somebody else? It's hard, but we don't expect things to change, not overnight.'
She touched his shoulder again. 'You'll never change. I'd not want you to. I'd know you were pretending, putting up with it, just for me an' Kate. She's taken a real shine to you since you got back.'
She turned away, remembering the surprise and hurt he had shown when the child had gone to her brother John, as if he, her own father, was a stranger. It took time. But now he would be going away again. And she must face it.
She thought of Lady Catherine, that day when she had seen her waiting on the harbour quay at Falmouth, watching the little fleet schooner Pickle picking up her moorings, Bolitho coming home. And her own man had been with him, as always. Catherine, so brave, so defiant in the face of all the scandal and the cruel gossip. She would take it badly.
There were voices in the yard, and she said brightly, 'The fish man. I asked him to stop by.' She wiped her hands on her apron. 'I'll deal with him.'
Alone again with Allday, Ferguson said, 'She's a marvel, John.'
'I knows it.' He looked around as if he were searching for something. 'I'll go and put up some ale. It'll not take a minute. You sit there and finish your wet. I needs to think awhile.'
Ferguson sighed. Next thing, Allday would be up at the house on some pretext or other, just to speak with Sir Richard, to tell him he would be ready.
He looked round, startled by a thud and something like a cough. He went quickly into the adjoining room, a cool place where the casks were stowed, ready to be tapped and moved to their trestles. One cask, a four-and-a-half- gallon pin, was lying against the wall. Allday sat with his back to it, his hands to his chest, his breathing loud and uneven, like a man dragged from the sea.
Ferguson knelt and put his arm around him.
'Easy, John! That damned wound again!' He watched his friend struggle for breath and wondered how long it had been like this. When Allday turned his head, he was shocked to see that his face was quite pale, grey beneath the weathered tan.
He said, 'I'll fetch Unis.'
Allday shook his head and gritted his teeth. 'No! Stay with me!' He nodded heavily, and took a deep breath. 'It's goin'. I'll be all right.'
Ferguson watched the colour returning to his rugged face, the breathing becoming more even.
Allday allowed him to help him to his feet, and then said thickly, 'Not a word, mind. It comes an' goes.' He tried to grin. 'See? Bright as a bullock's bayonet!'
Ferguson shook his head, resigned. He was beaten; he should have known. Allday and Bolitho, like master and faithful dog, someone had once said, each fearful for the other.
Together, they lifted the cask on to its trestle, and Allday said, 'I needs something stronger than ale, an' that's no error!'
Unis found them sitting by the unlit fire, her husband holding a taper for his friend's clay pipe as if they had not a care in the world. She bit her lip to contain her despair. It was all a show, for her sake. Like the new cask on its trestle. The rest she could guess.
Ferguson said, 'Must be getting back. I have to look at the books.' Allday followed him out to the yard, and watched as he swung himself up on to the seat.
He said, simply, 'Thanks, Bryan.' He stared across the fields to the glint of the river beyond the trees. 'You weren't there, see. Sir Richard, a full admiral, the finest ever, leading our boarders across on to that bloody renegade's deck like some wild lieutenant! You should have been there. To me. Indoms!' He shook his shaggy head. 'I could never leave him now.'
He raised one hand and grinned. It was one of the saddest things Ferguson had ever seen.
And one of the bravest.
Richard Bolitho sat in the corner of the carriage and stared out at the crowds and the horses, vehicles of every size jostling for position with apparent disregard for one another.
Despite the warm evening, he was wearing his boat cloak to conceal his uniform and rank. In the frenzied aftermath of Napoleon's surrender, any such reminder brought cheers and mobbing from ordinary people who had probably never displayed such emotion for any but Nelson.
A long day; a very long day. First Bethune, and then a meeting with the First Lord and his senior advisers. Napoleon had been sent into exile on the island of Elba; the giant who had raped a continent was to be marooned, forgotten. Even as the First Lord had said it, Bolitho had questioned the wisdom of the decision. It was like trying to cage a lion in an aviary, and it was too close, too close… The First Lord had spoken at length of the American war, and of Bolitho's participation with the squadron under his command. The Americans were being starved of trade due to the activity of the British squadrons, and the chain of command from Halifax to the Caribbean. Little short of a thousand American merchant ships had been captured, and, with France no longer a drain on the navy's resources, more men-of-war could now be sent to seal the last gaps in the blockade.
The First Lord had finished by saying that no war could be won by stalemate. An example must be made, a ready warning for the future.
Bethune had been watching Bolitho, and had tossed in some comment on the American attack on York.
The First Lord was old but he was no fool, and he had recognised in this Bethune's attempt to distract him.
'What do you think, Sir Richard? I know you hold advanced ideas on the war at sea, and I heard you myself say in this very building that the line of battle was, or should be, a thing of the past?'
Bolitho turned his head and saw the Thames, and the lucid glow which would promise a fine sunset.
'I'll stand by that, my lord. I also believe that a desire for revenge is no good reason for prolonging a war which neither side can hope to win.'
Even then, he had believed that some kind of attack was being planned. Now, during this slow journey from the Admiralty to Chelsea, with time to go over it again in his mind, he was certain of it. Sir Alexander Cochrane had taken over the station; a man of action in every sense, but hardly a peacemaker.
Alone with Bethune, he had asked about Valentine Keen and about his nephew. Bethune had replied cautiously, 'Rear-Admiral Keen will return to England this year. His flagship will more than likely be paid off.' He had looked up from his desk, and for an instant Bolitho had seen the midshipman again. There were only a few years between them, and beneath the charm and the confidence Bethune was much the same. Above all, he was honest. Loyal. 'I am certain that your nephew will find employment even with the fleet reduced, as it certainly will be.'
'He is probably the best frigate captain we have. To be put on the beach after what he has done and endured would be intolerable.'
It must have been at that moment that Bethune had come to his decision.
He had said, 'We are good friends, Richard, and I regret that our paths have crossed only rarely.' He had shrugged lightly. 'As is the way of our calling. I have never forgotten that I have owed everything to you, from the moment you took command of Sparrow. And there have been many like me, who gained everything from that contact with you.'
'And there were many who fell because of it, Graham.'
He had shaken his head, dismissing it. 'We shall see the First Lord again when he returns from his audience with the Prince Regent. Their meetings are usually brief.' He paused, and the smile was gone. 'I have to tell you that the First Lord will offer you Malta, will insist that you are the obvious choice for it. Until the peace is finally agreed amongst the Allies, the Mediterranean must serve as a reminder to friends and foes alike that no further territorial claims on land or at sea will be tolerated.' He had watched Bolitho then in silence. 'I thought you should hear it first from me.'
'That was good of you, Graham.' He had glanced around the spacious room. 'But it can be dangerous here, also, so be warned!'
He rapped the roof of the carriage, and said, 'I shall walk from here.'
The coachman in his Admiralty livery barely glanced down from the box. Perhaps he had become too used to the ways of senior officers to question any whim.
He walked beside the river. Kate's London. She had made it his London now, or this small part of it, at least.
What shall I say? What must I tell her?
