Bolitho smiled. 'My lady is walking in the garden… she had no wish to go amongst strangers on her own.'
Sillitoe studied him and said without a trace of humour, 'She found it a trifle stuffy, I suspect?'
Godschale turned, irritated, as his wife plucked insistently at his gold-laced coat, and drew him aside.
'What is it?'
'I saw them! Together, just now, in the pine garden. He was fondling her, kissing her naked shoulder! ' She stared at him, outraged. 'It is all true, what they say, Owen-I was so shocked I could not look! '
Godschale patted her arm to reassure her. She had seen quite a lot for one who would not look, he thought.
'Not for long, my dear! ' He beamed at her but could not drag his thoughts from Catherine's compelling eyes, and the body beneath her dark green gown.
He saw Sillitoe pause to look back for him and said abruptly, 'I have to go. Important, vital matters are awaiting my attention.'
She did not hear. 'I'll not have that woman in my house! If she so much as speaks a word to me-'
Godschale gripped her wrist and said harshly, 'You will return the smile, or I shall know the reason, my love! You may despise her, but by God's teeth, she is right for Bolitho-'
She said in a small voice, 'Owen, you swore! '
He replied heavily, 'Go amongst your friends now. Leave the war to us, eh?'
'If you're certain, dearest?'
'Society will decide; you cannot flout it as you will. But in time of war-' He turned on his heel and fell in step beside his secretary. 'Anything further I should know?'
The secretary was as aware of his good fortune as his master, and wanted it to remain that way He said softly 'That young woman, the wife of Alderney 's captain.' He saw the memory clear away Godschale's frown. 'She was here again to crave a favour on his behalf.' He paused, counting the seconds. 'She is a most attractive. lady, my lord.'
Godschale nodded. 'Arrange a meeting.' By the time he reached the private study where the others were waiting, he was almost his old self again.
'Now, gentlemen, about this campaign…'
Bolitho opened the glass doors and stepped out on to the small iron balcony, watching the lights glittering along the Thames like fireflies. It was so hot and airless that the curtains barely moved. He could still feel the heat of their love, the endless demands they had made on one another.
Her words at Godschale's great house still lingered in his mind, and he knew they would keep him company when they were parted again. One day you are across the sea, and now you are here. So simply said, and yet so right. Set against it, even the unavoidable separation seemed less cruel. He thought of the people in their fine clothes, pressing forward to see them, to stare at Catherine as she passed through them. Her composure and grace had made their flushed faces empty and meaningless. He watched a tiny lantern moving across the river and thought of their first visit to VauxhallGardens… they would return when they had more freedom.
The house was small but well-proportioned, one in a terrace with a tree-lined square between it and the Thames-side walk.
Tomorrow he would have to leave for the Nore where Tybalt would be waiting. It was merely coincidence that Tybalt should be the frigate ordered to collect him from the squadron, then take him back. She had been the same vessel which had brought him home, still shocked by the loss of his old Hyperion. All else was different he thought. The rugged Scots captain had gone to a seventy-four, his officers allotted to other ships where their experience, even among the youngest, would be priceless.
Bolitho was glad. Memories could be destructive, when he might need all his resolution.
He thought too of the squadron, which was still out in the North Sea, beating up and down, back and forth, waiting to learn the enemy's intentions, sifting information as fishermen will search for a good catch.
Whatever lay ahead of them, his experience or intuition must decide how they would all face it. It was like being in the hub of a great wheel. At first he had taught himself to reach out around him from the Black Prince's poop or quarterdeck, placing names and faces, duties and reactions of the men who control a ship in battle.
They would all know him by reputation or hearsay, but he must understand those closest to him in case the worst should happen. The sailing-master, and Cazalet the first lieutenant; the other officers who stood their watches day and night in all conditions; the gun-captains and the Afterguard. Like spokes reaching out and away to every deck and cranny in the ship.
And far beyond, to his individual captains in the line of battle, the others like Adam who roamed beyond the vision of the lookouts to find evidence, clues which their viceadmiral might fit into the pattern, if indeed there was one. One thing was quite evident. If Napoleon did succeed in seizing the fleets of Denmark and Sweden and some said there were over a hundred and eighty ships between them, the English squadrons, still reeling from the damage and demands made upon them since Trafalgar, would be swamped by numbers alone.
He had asked Godschale about Herrick's part in the over-all plan. The admiral had tried to shrug it off, but when he had persisted had said, 'He will be in command of the escorts for the supply ships. A vital task.'
Vital? An old passed-over commodore like Arthur Warren at Good Hope could have done it.
Godschale had tried to smooth things out. 'He is lucky-he still has Benbow and his flag.'
Bolitho had heard himself retort angrily, 'Luck? Is that what they call it in Admiralty? He's been a fighter all his life, a brave and loyal officer.'
Godschale had watched him bleakly, 'Highly commendable to hear so. Under the present, um-circumstances-I think it surprising you should speak out in this fashion.'
Damn the man! He gave a bitter smile as he remembered Godschale's confusion when he had told him that Catherine would accompany him to the levee.
The moon slipped out of a long coamer of cloud and brought the river to life, like the shimmering silk of Catherine's gown. In the little square he saw the tops of the trees touched with moonlight as if they were crowned with powdered snow.
He gripped the iron rail with both hands and stared at the moon, which appeared to be moving independently leaving the clouds behind. He did not blink, but continued to stare until he saw the misty paleness begin to form around and beside it. He dropped his gaze, his mouth suddenly dry It was surely no worse. Or was that another delusion?
He felt the curtains swirl against his legs like frail webs, and knew she was with him.
'What is it, Richard?' Her hand moved between his shoulders, persuasive and strong, easing away his tension if not the anxiety.
He half-turned and slipped his arm beneath the long shawl which she had had made from the lace he had brought from Madeira. She shivered as if from a chill breeze as his hand moved across her nakedness, exploring her again, arousing her when she had believed it impossible after the fierceness of their passion.
He said, 'Tomorrow, we are separated.' He faltered, already lost. 'There is something I must say.'
She pressed her face to his shoulder and moved so that his hand could complete its exploration.
'At the funeral.' He could feel her looking at him, her breath warm on his neck as she waited for him. 'Before the coffin was covered, I saw you toss your handkerchief into the grave…'
She said huskily, 'It was the ring. His ring. I wanted no part of it after what happened.'
Bolitho had thought as much, but had been afraid to mention it. Was it that he could still harbour doubts, or had he not believed it possible that she could love him as she did?
He heard himself ask, 'Will you face more scandal and wear my ring, if I can find one beautiful enough?'
She caught her breath, surprised at his request, and deeply moved that the man she loved without reservation, and who would be called to battle and possibly death if it was so decided, could still find it so dear and important.
She allowed him to take her inside the windows and stood looking at him while he removed her shawl, her limbs glowing in the light of two bedside candies.
'I will.' She gasped as he touched her. 'For we are one, if only in each other's eyes.' It had always been rare for her to shed tears, but Bolitho saw the wetness beneath her closed lashes as she whispered, 'We will part tomorrow, but I am strong. Now take me as you will. For you, I am not strong.' She threw back her head and cried as he seized her, 'I am your slave! '
When dawn broke over London, Bolitho opened his eyes and looked at her head on his shoulder, her hair in
