Richard.” She repeated, “Because of me.”
“And do you think I care what people say about me? What they have always been careful to conceal to my face?
Power is like a fine blade-you must always use it with care, and for the right purpose!”
A bell was ringing somewhere, another visitor. But she could not move.
It had been wrong, stupid, to allow herself to become dependent on this hard, remote man. And yet she had known it was there. As at St Paul ’s, when he had risked the stares and the condemnation.
She said softly, “You should have married someone suitable.”
He smiled. “I did. Or I thought she suited. But she went with another. Greener pastures, I believe it is called.”
He said it without anger or emotion, as though it were something forgotten. Or was that, too, another form of defence? There were voices now, probably the secretary Marlow or one of his burly servants.
He put his hand on her arm and held it, and she watched, detached, as if she were watching someone else.
She said, “Would you have me as your mistress, my lord?”
She lifted her eyes and looked at him. Angry, wanting to hurt this unreachable man.
He took her other arm and turned her towards him, holding her only inches away.
“As I said before, Catherine. As my wife. I can give you the security you need and deserve. I loved you at a distance, and sometimes I fought against it. So now it is said.”
She did not resist as he pulled her against him, did not even flinch when he touched her hair and her skin. A voice was screaming, what is the matter with you? But all she could see was the damaged door. Whore.
She whispered, “No. Please don’t.”
He held her away and studied her face, feature by feature.
“Come with me on this last duty, Catherine. Then I will know.” He tried to smile. “And so will the Prince Regent!”
Again it came to her. When she had met Richard at Antigua, so long ago, it seemed, she had told him that he needed love, as the desert craves for rain. She had been describing herself.
She thought of all the rare, precious times they had spent together. As one. And the endless waiting in between. And the finality.
Don’t leave me.
But there was no reply.
John Allday rested against the iron railings at the top of the jetty, so well-worn throughout the years that they were quite smooth, and stared across the crowded anchorage. One of the local carriers had given him a ride into Falmouth; he would doubtless be calling at the inn later on for some free ale.
Allday was glad he had come. It was something he could not explain to Unis, to anybody. It was probably bad for him, holding on to the past. Was it that?…
She was a frigate of some thirty-eight guns, although he had noticed that some of her ports were empty, as if her main armament had been cut down for some reason. She was named Kestrel, and even without a glass he had seen her figurehead, the spread wings and curved beak. As if it were alive. He did not know the ship, and that troubled him. Before long, there would be many more ships coming and leaving which were strangers to him, in name and reputation. No reminders.
He studied the frigate with a critical eye. A fine-looking vessel, freshly painted, and her furled or brailed-up canvas all new from the sailmakers. There were few local craft around her, so she was not in Falmouth to take on stores. He had heard someone say that Kestrel was already armed and provisioned, in readiness for a long voyage. Not Biscay or the Mediterranean this time; somewhere far away, perhaps. There were scarlet uniforms at the gangways and forecastle; her captain was taking no chances on last-minute desertions. A change of heart caused by the news of more advances across the Channel, the end finally in sight. But the navy would still be needed. And there would always be deserters.
He heard some old sailors discussing the ship, their voices
loud, as if they wanted to be noticed. In a moment they would
try to draw him into it.
He moved a few paces along the jetty, and looked down at the water lapping over the stone stairs which had seen so many thousands arrive and depart. It was as if his life had begun here, when he had been taken aboard Bolitho’s frigate Phalarope. With Bryan Ferguson, and some others who had not been quick enough to avoid a landing party. An unlikely way to begin something so strong. It was not as if he had been a green recruit; he had served in the fleet before. He frowned and glanced down at his good blue coat with the buttons which Bolitho had had made for him. The Bolitho crest, for an admiral’s coxswain. He sighed. And friend. Unis was doing all she could to make his life comfortable. She gave him encouragement, and she gave him love. And there was little Kate. He recalled how pleased Lady Catherine had been when she had heard their decision to name her Kate. The same name Sir Richard used for her.
And now she was gone from the old grey house. It seemed so empty without her; even his best friend Bryan had said as much. He went there when he could, if only to share a wet with him, or to yarn about old times.
There was talk that Sir Richard’s widow might return. No one seemed to know anything for certain. Lawyers and snotty clerks, what did they understand about this place and its people? Even the smell of it. Paint and tar, fishing nets hung to dry in the June sunshine, and the sounds. Winches and hammers, local dealers haggling with some of the fishing skippers who had come into the harbour earlier than usual. And always the sea.
He touched his chest, but the pain hesitated, like a warning at the door. Fallowfield was quiet, and usually peaceful. He knew that Unis got worried when sailors came so far out to the Old Hyperion. He had seen her watching, caring.
“Oars!”
The order rang out sharply, but a little too shrill for the occasion. Allday turned as a jolly-boat thrust around the jetty, the bowman scrambling to his feet to seize a boat-hook. There was a smart-looking midshipman by the tiller, his hat tilted against the sunlight.
“Up!”
The oars rose as one, like white bones, while the midshipman brought the hull against the wooden piles with barely a shudder.
Allday nodded. Rakishly done. So far. You never knew with the young gentlemen, ready to listen and learn one minute, tyrants the next.
One of the old sailors on the jetty cackled, “Look at ’im! Proper little ’ero, eh, lads?”
Allday frowned. The speaker would not be saying that if he was back in the perfect navy he was usually describing in one of the local taverns.
The midshipman was clattering up the stone steps, a shining new dirk pressed against his side. Allday made to move aside, but the boy, and he was little more than that, blocked his way.
“Mister Allday, sir?” He was gazing at him anxiously, while the boat’s crew looked on with interest.
Very new and very young. Calling him “mister” and “sir.” He would have to learn quickly, otherwise… It hit him like the pain in his chest. His was a different world now. He did not belong any more.
“That’s me.” The midshipman reminded him of someone… A face formed in his mind. Midshipman Neale of the Phalarope, who had eventually become captain of a frigate himself. Neale had died after being taken prisoner of war. With Richard Bolitho. He felt it again. And me.
The midshipman breathed out with relief. “My captain saw you, sir.” It was as if he were afraid to turn towards the anchored ship, in case he was being watched.
“He sends his respects, sir.”
Allday shook his head, and corrected roughly, “Compliments!”
The midshipman was equally firm. “Respects, sir. And would you come aboard, if you have the time?”
Allday touched his arm. “Lead on.” It was worth it just to see the idlers on the jetty staring down at them. The loud-mouthed one could put that in his pipe and smoke it!
He threw his leg over the gunwale and said, “So long as I’m not being pressed!”
Some of the oarsmen grinned. Because they think I’m too bloody old.
“Bear off forrard! Out oars! Give way together!”
