as he chose. But he would have to go to Falmouth soon himself, to be with the others when Sir Richard received his final instructions. His little crew, as he called them. Avery thought it was dangerously close to being a family.
Arthur Crowe, the tailor, peered up to him. “Is everything satisfactory, sir? I shall have the other garments sent to you immediately they are ready.” Polite, almost humble. Rather different from their first meeting. Crowe had seemed about to offer some critical comment on Avery’s uniform, which had been made by the Falmouth tailor, Joshua Miller. Just another impoverished luff, at thirty-five, old for his rank, and therefore probably under a cloud of some sort, doomed to remain a lieutenant until dismissal or death settled the matter. Avery had silenced the unspoken criticism by a casual mention of his admiral’s name, and the fact that the Millers had been making uniforms for the Bolithos for generations.
He nodded. “Very satisfactory.” His gaze shifted to the bright epaulette on his right shoulder. It would take some getting used to. A solitary epaulette on the right shoulder had formerly been the mark of rank for a captain, not posted, but a captain for all that. Their Lordships, apparently at the insistence of the Prince Regent, had changed it. The solitary epaulette now signified the rank of lieutenant, at least until some new fashion was approved.
The room darkened, and he imagined that the sky was clouding over again. But it was a carriage, which had stopped in the street directly opposite the window: a very elegant vehicle in deep blue, with some sort of crest on the panels. A footman had climbed down and was lowering the step. It had not been lost on the tailor: he was hurrying to his door and opening it, admitting the bitter air from the street.
Curious, Avery thought, that in all the shops he had seen there appeared to be no shortages, as if war with France and the new hostilities with America were on another planet.
He watched absently as a woman emerged from the carriage.
She wore a heavy, high-waisted coat almost the same colour as the paintwork, and her face was partly hidden by the deep brim of her bonnet as she looked down for the edge of the pavement.
Arthur Crowe bowed stiffly, his tape measure hanging around his neck like a badge of office.
“What a pleasure to see you again, my lady, on this fine brisk morning!”
Avery smiled privately. Crowe obviously made a point of knowing those who mattered, and those who did not.
He thought of Catherine Somervell, wondering if she had persuaded Bolitho to patronize this prosperous street.
Then he swung away, his mind reeling, the new epaulette, the shop, everything fading like fragments of a dream.
The door closed, and he barely dared to turn round.
Crowe said, “If you are certain I can provide nothing more, Mr Avery?”
Avery faced the door. The tailor was alone. Crowe asked, “Is something wrong, sir?”
“That lady.” He made himself look, but even the carriage had gone. Another fragment. “I thought I knew her.”
Crowe watched his assistant parcelling up the new boat-cloak Avery had purchased. “Her husband was a good customer. We were sorry to lose him, although not always an easy man to satisfy.” He seemed to realize that it was not the answer Avery had wanted. “Lady Mildmay. The wife, or should I say, the widow, of Vice-Admiral Sir Robert Mildmay.”
It was she. Except that when he had last seen her, she had been only the wife of his captain in the old Canopus.
Crowe prompted, “Was that the lady of your acquaintance?”
“I think I was mistaken.” He picked up his hat. “Please have the other purchases delivered to the address I gave you.”
No arguments, no hesitation. Sir Richard Bolitho’s name opened many doors.
He walked out into the street, glad to be moving again. Why should he care? Why did it matter so much? She had been unreachable then, when he had been stupid enough to believe it was more than just an amusing game to her, a passing flirtation.
Had she changed? He had caught a glimpse of her hair, honey-coloured; how many days, how many sleepless nights he had tried to forget it. Perhaps she had been part of the reason he had not resisted when his uncle, then Sir Paul Sillitoe, had suggested that he offer himself for the position of flag lieutenant to Sir Richard Bolitho. He had expected his application to be refused as soon as Bolitho had learned more about him. Instead, he had never forgotten that day in Falmouth, in the old house he had come to know so well, their kindness to him, the trust, and eventually the friendship which had done so much to heal the doubts and the injuries of the past. He had thought little more beyond the next voyage, the next challenge, even though it took him to the cannon’s mouth yet again.
And now, this. It had been a shock. He had deluded himself. What chance would he have had? A married woman, and the wife of his own captain? It would have been like putting a pistol to his head.
Was she still as beautiful? She was two years older than himself, maybe more. She had been so alive, so vivacious. After the slur of the court martial, and then being marooned on the old Canopus, he thought until the end of his service, she had been like a bright star: he had not been the only officer who had been captivated. He quickened his pace, and halted as someone said, “Thank you, sir!”
There were two of them. Once they had been soldiers; they even wore the tattered remnants of their red coats. One was blind, and held his head at an angle as though he were trying to picture what was happening. The other had only one arm, and was clutching a hunk of bread which had obviously been handed to him by a pot-boy from the nearby coffee-house. It had probably been left on someone’s plate.
The blind man asked, “What is it, Ted?”
The other said, “Bit o’ bread. Don’t worry. We might get lucky.”
Avery could not control his disgust. He should have been used to it, but he was not. He had once come to blows with another lieutenant who had taunted him about his sensitivity.
He said sharply, “You there!” and realized that his anger and dismay had put an uncharacteristic edge to his voice. The one-armed man even cowered, but stood protectively between the officer and his blind companion.
Avery said, “I am sorry.” He was reminded suddenly of Adam Bolitho, and the presentation sword he had sold. “Take this.” He thrust some money into the grimy hand. “Have something hot to eat.”
He turned away, annoyed that such things could still move and trouble him.
He heard the blind man ask, “Who was that, Ted?”
The reply was barely audible above the clatter of wheels and harness.
“A gentleman. A true gentleman.”
How many were there like that? How many more would there be? Probably soldiers from a line regiment, maybe two of Wellington ’s men: shoulder to shoulder, facing French cavalry and artillery. Living from battle to battle, until luck changed sides and turned on them.
Those around him did not realize what it was like, and would never believe that either he or his admiral could still be moved by such pitiful reminders of the cost of war. Like that moment in Indomitable ’s cabin after Adam’s ship had been lost, and a single survivor had been dragged from the sea by the brig Woodpecker, which, against orders, had returned to the scene. That survivor had been the ship’s boy. Avery had watched Bolitho bring the child back to life with his compassion, even as he had endeavoured to discover what had happened to Adam.
Avery had once believed that his own suffering had left him indifferent to the fate of others. Bolitho had convinced him otherwise.
Somewhere a clock chimed: St James’s, Piccadilly, he thought. He had passed it without noticing it. He looked back, but the two redcoats had gone. Like ghosts, momentarily released from some forgotten field of battle.
“Why, Mister Avery! It is you.”
He stared at her, vaguely aware that she was standing in the doorway of a perfumery, with a prettily wrapped box in her arms.
It was as if the street had emptied, and, like the two ghosts, had lost all identity.
He hesitated, and removed his hat, saw her eyes move over his face, and, no doubt, he thought bitterly, the dark hair which was so thickly streaked with grey. This was the moment he had lived in his dreams, when he would sting her with sarcasm and contempt, and punish her in a way she could never forget.
She wore a fur muff on one hand, and the parcel was in danger of falling. He said abruptly, “Let me assist you,”
