She had written to him. He was surprised she could remember his name; there had been no time. And yet… He walked to the easel and lifted the cover. As if some one had burned away one side of the canvas, the wooden frame split and blackened. Like the harp.
But the painting itself was otherwise intact, or perhaps it had been carefully cleaned. He moved slightly to allow the filtered sunlight to bring it to life.
The lovely girl, head flung back, her face filled with terror and the pain of the chains which held her against the overhanging rock. Her taut breasts and naked limbs almost touching the sea and leaping spray, where the shadow of some monster merged with the charred canvas.
No wonder the captain was in love with her. Who would not be?
He covered the painting. Lowenna. She had signed her note simply that. He moved away from the easel, unnerved in some way, as if he had stumbled on somebody's secret. Like an intrusion. A breach of trust.
'I am glad that you could come, Lieutenant.'
He swung round and saw her watching him from that same door.
She was dressed from throat to toe in a loose blue-grey gown; when she moved it seemed to swirl around her, and she seemed insubstantial, unreachable. He noticed that her feet were bare on the thick rug, despite the coldness of the room. When she turned to glance at the ashes in the grate he saw her hair as if for the first time, falling to her waist, shining like glass in the April light. Like the hair in the painting, across the straining shoulders and bared breasts.
He heard himself exclaim, 'Andromeda! ' and could feel himself flushing. 'I do beg your pardon. You see…'
She smiled, and reached out to take his hand, all tension gone.
'You saw the painting, Lieutenant? You are full of surprises! '
He said, 'My father is an admiral, but his brother chose the Church. My education, such as it was, bordered on the classical! '
He found it easy to laugh at the absurdity of his explanation, and his own confusion. He tried again. 'I came as soon as I was able.'
She looked at her hand on his. Surprised? No, deeper than that.
She said, 'I had a letter from Captain Bolitho.' Her chin lifted slightly. Defiance, a challenge. 'From… Adam. I should have been brave, sensible. Or tried to explain.' She moved away, her hand lifting as if to pluck one of the twisted harp strings.
Then she faced him. 'His ship has left Portsmouth?'
Troubridge nodded, and found his lips were bone-dry; he wanted to lick them.
'Athena will arrive at Plymouth tomorrow, according to the telegraph.' He knew she did not understand, or perhaps want to, and hurried on. 'Sir Graham Bethune will hoist his flag in ten days' time, the roads permitting.' It was a little attempt to bring back her smile. It failed.
She said, 'I may not see him again. He could be away for a long time. He will forget
Troubridge had scant experience of women, and none with some one like this. But he knew she was going over and over the same arguments, fears even, which had caused her to send him the message. Before he could reply she said almost abruptly, 'Your captain is a man of war, ' and shook her head, so that some of the hair spilled unheeded across her arm. 'At war with himself too, I think! '
He saw her hand on his cuff, gripping his wrist, as if it and not she were pleading.
'Now there is so little time.' Her eyes were dry, but her voice was full of tears. 'I wanted to tell him so much. So that he would not be hurt, not be damaged because of me.'
Troubridge put his hand reassuringly on hers and felt her stiffen immediately. Was that what had happened? Like the man on the studio floor, or others before that? He recalled Adam Bolitho's face. He would have killed for her. He tried not to look at the baggage, the unopened boxes. She was Sir Gregory Montagu's ward, or had been. It seemed as if she had no one to watch over her now. Montagu's property was in the hands of lawyers, leeches, he had heard his father call them. Where would she go? Posing for some so-called artists, like the painting under the cover…
He said calmly, 'I could arrange a carriage for you. You can pay me back when you feel like it.' He saw the sudden anger fall away, like a cloud passing from calmer water. 'For the first part of the journey, at any rate.'
She put her hand to his face, and touched it very gently.
'Forgive me. I am not good company today.' She swung away from him. 'Sir Gregory left me well provided. With money.' She seemed to shiver, with either laughter or despair. To think that
I dared to stand on the shore and watch his ship sail away. Say nothing, do nothing, let him fade out of reach! ' She turned back, and her composure was gone, her body trembling within the loose gown. 'I want to stand beside him with pride, not endless guilt and the terror of what I might do to him. To us.'
Troubridge made up his mind. Stupidly, he remembered what a senior post captain had once told him. Warned him. 'A flag lieutenant does not make decisions. He merely acts on those determined by his betters! '
He said, 'Athena cannot sail without her admiral. Sir Graham will not be joining her for ten days. Even then, there will be matters to deal with before we weigh anchor.'
Her eyes filled her face; she was close enough for him to feel her quick breathing, catch the scent of her body.
She said, 'What must I do?'
'I am going to Plymouth ahead of Sir Graham.' He swallowed. What are you saying? 'Three carriages and a wagon of some kind.' He was seeing it in his mind, and later he might see the risks even more clearly.
'You would do that for me?'
He felt the tension running out, like sand. 'For both of you.'
She walked back and forth across the room. 'And you ask and expect no reward?' She did not look at him. 'Sir Gregory would have approved of you.' She put her hand to her breast and held it there. Recovering herself, like preparing for a painter's pose, and beyond. The enemy.
Troubridge looked down at his sweating hands, surprised that they appeared normal. Relaxed. He said limply, 'It were better that you should have a maid for company.'
Afterwards, Lieutenant Francis Troubridge thought it was probably the first laughter that room had heard for a long time.
Adam Bolitho nodded in passing to the Royal Marine sentry and continued into his cabin. A cold, brilliant morning, everything familiar and yet at once so strange. It was always a demanding time, for captain or newly signed land man alike. The time to up-anchor, to bring the ship to life, so that every block and piece of cordage worked as one: the ship under command.
Bowles' tall, stooping shadow moved into the sunlight slanting from the stern windows.
'Somethin' to warm you, sir?'
Adam smiled, and could feel the tightness of his mouth and jaw. He had held a command since he was twenty-three. Surely there was nothing new to catch him unawares. He had seen many eyes darting glances at their new captain, a few threatening fists when this man or that was slow at the braces or running to lend his weight to a capstan bar. There was even a fiddler, although you could hardly pick out the tune above the bang and thunder of released canvas, the rigging creaking as the fresh northeasterly filled sails and heeled Athena hard over to lean above her own reflection.
The harbour mouth, always a challenge with no time for second thoughts. Even Fraser, the sailing master, had remarked, 'Don't look wide enough to drive a four-in-hand through it! ' Outwardly calm, as Adam had always remembered him. Something to cling to when surrounded by faces still mostly unknown, unproved.
He cradled the mug in both hands, relaxing very slowly, his ear still tuned to the thud of the tiller head, the scamper of bare feet overhead and the occasional bark of commands.
It was strong coffee, some of his own stock which Grace Ferguson had packed for him, in between her farewell sniffs and sobs, laced with something even stronger, and he saw Bowles' private smile when he nodded his approval.
He thought of Stirling, the first lieutenant. He had handled the chaos of weighing anchor and had directed the seamen to their immediate duties of making sail and then shortening it again in a sudden squall, with apparent ease and confidence. His powerful voice was quick to point out a clumsy mistake or lack of purpose. But rarely it seemed to offer encouragement or praise when they were equally deserved.
