decker.
It was like hearing Rose speak again, one strong, rough hand grasped around his own. Describing it. Recalling it, piece by piece. He would occasionally stray from the exact sequence of things, speaking of Hull, and of his father, who had been a sail-maker. Then the hand had tightened, as he had described the sudden squall which had hit them without warning. I told the captain what I thought about it, but he wouldn't listen. Knew it all, he did. Anyways, he was under strict orders to complete a fast passage. Adam had seen a tear at the corner of his eye; pain or despair, who could say? Y'see, our old Celeste could always do better than any other courier!
And pride was there, too.
They had lost the fore topmast, and had been drifting to sea and wind while they had fought to carry out repairs. And then another sail had come in sight. A big barque, and she had stood off the disabled Celeste until they were close enough to exchange signals. A Yankee, she was. Our captain asked if she had a doctor on board, as one of our lads was badly injured by a falling spar.
Adam stared through the salt-caked stern windows. No courier brig should ever heave to or converse with a stranger. It had all been planned, although how and when was impossible to imagine at this stage.
The barque had drawn closer to Celeste and all pretence had ended. He could still feel the grip around his fingers, losing its strength as Rose had gasped, They ran out their guns and fired into us at point-blank range, double-shot ted by th feel of it. His voice had cracked with disbelief, reliving the moment. Our captain was the first to fall, damn his eyes! There had been another tear. But it weren't his fault. They boarded us and cut down every man-jack they could find. The rest of us was driven below while the bastards ransacked the captain's cabin.
There had been a long pause, the silence broken only by Rose's laboured breathing.
Crawford had whispered, 'Severe stab wounds. Poisoned, but I can do nothing. He's going.'
Rose had spoken once more, his voice easier, perhaps beyond pain.
There was an explosion, sir. A magazine. Don't remember any more. Until… He had stared suddenly at Adam. Tell 'em…
It was over for the only survivor.
He looked up as Bethune entered the cabin and stood, seeming to study him for several seconds.
'So you see, Adam, it was no accidental skirmish. It was prearranged. Some one knew full well what Celeste was carrying: my orders and Admiralty instructions which were to be acted upon without delay. Her commander should have known, damn him! ' The mood changed again, and he half smiled. 'But you know what they say about the ones who command brigs, like frigates, eh? Faster than anything bigger. Bigger than anything faster! '
He looked around the cabin, as if he were remembering something. 'In a moment we shall have a meal together. Just the two of us. The ship can manage her own affairs, for a while, anyway.' He seemed to come to a decision. 'I wanted this appointment, and I intend to make it succeed to good purpose, come what may.' He eyed him calmly. 'I have no intention of becoming a scapegoat because of others at this point in my life. We are committed, Adam. Together remember that! '
Tolan and the two cabin servants pulled a screen aside to reveal a candlelit table and two chairs.
Bethune was speaking to Tolan, smiling and gesturing. But his words still hung in the air.
Like a threat.
9. A Death in the Family
Nancy, Lady Roxby, leaned forward in her seat and reached up to tap the carriage window with her parasol.
'This is far enough, Francis. You may wait here for us.' She did not turn to look at the girl beside her. 'It will do us good to stretch our legs now that the rain has passed over.' Something to say, to break the tension. She looked across the lane, past the overgrown and untended shrubs, to the Old Glebe House, occasional home of Sir Gregory Montagu, the great painter. She rested her hand on the door. 'If you change your mind, Lowenna, we can leave right now. Go back to Falmouth…' Then she turned to her companion, feeling her uncertainty, the sudden distress. 'I just want you to be happy, with me.'
Lowenna stared past her. All those months ago, but she could still feel it. The fire raging through the building, driven by the wind, roaring like something alive with a malignant will of its own.
She climbed down from the landau and looked along the rutted lane. The wall where she had found Adam lying in his blood after being thrown from his horse, when his wound had burst open. And she had been the only one there to help him.
She walked slowly toward the house. She could smell the charred timbers, wet and shining from the brief, heavy rain. Fallen bricks and masonry, broken glass glinting now in the returning sunlight. Exactly as she had last seen it. Avoided by people from the village; haunted, some said. A place used by smugglers, others claimed.
They had thought Montagu mad when he had bought it and converted it into a studio, several studios eventually, where he had worked and had trained others to follow his profession, spurred on by his fame and his genius. And now he was dead. Had begun to die that very day when the fire had broken out.
The doors were open or hanging charred from their hinges. Sunlight played through a great hole in the roof, so that the old stairway seemed to come alive again as her shoes crackled on fragments and scattered ash.
She knew Lady Roxby was following her. Wanting to help. And caring, as she had that time when they had first met, here in this house, when she had come to see Adam's portrait.
She heard a bird fluttering through the main studio, nesting perhaps. The same studio where Adam had stood looking at her. Andromeda… she felt it like pain. He was gone. The rest was like a dream… something she was terrified of losing.
Why I came back here,
She quickened her pace and came into the old garden. Overgrown, a wasteland, but the roses were still here, clustered by the wall, holding the sunshine, as fresh and yellow as they had been that day. Like the rose on his coat in the finished portrait.
She stooped to pick one, twisting the stem, and saw blood on her finger. She could almost hear his voice.
Nancy watched her, without speech or movement: the figure in the flowing blue grey gown, a wide-brimmed straw hat hanging from her shoulders. Lowenna… 'joy' in the old Cornish tongue. After what she had suffered, perhaps the fates were repaying what they owed this dark-eyed girl.
She crossed the moss-covered cobbles. 'Here, let me. I'm more used to it than you are.' She felt the girl stiffen, the old barrier rising between them, like those first meetings; it was her only defense. She added simply, 'I've not much else to do these days, y' see! '
She felt the girl's arms around her, the dark hair against her face.
'Don't ever say that, dear Nancy. You are always busy, always helping others. It's why I love you so much.'
They gathered roses in silence. Then Lowenna said, 'We shall leave the rest. It is our place.'
They walked slowly back to the lane, where Francis was fastening the two hoods, which he had lowered in their absence. The landau's hoods were made of greased leather, which had to be constantly rubbed with oil and blacking to keep them pliable and waterproof. Lowenna noticed that the coachman, ex-cavalryman that he was, was wearing white gloves, without a single mark or smear.
'Thought it would be nice an' easy for the ride back, m' lady.'
Nancy smiled and touched his arm. 'Where would I be without you?'
Lowenna climbed up into the landau and tightened the ribbons of the hat beneath her chin. Nancy must have been lovely as a young girl. Now Roxby, her husband, 'The King of Cornwall', was dead. Lowenna recalled their first meeting, when Nancy had said openly that she had had two lovers in her life. Now she was nearly sixty, but the light was still there, in her eyes and in her manner.
And she had not questioned her. Why had she come? How long might she stay? But this was the West Country and news rode a fast horse. Nancy knew all about her brief stay at the Plymouth boat builder house. She had asked once about the painting, and how it had survived the fire.
Lowenna had told her that she had sent it out to Adam's ship before he had sailed.
Nancy had gripped both her hands and had looked straight into her eyes.
