She said, 'It was a month ago, Adam. I wrote to you when I had found out all I could. We all knew what had happened, Algiers, and before that. I wanted everything to be better for you.'
He turned and looked at her, his eyes very dark. Pleading. 'There was a fire at the Old Glebe House. Was she…?'
She held up her hand. 'I saw her. I had already told her that I wanted her to come to me whenever she felt she needed… a friend.' She calmed herself. 'Sir Gregory had ordered some work done on the old building, and the roof over his studios. It was a foul day, a squall off the bay… They were melting lead, for the guttering, I was told. Then the fire started. In that wind it spread like a wildfire in summer.'
Adam imagined it yet again. The Old Glebe House had been abandoned, then sold by the church authority at Truro; most of the locals had thought Sir Gregory Montagu mad when he had bought it. He had visited the place only occasionally, having property in both London and Winchester. Adam could see it as if it were yesterday: the famous painter guiding him through one of the many gaunt, littered rooms to avoid another visitor, his nephew. When he had seen the girl poised and motionless, her naked body chained to an improvised rock constructed of crumpled sheets draped over a trestle. Andromeda, held captive as sacrifice to the sea monster. Like a perfect statue, she had not even appeared to be breathing. Her eyes had met his, then dismissed him.
Lowenna.
He had written to her, hoping the letters would find her. That she would feel something, some emotion or memory, the yellow rose, or the time he had been thrown from his horse and his wound had burst open. She had come to him, and something had broken down the barrier. Perhaps she had written; it was common for letters to go astray, ships missing one another, others wrongly directed.
He had laughed at himself for keeping the fragment of paper she had sent over to Unrivalled when they had sailed from
Plymouth to join Lord Exmouth's squadron.
I was here. I saw you. God be with you.
Nancy was saying, 'Sir Gregory was a stubborn man. None more so. You saw that for yourself. He insisted on being taken to London.'
'Was he badly injured?'
'He was burned, trying to help Lowenna. There was a lot of smoke. She did not stay for long. She wanted to be with him for the journey to London.'
Adam put his arms around her, moved by the familiar way she had used the girl's name. All those years, since the day he had walked from Penzance armed only with Nancy 's address and a letter written by his dying mother. All those years, and Nancy was still like a haven.
They walked arm in arm into the study, where there was a good fire blazing, making the shadows dance across the paintings and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. She noticed that everything was clean and polished, even the ranks of old books, shining from some housemaid's duster rather than use. But a room so well-known to her, and lovingly remembered, in this house where she and her two brothers and sister had first drawn breath.
She heard the rain, louder now, pattering against the windows.
She often thought of this room, and the women who had stood here and waited for a ship, the ship, which one day would not return.
The grave, watching faces lining the stairway told the full story.
Adam took her hands in his. 'You see, Aunt Nancy, I am in love with that girl.'
She waited, her inner voice whispering, don't be hurt again, Adam.
There were sounds on the stairs now. The youth, David Napier, who had come with Adam as on his previous visit, excited despite the loss of Unrivalled. His hero worship had moved her more than anything. Especially when the portly Daniel Yovell had whispered like a conspirator when Adam had gone out of the house, striding almost blindly, as if he had been searching, unable to accept what she had told him.
It had been before the Bolitho coach, with Young Matthew on the box, had even left Plymouth.
Yovell had described it, squinting, his gold-rimmed spectacles pushed up on to his forehead as she had seen them so often. 'It was a tailor's shop in Fore Street, for naval and military gentlemen. Captain Adam bought that fine coat for the boy… Sir Richard had an account there also.' He had overcome a sudden, poignant sadness. 'The tailor comes out, rubbing his hands, m' lady, sharp as you please, and asks, 'What will you be wanting this time, Captain Bolitho?' And then the Captain puts a hand on the lad's shoulder and says calmly, 'Your services for this young gentleman. Measure him for a midshipman's uniform.' And the lad staring at him, eyes filling his face, unable to believe what the Captain had done, been scheming, indeed, for months.'
Nancy had understood immediately but had said nothing to Napier. Adam had acted despite what had awaited Unrivalled's return. It was what Richard might have done. The very thought made her eyes fill with tears.
She asked quickly, 'When will you hear about a new appointment?'
Adam smiled, glad to break the uncertainty. 'I was told that word will be sent from the Admiralty, direct to this house.' He looked around the study again, and at the portrait near the window. All the Bolithos, except Hugh, his own father.
He put it from his thoughts. 'It means there will be a ship.'
'A frigate?'
'I am a frigate captain.'
She turned away and adjusted a small vase of primroses. Dear Grace always managed to brighten the house with some sort of blossom, even in March, when a Bolitho was coming home from the sea.
She hung on Adam's words. They were what Richard had said when he had returned from the Great South Sea with the fever which had almost killed him.
And their lordships had given him, not a frigate, but the old Hyper ion.
Adam picked up a sketch from the desk, a mermaid and a passing ship. He felt a chill, like the whispered betrayal of a secret. Zenoria, who had flung herself to her death from the cliffs… like the little sketch his cousin Elizabeth had sent him. Richard's daughter. Tragic even to think of what had happened. The love and the hatred, a child in the middle of it.
He asked abruptly, 'How is Elizabeth? Happy enough with you, I'll wager.'
Nancy did not answer. Adam and the young daughter of the country's hero, my admiral of England, as Catherine had called him, had one thing in common.
They were quite alone.
On the opposite side of the house, by the stable yard, Bryan Ferguson stood at the window and watched Daniel Yovell finishing a bowl of soup which Grace had prepared.
'That should keep the cold out, my friend. There's a good fire in your cottage, too… we've kept an eye on things for you since you 'volunteered' for service! '
Yovell put down the spoon. 'That was a goodly welcome, Bryan.' He nodded toward a pile of estate ledgers. 'Perhaps I can give you some help with that?'
Ferguson sighed. 'I'd not say no to that.' He changed the subject. 'We knew you were on your way home some days ago. The courier brig brought word. News travels fast around here.'
Yovell loosened his coat and felt for his watch.
'We saw her leave when we were still at Gibraltar.' He frowned. 'She was bringing the reports of Unrivalled'?' damage to Plymouth. I think the Captain knew then, in his heart. He tried to shut it from his mind. Unrivalled meant so much to him. In my poor way I strive to understand, but a captain of any ship must see things quite differently.'
Ferguson looked at the ledgers. As steward of the estate he tried to be meticulous, to miss nothing. But he was not a young man any more. He did not even glance at his pinned-up sleeve, nor consciously recall the Battle of the Saintes, where he had lost his arm thirty-five years ago. Grace had nursed him back to health and Captain Richard Bolitho had offered him the post of steward.
As if reading his thoughts, Yovell said, 'D'you still see much of JohnAllday?'
'He comes over from Fallowfield for a wet every week. We go down to the harbour sometimes. He likes to watch the ships. He still feels it, very badly.' He walked to the fire and poked it; it was spitting in the rain lancing down the squat chimney.
He paused to pat the cat, dozing as usual by the hob, and added, 'Captain Adam's coxswain… he looks a hard one.' It was a question.
