Then he did look at her, the way her hand had gone to her throat.
She said, 'I recognise the carriage. It is the doctor.'
She waited for the horses to wheel round in front of the broad steps before being braked to a halt.
The big double doors opened, as if they had been waiting for this very moment. Although it was still a bright summer’s evening there were chandeliers alight everywhere, and Zenoria saw Val’s sister and her husband standing in the great marble hallway like players poised in the wings.
All at once she was running, heedless of one shoe which had caught in the step and fallen on the driveway.
Then she saw the doctor, a tall, grey man with an out-thrust lower lip. He seized her as she tried to pass him. He had a grip like iron.
'Be brave, Mrs Keen. I did all that I could. We all did.'
She heard a scream, her own. Calling his name,
She tore herself free and ran to the open windows, and stared out at the well-cut grass and formal flower beds, where her little son would sit and play with his nurse or Val’s bereaved sister.
She peered blindly at the tall shadows which were already crossing the lawn.
But only the startled crows replied.
She heard someone cry, 'Quick! Hold her!'
Then there was nothing.
9. The Mark of Satan
Lady Catherine Somervell allowed herself to be guided to some cane chairs and a table arranged in the shadow of one of Roxby’s big oaks, pleased that she had thought to bring a pair of shoes to exchange for her riding-boots. She sat down and adjusted her wide-brimmed hat to keep the sunlight from her eyes while Bolitho’s sister Nancy directed a servant to bring tea.
It was a lovely summer day, the air full of birdsong and insects, and the sounds of men haying in the adjoining fields.
Nancy said, 'I’m pleased for Lewis, of course-he’s such a dear, and never says a harsh word to me.' She chuckled. 'Not within earshot, in any case. But, really, can you imagine my feelings when they bow and call me m’lady?'
She reached out impulsively. 'For you it is different, Catherine. But I shall never get used to it.' She glanced across to the stone terrace where Roxby was studying some plans with two visitors. 'Lewis adores it, as you can see. He never stops. Now he’s
discussing the folly he wants built, can you credit it?'
Catherine let her chatter on while the table was being laid. Summer in Cornwall. How perfect it could be, if only he were here. He had been away so long, and there was still no word. She had read in the newspapers that some of the mail-packets had been attacked and plundered. Might their letters have gone astray?
She looked up and found Nancy watching her. 'What is it, my dear?'
Nancy smiled. 'I worry about you. And I miss him too-he is my brother, after all.' She sat down comfortably, spreading her skirts. 'Is something else troubling you?'
Catherine shrugged. How pretty Richard’s younger sister must have been. Pretty and fair, like their mother.
'Richard spoke to me about his daughter. It is her birthday quite soon.'
'There is nothing you can do, Catherine. Belinda would never allow her to accept a gift, or anything else.'
'I know. I do not want to see her anyway. When I think of what she tried to do, how she intended to hurt Richard, I know the true meaning of hate.'
She took the cup offered to her and sipped the tea, conscious of the sun’s warmth on the one shoulder turned to its light. She hoped her fatigue did not show in her eyes: she had been sleeping badly, sometimes hardly at all.
Every night she dreamed or thought of Richard, imagined him coming into the room and touching her, arousing her. And yet every day increased the distance between them, as if the ocean had swallowed the ship and all aboard her.
He was still with her, even though the seas divided them, so that she found herself unwilling to visit people, even to discuss the collier brig and the day-to-day running of the estate with Bryan Ferguson, not that he needed her help.
She thought of the other faces she knew and loved. Valentine
Keen, last heard of at Cape Town; Adam, who had called briefly to see her before sailing to join his uncle, Allday and Tyacke, Avery and the portly Yovell. At least they had one another to sustain them.
She heard Roxby’s resonant voice bidding his visitors farewell. She watched him as he strolled across the lawn, his hands in his breeches’ pockets. He loved riding and blood sports, but his fondness for good living was exacting a toll. She hoped that Nancy had noticed, and would use her influence to good effect. His face was very red, and it was all too apparent that he was breathing with difficulty. As if he had read her thoughts, he dragged out a large handkerchief and mopped his streaming face. Sir Lewis Roxby Knight of the Hanoverian Guelphic Order, landowner and magistrate, described in London as 'a friend of the Prince of Wales.' He had come a long way for the son of a local farmer.
Roxby waved the tea aside. 'Something a bit stronger for me, m’dear!'
'Catherine’s still waiting for a letter, Lewis.'
Roxby nodded gravely. 'Bad business. Understand how you feel.'
His eyes took in her sun-browned shoulder, the proud or perhaps defiant manner in which she held her head. He had heard all about her boarding his brother-in-law’s flagship at Falmouth. Up the side like a powder-monkey, to raise cheers even from the pressed men whose fate would be in Richard’s hands.
What a woman. He thought with dislike of Nancy’s sister, Felicity. She would have something vicious to say about it. Mercifully she did not come to the house very often now with her stupid son, and when she did call Roxby was careful to keep away, in case he lost his temper again.
He said, 'He’ll be home before you know it, m’dear.' He punched the back of his chair. 'By God, he’ll soon drub those damn’ Yankees as he did Baratte!'
Nancy held up one hand, something she rarely did to her husband.
'Now, Lewis. Don’t agitate yourself so.'
Catherine saw the quick exchange. So she
Roxby grinned. 'I’ll go and fetch a drink for meself' He shook his head. 'I don’t know. You women…' He walked away heavily, and Catherine watched as Nancy gestured for fresh tea. How different her life might have been had she been allowed time to fall in love with Richard’s young friend Martyn, when they had both been midshipmen together. Here, she had comfort and respect, and she did not have to lie awake at night listening to the wind or the boom of surf below the cliffs. But Nancy was a sea officer’s daughter, and the sister of England’s most famous living sailor. She might still have preferred that other life.
She saw Nancy look up, surprised. Roxby was coming back from the house, carrying a sealed envelope with a perplexed expression on his face. In those remaining seconds Catherine realised he had even neglected to bring himself the promised drink.
Nancy stood up. 'What is it?'
Roxby stared at them. 'Not sure, m’dear. It was sent to your house, Catherine. Special courier.'
Catherine felt her heart leap. Like a pain. Then she said, 'Let me see.' She took the envelope, seeing at a glance that it carried a crest which was vaguely familiar. But she did not recognise the handwriting.
Roxby had drawn close to his wife’s side and had put his arm around her shoulders. He could feel the tension like something hostile. An enemy.
Catherine looked up at both of them. 'It is from Valentine Keen’s father. He thought I should be told without any delay. Val and Zenoria’s child is dead. It was an accident. Suffocated.' The
