For My Country’s Freedom

captain of some stature, with

many prizes and successes to his credit, they might decide to keep him, if only in a mood of self- congratulation.'

'Or perhaps to goad his uncle into some reckless action?'

'Has he written to that effect, my lady?'

'You know him, do you not? You should not need to ask me.'

He smiled and refilled her glass. 'True.'

Then he said, 'I hope you will do me the honour of allowing me to escort you to a reception.' He hurried on, as if he already knew that she would refuse. 'Sir Paul Sillitoe, whom I believe you know, wishes to celebrate his new title. He goes to the House of Lords shortly. He will be a powerful adversary there, by God.'

Is a powerful adversary, she thought. 'I cannot be certain, Sir Graham.' She smiled faintly. 'Would not your reputation be a trifle smudged by me?'

He looked away, and for only an instant she saw the freckled midshipman.

It was quickly past. 'I would relish your company, Lady Somervell.'

She said, 'The rain is finished, and here comes the sun. I worship it, despite what it once tried to do to us.'

He nodded gravely. 'The Golden Plover, yes, I understand. May I enquire as to your plans for the remainder of the day?'

She faced him, unmoved by the hint in his tone.

'I shall interview a new personal maid, Sir Graham. But first, I must go to St James’s.'

'The palace, my lady?'

She held out her gloved hand and felt him lingering over it. Then she laughed. 'No, the wine shop, of course!'

Long after a servant had accompanied her downstairs, Bethune stood staring after her.

His secretary entered and placed some papers on the desk.

He said, 'There is bad news, Sir Graham.' He waited patiently for his lord and master to notice him.

Bethune asked, 'Did you see her, man?' He seemed to realise what his secretary had said. 'What news?'

'Not confirmed, Sir Graham, but we have received a despatch concerning our frigate Guerriиre of 38 guns, which was overwhelmed and captured by the U.S.S. Constitution after a fight lasting only two hours.'

Bethune stood up again and walked to his window. 'You are a melancholy fellow, Saunders. You make it sound both trivial and disgraceful in the same breath. Only two hours, you say? I have endured just such a trivial amount of time!' He swung away from the window. 'Believe me, it is like hell.'

'As you say, Sir Graham.'

He dismissed the unctuous insincerity, recalling instead Bolitho’s voice in this very building, and the disbelief, even amusement in the room when the role of the fixed line of battle had been criticised. They might think differently now. A frigate was already reported missing in the Caribbean. With Anemone destroyed and now Guerriиre beaten and captured so easily, some might remember Bolitho’s words.

He looked out of the window again, but her carriage had gone.

Then he smiled, picked up Catherine’s half-empty glass and put his lips where hers had been.

Aloud he said, 'We shall see!'

By the time Catherine reached Chelsea the sky had cleared, and the houses along the Thames embankment were basking in brilliant sunshine once more. Young Matthew lowered the step and offered his hand to assist her, his eyes everywhere like a watchful terrier.

'I’ll put the wine in the house once I’ve taken care of the horses, m’lady'

She stopped by the steps and looked at him. 'You hate London, don’t you, Matthew?'

He grinned sheepishly. 'Not used to it, m’lady-that’s all, I suppose.'

She smiled. 'Only until next week. Then we shall go home to Falmouth.'

Matthew watched her open the front door and sighed. She was doing too much, taking too much on herself. Just like him.

Catherine pushed open the door and stopped dead in the entrance hall. There was a gold-laced hat on the hall table. Like Richard’s.

The new girl, Lucy, came bustling from beneath the stairs, wiping her mouth with her hand, flustered by her mistress’s unexpected return.

'Sorry, m’lady-I should have been here, ready like.'

Catherine barely heard her. 'Who is here?' It could not be. He would have let her know somehow. If only…

Lucy glanced at the hat, unaware of its significance. 'He said you wouldn’t mind, m’lady. He said he would leave his card if you didn’t come, otherwise he’d wait in the garden.'

She asked, 'Who?'

Lucy was a decent girl; she had been recommended by Nancy. But another Sophie she was not. Good in the house and as a personal maid, but slow and sometimes maddening in her inability to think for herself.

Catherine brushed past her and walked blindly down the passage to the garden door.

Valentine Keen was standing by the wall in profile to her, only his hand moving as he stroked the neighbour’s cat. Unfamiliar in his rear-admiral’s uniform, his fair hair bleached almost white from the African sun.

Only when he heard her footstep on the terrace did he turn, and she saw the change in him: deep shadows beneath his eyes, the harsh lines around his mouth which even a smile failed to erase.

She said, 'Dear Val, I’m so glad you waited. I had no idea.' She clasped him in her arms. 'How long have you been back?'

He held her tightly, with affection or desperation; it could have been either.

'A few days ago. I came to Portsmouth. I was told you were in London. I thought, I must see her.'

The words seemed to jerk out of him, but she did not interrupt. Who could have told him she was in London?

Arm in arm, they walked around the small garden with the sounds of London beyond the wall.

She said, 'You should be careful of that cat. He uses his claws when you play with him.'

Keen looked at her searchingly 'Your letter was such a help to me. I wish it had not fallen on your shoulders.' He swallowed hard. 'She was buried in Zennor. How so? You must not mind my asking. I still cannot accept it.'

She said gently, 'There was no proof of suicide, Val. It may have been an accident. The church could not begrudge her a grave in her own parish churchyard.'

'I see.'

Catherine thought of the reluctant curate. The bishop had been signalling his disapproval because it was rumoured that the girl had taken her own life.

'The magistrate was very definite. Her death resulted from misadventure. It is small comfort, I know, but she rests in peace.'

Roxby had been the magistrate, otherwise…

'And you were there. I should have known you would be.'

She waited, knowing what was coming next.

He asked, 'Were some of my family at Zennor when she was buried?'

'There were flowers. Do not feel bitter about it. There was grief enough, I expect.'

He did not reply. He was going over it again and again. Try-

ing to understand the reasons, trying to assemble the truth, even if he could never accept it.

He said, 'I loved her so. Even she never knew how much.'

'I think she did, Val.'

'I must go there and see the grave. As soon as I have dealt with things here.' He looked at her, his face drawn, as though grief had made him ill. 'Will you come with me, Catherine? To that church where we were married?'