to Unis for him. But not about this. It was something he could not talk about through another man's pen.
Ozzard came back, frowning.
Allday tried to shrug it off. 'Did I ever tell you about the time when me an' Sir Richard was fighting them Barbary pirates, Tom?'
'Yes.' He relented slightly, and Allday thought he had felt it, too. 'But spin it again, if you like.'
'The sea's face is fair enough today.'
The two women stood side by side by the old stile at the beginning of the cliff path and looked out across Falmouth Bay. The surface of the sea was unbroken, but heaving gently in the sunlight, as if it were breathing.
Catherine glanced at her companion, Richard's youngest sister, Nancy. She was looking better than expected. In life, her husband Lewis had been too large to ignore; in death, perhaps his strength was still her support.
Catherine ran her palm over the stile, the step and beams polished by countless hands and feet. How many had paused there to rest and reflect, as she had often done? She looked along the winding cliff path, hardly used nowadays. She rarely walked there, and certainly never alone, not since Zenoria's fall from Trystan's Leap.
Nancy said gently, 'Never fear, you'll have a letter soon from him.'
'I know. He never forgets. It is like hearing his voice.' She brushed some hair from her eyes. 'Tell me, Nancy. How are your affairs progressing?'
Nancy smiled at the change of subject. This tall, beautiful woman had become dear to her, had helped her through the grief of Lewis's final days and immediately after his death. A woman known and admired, envied and hated, who, with her brother, had defied every convention to proclaim their love. The hero and his lady. Lewis, too, had always admired her, and had made no secret of it. He had always had an eye for women. She stopped her thoughts, like closing a door.
The lawyers from London are still at the house. Lewis's affairs were in good order, despite what I may say were his occasional extravagances. They will arrange for someone to manage the estate, at least until the children become involved.' She shook her head. 'Children. Hardly that any more!'
They turned away from the stile. Catherine could remember him holding her beside it, the need of one for the other, after a reunion, or before another separation.
She said, Two weeks since he left. It will be three soon. I try to see his ship in my mind, where she is, what they may be doing.' She shrugged. The Mediterranean… where we first met. Did you know that, Nancy?'
She shook her head. 'Only that you lost one another soon afterwards. That he did tell me.' She smiled, as though remembering. To think what he has become, in the navy, and to this country, and he remains uncertain of himself in many ways.' She added with sudden emphasis, 'I'll be thankful when he comes home.' She touched Catherine's arm. 'And stays here.'
They turned towards the gentle slope which led down to the old grey house and its attendant cottages, so that the headland seemed to screen them from the murmur of the sea, its constant presence.
It would seem different to Nancy, daughter of a sailor, from a family of sailors, sister of Falmouth 's most famous son and England 's naval hero. Born and raised here with these people of the sea around her, the courageous fishermen who ventured out in all weathers to supply the tables of manor house and cottage alike. The coasters and the famous Falmouth packet ships, who sailed with the tide in peace or war. Nancy had grown up with them and their tradition.
She felt Nancy hesitate as she saw the carriage waiting in the stable yard. Perhaps their meeting and walk together had made her forget, if only for a moment. But now she would be driven back to that huge house with its folly, another of Lewis's little indulgences.
How empty it must seem now. I count the days and weeks. But-Nancy will never have even a letter to sustain her.
Nancy said, 'You have a visitor.'
Catherine stared past the carriage, aware of her painful heartbeat. There was no other vehicle, no horse to denote some courier, or messenger from Plymouth. But she could see somebody inside the estate office, in dark clothing, his back towards her, and she heard Ferguson 's sudden laugh. Perhaps he had sensed her return and was trying to reassure her. What would she do without him and without Grace? The link with Bolitho's earlier life, which she could never share.
Nancy said, 'I'll wait a moment. Just to be sure.'
Her protective caution made Catherine grip her arm.
'I am always safe, dear Nancy!'
Then, as she walked into the yard, the man with Ferguson turned and faced her. Uncertain, anxious, but, as ever, determined.
She quickened her pace. 'Rear-Admiral Herrick! I had no idea you were in Cornwall, or in England, for that matter. I am pleased to see you.' She half turned, ashamed that she had offered her right hand when Herrick's pinned-up sleeve should have reminded her. She said, This is Lady Roxby, Richard's sister.'
Herrick bowed stiffly. 'We met but briefly, ma'am. Some years ago.'
Nancy smiled at him. 'We met seldom, but through my brother you have always been a part of us.'
She allowed her coachman to help her into the carriage. 'Please call and see me again, Catherine. Soon.' She glanced briefly at Herrick. Like an unspoken question.
Catherine took Herrick into the house. Someone she should know so well, and yet he was still a stranger.
'Please be seated, and I shall fetch you something cool. Some wine, perhaps?'
He sat down carefully and looked around the room. 'Some ginger beer if you have it, my lady. Or cider.'
She regarded him steadily. 'No titles today. I am Catherine let it be so.'
Grace Ferguson peered in at them. 'Why, 'tis Rear-Admiral Herrick! I scarce recognised you without your fine uniform!'
Catherine turned. She herself had not truly noticed. Perhaps it had been the surprise, or relief that he was not some courier bearing the news she dreaded.
Herrick said awkwardly, 'I am still of that rank, in name, in any case.' He waited for the housekeeper to leave them, and added, 'I am sent to Cornwall by their lordships.'
She watched him, his struggle to share something with her. He was not attempting to be secretive or superior, like other men she had known; he was simply unused to confiding his thoughts to any one. Perhaps only with his beloved wife Dulcie had he ever been able to do so.
His blue eyes were as clear as ever, but his hair was completely grey, and there were sharp lines at the corners of his mouth which deepened, she thought with pain, when he sat, or, as now, when he leaned forward to accept the proffered glass. Richard had told her some of it, how Herrick had been captured and had had his hand savagely smashed, to destroy forever his ability to 'lift a sword for the King'. When he had been rescued, they had discovered that the wound had already succumbed to gangrene. The ship's surgeon had taken off his arm.
Most of all she remembered Bolitho's pride, his love for this stubborn, unyielding, courageous man. She sat opposite him and watched him drink the ginger beer.
She said, 'Richard is at sea.'
He nodded. 'I know, my… Catherine. I heard something of it. I guessed the rest.'
She waited. If she spoke now, Herrick would lose his sudden confidence. Or perhaps it was trust.
'I will never get another sea appointment. I did think I would be put out to grass, especially after the Reaper affair.' He looked around again. 'I have always remembered this place, and this room. I walked up from the town just now, as I did all those years ago. I was here when Richard's father was still alive, when he gave him the old sword. Over yonder, by the library door. And again, when we came back from the Indies… Richard's father was dead by then.'
She turned involuntarily as if she would see them, saw only Captain James Bolitho's unsmiling portrait. He, too, had lost an arm.
'I have been in Plymouth. I am appointed to the revenue service here.' He smiled briefly, and she saw him as he must once have been. 'So dress uniform is hardly appropriate for such a popular and respected commission.'
She thought of Nancy again; she had often mentioned the folklore of local smugglers, the 'gentlemen', as Tom the coast guard had called them. Richard had always spoken harshly of them, and of their brutal trade.
'Will it suit you, Thomas?'
She saw him flinch at the use of his name, as she had known he would.
