Bethune tried again. It was a great moment, and he was a part of it, and yet all he could feel was sadness. 'Marshal Soult's army was defeated by the Duke of Wellington at Toulouse. Totally. Napoleon has abdicated, surrendered to the Allies, four days ago.'
The admiral stood, very slowly, and looked around the table. 'Victory, gentlemen.' The word seemed to hang in the air. 'If only brave Nelson could have seen it.'
Then he turned to Bethune. 'I shall see the Prince Regent immediately. Attend to it for me.' He dropped his voice to exclude the others. 'It could mean Paris for you, Graham. I would feel more secure with you there.'
Bethune found himself back in his spacious office again, without remembering the return.
When he looked out of the window once more, nothing had changed, not the people nor the horses and carriages. Even the pedlar was still standing with his tray of wares.
The elderly clerk was hovering by the desk. 'Sir?'
'Pass the word to the Officer-of-the-Guard for the First Lord's carriage and escort.'
'At once, sir.' He hesitated. 'Difficult to accept, sir. To believe..'
Bethune smiled and touched his arm, even as Bolitho might have done.
Difficult to accept? It was impossible.
Lieutenant George Avery reined his hired mount to a halt and leaned back in the saddle to admire the view. The house was beautifully designed; magnificent was the only description, he thought, and probably larger than the one where he had spent the night.
It had been a pleasant ride from central London to this place on the bank of the Thames, and it had given him time to think, to prepare for this meeting with his uncle, Lord Sillitoe of Chiswick. He had sensed the jubilant mood of the people all around him, had seen their smiles and waves when he had passed; apparently it was unusual to sight a naval officer on horseback.
But it was more than that, so much more. The impossible had become a fact, and it seemed as if every man and woman in the city was in the streets to make certain that the news was not just another cruel rumour. Napoleon, the tyrant, the oppressor who had sought to enslave a continent, was beaten, a prisoner of the victorious Allies.
This morning she had watched him while he dressed and readied himself for this meeting. He could still feel the power and the passion of their intimacy. Could this relationship, too, be more than a passing dream?
He glanced at a church clock. He was five minutes early. His uncle would expect it, even though it was said that he made a deliberate point of being late for his own appointments.
And yet, Avery scarcely knew him. His uncle, Sir Paul Sillitoe as he had been then, had suggested that he should apply for the appointment of flag lieutenant to Sir Richard Bolitho. As the date for that first meeting had drawn near, he had almost withdrawn the application, knowing that it would only end in another disappointment. He had been wounded, and had been a prisoner of war. Upon his exchange, he had been required to face a court- martial for the loss of his ship, even though she had been lost through the captain's recklessness, and his own wound had rendered him helpless and unable to prevent his men striking to a superior enemy.
The memory of his first meeting with Bolitho. the hero and the legend, was very vivid; it would never leave him, and their association had restored him, had perhaps even made him something he might otherwise never have been.
But his uncle? A man of enormous power and influence; and now that Sillitoe had also become a personal adviser to the Prince Regent, that power was greatly feared, if not respected.
He patted the horse's flank, and spoke to the stable-hand who had come running to take his rein.
'See to her, will you. I doubt that I shall be here very long.'
Doors opened before he reached them, the sun streaming in to greet him from windows that faced the Thames, and the slow-moving masts of local traders making use of the tide. A fine staircase, elegant pillars, but also a spartan lack of ornaments and paintings, which his uncle would doubtless find flippant, and obtrusive.
A hard-faced servant in gilt-buttoned livery confronted him in the spacious hallway. Avery had heard it said that most of Sillitoe's servants resembled prize-fighters, and now he saw that it was true.
'If you will wait in the library, sir.' He did not drop his eyes, again, like a fighter wary of a treacherous attack.
Avery nodded in acknowledgement. The man did not ask for his name; he would know. Otherwise, he would not be here.
He walked into the library and stared out across the river. Peace. He felt the pain in his wounded shoulder, always a reminder, should he need one. He thought of her body arched against his; she had insisted on seeing the deep scar, and had kissed it with such gentleness that he had been both surprised and moved.
He caught sight of himself in a tall mirror; like a stranger, he thought. He still could not get used to the single epaulette on his shoulder.
They had all endured so much together. But when he tried to imagine the future, beyond the day or the week, it was like being lost, in a fog.
The war was over. Hostilities continued along the border of Canada and the United States, but that could not last much longer. And what of us? 'We Happy Few', as Bolitho had often called them. Adam Bolitho was still in Halifax as flag captain to Rear-Admiral Keen; Captain James Tyacke would be waiting for a new appointment, with the frigate Indomitable paid off to await her own fate.
He stared at his reflection. Still only a lieutenant, with streaks of grey in his dark hair to show what the war had cost him. Thirty-five years old. He grinned, surprised that he was able to consider a future without prospects, once Sir Richard Bolitho came ashore for good. In his heart, it was what Bolitho wanted, and Avery felt very privileged to know the inner, private man. Brave in his decisions, unwavering in their execution, but after the cannon had fallen silent and the enemy's flag had come down through the smoke, Avery had seen the other man, sensitive, grieving for those who had fallen, because he had required it of them.
What then for himself? A command of his own? Perhaps a little schooner like the lost Jolie, although that was unlikely. The navy would begin ridding itself of ships and men as soon as the terms for peace were settled amongst the Allies. Countless soldiers and sailors would be paid off, unwanted, left to fend for themselves. It had happened before. It would always be so.
'If you will come this way, sir.'
Avery left the library, very conscious of the silence; it made him realise how empty the place was. After a noisy, lively ship, it was to be expected. All sailors were like fish out of water when they came ashore. But compared with Bolitho's house in Cornwall, with its endless comings and goings of people from the farm and the estate, neighbours or well-wishers, this splendid residence echoed like a tomb.
His uncle rose from his desk as he entered, closing a large file which he had apparently been studying, although Avery sensed that he had been sitting facing the door for some while. To compose himself? That seemed unlikely. To get it over quickly, duty done, was that it?
They shook hands, and Sillitoe said, 'That will be all, Marlow.' A small man whom Avery had not noticed got up from another desk and scurried away. It must be his uncle's secretary but, typically, Sillitoe did not introduce him.
He said, 'I have some claret. I think you will approve of it.' He faced him again and Avery was very aware of the dark, compelling eyes, the hooded lids, the gaze which took in every detail. He could well imagine people fearing him.
'I am glad you are here. It becomes ever more difficult to find the time.' He frowned slightly as another servant entered with the claret and glasses. 'It is fortunate you were in London, and that you received my note.' The stare was impassive, no hint of triumph or contempt. He added calmly, 'How is Lady Mildmay, by the way?'
'She is well, sir. It seems there are few secrets left in London.'
Sillitoe gave a faint smile. 'Quite so. But then, you have not exactly taken pains to conceal your… how shall we describe it? Your liaison with this lady, who, I gather, was the wife of your last captain? Of course I knew of it. And I am not certain that I approve, not that I expect you would care.'
Avery sat down. What did it matter? I owe this man nothing.
He thought suddenly of Bolitho. I owe him everything.
'You will not have heard.' Sillitoe took a glass and regarded it severely. 'Sir Richard is recalled to London. He is needed.'
Avery sipped the claret without tasting it. 'I thought he was to be released from active duty, sir.'
