Allday balanced the tray in one hand and opened the door. There may be a squall and a few damn and blasts, he thought. After that… we shall see.
Bolitho fidgeted impatiently while Allday painstakingly adjusted his neckcloth and collar and wondered how he was going to get through the evening. It was Christmas Day, a day of many comings and goings at the big house. Farmers and neighbours, tradesmen with last-minute additions for the dinner which Swinburne's kitchen must have been preparing for weeks.
He could hear the lively music of violins from below and toyed with the idea of saying he was too tired to join Swinburne and his guests. But the lie would be churlish and unforgivable after the way he had been cared for and treated.
It was snowing outside, but without much substance, so that the carriageway and the roofs of the outbuildings glistened in a dozen colours from the lanterns which had been hung to guide the new arrivals to the entrance.
Bolitho had moved to the room from the floor below, but even the change of view did little to settle his thoughts. He wished now he had gone to London in the carriage and damn the consequences for his wound.
Allday stood back and said, 'Good, sir. You look your old self again.'
Bolitho noticed how Allday kept his voice level, his gaze shuttered off in case he did or said something to provoke him.
Bolitho felt ashamed. He must have given Allday a difficult time.
He said, 'I wish you could take my place at table.' He glanced at Aliday's reflection in the mirror. `You deserve it, and far more.'
Allday met his gaze in the mirror and grinned, the strain slipping from his face as he replied, `With all those fine ladies, sir? God bless you, I'd be in real trouble, an' that's no error!'
Somewhere a gong boomed importantly. Allday took Bolitho's best coat and held it out for him. `I've got a pretty little wench to press it for you, sir.'
Bolitho slipped his arms into the sleeves. 'No doubt you will repay her for the kindness?'
Allday followed him to the door and stood aside for him. 'No doubt, sir.'
Bolitho paused. 'I owe you an apology, Allday. I seem to be trampling on everyone who is trying to help me these days.' He turned, listening to the voices and music surging up the great stairway like an invisible throng.
Allday said quietly, 'Best be about it, sir. You'll not escape by backing your tops'ls!'
Bolitho nodded and made his way slowly down the stairs, feeling vaguely unsure of himself without hat or sword.
He barely recognized the hall as the same place. It was packed with brightly coloured gowns, half-bared bosoms, the red coats of the military, and such a mixed array of people he wondered where they all came from.
A footman saw him coming and called, 'Rear-Admiral Richard Bolitho.'
A few heads turned towards him, but most of the guests had not even heard the announcement above the din.
Swinburne bounced from the crowd. 'Ah, Bolitho, good fellow!' He steered him through the less important fringe of the gathering and muttered, 'Want you to meet me friends. Most of 'em have never set eyes on a fightin' man before.' He lowered his voice as they passed a scarlet-faced major who looked old enough to have been in two previous wars and added, 'Him, for instance. Supposed to be recruitin' for the Colours. God, the country lads take one look at him and run off to join the French, I shouldn't wonder!'
A glass appeared in his hand, while a footman hovered nearby with a tray of replenishments, and within seconds Bolitho found himself hemmed in a corner by smiling, curious faces.
Questions came from every angle, and perhaps for the first time Bolitho sensed the unease and anxiety which even the Christmas cheer could not disperse.
Sometimes during his service Bolitho had felt irritation, even contempt for such outwardly privileged people. At sea, men died every day from one cause or another, while on land the military fared little better. In spite of her enemies and difficulties, Britain 's trade and influence abroad was growing, but it took the whole navy and endless outposts and garrisons of redcoats to maintain it.
Hearing their questions, feeling their uncertainty as they tried to form a picture of the country's defences or the weaknesses which might allow a French invasion, Bolitho was closer to understanding the war's other face than he could recall.
Lady Swinburne swept through the crowd and said, `Time to dine.' She offered her arm to Bolitho. 'We will lead.'
As they passed through the beaming faces and curtseying ladies she remarked, 'An ordeal for you, I expect. But you are among friends. They want to understand, to know their fate by looking at you. This may be a temporary refuge for you, but it is escape for them.'
They reached the long, glittering table when there was a small disturbance in the outer hall.
Bolitho heard Swinburne barking at one of his footmen. 'Arthur! Lay another place for the lieutenant!' Browne had returned.
While the guests moved slowly to their allotted places at the heavily laden table, Browne managed to cross the room and say, 'The despatches are delivered, sir. Sir George Beauchamp is most eager to see you when you are able to travel.' He lowered his voice, aware that several people were craning their necks to listen, still surprised at his unexpected entrance. Like a scene from a play. The dishevelled young officer riding from the lines to report to his general. The French are out. The cavalry are coming. 'Things are warming up in the Baltic as you feared, sir.'
There was a great rustle of gowns and scraping of chairs as the guests sank down to admire the mountains of food which all but hid one line of heads from those opposite them.
Bolitho turned to find himself looking directly into the eyes of a young, attractive woman. Her gown was cut so low that he wondered how it was staying in position, and even so it left little to the imagination.
She met his eyes boldly. 'You are staring, sir!' She smiled, her tongue running along her lower lip as she asked, 'Do you like what you see?'
A heavy-jowled face thrust round her bare shoulder and said thickly, 'Watch this one, m'dear fellow. A wildcat, an' worse!'
She did not even flinch but kept her gaze on Bolitho. 'My husband. A lout.'
Bolitho was almost grateful when the meal eventually began. And what a feast it was. It would have fed every midshipman in the squadron for a week and still left enough to pass around.
The courses were presented by a well-trained line of footmen, and the plates and bowls removed with equal precision. Bolitho was amazed to see that most were wiped clean, whereas he was already feeling uncomfortably full.
There were various kinds of fish. One Bolitho recognized as turbot, and another, although almost swamped in a rich sauce, he thought was baked whiting.
On and on, each course larger and more lavishly decorated than the one before.
A massive baron of beef, roasted on a slow fire, baked ham and boiled turkey, all washed down by Lord Swinburne's rich selection of wines.
Bolitho felt the girl's knee against his, and when he moved slightly she pressed harder, the sensation insistent and sensuous. But when he looked at her she was eating busily, her hands reaching out for various portions with the trained performance of a musician.
He saw Browne watching him from the other end of the table. He appeared to be clearing his dishes with the best of them. His life in London had been an obvious advantage.
The girl beside him said, 'Are you on a secret mission?'
Her eyes looked less steady now and had the far-away stare of someone who had gone beyond caution.
He smiled. 'No. I have been resting for a few days.' 'Ah yes.'
One hand disappeared beneath the table and he felt her fingers moving caressingly up his thigh.
'You were wounded. I heard it somewhere.'
Bolitho saw the footman on the opposite side of the table. His face was expressionless but his eyes spoke volumes.
'Easy, ma'am, d'you wish your husband to call me out?'
She threw back her head and laughed. 'Him? He will be dead drunk before the ladies retire, unconscious soon
