He realized that he had signed for the envelope and that the courier was climbing into his saddle again.
He knew that Yovell and Ferguson had followed him into the house, wanting to help, yet keeping their distance.
He entered the study and picked up the knife that lay beside Elizabeth 's sketch of the mermaid, thinking of the watch which had once stopped a musket ball, and the little mermaid engraved on its case. Just a shell now, and he knew that the boy Napier still carried it like a talisman.
For a moment longer the knife hesitated, the seal and Admiralty stamp blurred in the thin sunlight. The knife had belonged to Captain James Bolitho. Sir Gregory Montagu had been here then, asked to paint an empty sleeve on the portrait over the stairs, after Captain James had lost an arm in India. Perhaps he was watching the last Bolitho from that portrait now, the son of the man who had betrayed his father's trust. And his country.
He heard the envelope fall to the floor, although it must have opened itself; he did not remember returning the knife to the desk.
The beautiful handwriting, so familiar and precise in its terms. And without heart.
Addressed to Adam Bolitho, Esq. On receipt of these orders, will proceed with all despatch… His eyes hurried on. But no ship's name or title leaped out at him like a voice, like a picture. Like that first command, the little brig Firefly. Or Anemone. He tried again. Or Unrivalled…
To place yourself at the convenience and service of Sir Graham Bethune, Knight of the Bath, Vice-Admiral of the Blue, and to await further instructions. There was more, and a smaller note with details of travel, lodgings, and other matters which seemed meaningless.
Yovell was the first to speak.
'Is it good, sir?'
Ferguson was pouring something into a glass. His hand was shaking. Something else I should have noticed.
'The Admiralty, Daniel. Their lordships wish to see me. It is a command, not a request.' He added with sudden bitterness, 'Nor a ship! '
The heavy document had fallen beside its envelope. Despite his girth, Yovell picked it up and said quickly, 'Do you see, sir? There is writing on the reverse.'
Adam took it. A captain without a ship. God alone knew there were so many like him. No ship.
He stared at the writing, but saw only the face. Vice-Admiral Bethune. He had met him several times, lastly at Malta. Bethune had begun his service as a young midshipman in the little sloop-of-war Sparrow, Sir Richard Bolitho's first command. A man easy to like, and to follow, and, in his day, the youngest vice-admiral since Nelson. Once a frigate captain himself, then promotion, and lastly the Admiralty.
I am sending you a letter very shortly; it concerns some proposals which were brought to my notice. You will treat all instructions with utmost secrecy. On that, I am depending. Then his signature. Adam turned the sheet to the light. Bethune had written, almost like- an afterthought, Trust me.
He replaced the glass on the desk. Claret or cognac? It could have been anything.
Yovell said, ' London, sir.' He shook his head and smiled sadly. 'Sir Richard never cared for the place. Not until…'
Adam walked past him, but briefly touched his plump arm. 'Until, Daniel. What a span that one word covers.'
He left the study and found himself staring into another log fire. Unseen hands always seemed to keep them blazing.
'I shall need Young Matthew for the first leg to Plymouth. After that…' He moved to the fire and held out his hands. 'It will all be laid down in the instructions.' A long, tiring and uncomfortable journey. And at the end of it? It might be nothing. Or perhaps he would merely be required to describe Unrivalled'^ part in the attack and final victory at Algiers. 'I shall need more kit than usual. I must tell Napier…'
He broke off abruptly. Napier would not be going to London. Bethune's innocent enough note had been added for a reason. He looked directly at the round shouldered figure of Yovell across the hall. 'Send word to the tailor for me, will you?' He saw Napier watching him from the passage which led to the kitchen. He knew. His eyes said it all.
Adam thought of Bethune again. It was all he had.
Trust me.
Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune moved some papers on his broad desk and stared at the ornate clock on the opposite wall, with its wind indicator and simpering cherubs.
He had walked to the Admiralty, across the park for some of the way, declining the offer of a carriage or, as was sometimes his habit, riding his own horse. It was not conceit, but a sense of purpose which carried him through each day.
He stood up, surprised that the exercise had not calmed his nerves. It was absurd; he had nothing to worry about.
He walked across the room and paused to study the painting of a frigate in action. It was his own, pitted against two big Spanish frigates. Bad odds even for a daring young captain, as he had been then. He had nevertheless run one of them aground and taken the other. Unconsciously, his hand touched the gold lace on his sleeve. Flag rank had followed almost immediately, and then the Admiralty. Routine, lengthy meetings, conferences with his superiors and sometimes the First Lord; he had even been called to elaborate upon various plans and operations to the Prince Regent.
And it had suited him, like the uniform, and the respect which went with it.
It had been wet in the park, but there had been all the usual horsemen and women about. He often expected to see Catherine there, riding herself, or in the carriage with the Sillitoe crest emblaloned on it. Like that last, arranged meeting. He bit his lip. The final one.
He stood by a window and looked down at the jostling carriages, carriers' carts and horses, always alive, moving.
It was a life he had grown used to, accepted, and one he lived with a zeal which often surprised his contemporaries. He took care of himself; although he enjoyed good wine with the company to match it, he was always careful not to slide into overindulgence. He had seen too many senior officers deteriorate and age before their time. It was sometimes impossible to imagine them, sword in hand, walking their own decks while death whined and stung all around them. He moved to the desk again, the restlessness stronger than before.
And what of me?
Some chose to ignore it, imagined perhaps that rank and seniority were everlasting. He touched the folder uppermost on the desk. And upon his mind.
At the close of the previous year the Navy List had carried two hundred admirals, and eight hundred and fifty captains. Commanders and mere lieutenants added up to another five thousand. The great fleet and all the squadrons, even those commanded by highly successful or famous officers, had been cut to the bone. Whole forests had been felled to build those ships, and now every anchorage and waterway had its sad reminders.
And what of me?
There was not an admiral left under the age of sixty, so that all promotion was at a standstill. A captain, if he was lucky enough still to be employed, could remain thirty years in that rank without moving.
He grimaced. Or survive on half-pay, shadowy figures who walked the se afront watching. Remembering. Dreading.
He thought of his wife. Lady Bethune. It was hard now to think of her any other way. 'You can retire when you wish it, Graham. You're not a pauper. You can see more of the children.' Their two 'children' were adults, and they met like pleasant strangers. His wife was in control. Like the night at that reception when she had smiled while Catherine Somervell had been humiliated. The night Catherine might have been raped, even killed, but for the intervention of Sillitoe and some of his men.
Bethune still relived it, again and again. He had entertained her here in this opulent room in the seat of Admiralty. The youngest vice-admiral on the Navy List since Nelson. And might remain so if things got even worse.
And she, the woman who had outraged society when she and Sir Richard Bolitho had lived openly together.
He looked at the chair where she had been seated, remembering her scent of jasmine. Her eyes when she
