Lowenna said, 'The portrait is over here. Sir Gregory is pleased with it, I think.'
Nancy waited as she uncovered the canvas; she even did that with a graceful, unhurried movement. She knew she sat for Montagu: perhaps that was it. Poise…
She studied the unfinished portrait; unbelievable that one man could possess such a great talent. It was Adam to the life, the way he held his head when listening, or answering a question. The dark eyes, like the eyes of the girl she knew was watching her, instead of the painting. There was an uncompleted yellow rose in Adam's coat and she almost mentioned it, but some deeper sense seemed to warn her that this tenuous contact would be broken instantly. And Adam's small, elusive smile; Montagu had caught it precisely. No wonder he could turn any woman's head, and break his own heart.
She said, 'It is exactly right. How I think of him when he's away. Which is too often these days.'
She turned, and saw the astonishment which for only a second had broken through the girl's composure.
Lowenna said quietly, 'I had not realised…'
'That we were so close?' Nancy looked at the portrait again, the flood of memories pushing aside all reserve. 'He came to me when his mother died. He had walked all the way from Penzance. He was only a boy.' She nodded slowly, without knowing she had done so. 'Came to me.'
'Thank you for telling me.' So simply said, like a very young girl again.
'Will you be staying here long, Lowenna?'
She shook her head, the sunlight touching her hair like fine gold. 'I don't know. I may be going back to London. Sir Gregory has several paintings to finish.' She glanced at the portrait again, almost shyly, as if she were testing something. 'But he will complete this first.'
Nancy walked to a window, seeing the harp and the stool beside it. Then she saw the other unfinished painting, the naked girl chained to a rock, the sea monster about to break surface beside her.
She looked at her again. Defensive, or defiant? The dark eyes gave nothing away.
She said softly, 'You are very beautiful.'
'It is not what it may appear, my lady.'
'I am far older than you.' She shrugged. 'Unfortunately. I have been in love twice in my life. I know how it feels.' She made to hold out her hand, but instinct prevented her. 'I also know how it looks. I care deeply for my nephew, perhaps, dare I say it, more than a son. He is brave, loyal and compassionate, and he has suffered.' She saw the words reaching her. 'As I believe you have.'
'Who said that of me?'
'Nobody. I am still a woman, still young at heart.'
She tried not to listen to the sound of carriage wheels. Montagu was back, but it would make no difference who it was. She made up her mind. 'You see, I believe my nephew has lost his heart to you. It is why I came here today.' She walked towards the door. 'Now that I have met you, I am glad I came.' She turned, one hand on the door. 'If you feel the need, Lowenna, come to me.'
She did not move. But the hostility was gone.
She said, 'As Adam came It was the first time she had used his name.
Then Nancy did reach out and take her wrist. 'As a friend, if you like.' She felt that in another moment the girl would have pulled away.
She said calmly, 'A friend, then, my lady.'
Along the same bleak passageway, and the bright square of sunshine through the opened doors.
It was not Montagu, but a man she recognised from a wine merchant's in Falmouth. He touched his hat and beamed at her.
''Tes a fine day, m' lady. Summer at last, mebbee?'
Nancy looked back at the pale blue figure by the stairway. 'Yes, Mr Cuppage, it is a fine day.' She raised one hand to the girl and added, 'Now it is.'
She walked out into the dusty air again. Afraid to stop and consider, even to look back.
Francis and a stable boy were by the horse; the dour-faced servant had disappeared. She might have imagined all of it.
She thought of Adam and his ship, under orders again after so brief a respite. It was his life, and she was a sailor's daughter and the sister of England's naval hero. She took Francis' arm and pulled herself up into the carriage before glancing back at the house. But now, I am Adam's aunt.
She saw a brief movement by a window. Pale blue. Where she had seen the harp, and the other painting.
She said aloud, 'There is nobody else!'
As the carriage moved away, she imagined she heard Roxby laugh.
RearAdmiral Thomas Herrick got up from the chair and walked to a nearby window. He could not remember how many times he had done so, or how long he had been here.
He stared down at the familiar scene, the unending parade of carriages, mostly open to the watery sunshine, a few bright parasols and the wide-brimmed hats of ladies being driven from one form of amusement to another. A troop of dragoons trotting past, a young helmeted cornet turning in his saddle as a straight-backed man stepped from the crowd to raise his hat to the colours at the head of the troop. He had only one arm.
Herrick turned away, angry with himself, unable to ignore or forget the raw pain in the stump of his own arm, even at the slightest movement, and all the more so in his heavy dress coat.
He sat again and stared at the opposite wall, and two paintings of sea fights: colours flying, swirling gunsmoke, the enemy's canvas riddled with shot-holes. But they never showed the blood, the dead men, and the pieces of men.
He studied the polished marble, the neat array of gilded chairs. It must take the equivalent of a watch of seamen to maintain this great vault of a building. He grunted and eased the shoulder of his coat, beneath the heavy bullion epaulette whose presence could still surprise him.
This was the Admiralty, where their lordships and an army of staff officers controlled the strands of the web connecting them to every squadron, every ship, and every captain on every ocean where their flag flew, almost unchallenged.
And after this? Ile thought of the lodgings he was using close to Vauxhall. Not fashionable, especially for a flag officer, but comfortable enough. And cheap. He had never been careless with his hard-earned money. Ile had come up the hard way, and was well aware of the navy's habit of reversing a man's fortunes along with his destiny.
He had been at the Admiralty the whole forenoon, going over the charts and reports of the antislavery patrols with the admiral concerned, and he knew men well enough to understand that the admiral, pleasant though he was, had not the least idea what Freetown and the appalling conditions of slavery entailed. Perhaps it was better, safer that way.
There would be more discussions tomorrow; a Member of parliament on the interested committee would also be there. Herrick had explained in his reports, and face to face, that they needed ten times the number of agile patrol vessels, and a diligent leadership in direct command, before any real results would be manifest. Money was always the objection; there was none to spare for an overall increase. And yet Herrick had been hearing nothing else since he had arrived in London but the rumour of a massive show of force against the Algerine pirates and the Dey who had persisted in defying all attempts to unseat him. This time it would be no less than a fleet, and under the command of Pellew himself. Herrick could not be bothered with the frills and fancies of grand titles; 'Pellew' was good enough for him.
There did not seem to be much in the way of secrecy; even The Times had hinted at a 'determined intervention' to free the Christian slaves who languished in the Dey's prisons.
And now this had happened. A messenger had caught him just as he had been about to leave the building.
He had been requested to present himself to Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune, the newly appointed deputy, and no stranger to the lords of admiralty.
He had no thoughts on Bethune as a senior officer. I was Richard's first lieutenant a year after Bethune was one of his midshipmen. Now he outranks me. He had grown used to such distinctions. He did not have to like them.
He found that he was at the window again. Perhaps Adam Bolitho had told a superior officer, maybe Keen, what he had divulged about Sillitoe and his part in the slave trade. No. Adam might be hotheaded, even indiscreet, but he would not violate something as strong as personal trust. He watched a smart carriage passing among some
