back and working with his hands. They had moved away after the birth. Vanished, 'foreigners' again.
There had been some scandal, although Grace had said little about it. He had not pressed her; he knew what he owed her for nursing and restoring him after the Saintes. He glanced at the model again. Before Hyperion's time, that was…
On this occasion the girl had been warmer, but outwardly correct despite all the upheaval. Withdrawn, many would have said. But Ferguson had recognised something which was still as clear as yesterday. When Sir Richard had brought Lady Catherine to Falmouth for the first time… If only…
Allday leaned forward. 'He was wounded, y' say? Is he taking it well?'
'The ship's repairing at Plymouth.' He saw the old light in his friend's eyes. Living it. 'The fleet's standing to, if you ask me.'
'We should have finished the job last time, matey! Them buggers don't understand a soft hand, that's it an' all about it!'
Ferguson looked at the tools on the table. Captain Adam had told him about Frobisher, and that he had seen her at Gibraltar, maybe for something to say as they had driven back together in the new dog-cart, as it was called. More comfortable on that rutted track, it had bigger wheels than his little trap, but Poppy had pulled it like a champion. He thought Adam must have felt every stone and hole on that journey, but his mind had seemed elsewhere. He had been wounded, but in some way, Ferguson thought, he looked better than when he had been here before, only weeks ago.
Afterwards Young Matthew had said with unusual vehemence, 'So that was the girl? I heard about her from a loudmouth I used to know.'
Ferguson had waited; Young Matthew was not by nature a gossip.
'In Winchester, I was told. Beaten an' raped, an' left for dead, the story had it. Tried to end her own life, poor lass.'
He had said no more. Nor would he.
Perhaps Grace also knew.
He felt Allday's big hand tap his knee. There was no avoiding it.
'Well, they sighted these two vessels, and right away Captain Adam guessed what they were up to.'
Unis paused at the door, and after a few seconds smiled at what she heard and saw.
I ler John was hack at sea again. He had never really left it.
The wine cooler stood in one corner of the cellar, its polished woodwork and silver mounts gleaming in the flickering light of the lanterns.
Adam Bolitho ran his hand over the inscription and crest, identical to that carved on the fireplace in the room above. For My Country's Freedom. He thought again of the forlorn hulk at Gibraltar; it was hard to imagine this wine cooler on hoard, with men working and following their daily routines, like the world he had left in Unrivalled
Catherine had given this fine piece of furniture to his uncle; its predecessor lay on the seabed in the old Hyperion. It was a marvel that it had reached here unscathed, changing ships, being signed for again and again, until eventually it had arrived in Falmouth. And the chair she had given him.
He heard Ferguson's breathing behind him; he had scarcely left his side since the accident.
'I think we should move it upstairs, Bryan.' He looked at the chair, covered with a sheet. 'I might have that taken to the ship.'
Ferguson nodded, unwilling to speak, and strangely moved.
'And the wine cooler, Captain?'
'It were best kept in the house. To come home to.'
He turned away, suddenly lost within himself Still the interloper, always feeling that the house waited for someone else.
'I shall attend to that.' Ferguson followed him tip the stone steps.
It should have been so different, he thought. This was another homecoming which would soon be interrupted by some urgent message. He had heard more about the sea fight in which Unrivalled had been damaged, and men had died. lie closed the iron-studded door. It could have been Adam. And next time…
He shook some dust from a heavy curtain and looked at the flowers in the walled garden. To come home to, he had said. But this was no home. Not anymore.
He thought again of what Young Matthew had told him. Maybe someone should consider the girl's feelings, and this spectre which still obviously haunted her. He sighed. Anyway, she had gone to London, so that was the end of it. But her eyes had said something else. He smiled awkwardly. How Grace would laugh if she knew. But he had not forgotten how it felt.
Or how it looked. He glanced down at his empty sleeve. The past was the past.
Adam was only partly aware of Ferguson's concern as he walked through to the study, where John Allday had seen Captain James Bolitho hand the old sword to his younger son.
He felt the leather case in his pocket, the Nile medal which Catherine had sent to him by special messenger. Somebody must have arranged it. There was only a brief note, echoing the one she had left for him in this house with the sword. He would have wanted you to have it.
He looked up at the portrait of Captain James, with the arm painted out. By right the sword should have been Hugh Bolitho's. The traitor.
My father.
His eyes went involuntarily to the empty fireplace. It was even the same rug, where he had loved and been loved by Zenoria. And now Catherine had broken the link which had brought them together.
Ferguson knew the signs. The ship was his world, and soon he would be away again. This house will be empty.
'A meal perhaps, Captain?'
Adam had opened the little case and was gazing at the gold medal. The Nile. So many memories. So many faces, gone forever.
'I think not, Bryan.'
Ferguson said nothing. He would seek Grace's advice. She might know…
He was unable to believe what he saw.
She was standing just outside the opened French windows, by the roses, one finger to her lips, smiling but unsure, as if at any second she might turn and vanish. She was dressed in pale grey, and wore a wide-brimmed straw hat fastened beneath her chin with a blue ribbon. Her hair was tied back, and Ferguson saw that she carried a yellow rose, like the one rumoured to be in the portrait.
Adam said, 'I think I shall take a walk, Bryan.' He closed the little case and turned towards the sunlight.
She said, 'Then walk with me.'
Adam crossed the room, and paused as she held out the rose.
'This is for you.' Her poise seemed suddenly a lie. 'Please
I should not be here.' He took the rose from her hand; her breathing was unsteady, as if she were fighting something, needing to speak, unable to find the words.
Adam slipped his hand gently beneath her arm.
'I will show you the house, Lowenna.' He pressed her arm to reassure her, feeling its tension. And then, 'You came. It is all I care about. You are here beside me, and I shall not awake and find only a dream.'
'I could not go, to London, or anywhere else, without coming to discover how you are.' She averted her face slightly. 'No, do not look at me so, I am not sure if I can…'
She was trembling. Afraid. Of him or herself?
He repeated, 'And you came.'
'Joseph brought me. I told him to wait.' She looked at him directly, her eyes suddenly determined, pleading. 'I had no right…'
'You, of all people, have every right.'
She smiled, for the first time. 'Just walk with me, Adam. Show me your home. The way you offered, that day…'
They moved from room to room, scarcely speaking, each intensely aware of the other. And not knowing how to proceed.
She said abruptly, 'I saw the portrait. I told Sir Gregory it is not right.' She seemed shocked by her own
