She smiled, and then froze as a carriage rolled to a halt behind the one with the Bolitho crest.
'What is it, m'lady?' Matthew made to take her arm, his round apple-face full of concern.
She stared at the other carriage as a figure climbed down.
The familiar frock coat and epaulettes, one hand reaching up for his lady's even as the inn servants ran to fetch their bags.
'It's nothing, Matthew.' She shook her head as the street and the carriage misted over. She added with sudden despair, 'Take me home.'
As Matthew climbed up to his box and kicked off the brake, with the hard-faced guard sitting beside him, she turned at last and allowed herself to look up at their window. There were no ghosts; or were there? Was someone there, watching her depart, still waiting for the ship which had come too late?
Sophie was holding her hand, like a child. 'Better now, me lady?'
She said, 'Yes, ' suddenly glad the girl was with her for the long journey to Falmouth.
She attempted to reassure her. 'If Allday were here I think I would ask him for a wet.' But the remark only saddened her.
Don't leave me…
Lieutenant George Avery paused as Bolitho left his side and walked to the edge of one of the many dockyard basins. Ships being repaired, re-rigged, and in some cases new vessels still under construction: Plymouth was always a busy place, and the air was filled with the din of hammers and the scrape of saws. Teams of horses dragged miles of cordage towards a ship bereft of rigging, where more men waited to transform the apparent tangle of meaningless rope into a pattern of
stays and shrouds: a thing of beauty to some, an endless tyranny to those who would eventually control it in every sort of sea and weather.
But Bolitho was looking at this one dock in particular. His old Hyperion had been berthed here after her terrible battle, when he had been her young captain. A proud ship which even the stains of death, the torn planking and smashed hull, could not destroy. They had made her into a stores hulk, like the one he saw now in this same dock. Nelson's words seemed to ring in his mind, when due to the shortages and the losses in the fleet Hyperion had been brought out of her humble role to be reborn, ready to stand once more in the line of battle which was her rightful place. When the choice of a new flagship had been Bolitho's, he had astounded many at the Admiralty by asking for his old command. Nelson had silenced the doubters by saying, 'Give him any ship he wants! '
Hyperion had been old, but the little admiral's own choice for what was to be his last flagship, the Victory, had been forty years old when she had broken the enemy line at Trafalgar, and Nelson had paid the price for his courage.
Then, in this dockyard, Bolitho had been returning to an empty house, with nothing to believe in and nobody to care for. Now he had everything to sustain him: his lovely Catherine and a love he would never have believed possible.
Avery watched him curiously. 'Sir?'
Bolitho looked at him. 'Memories. I left an old ship here. But she came back to me. Until that day in October six days before Trafalgar. Some say we tilted the scales for Nelson… only Fate can be certain. I often think of it, and the fact that only my nephew ever met Nelson himself. I'm glad. It is something he'll never forget.'
He thought suddenly of what Catherine had told him, how she had felt like a traitor. Only she had noticed it at first. Now others must never see it, or know that it must have been inevitable. The girl with the moonlit eyes, and the young captain. Perhaps that, too, was Fate.
He turned away. His new flag lieutenant probably thought him mad. He was very likely regretting his decision to leave the tired old Canopus at Chatham. They walked on, and some dockyard labourers who were hoisting a spar by tackle up the foremast of a frigate waved, and one shouted, 'Good luck, Sir Richard! You burn them buggers! '
Bolitho raised his cocked hat and called, 'You give us the ships, my lads! We'll do the rest! ' They all laughed and nudged one another as if it was one huge jest.
But Avery saw Bolitho's face as he turned away from them. His eyes were bitter like his voice. 'It is quite all right if you don't have to go out and do it! '
'I expect they meant well, Sir Richard.'
Bolitho said coldly, 'Is that what you think? Then I am sorry for you.' Then he took Avery's arm and exclaimed, 'That was unforgivable of me! It is not how I want it to be.'
They reached the main jetty and Bolitho stood looking at the moored ships, the endless bustle of small harbour craft. His nerves were on edge. I need you, Kate. In her uncanny fashion she might hear his unspoken words. He could feel the sun burning into his back, her locket clinging to the damp skin beneath his shirt, one of the new ones she had bought for him. It helped to calm him in some way, and when he recalled how he had only owned one un darned pair of stockings as a youthful lieutenant, he almost smiled. Bless you, Kate… you heard me.
Avery said quietly, 'Boat's coming, Sir Richard.' He seemed afraid to disturb his thoughts. He was not shy or so easy to read as Jenour had been: he was withdrawn, biding his time.
Bolitho faced the water as a smart gig appeared around a moored hulk and veered sharply towards the jetty, her oars rising and falling like white bones. He touched his eye and Avery said immediately, 'Is there something I can do, Sir Richard?'
He said, 'Something in my eye, I think.' The lie came easily enough. But how long before Avery, like Jenour, realised the truth? 'Who is in the boat?'
Avery seemed satisfied. 'A lieutenant, sir.'
It was strange not to have Allday beside him at this moment, critically measuring up the boat's crew and anything else that took his attention. He was not in the gig either.
Avery commented, 'Smart boat, Sir Richard.'
The bowman was already standing with his boat hook poised: the lieutenant was beside the coxswain, gauging the moment.
'Oars, up! ' The boat's crew tossed their oars, each blade in perfect line with the next. It said a lot for their training, when Valkyrie had been commissioned for so short a time.
The gig glided alongside the weed-covered stairs and the bowman hooked on to a mooring ring.
The lieutenant scrambled ashore, his hat already in his hand as he snapped stiffly to attention with a flourish.
Tinlay, Sir Richard, fourth lieutenant! '
Bolitho saw the young officer's eyes flicker between them, from the famous vice-admiral to the lieutenant with the twist of gold cord at his shoulder to mark him as Bolitho's aide.
'Very well, Mr. Finlay. You have an impressive crew.' He saw the lieutenant blink, as if he were unused to praise.
'Thank you, Sir Richard! '
Avery climbed down into the stern sheets and looked up to watch his new master as he turned, shading his eye to look at the land, the green hump of Mount Edgcumbe, the tiny cottages huddled together in the sunshine.
Bolitho knew the two lieutenants were observing him. Only the gig's crew remained motionless on their thwarts, although the nearness of dry land was usually enough to relax even the tightness of any discipline.
Good-bye, my dearest Kate. Though distance separates us, you are always with me.
Then, holding the presentation sword against his hip, he climbed down into the boat.
The lieutenant jumped down and called, 'Cast off! Bear off forrard! ' And as the stream carried them clear he added, 'Out oars! Give way all! '
There was a breeze on the water and Bolitho could feel it stinging his eyes, as if to mock his formality. He glanced at the oarsmen, well turned out in their checkered shirts and tarred hats. There was something different, something wrong. Their eyes were fixed on the stroke oar, their bodies pushing the looms, then leaning back as the blades bit into the water as one. He tried to put it from his mind. A new ship, a different captain to most of them, a future as yet unknown; it was to be expected. He turned to watch a passing guard boat, oars tossed and an officer standing in the stern sheets his hat raised in salute as he saw the flag officer in the gig. They would probably all know by now, he thought. He glanced at the seamen again. Not hostile, not indifferent. Cowed. It was the only description.
So Trevenen had not changed. On matters of discipline and performance he had been described as a fanatic.
