'If we are indeed to confront the Dey of Algiers to stamp out his capture and enslavement of innocent Christians, why do we require a fleet to carry out the necessary measures? Commodore Turnbull has only a handful of worn-out brigs to end the trade in Africa, as we have seen for ourselves!'
Cristie had intervened bluntly, ''Cause there are too many people making money out of Africa, Mister Varlo!'
Lieutenant Bellairs had raised a question about the prospect of promotion for some of the new hands, and Varlo's comment had remained in the air. But it had not gone away.
He walked to his desk and unlocked a drawer. His personal log book was still open, but the ink was dry. He wondered who would ever read it. Almost cautiously he turned back the pages, and lifted the yellow rose to hold it to the light. It would not last, even if carefully pressed. But in his mind he could see it exactly as she had given it to him. The one he had worn for the benefit of Sir Gregory Montagu's darting brushes.
It was past. There was only the next horizon. And the next.
He closed the drawer and locked it.
It would be better if they could leave, put to sea right now, no matter what the mission entailed.
Three more days. He thought he heard young Napier tidying things in the small pantry. How did he feel about leaving again?
It had all been so new, so different. Young Matthew allowing him to share the box on the carriage, and teaching him to ride the new pony, Jupiter. Being spoiled by Grace Ferguson, and cheered by the stable lads when he had fallen from his mount and struggled up again.
Adam had been unable to look at Yovell as he had dictated the last of his letters and instructions.
'Should I be unable to act on this request, through death or disablement, the youth, David Napier, shall be discharged at the expense of my estate, and taken into care by those listed at Falmouth. '
Yovell had placed the document with the other letters for his signature, and had said nothing.
Adam thought of his return to the house, riding beside but separated from the dark-eyed girl. And the recall, unexpected, and yet, in some strange way, inevitable.
The boy Napier, wiping his eyes with his hand, so unwilling to leave the first real home he had ever known, yet determined, proud even, to stay with his captain.
We all need somebody.
He glanced at the old sword on its rack, remembering the church in Falmouth. The first Bolitho to wear this sword. And the last?
lie returned to the quarter gallery and stared at the hazy outthrust of land. lie knew nothing about her, might never see her again. And even if I did… Ile swung away, seeking anger to offer an escape.
But all he could see was her face, uplifted in that old church. Asking, telling, pleading,
Feet thumped overhead and he heard someone laugh. Galbraith would be here shortly. Corporal Bloxham's well-deserved promotion had been sanctioned. A sergeant in the Royal Marines was a big step up the ladder, and in a crowded hull like this it was an event. One to be celebrated.
The man who had saved his life that day when Martinez had paid with his own.
He reached for his coat. The captain would share a 'wet' with the new sergeant in his mess.
fie looked at the locked drawer but saw the rose in her hand.
There was a tap at the door. Ile was ready.
It was not a dream.
13. Coming To Terms
THE. RUGGED STRETCH of parkland which ran down to the River Thames to mark the winding curve of Chiswick Reach was deserted. There were usually young riders exercising their skills here, as it was considered safe, at least during the daylight. It was July, and yet the wind off the river seemed cool, and strong enough to ruffle the bushes; the sky was almost hidden by cloud.
The smart landau in its dark blue livery stood alone, the matching greys resting now, shaking their harness after a lively trot across the park.
Catherine, Lady Somervell, tugged the strap and lowered one of the windows, tasting the air, the nearness of the river even though it was not visible from this place.
This place. She felt a shiver run through her. Why? Was it guilt, excitement? She stared across the park but only saw her own reflection in the glass. It was speckled with rain too. She shivered again.
There were two leafless trees standing apart from all the others. They had died long ago, but something or someone had decreed they should remain. It was said that they marked the last rendezvous for many duellists over the years. Pistol or blade; for officers from the nearby garrison, falling out over women or cards, or in a momentary fit of ill humour, it often ended here.
Her fingers tightened around the strap. Her husband had been killed in a duel. Someone else. She had never regarded him as a husband.
She heard the carriage creak as the coachman shifted his position on the box. Ready for anything. One of Sillitoe's men, most of whom looked more like prizefighters than servants.
He had not asked where she was going, or why. He would know. It was his way, and she had become used to it. Like this finely sprung carriage, unmarked, unlike his others, with the arms of Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick, the one he sometimes used for private business meetings. She shook herself, as if to drive it away. She had stopped questioning him.
She looked at her reflection again. The beautiful Catherine, who had won the hearts of the nation, and had been their hero's lover. Who had spurned the hostility and envy of society… She touched a lock of the dark hair at her brow. Until that man had fallen in battle and her world had ended.
She turned her thoughts aside, as a swordsman might parry a blade, and focused on Sillitoe.
Powerful, respected and feared. The man who had used his influence to keep her from Richard, and had never denied it. And yet he had been the rock which had saved her. From what? She still did not know.
She could sometimes even consider the horror of the night when she had returned unescorted to her little Chelsea house on the Walk. She would have been raped but for Sillitoe bursting into the room, where she had never slept again without remembering.
Now she lived in Sillitoe's house, which lay just around this sweeping bend of the Thames, and had accompanied him to Spain, on the excuse that she might help with his business affairs, as she spoke good Spanish. Or was the truth more simple, like the word whore carved on the door of the Chelsea house: because she needed him, now more than ever?
She often thought of her last visit to Cornwall, her talks with Richard's sister Nancy.
At first she had been tempted to return to Falmouth, and to live in the old house he had made into a home for her. She was, after all, used to spite and cruel gossip; it would have taken time, but they would have accepted her.
She knew even that was a lie. Nancy had said, envy and guilt walk hand in hand. She would know better than anyone.
And Adam, and his letters, which she had left unanswered. What else could she have done? She suspected that Adam knew as well as she what disaster would have resulted, intentional or otherwise.
The house by the river was almost spartan when compared with the mansions of other men of influence. And it would soon be empty, with only the servants to care for it, and memories she could only imagine. Like the portrait, alone on that wide landing, of Sillitoe's father, who had founded an empire upon slavery. There had been pride in Sillitoe's voice when he had spoken of him.
He might be thinking very differently now; rarely a day had passed when the issue of slavery did not appear in the newssheets. And now Algiers again. She controlled her breathing. Richard would have lived but for those ships at Algiers. Napoleon had landed in France after his escape from Elba; it had been inevitable. She thought suddenly of the man who was meeting her today. Now… Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune, a rising star in the Admiralty but still young, and alive. He should have relieved Richard in the Mediterranean. She had heard her lover say it so often; time and distance, wind and tide. A few days sooner, and he would have been replaced. Safe.
