It was strange that even in the navy's private world he should know so little of Sir James Hamett-Parker. He had first heard of him in any depth during the great mutinies throughout the fleet at the Nore and Spithead. All England had been shocked and horrified at that sudden display of defiance, which had incited even the staunchest men into open mutiny, leaving England undefended and at the mercy of the French.
The mutineers had formed themselves into councils with delegates to represent their cause, their plea for better conditions at every level, pay, food, and the harsh routine which had reduced some ships to the level of prison hulks, in which any bad captain could make a seaman's life a living hell. Some of the officers who had become notorious for their cruel and heartless treatment had been put forcibly ashore and their authority overturned. One of those had been Hamett-Parker.
Someone in the Admiralty must have decided against displaying any sympathy or weakness at Herrick's court- martial, and it was obvious that a guilty verdict had been taken for granted. But for his flag captain's change of evidence it was certain that Herrick would have faced disgrace, and very possibly death. Hamett-Parker's rigid ideas of discipline and duty must have made him the obvious choice for President of the Court.
Bolitho loosened the sword at his hip, not the fine presentation one given to him by the good people of Falmouth for his services in the Mediterranean and at the Battle of the Nile, but the old family blade. Forged for his great-grandfather Captain David in 1702, it was lighter than some of the more modern blades, and as straight and keen as ever. A show of defiance? Conceit, some would say. He smiled to himself. There was little margin in between.
'Can I 'elp you, sir?' An Admiralty messenger paused in polishing the big pair of brass dolphins from which a ship's bell was suspended and peered at him. In seconds his watery eye had taken in the bright epaulettes, each with its pair of silver stars, the lace on the sleeves, and above all the gold medal of the Nile about his neck.
'Bolitho.' He knew he had little to add to that. He asked, 'What happened to Pierce?'
