with a carpenter there: some work he wanted carried out while they were away.
Away. London again, that endless journey in their own coach. It was Sir Gregory's wish.
She studied herself in the glass, meeting her own gaze like a stranger. Outside the house it would be hot, very hot, the shrubs and flowers drooping in the sun's glare. She would have to arrange for the roses, at least, to be cared for.
The brush stopped, and she thought of the deserted studio directly beneath her feet. The portrait was finished, but Sir Gregory would still not be satisfied until he had given it more time 'to settle in.' She had looked at it on several occasions. Interest or guilt; she could not describe her feelings. Would not. The brush began to move again, this time the other side, her long hair draped over her shoulder and down to her thigh. Beneath the gown she was naked. Something she shared with no one.
She thought of the portrait again. Anybody who knew Captain Bolitho, Captain Adam as she had heard people call him, would recognise it as fine work. Lady Roxby would be pleased with it. But something was missing. She tossed her hair impatiently. How could she know?
The rose was there in the portrait. Sir Gregory had seemed satisfied with that, if a little surprised.
She tried to think of London and the house, which even the Prince Regent had visited several times.
She plucked at the gown; even the thick walls of the glebe house could not hold the heat at hay. I ter feet were bare, and she rubbed one on the tiled floor as she recalled the stone house where she had last seen Adam Bolitho, and that tense little group, and the courier with the recall to duty.
She had heard the cook talking about a man-of-war which had entered Plymouth a day or so ago. Damaged, as if in battle, although there had been no news of any such event. She put down the brush and shook her hair out. This place was so isolated. She rubbed her thigh with her hand. For my sake.
She looked at the window, the creeper tapping against the dusty glass although there was no breeze.
She stood up and stepped back from the mirror, her eyes never leaving her reflection. She might be asked to sit for Sir Gregory in London, or for one of his students. Why did she do it? He had never insisted. She stared at herself and touched her body, the hand in the mirror like that of a stranger. Because it saved me.
She let the hand fall to her side and turned away from the stranger in the glass. She had heard a horse; Sir Gregory was back, earlier than expected. The house would be alive again. She wondered why he insisted on riding when he could afford any carriage he wanted. The old cavalier. Ile would never change. What will hecome of…
She swung round, startled. Someone was banging on the door. She hurried to the window and looked down. No one was supposed to be coming today…
She saw the horse, tapping one hoof and idly chewing some overgrown grass, then she saw the stable boy, looking straight up at her, his eyes wide with alarm.
'What is it, Joseph?'
'You'd better come, Miss Lowenna! There's bin an accident!'
She almost fell back from the window. The horse. The one he had ridden here. But that was impossible… She dragged a shawl around her shoulders, only half aware of some bottles being knocked from the table. It was suddenly clear, like one of Montagu's quick, rough sketches. There was nobody else. Only the cook, and she was probably asleep at the back of the kitchen.
She flung open the doors and exclaimed, 'Where is he?'
The boy gestured towards the gates.
'E be bleedin' bad, miss!'
She ran from the house, heedless of the loose stones cutting her bare feet.
He was sitting on a large piece of slate, part of the original wall when the Church had ruled here.
One leg was bent under him and he was leaning forward, bowing his head, eyes tightly closed, his hair plastered across his forehead. She saw his hat lying in the lane. It was as if she had been there, seen it happen. Then she saw the blood, so bright in the cruel sunshine, on the leg of his breeches. It was spreading even as she watched.
Go now. Leave it. You do not belong here. Go now. It was like some insane chorus. As if all the spirits people had spoken of had come to taunt her. To remind her.
But she said, 'Help me, Joseph.' She was walking towards him, saw her shadow reaching beyond her, as if the girl from the mirror had taken her place. Then she knelt and put her arms around his shoulders, feeling the sudden, uncontrollable shivering, knowing it was her own.
Joseph was a good, reliable boy. But he was only thirteen.
She heard herself say, 'Run to the inn, Joseph, and fetch some men. We must get him into the house.' Her mind was reeling. Suppose there were no men at the inn? They might be back in the fields by now. She could not even remember what time it was.
Somehow she steadied herself, and waited for the understanding to show itself on the boy's freckled face.
'Rouse Cook. I want hot water and some clean sheets.' She tried to smile, if only to restore his confidence. 'Go on, now. I'll stay here until help comes.'
She watched him scamper along the pathway. She was alone.
She tried to open his coat, but it was fastened too tightly. There was blood on his shirt also, and it was fresh.
She felt the tremor run through her again. It must have been his ship which had been damaged, the rumour which had eventually reached here all the way from Plymouth. It did not seem possible…
She realised that he was staring at her, moving his head slightly as if to discover where he was, what was happening.
He said suddenly, 'Blood-it's on your clothing!' He struggled briefly, but she held him.
She wanted to speak, but her mouth seemed drv and stiff. She made another attempt.
'You're safe here.' She held him more tightly as she felt his body clench against the pain. 'What happened''
She looked along the lane, but there was no one. Only his hat, lying where it had fallen. Like a spectator.
He said hoarsely, 'There was a fight.' His head rolled against her shoulder and he groaned. 'We drove them off.' It seemed to trigger something in his mind. 'Too late. I should have known. '
lie was still staring at her with wide eyes, perhaps only just understanding what had happened. She could feel it; he was momentarily without pain. lie said, 'Lowenna. It is you. I was coming…' lie pressed his face into her shoulder again and gasped, 'Oh, dear God!'
She took his hand, gripping it tightly. 'Help is coining! Soon now!'
She twisted round to stare down the lane again, and felt his hand on her breast. She looked at it, seeing the blood on his fingers, and on her gown where he had touched her. The fear, the scream was rising in her throat. But she did nothing, and watched the hand on her breast, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin material, like fever.
And then, all at once, everyone was here, even the landlord from the inn.
'We'll take Cap'n Adam, miss,' and young Joseph was saying, 'There was blood on the road, Miss Lowenna, on the horse too. Must've thrown him.'
She stood up as two of the men eased Adam into a chair.
'We kin carry un to the inn, missy!'
She looked down at her gown, the bloodstains, and the smudges of blood around her breast. There was blood on her feet also. She felt nothing. Like taking a pose for a painting. Empty the mind. Wipe away the memory.
She scarcely recognised her voice. Perhaps it was the girl in the mirror.
'Carry him carefully-I will show you the room. I must stop the bleeding. Send someone for a doctor. The garrison will send one if you tell them who it's for.'
She held the door open wide and the men lurched against her.
She saw his hand reaching for her, although he could not know what was happening. She seized it, holding it against her, ignoring the people all around her, not even aware of them.
'You are safe now, Adam.' And she thought she felt his hand respond. She had called him by name.
16. 'Walk With Me'
