You only just came alongside! '
Ferguson drained the last of his rum.
'I have some things to do. They won't wait. Give my warmest regards to your dear Unis. She will understand. It's just that they won't wait.'
He hurried to the door and dragged it open as Allday had seen him do so many times, swinging it to avoid catching his empty sleeve.
Unis came into the parlour, the child Katie pulling behind her with a huge basket she could barely carry. She liked to be a part of everything.
Unis put a parcel down on the table and said, 'That was Bryan, was it? Did he leave because of me?'
The child called, 'Uncle Bryan where is he?' She always called him that.
Allday held Unis with one hand on either shoulder. As if he was afraid of breaking her, as she had sometimes told him.
'He had to get back. I think he's doing too much.'
She brushed some hair from her forehead and walked to the other door.
'The road workers will be here any minute.' She was dragging on her apron. 'Is the food ready? I asked if Nessa would see to that bread. And another thing…' She turned. 'What is it, John? I wasn't thinking…'
Dick, the local carter, came into the parlour, his arms full of parcels and a sack of turnips.
He grinned. 'You good folk talking about Mr. Ferguson? He's not gone far I think his pony has stopped for a quick nibble! '
Little Katie shouted, 'Uncle Bryan! I'm going to see him! '
Unis smiled. 'Forgotten something, I expect.'
Allday barely heard her. Poppy the little pony was always greedy, and Bryan often remarked on it.
He said, 'Stay here, ' and it was as if he had uttered some terrible oath. The carter had dropped one of the parcels on the floor, and the child was staring at him with disbelief, as if she was about to burst into tears.
Only Unis was calm, too calm.
'What is it, John? Tell me.'
Allday looked at her and repeated, 'Stay here, ' then, 'Please.'
She nodded, all else unimportant. She had seen his face, his hand as it moved to his chest and the terrible wound from the Spanish blade.
The door closed and she walked numbly to the window. All as normal.
The two salesmen were about to leave, a group of road workers by the pump, one dousing his bare arms in water.
Ferguson 's little trap was standing out on the road, the pony munching long grass by the stile. All as normal.
She saw Allday, her John, her man, walk slowly up to the little trap and stare into it. She did not hear him call out, but two of the road workers had run to his side, looking around as if uncertain what to do. Allday was not supposed to lift anything heavy because of the wound, although it was often pointless to try and prevent him.
She wanted to cry out, to run to him, but could not move.
The big, shambling figure, whose scarred hands could create delicate and finely detailed ship models, like the one of Hyperion here in the parlour. The ship which had taken one husband from her, and given her another. The man she loved beyond anything had stooped over the little trap, and was lifting Bryan Ferguson with such care that he could have been quite alone.
She heard herself say quietly, 'Fetch my brother. Bryan
Ferguson is dead.' She looked at the two empty glasses. 'We must send word to the house at once.' She thought of Grace Ferguson, but then she touched one of the glasses and murmured only, 'Poor John.'
Lowenna paused on the staircase where it turned to the right, and led to the landing and the main bedrooms which she knew instinctively faced the sea. She wondered what had made her hesitate, when Nancy had insisted that she should feel welcome here.
She rested her spine against the rail and looked at the portrait opposite her. A dark painting, partly because it hung in shadow, but also because of its age. Sir Gregory Montagu had taught her much in his almost off-hand fashion. Only the main subject stood out, a telescope cradled in one arm, a ship or ships burning in the background. Nancy had told her that it was Rear-Admiral Denziel Bolitho, the only one of the family to have reached flag rank until Sir Richard, with Wolfe at Quebec. She almost touched it: the sword he was wearing was the same one she had seen in other portraits in the stairwell, the same sword she had helped fasten to Adam's belt before he had left her. On that day.
She had been in other houses, larger and grander than this. Montagu's residence in London, sealed by his lawyers after his death, was one of them.
She turned and looked down at the entrance hall, the cut flowers, and the most recent portrait by the tall window: Adam with his yellow rose. But none with such a sense of belonging, and the weight of history. Now the house was completely still, listening, holding its breath.
She had walked through the stable yard, the horses tossing their heads as she passed.
Nancy had said, 'If you need anything, the cook can help you.'
She had only met Bryan Ferguson twice, perhaps three times. A quiet, serious face. He had made her feel welcome, not a stranger.
She had seen his wife Grace before she had left here for the funeral. It would be over by now, or very soon, and life would return to this old house and the surrounding countryside.
She stroked the banister with her palm. What made this house so different from all those she had known or visited.
She had heard that Bryan Ferguson had no children; he and
Grace had lived and served this house and all those who depended upon it. They were the family.
And now more responsibility would rest upon Nancy. Ever since they had returned from the Old Glebe House and received the news of Ferguson 's sudden death, she had not stopped. Now she was at the funeral, separate, but very much a part of it and the world they all shared.
Like this house. The same family, six generations, and now in the stillness she could imagine any one of those faces alive, perhaps on this staircase, or down in the study with its well-worn books and old carvings. And Adam. She glanced up into the shadows. Would he ever leave the sea? When would they be together again? Lie together?
'Is some one looking after you?'
Lowenna turned and saw the other woman halfway up the stairs. She had seen her only once before, at a distance, pointed out by Nancy: the girl Elizabeth's governess, Beatrix Tresidder. She could even recall her brief description. Her father was a clergyman over Redruth way, Nancy had said, a poor parish, barely earning his keep. She was educated, and had been glad of the opportunity to put it to good use.
Lowenna looked down at her, dressed all in grey, her hair tied back severely with a black ribbon. Her own age, perhaps a year older or younger, it was hard to tell.
She said, ' Nancy said I should wait here, ' and was surprised that she should feel almost guilty. 'You are Elizabeth 's governess.'
'I do recall now Lady Roxby mentioned it to me. But I've had so much to do over the last few days… Miss Elizabeth is with me.'
'She did not go with Nancy?'
'She was upset. It is her birthday tomorrow.'
'I know.' She came to a decision. 'May I call you Beatrix? We shall know each other faster and better if so, ' and smiled. 'My name is Lowenna.'
'Well, as you say.' She seemed taken off guard. 'Shall you be staying long? I understood that you might be returning to London.'
Lowenna descended, knowing the other woman was watching every move. She had blue eyes, like the sea, and clear, pale skin; she could have been pretty if she had allowed herself to be. A
defense, a barrier; perhaps she saw her as an intruder, like others she would have to meet if she remained here. She clenched her fist behind her back. Where my heart wants to be.
Beatrix said, 'Is there anything I can show you? I come here quite often; Miss Elizabeth likes to visit. It was
