As if he felt somehow responsible.
She entered the parlour, so familiar now, the shining copper and pewter, the lines of tankards, and the mingled smells of food, flowers, and people. In the place of honour was the beautiful model of the old Hyperion, exact in every detail and scale, and made by those same big, scarred hands. But it had been moved, something forbidden to everybody except… She walked into the next room, the one with the fine view of a long line of evenly matched trees; when the light was right you could see the river, like molten silver beyond them.
John Allday was sitting at the table, his face deep in thought as he studied the canvas roll of tools, blades and strips of bone arranged in front of him.
Like many sailors, he could take on most jobs. He could make furniture, like the beautiful cot he had fashioned for little Kate, and the chest he had built for the lieutenant named George Avery who had become so much a part of Unis's life. Because Allday was illiterate, Avery had written his letters to her, and had read her letters to him. It would have been a rare and wonderful relationship in any walk of life, let alone aboard a man-of-war. Now the quiet, almost shy Avery was gone, one more name on the roll of honour. For King and Country.
'What is it, John?'
She put her arm around his massive shoulders. Sir Richard had called him my oak, but she could feel his slow, careful breath ing even now. The terrible wound in the chest left by a Spanish sword, at a place no one could remember, and it was getting worse. But he had always insisted he could manage, when Sir Richard had needed him.
Now I need you, dearest John.
'When I gets time on my hands.' He did not look up at her. 'I gets to thinking, another model, mebbee?'
She hugged him. 'You're always busy! Make some of the youngsters sit up an' take notice, I can tell you!'
He sighed. 'You knows me, love, I'm not one for passing time with the old Jacks, swinging the lamp with every tankard of ale! Your brother's got the right idea, puts 'em in their place!' He looked round. 'Where's Kate?'
'Resting. Nessa'll keep an eye on her.'
She remembered his dismay when the child had turned away from him, when they had met for the first time on his return from sea. To her he must have seemed like a stranger, an interloper. But he had won her over in his own patient fashion. He could even pick her up and play with her now without fear of damaging her in some way. And Unis loved him for it.
Allday said suddenly, 'I meant to ask about young Elizabeth, Sir Richard's daughter-she'll be growing up now, right enough. I wonder what the King of Cornwall thinks about having her in his great house.'
She hugged him again, and said nothing. Sir Lewis Roxby had died back when Lady Catherine was still living at the Bolitho house.
She said, 'You're going to make a model of the Frobisher,' and bit her lip to steady herself. 'We'll have to find a real special place for that!'
Then Allday did look at her, his eyes very clear, the frown gone.
'I shall give it to Cap'n Adam. From both of us.'
Afterwards, alone in their room, she wondered. Who did he really mean?
Nancy, Lady Roxhy, saw the rambling old building swing into view as the carriage swayed over the rutted track.
It was an open vehicle, and she could feel the dust gritting between her teeth, but she liked it this way, always had since she was a small girl, the younger daughter of Captain James Bolitho. She often thought about her father, the man; she sometimes felt that the one she knew existed only in the portrait at the Bolitho house, while his character and upbringing were like entries in a diary or history book.
'Go straight in, Francis. I doubt this will take long.'
The shadow of the old glebe house rose above her, as always grim and unwelcoming. Ideal perhaps for an artist and a recluse, but few others.
She felt a twinge of excitement and rebuked herself Roxby would have called her too curious for her own good. She smiled sadly. But he would have loved her for it.
The dark windows were blind to the outside world, the ruined chapel adding to the air of mystery. Gossip, more likely; this place was well known for its tales of witchcraft and evil spirits.
The coachman said doubtfully, 'I don't think we are expected, m' lady.'
He had not been with her very long. Otherwise, he would have known about her impulses. She heard Roxby again. Damn impudence, more like!
The sky was bright and clear, without even a wisp of cloud over the hills or the sea beyond.
Adam would be out there now somewhere, doing what he had always wanted and dreamed about. She thought of his face, so near, when she had last spoken to him, and then had pressed his cheek against her own. Doing what be wanted and believed in. But this time had been different. As if he was leaving something behind.
She said impatiently, 'Get down and knock on the door, Francis!'
She saw the horse shaking its ears, irritated by the buzzing insects. She could remember a time when she would have ridden here herself, and across country if the mood took her. It was wrong to look back too often… perhaps because since Roxby had died there had been so little joy, and nothing to anticipate.
So many things had changed. Like young Elizabeth, who had been so surprised at the way local children lived and played… how could it be, that she had been so sheltered from an endless war which had threatened every mile of this coastline? She thought of the girl's mother, Belinda, and tried once again to come to terms with it.
She heard voices, Francis, tall and ramrod-straight like the soldier he had been until a year ago, and the servant she had met on her previous visit, when she had called to arrange for the portrait.
She climbed down, and grimaced a little. Her breathing was fast. Just to remind me. On her next birthday she would be fiftyseven years old. People told her to settle down and enjoy these years. She was secure, and had two fine children, and now two grandchildren. She should be more than satisfied…
She grimaced again. She was not.
Francis called, 'He says that his master is not here, m' lady. He will gladly take a message.' It was as if the servant was invisible. Perhaps they were like that in the cavalry.
She said, 'It is about my nephew's portrait.' Even that made her sound ancient. 'In Captain Bolitho's absence I thought I should enquire…'
'May I be of any help, my lady?'
Nancy turned in the direction of the voice.
'Thank you, my dear. Have we met before?'
The girl looked towards the house, as if regretting her first impulse. But she said, 'I am Lowenna. I am staying here.'
Nancy took a deep breath and stepped into cool shadows. In her heart, she had hoped for this meeting with one who until now had been little more than a name, an occasional visitor to these parts, and then only in the company of Sir Gregory Montagu.
She followed her along the deserted passageway, conscious of her poise, her apparent confidence. She remembered her vaguely as a child; it was coming back to her like her father's history, like fragments from the pages of a diary. She had been born in Bodmin, where the family name had been Garland. A successful arrangement, they had said at the time, between a promising scholar soon to be appointed to a prestigious college in Winchester, and the daughter of a Bodmin corn chandler… Nancy saw the girl pause, as if to ensure that she was still following… She saw the date in her mind. Around 1790, when news had reached her of Richard's fever in the Great South Sea; he had been in command of the frigate Tempest. Allday had been with him even then.
'We may talk in here, if you wish.' Very composed, and, in the filtered sunlight, quietly beautiful. A woman then, aged about twenty-six or twenty-seven.
Nancy glanced around the room. Untidy, but she was aware of the order of things in this, a painter's domain. A place wherein he could work, leave for a week or a month if he chose, and know that it would be exactly how he wanted it when he returned.
She often spent her spare time painting flowers, or scenes on the shore, and she had been moved by Elizabeth 's readiness to copy her. It had been their first real point of contact.
She observed the girl. Dressed in a pale blue robe without any sort of decoration, or even a belt. Loose and airy. She had already noted the long hair, and the easy way she walked, but now that she was facing her she was more aware of her eyes. So dark that they concealed her thoughts, like a barrier between them.
