She came through the door, her dark hair almost touching the low beam. She seemed startled that there were so many customers, as if she were hardly aware of the time of day.
Some of the men stood up, or shuffled as though they would make the effort, and one or two voices called, “’Evenin’ to ’ee, m’lady.”
She held out her hand. “Please sit down. I am sorry…”
Unis reached her, and guided her to the small parlour. “You shouldn’t be out alone on this road, m’lady. ’Twill be dark soon. ’Tisn’t safe these days.”
Catherine sat and pulled off her gloves. “Tamara knows the way. I am always safe.” She took Unis’s hand impulsively. “I needed to come. To be with a friend. And you are that, Unis.”
Unis nodded, shocked by the quiet desperation in her voice. It did not seem possible. The admiral’s lady, a woman of courage as well as beauty, accepted even here where scandal, like sin, could be condemned openly every Sunday in church and chapel…
“None stronger, m’ lady.”
Catherine stood, and crossed to the cot. “Young Kate,” she said, and reached down to adjust the covering. Unis watched, and was oddly moved.
“Shall I make some tea, or maybe coffee? An’ I’ll see that someone rides with you when you go back to Falmouth. Five miles can be a long way on your own.”
Catherine barely heard her. She had rested very little since her return from London. There had been no letter waiting from Richard: anything might be happening. She had ridden to the adjoining estate to visit his sister, Nancy, and found Lewis Roxby very ill. Despite the stroke he had suffered, he had taken little heed of his doctors’ warnings. Without his hunting and his entertaining, and his hectic life as landowner, magistrate and squire, he could neither see nor accept any future as an invalid. Nancy had known: she had seen it in her eyes. Lewis was not merely ill this time; he was dying.
Catherine had sat with him, holding his hand while he had lain propped up in his bed, his head high enough for him to see the trees, and his stone folly, which was almost completed. His face had been grey, his grip without strength. But from time to time he had turned his head to look at her, as if to reassure her that the old Lewis Roxby was still there.
She had told him about London, but had not mentioned the unexpected settlement with which Luis’s estate had endowed her. Nor had she told him about her visit to Richard’s town house. The lawyer, Lafargue, had sent word to Belinda of her intended arrival, but her visiting card had been returned at the door, torn in two halves. But Belinda knew now that the house where she lavishly entertained, and lived in a style to which she had been unaccustomed before her marriage, was the property of the woman she hated. It would change nothing between them, but it might prevent her asking for more money. She would never admit to her circle of friends that she was living in a house owned by the one she had openly called a prostitute.
She heard herself say, “Something a little stronger, Unis. Some brandy, if you have any.”
Unis hurried to a cupboard. Was it possible, that there was no one else she could turn to now that Sir Richard was away? Perhaps Bryan Ferguson and his wife at the big grey house were too close, painful reminders of those others who were absent: Bolitho’s “little crew,” as she had heard John call them.
Catherine took the glass, wondering where the brandy had come from. Truro, or run ashore along this rocky and treacherous coast by freetraders in the dark of the moon?
Beyond the door, the conversation and laughter had resumed. It was something to relate to their wives when they finally reached their own homes.
Unis said gently, “When… I mean… if Sir Lewis gives up the fight… what will become of all that he’s worked for? Just the son of a local farmer, they tells me, and now look at him. A friend of the Prince himself, owner of all that land-will his son not take over?”
Now look at him. A grey, tired face. Every breath an effort.
“I believe that his son is making a name for himself in the City of London. Lewis wanted it. He was so proud of him, and of his daughter. There will be many changes, no matter what happens.”
She sat for some time in silence, thinking of the visit to the Admiralty, which had been her final task in London. Bethune had greeted her warmly, professing surprise at her arrival, and had offered to take her to a reception somewhere, and introduce her to some of his particular friends. She had declined. Even as she had sat in that familiar office, watching him, listening to him, she had sensed his genuine interest in her, the undeniable charm which might lead him into serious trouble if he became careless or over-confident in his affairs. He had been unable to give her any information about the war in North America, although she had suspected that he knew more than he was saying. On her last night in Chelsea she had lain awake on the bed, almost naked in the bright moonlight across the Thames, and had considered what might have happened if she had pleaded with Bethune to use all his influence, and his obvious affection and admiration for Richard, to enable him to be brought back to England. She had had little doubt what the price would have been. She had felt the sudden tears scalding her eyes. Could she have gone through with it? Given herself to another, whom instinct told her would have been kindness itself? She knew she could not have done it. There were no secrets between herself and Richard, so how could she have pretended with the man she loved?
To think that she could even consider such a bargain disgusted her. They called her a whore. Perhaps they were right.
Nor had she been able to tell Lewis what had happened after she had left Belinda’s house. In the square, she had seen the child walking with her governess. If the place had been crowded with a hundred children, she would still have known it was Elizabeth, Richard’s daughter. The same chestnut hair as her mother, the poise and confidence, so assured for one so young. She was eleven years old, and yet a woman.
“May I speak with you?” She had immediately sensed the governess’s hostility, but she had been totally unprepared when Elizabeth had turned to look up at her. That had been the greatest shock of all. Her eyes were Richard’s.
She had said calmly, “I am sorry. I do not know you, ma’am.” She had turned away, and walked on ahead of her companion.
What could I have expected? Hoped for? But all she could think of was the child’s eyes. Her contempt.
She stood up, listening. “I must leave. My horse…”
Unis saw her brother in the doorway. “What is it, John?”
But he was looking at the beautiful woman, her long riding habit torn in places where she had ridden carelessly, too close to the hedgerows.
“The church. The bell’s tolling.” Then, as though making a decision, “I can’t allow you to ride at this hour, m’ lady.”
She appeared not to hear him. “I must go. I promised Nancy.” She walked to the open window, and listened. The bell. An end of something. The beginning of what?
John had returned. “One of the keepers is here, m’ lady. He’ll ride with you.” He hesitated, and looked at his sister as if appealing to her. “Please. Sir Richard would insist, if he were here.”
She held out her hands to them. “I know.”
Some envied her, others hated her, and one at least feared her after her visit to the lawyer. She must not give way now. But without him I am nothing, have nothing.
She said, “I needed to be with friends, you see. Needed to be.”
Tamara was already outside the door, eager to leave.
Sir Lewis Roxby, Knight of the Hanoverian Guelphic Order and friend of the Prince Regent, was dead. She remembered his many bluff kindnesses, and particularly the day when, together, they had found Zenoria Keen’s body.
The King of Cornwall. So would he always remain.
11. A Warning
RICHARD BOLITHO and Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen stood side by side and stared out across the crowded anchorage of Halifax harbour.
