town turned out when Sir Richard Bolitho came back. I never knew that any man could inspire such affection.'
'I was there too. Often go for the market sales. Better 'n some, as good as most.' He tilted his tankard and then said, 'The Bolitho family's famous thereabouts-or notorious, should I say?'
'Are they, by God? I've read something of their exploits in the Gazette, but nothing…'
His companion laughed. 'Rules for some, but not for t'others, that's what I say!' Their coach must have stopped at other inns longer than the Royal George. His voice was loud and slurred.
He continued, as if addressing the whole room. 'Sleeping with another man's wife, an' talk of rape an' worse. Well, you know what they say about rape, my friend-there's usually two sides to it!'
Adam could feel the blood pounding in his brain, the man's voice probing his mind like a hot knife. Who was he talking about? Catherine? Zenoria? Or was he even hinting about Adam's own father, and his mother who had lived like a whore to raise the son Hugh Bolitho had not known about until it was too late?
He stood up and heard the girl ask, 'Be you a-goin', zur?'
'Directly-er, Sarah.' She was staring at him, unsure what was happening. He added, 'A tankard, if you please. A large one.' She brought it, mystified, as Adam moved out of the shadows and to a hatch which opened on to the inn kitchen. A face peered out at him. 'Zur?'
'Fill this with the filthiest scummy liquid you have.' He pointed at a large tub where a young girl was rinsing out the bedroom chamber pots. 'That will do quite nicely.'
The man still gaped at him. 'Oi don't understand 'ee, zur…' He hesitated, and then something in Adam's face made him hurry away to the tub. Adam took the tankard and carried it towards the fire.
The landlord, polishing a jug, called out, 'Plymouth Flier be ready to board, gentlemen!'
But nobody moved as Adam said, 'I gather you were speaking of the Bolitho family in Falmouth.' His voice was very quiet and yet, in the silent parlour, it was like a clap of thunder.
'And what if I was?' The man swung on him. 'Oh, I see you're a gallant naval gentleman-I would expect the likes of you to disagree!'
Adam said, 'Sir Richard Bolitho is a fine officer-a gentleman in the truest sense, which obviously you would never understand.'
He saw the bluster begin to fail.
'Now, just a minute-I've had enough of this!'
The landlord called, 'I'll have no trouble here, gentlemen!'
Adam did not drop his gaze from the other man. 'No, landlord, not here. I am offering a drink to this loud- mouthed oaf.'
It took him off guard. 'Drink?'
Adam said gently, 'Yes. It is piss, like the foulness of your mouth!' He flung it into his face and tossed the tankard to one side. While the other man spluttered and choked he threw back his cloak and said, 'May I introduce myself? Bolitho. Captain Adam Bolitho.'
The man stared at him wildly. 'I'll break your back, damn your bloody arrogance!'
'How much more must I insult you?' Adam struck him hard in the mouth, and said, 'Swords or pistols, sir? The choice is here and now, before the next coach.'
The landlord said urgently, 'You take it back, Seth. The young cap'n 'ere d'have a reputation.'
The man seemed to shrink. 'I didn't know. It was just talk, y'see!'
'It nearly cost you your wretched life.' He glanced at the sweating landlord. 'I beg your pardon for all this. I will make it worth your while.' There were gasps and a sudden, hurried grating of chairs as he produced a pistol and examined it, giving himself time. He knew he would have killed him. It was always there-lies about his family, several attempts to tarnish their honour, while the liars hid themselves in secret cowardice.
The man was practically in tears. 'Please, Captain-I'd had too much to drink!'
Adam ignored him and turned towards a solitary brass candlestick where the flame was always kept burning for the tapers of customers wishing to light their pipes.
The crash of the shot brought shouts of alarm and screams from the kitchen. The flame had gone, but the candle was still intact. Before thrusting the pistol beneath his coat he asked quietly, 'Who told you these things?'
A coach guard stood in the doorway, a blunderbuss in his hands, but even he fell back when he saw the gleaming epaulettes of a naval captain.
The man hung his head. 'Some young blade, sir. I should've guessed he were a liar. But he said he was connected with the family.'
Adam knew instantly. 'Named Miles Vincent? Yes?'
The man nodded unhappily. 'In the market, it were.'
'Well. We shall just have to see, won't we?' He walked from the silent parlour and paused only to put some coins in the landlord's fist. 'Forgive me.'
The landlord counted it at a glance: it was a large amount. The ball had smashed into the wood panelling. He smiled. He would leave it there, and perhaps put a little plate above it to tell its story for the benefit of customers.
The girl was waiting beside the coach, while passengers bustled past averting their faces, in case they too provoked some violence.
Adam took out a gold coin and said, 'Live your life, Sarah. And don't sell yourself cheap.' He slipped the coin between her breasts. 'For a place that sells no brandy, you certainly know how to fire a man's spirits!'
The coach was long out of sight and its horn almost lost in distance as it approached the narrow bridge and the road for Liskeard before anyone spoke in the inn parlour, where the pistol smoke hung near the low ceiling like some evil spirit.
The man protested, 'How was I to know?' But nobody would look at him.
Then the landlord said, 'By God, Seth, it was nearly your last hour!'
The girl Sarah plucked the coin from her bodice and gazed at it intently, remembering the touch of his fingers, the easy way he had addressed her. She had never been spoken to like that before. She would never forget. She carefully replaced the coin, and when she stared down the empty road her eyes were filled with tears.
'God keep you safe, young cap'n!'
The landlord ambled from the inn door and put his arm around her shoulders. 'I knows, my dear. There's not many d' think much o' they hereabouts, and what they risk every time they do leave harbour.' He gave her a squeeze. 'I'd not care to fall afoul o' that fiery young master!'
Aboard the Plymouth Flier Adam stared out of the dusty window at the passing countryside. Whenever he glanced at his travelling companions they were all either asleep or pretending to be. But sleep was denied him, and in the window's reflection he seemed to see her face. The girl with the long, beautiful hair: the girl with moonlit eyes, as his uncle had once called her.
He had been a fool back there at the Royal George. Post-captain or not, he would have been ruined if he had killed the other man in a duel. It would have meant disgrace for his uncle yet again. Was it always to be so?
… Miles Vincent. Yes, it would be. Perhaps his mother had put him up to it. Adam doubted it: the motive was too obvious. Hate, envy, revenge… his fingers tightened around his sword and he saw a flicker of apprehension cross the face of the man opposite him.
He thought suddenly of his father. He had heard from an old sailing-master who had known Hugh that he had been violent and quick-tempered, ready to call any one out if the mood took him: the memory of him still hung over the old house at Falmouth like a storm-cloud. I will not make the mistake of following in his wake.
Watery sunlight played across the sea for the first time in this journey.
He thought of his Anemone, daughter of the wind. She would be his only love.
Bryan Ferguson sat at the kitchen table of his cottage and surveyed his friend, who was standing by the window. He wanted to smile, but knew it was far too important a moment for amusement.
Allday plucked at his best jacket, the one with the gilt buttons, which Bolitho had given him to mark him as his personal coxswain. Nankeen breeches and buckled shoes: he was every inch the landsman's idea of the Jack Tar. But he seemed troubled, his deeply-sunburned features creased with uncertainty.
'Lucky I didn't lose this on that damned Golden Plover.' He tried to grin. 'Must have known there was something wrong with that little pot o' paint!'
Ferguson said, 'Look, John, just go and see the lady. If you don't, others will. She'll be a rare catch if she gets
