Then she had remarked, 'So when I came here you all decided to conceal it further. What did you expect of me, envy?' She had shaken her head, her eyes misty. 'Like the ocean, his ocean, some things are permanent.'
And so the portrait was returned to its original place, facing the window and the sea beyond, the colour of Cheney's eyes.
He straightened his back as she strode down to the stile and held out his hand to steady her while she climbed over. Even now, with her hair breaking away from the ribbon which she had used to control it, with wet sand and dust on her gown, she seemed to give off some inner force. She was taller than Ferguson; there could not be much difference between her and Bolitho, he thought. She squeezed his hand. A casual thing, but again he could feel it; strength, tenderness, defiance, it was all there.
'That land yonder. What has been done with it?'
Ferguson replied, 'Too many rocks washed down from the hill. No place for a plough. There's that old copse too.' He watched her lip curve, and imagined her and Bolitho together. When he spoke again his voice was hoarse, so that she looked directly at him, her eyes like dark pools; as if she saw right through him and into his passing thought.
Then she smiled broadly and said, 'I can see I shall have to watch you, Mr Ferguson, one arm or no! '
Ferguson flushed, which after serving at sea and then running the estate for so long, was almost unique.
He stammered, 'I beg your pardon, m'lady.' He looked away. 'We've not the men, you see. All taken by the press, or gone for a soldier. Old men and cripples, that's all we've got.'
When he looked at her again he was surprised by the emotion in her eyes.
She said, 'You're no cripple. Together we'll make something of that land.' She was thinking aloud, her voice suddenly fierce. 'I'll not stand by and see him milked by everyone who seems to have lived well off his courage! I don't believe the squire-' her mouth puckered '-the King of Cornwall as he is called, I believe? He seems to have no difficulty managing his land! '
'French prisoners, m'lady. He is a magistrate, too.' He was glad to change the subject. Again he felt the guilt, when he had known she was referring to Belinda in her great house in London.
She said, 'He is a fair man nevertheless. In any case I like his wife-Sir Richard's favourite sister, is she not?'
Ferguson fell into step beside her, but had to walk fast to keep up. 'Aye, m'lady. Miss Nancy, as she once was, was in love with Sir Richard's best friend.'
She stopped and gazed at him searchingly. 'What a lot you know! I envy you the smallest detail, every hour when you have known him and I have not.' She walked on, more slowly now, plucking a flower from a stone wall as she passed. 'You are very fond of him also?'
Ferguson waved to some workers in the field. 'I'd serve none other.'
She looked at the figures, who were pulling a large cart. Most of them were women, but she caught her breath as she recognised the old sailor, the one-legged man named Vanzell. Even he was adding his strength to the load.
Ferguson saw her face and knew she was remembering how Bolitho had taken her from the filth and horror of the Waites jail in London.
Her husband had connived and lied to have her transported. From what Allday had told him it seemed likely she would have died first. Allday had said that Bolitho had been beside himself, had half-carried her from the jail, bringing old Vanzell who had been a guard there out with him. There were several such on the estate. Men like Vanzell who had once served with Bolitho, or women who had lost husbands or sons under his command.
She said, 'He's done so much. We shall repay some of it by making the land come alive again. There's Scotland -they always need grain, surely?'
Ferguson grinned. 'Ships are expensive, m'lady! '
She looked at him thoughtfully, then gave the bubbling laugh he had heard when Bolitho had been with her. 'There are always-'
She broke off as they reached the gate to the stable-yard.
Her skin was still sun-burned despite the winter here, but Ferguson later swore to his wife that she had gone as white as death.
'What is it, m'lady? Is something wrong?'
Her hand went to her breast. 'It's the post-boy! '
The youth in his smart cocked hat and breeches was gossiping with Matthew, the head coachman.
Ferguson said, 'He'll be from the town, m'lady. Unusual time of day though.' He beckoned the youth urgently. 'Here, lad, lively now! '
The post-boy touched his hat and showed a gap-toothed smile. 'Fer 'ee, ma'am.'
Ferguson muttered, 'Show respect, or I'll-'
She said, 'Thank you,' then turned away from the sunlight and stared at the letter. 'It bears no mark! '
Ferguson stood by her elbow and nodded. 'A clerk's hand, I'll wager.'
She gazed at him but he knew she could not see him. 'Something has happened to him. In God's name, I cannot-'
The youth, who was willing but not very bright, said helpfully, ''Tes off the mail coach, y'see.' He grinned again. 'They 'ad to sign for that 'un.' He looked at their faces and added importantly, ''Tes from Lunnon! '
'Easy, m'lady,' Ferguson took her arm. 'Come into the house.'
But she was tearing open the cover which revealed another sealed letter inside.
Ferguson sensed his wife come down the stone steps to join them and was almost afraid to breathe. This was how it would happen. Those family portraits told the same story There was not a single male Bolitho buried in Falmouth. All had been lost at sea. Even Captain Julius had never been found when his ship had exploded down there in Carrick Road in 1646.
She looked at him and said, 'He is in London.' She looked at the letter as if she were dreaming. 'The fight is over at Good Hope. Cape Town has fallen.' She began to shake but no tears came.
Grace Ferguson put a plump arm round her waist and whispered, 'Thank God! 'Tis only right! '
Ferguson asked, 'What is the date, m'lady?'
She appeared to bring herself under control with a physical effort. 'It does not say.' She stared at his handwriting. So few lines, as if to reveal his haste, his need for her.
She exclaimed, 'I felt it. A few nights ago. I got out of bed and looked out to sea.' When she turned, her eyes were shining with happiness. 'He was there, on passage for Portsmouth. I knew.'
Ferguson thrust a coin into the post-boy's grubby hand. It had been a nasty moment. Now he guessed that the outer envelope had been to disguise its true contents from prying eyes. That was what he was returning to this time. What they would have to face together.
The post-boy had not gone, and seemed determined to discover what he had stumbled upon.
He said, 'Th' coachman was a-tellin' Oi, zur, why the mail is late, y'see? One o' they coaches cast a wheel along the way-proper excitin' it were! '
Ferguson glared at him. So the letter was late. He looked at her profile, the joy she had always tried to control while he was away. In case. He said, 'He might he here in a day or so, m'lady He ticked off the points in his mind. 'He would have to see them at the Admiralty There would be a report.' He smiled, remembering Bolitho's constant frustration at the delays which had always followed the heat of action. 'Then, of course…' He glanced round at the sound of.' hooves on the track which led down towards the town square and the church where the Bolithos were remembered.
Matthew said doubtfully, ''Tis not one o' my horses, m'lady.'
But she was already running, her arms outstretched, heedless of the staring eyes and gaping faces.
It was impossible; it could not be him so soon. Almost blinded, she ran through the gates as the horse and rider clattered over the cobbles towards the yard.
As Bolitho slipped from the saddle and caught her in his arms she pressed her face to his and gasped, 'Oh, dearest of men, what can you think? How must I look-when I wanted to be ready for you! '
He put his hand under her chin and gazed at her for several seconds, perhaps to reassure them both that it was no mistake, nor was it the dream which maybe they had shared.
He said, 'There were delays. I could not wait. I was afraid you might not-'
She put her fingers on his mouth. 'Well, I have, and I want you to know…'
