He saw Allday turn as Catherine Somervell came from the house and stood for a moment in the bright sunshine. Her long, dark hair hung straight down her spine, and she wore a gown the colour of fresh cream. She shaded her eyes while she turned to speak with one of the stable-boys, her ready smile revealing nothing of her emotions.
Allday watched her and waited for her to notice him. She made a beautiful picture, he thought, and he guessed she had taken great care of her appearance. The sun glinted on the pendant Bolitho had given her, the diamond fan hung low on her breast, like pride, like defiance, like the sailor's woman she was.
When he had last visited the house he had seen them together, in her own garden by the wall. They had been holding one another, and had not seen him. Allday had left without a word. It had been too private, a moment which he could not share.
Afterwards, he had recalled the words he had used to describe Captain Adam Bolitho and the girl who had thrown herself from the cliffs. They looked so right together. He could have been speaking of Sir Richard and his lady.
He realised that she was looking at him and felt strangely guilty.
She came to him and took his big hands in hers.
Take good care, John.' For the merest instant, he had seen her mouth quiver. 'And look after my man for me, will you?' She was in control again.
Then she turned and saw the horses being backed into position, Young Matthew speaking to them, careful not to catch her eye. In his quiet way, he too would know how she felt; he had driven them before when they were to be parted, just as he had driven her to the harbour when Bolitho had returned home after leaving Indomitable at Plymouth.
She stepped among the roses and chose one, then held it to her face. A perfect red rose, one of the earliest. There would be many more before long, when he was far away from here.
She saw him on the steps now, the house at his back, as he might remember it. He looked rested, his face showing no sign of strain or uncertainty. Her man, youthful again. No wonder people thought he and Adam were brothers, although Richard himself would dispute any such foolish notion.
He came down the steps, carrying his hat, the old sword hanging against his hip, where she had been, where her head had lain. He saw the rose, and took it from her.
'So much a part of you, Kate.' He hesitated, as if suddenly aware of the silent figures nearby. 'It is better this way.'
She touched his shirt, and felt her locket underneath.
'I shall remove it when we lie together again, dearest of men.'
Gently, he placed the rose in her gown, above her breasts.
He said, 'It is time.' He glanced around, but Allday had already climbed into the carriage, leaving them alone but sharing it, as always.
She saw him press his fingers to his eye as he faced into the sunlight, but he shook his head as he sensed her concern. 'It is nothing.' Then he held her hands tightly. 'Compared with this, nothing else signifies.'
She caressed his face and smiled at him. 'I am so proud of you, Richard. And these people too, they all love you and will miss you.' Then she said, 'Kiss me, Richard. Here. We are alone in every other sense.'
Then she stepped back and gave him another smile. 'Now, Richard.'
It took an age, an eternity, until at last the carriage moved through the gates. Somebody gave a cheer, and Catherine heard someone else sobbing quietly. Grace Ferguson, who had been a part of it all from the beginning.
She clutched the rose against her skin and waved with her free hand. She could scarcely see now, and yet she was determined that he would remember her like this and feel no despair and no guilt for his departure. When she looked again, the road was empty. She stared blindly at the stables and saw her big mare Tamara tossing her head over the door. She felt her resolve weakening; she would ride after him, hold him again once more.
She heard Grace Ferguson exclaim, 'My lady! My lady, you've cut yourself!'
Catherine glanced down at her breast where she had been pressing the rose; she had felt nothing. She touched the skin with her fingers and looked at the blood.
'No, Grace, it is my heart which bleeds.' Then and only then did she give in, to bury her face against the other woman's shoulder.
Ferguson waited and watched in silence. When the others had all drifted away the two women remained standing together in the sunlight. Only their shadow moved, when quite suddenly Catherine touched his wife's arm without speaking and walked slowly away towards the house, the bloodied rose still held against her breast like a talisman.
James Tyacke opened a window slightly and stared down at the busy street. Portsmouth, called by some the heart of the British Navy, and a place which had been so familiar to him as a young lieutenant, seemed completely different. He knew, in truth, that he was the one who had changed.
He had chosen this small boarding house on Portsmouth Point partly because he had stayed here before, and because he knew it would afford him some peace over the next few days, before he went to the dockyard to take command of Frobisher. He could still scarcely believe he had abandoned his decision to return to the slave coast with so little hesitation.
He watched the jostling crowds of sailors and marines, the trusted men who were unlikely to desert, and had been allowed ashore. In peace or war, it was every captain's main concern that he might be left too short of hands to work his ship out of harbour.
He had seen for himself the mass of shipping at Spithead, the misty hump of the Isle of Wight beyond. Familiar, and yet so alien. He sighed. When would he accept it? He had no past, and his future was only today and tomorrow. It had to be enough.
The owner of the boarding house had obviously been surprised to number a post- captain among his guests, and had done everything he could to make Tyacke welcome. He was a small goblin of a man, completely bald, who wore an outdated and shabby wig, usually somewhat awry and, Tyacke thought, not properly athwart ships There was an unspoken etiquette in naval circles as to where sea officers should lodge. Senior officers stayed at the George in the High Street, where a room had already been reserved for Sir Richard Bolitho when he arrived from Cornwall. Lieutenants and the like used the Fountain further down the street, and the 'young roosters', the midshipmen of the fleet, frequented the Blue Posts, famous for its rabbit pie, if rabbit it was.
Here, too, on the Point, separated only from the respectable properties by the same rules which governed the teeming world of a ship of the line, were lodging houses, some so squalid that it was a wonder they had not been burned down; tailors, pawnbrokers and moneylenders; and narrow lanes where the ladies of the town paraded their wares, and were rarely lacking in customers. It was so often the last place a sailor would see or snatch a moment to enjoy himself, before weighing anchor and sailing perhaps to the other side of the world, often never to return.
He thought of Lieutenant George Avery; he would be arriving soon in Portsmouth if he was not already here. Another who had chosen uncertainty instead of a life ashore. For some reason, Tyacke was pleased that Avery had made the decision to join them.
And there was the ship. He had studied her details, which the Admiralty had made available to him in their weighty folder of orders and sailing instructions. A strange ship, without familiar faces, so he would start from the beginning once more. Indomitable had taught him that he could do it, and much more besides.
All the way to Portsmouth, he had gone through the folder. He had travelled alone. It was still difficult to accept that he was wealthy, by his own standards, as the result of slave bounty still trickling through the Admiralty channels, and prize money which he had gained under Bolitho. He touched his burned face. His own coach. And, had he wanted it, he could have taken a room at the George.
He closed the window and sat down. The ship. If he could get through the next two days, he knew he could take the next all-important step. From a commander of a schooner and a lowly brig to Indomitable, and now Frobisher, a ship of the line. And all because of one man. I would serve no other.
He thought of Bolitho's Catherine, and wondered how she would deal with this new appointment so soon after Bolitho's return from Halifax. He was certain that Bolitho would not bring her to Portsmouth. Crowds, cheers and mindless well-wishers. What would they know of the cost of separation?
Tyacke looked at his open chest. Another journey. This time, how might it end?
