Lord Swinburne knew more than he did. But he could drum up no excitement or interest. All he could think of was the girl upstairs. The touch of her. The scent of her hair as he had held her in the carriage. He was a fool, mad even, to compare her with Cheney. It was over. Sooner or later, by some method or other, he would have to find a release.
Browne said, 'I should like to stay here, m'lord. My father often speaks of you.' He looked at Bolitho. 'Will it suit, sir?'
Bolitho was about to refuse, to show rudeness if necessary, if only to escape and hide with his despair. But he saw a round little man with glasses coming through the room and knew he was the doctor.
`Well, how is she?'
The doctor took a goblet of brandy and held it admiringly against the fire.
'Nothing broken, but she needs to rest. It was a bad shock, and she has bruises on her body like a prize- fighter.'
Browne tried to appear unconcerned, but he was thinking of that lovely girl naked and helpless under the doctor's eyes.
The doctor added, 'She's conscious now, thank God. Her ladyship is looking after her, so she's in good hands.' He held out the goblet to be refilled. 'By God, m'lord, I'd no idea the smugglers ran their cargoes as far as this!'
Lord Swinburne grinned fiercely. 'You impertinent devil! If there was another doctor in five miles you'd not set foot in here again!'
They were obviously very good friends.
The doctor placed his goblet down carefully and crossed to Bolitho.
`Please be still, sir.'
Bolitho made to protest and then saw the blood glinting in the firelight like a cruel eye. The doctor was already unbuttoning his. coat.
`Will you allow me to take you to another room?'
Browne watched fascinated, Bolitho's resentment changing to embarrassment as the doctor added gently, 'I have seen enough brave men to know a wound, sir.'
As they left -the room, the tall officer leaning against the rotund doctor, Swinburne said, `You serve a remarkable man, Oliver. It might be the making of you yet.'
'If Rear-Admiral Bolitho is unfit to continue tomorrow I shall leave without him, m'lord.' Browne considered his decision. It would almost be worth it just to see Sir George Beauchamp's face when he marched into the Admiralty on his own with Bolitho's despatches. 'I think he would only fret and worry otherwise.'
'Good thinking, Oliver, m'boy. The roads are not what they should be.'
The doctor returned, buttoning his coat, as if that was his way of showing he was no longer working.
He dropped his voice. 'This is a terrible wound, Lieutenant. A good man did the work, but it needs far more patience than your superior is prepared to give.' He held his hands to the fire. 'He was lucky to have such a good surgeon from what I have heard and read.'
Swinburne said, 'Well? What are you doing about it?'
'I'll keep him here, if I may. I believe he is a lonely man. The sudden change from swift action to life ashore might do him more harm than good.' He gestured around the great pillared room. 'But in this humble abode, and with Christmas almost on us once more, I think he might fare better!'
Swinburne winked at Browne. 'Done! You go to those blockheads of Admiralty if you must. But be back here in time for our celebrations.' He rubbed his hands. 'It will be just like the old days!'
When Bolitho returned he knew it was pointless to protest or argue. Sometimes it was better to give in. Fate, Herrick's Lady Luck, or whatever you chose to call it. Something had decided he should leave Benbow at the first possibility. Something had prompted Browne to borrow the comfortable coach instead of catching the London Mail. If he had insisted on the latter it would have taken another, busier road.
He tried to smother the ridiculous hope, to destroy it before it destroyed him.
Swinburne said loudly, 'Of course, dammit! Bolitho! I did not realize it was you. I've been reading about you in the Gazette and The Times.' He shook his fist at Browne. `You're a bigger fool than your father, Oliver! You didn't tell me! God damn your eyes, man!' He was beside himself with pleasure.
Browne said smoothly, 'You did not give me much of an opportunity, m'lord.'
A servant threw open the doors, and Lady Swinburne, moving with the stately confidence of a ship of the line, swept in to greet her guests.
She nodded to Browne. 'Ah, Oliver.'
That was all she said, but Bolitho guessed that it meant far more.
She took Bolitho's hand and studied him curiously. She was a very large lady, a head and shoulders taller than her husband.
'Rear-Admiral Bolitho, you are very welcome. You are like I would have wished our oldest son to be. He fell in battle at the Chesapeake.'
Swinburne said, 'Don't distress yourself, Mildred. It's a long time ago.'
Bolitho squeezed her hand. 'Not to me, my lady. I was there also.'
She nodded. 'I thought you were of an age.' A smile swept her sudden sadness aside.
She said, 'There is a young lady upstairs who wishes to see you. To thank you for what you did.' She saw the doctor give a quick shake of the head and then realized there was a bloodstain on Bolitho's breeches which even some of the doctor's spirit had failed to remove. 'Well, later then.' She beamed at the others. 'A wounded hero and a lady in distress, what better ingredients for Christmas, eh?'
11. An Old Score
Bolitho stood uncertainly by a newly laid fire and listened to the sleet lashing the windows. It was evening, and for all he knew he could have been quite alone in the great house. They had not even roused him for a midday meal, but had allowed him to sleep in a small room on the ground floor.
When he had at last awakened he had discovered his clothes neatly laid out, his breeches as white as new with no trace of the bloodstain.
The house was very old, he decided, and had probably been added to through the various generations of the Swinburne family. This room was lined with well-used books which reminded him of the one in Copenhagen where he had supposedly met the Crown Prince. That, too, seemed like part of a dream. Only the painful reminder of his wound kept the rest alive in his mind.
He tried to think of the girl from the wrecked carriage as a total stranger, as he would have done had she been different. It was like standing well back to examine a portrait, to fit the pieces together which were blurred by being too close.
The door opened quietly and he turned, expecting it to be Browne or one of Swinburne's attentive servants.
She stood framed against the lights in the other room, her face and arms shining in the fire's glow.
Bolitho was about to cross the room when she said, 'No, please. Remain where you are. I have heard about your injury. By helping to save my life on the road you could have risked your own.'
She moved into the reflected firelight, her gown swishing across the floor. It was white with a yellow flowered pattern.
Her long chestnut hair was tied back in a ribbon of the same yellow.
She saw him staring and explained, 'It is not mine. Lady Swinburne's daughter loaned it to me. My luggage has already gone ahead to London.' She hesitated and held out her hand. `I am indebted to you and your friends.'
Bolitho took her hand and sought helplessly for the right words.
`I am thankful we were in time.'
She released her hand gently and sat down in one of the chairs.
'You are Rear-Admiral Bolitho.' She smiled gravely. `I am Mrs Belinda Laidlaw.'
Bolitho sat opposite her. Her eyes were not like Cheney's at all. They were dark brown.
