anyway.
There were soldiers on the jetty, and a tall major waiting to greet the vice admiral and his aide. Behind the soldiers and some kind of barrier he could see crowds of people, all eager to greet the newcomers. Like any port, when you thought about it.
The midshipman, Mister bloody Vincent, was on his feet, bobbing and raising his hat while the admiral and flag lieutenant stepped ashore. Jago heard Bethune say, 'The boat can remain here. This shouldn't take too long.'
Jago scowled. The captain never told him what to do. He trusted him. No good officer would leave a boat's crew sitting here in the heat, sweating it out, while he downed a few wets with the governor or whoever it was.
The major saluted, and Bethune shook his hand, putting him at his ease. Jago swore under his breath. Never volunteer. It was too late now.
He swung round, surprised that he had forgotten the other passenger, the admiral's servant, Tolan. One who caught your attention, made you wonder. Sharp, and always in control of things. Jago had tried to yarn with him but had got nowhere. Bowles had said as much himself, and he could talk the hind leg off a mule if he wanted to.
'Going on an errand, eh?'
Tolan stepped over the gunwale on to the worn stones. He gave Jago a brief, piercing look.
'You might say as much, yes.'
Vincent snapped, 'No gossiping in the boat, there! '
Jago contained his anger, and across the midshipman's shoulder saw the stroke oarsman mouth an unspoken obscenity. It helped.
Tolan reached the top of the stairs and turned to look down at the moored gig; it gave him time to settle his nerves. He could not fathom what had got into him lately, suspicious of the most innocent remark, ever since the incident with the marine's musket. So face up to it. It's all over and behind you now. And he liked the captain's coxswain, what he had seen of him and had heard others say. Tough, competent, reliable. A man with a past; he had seen the savage scars on his back when he had been washing himself under a pump. No wonder he hated officers… except, apparently, the captain.
Some children ran up to him, hands out, all eyes and teeth. The same anywhere, he thought. He ignored them. One sign of weakness and you brought an avalanche down on your head.
In the shade of the first buildings, it seemed almost cool after the harbour and the open boat. He looked around as he walked; it had not changed much, although there were fewer ships and sailors than the last time he had been in Antigua. In the frigate Skirmisher, Bethune's final command before his promotion to flag rank. A lot of water since then.
A woman carrying a basket of fresh fish walked past him.
Tall, dark-skinned, a half-caste of some sort. Probably born of a slave mother. Some traders and planters had the right idea, he thought. Better to breed slaves than run the risk of being caught smuggling them from the other side of the ocean.
He looked at the last house, painted white like the others, a short flight of steps leading up to a balcony which faced the harbour.
He took out the letter from his immaculate coat and studied it for a few seconds. Bethune was a powerful man, and a good one to serve. He had watched him over the years, taking on more authority, and using it without obvious strain or effort. But sometimes he left his guard down, wide open to enemies, and at the Admiralty there would be plenty of those. He knew about Catherine Somervell, had even seen them meet in the park, only a short ride from that elegant office. Beautiful, she was. Hard to accept that she had once been the toast of the country, Sir Richard Bolitho's mistress. People had short memories, when it suited them. He had seen the vicious cartoon of her in a well known news sheet. After Sir Richard's death in action she had been depicted nude, staring out at ships of the fleet, eyes open for the next to share her bed. He could recall Bethune's fury and dismay, as if it were yesterday.
But mail took a long time to travel. Diverted, lost at sea; there were a thousand reasons. Or, like the brig Celeste, sunk by an unknown enemy. It was not the first letter he had carried for him, but maybe this time he had made a mistake.
He climbed the steps and felt the sun on his face again as he reached the balcony. He saw a telescope mounted on a tripod, an open fan lying on a cane chair. Sir Graham had not made a mistake after all.
She was standing inside an open doorway, her hair hanging down on her shoulders, as if it had just been brushed. Dressed in an ivory gown, her throat and arms bare, she showed no surprise, no emotion at all.
She said, 'I remember you. Mr. Tolan, is it not?'
Exactly as he remembered her. Poised, striking, and something more. She led the way into a long room, shutters lowered against the glare, a ceiling fan swaying soundlessly from side to side adding to the feeling of seclusion. She gestured to the telescope.
'I saw the ship come in. I never grow tired of watching them come to anchor.' She looked directly at the letter in his hand. 'From Sir Graham, I trust?'
Tolan's eyes flickered to the ceiling as the fan faltered for a few seconds, as if the unseen hand was listening.
'He asked me to deliver it to you, m' lady, no one else. In case it got mislaid.'
She did not move. 'I destroyed the others. Please return it to your master. I don't have the time…'
Tolan stood fast. Like a drill. He knew enough about women to see past her composure. She had been watching Athena's, slow approach, and had found time to prepare herself. To dress, and be ready. Perhaps she had expected Bethune to come in person. That could be dangerous, for both of them.
He said, 'He ordered me not to return to the ship without giving you the letter, m' lady.'
'And he must be obeyed, is that it?' She put her hand to her side as if to straighten her gown. 'I am not at all sure that I…'
Another door creaked open and Tolan felt every muscle stiffen. But it was a young girl, a servant, half Spanish at a guess.
He felt his breathing steady again. For a second he had imagined it would be a man, the protector he had heard some one mention.
She said, 'Later, Marquita. I shall not be long.' When she looked at him again she was different; the confidence was fading.
'You may leave it if you wish. But I do not promise to read it.' She relented immediately. 'That was unfair of me. It is not your place to intercede. Like a second in a duel! '
Tolan knew she was thinking of the clump of dead trees in the park, where so many duels had been fought, mostly by officers from the garrison nearby. Over money, or an insult, or because of a woman. Like this one.
She asked abruptly, 'Are you married, Mr. Tolan?'
He shook his head. 'I've not been so fortunate, m' lady.'
She reached out and took the letter from his hand. Just the faintest hesitation, perhaps doubt, her fingers brushing his. 'Maybe it is not too late.' She smiled. 'For either of us.'
He turned to leave the room, and she said, 'A secret, then?'
He nodded, unusually moved. 'Safe with me, m' lady.'
Tolan had reached the bottom of the steps when it struck him.
She had not even mentioned Athena's captain, who bore the same name as her famous lover.
He looked up, but she had vanished. Maybe it was all in the letter.
He strode along the narrow street. She would not burn it. Nor had she destroyed the others.
A woman you would die for, or spill another man's blood. And she had treated him with respect, had called him 'mister', not like most of the others who looked right through you.
There was still a little crowd of people loitering above the jetty where the gig's crew wilted in the heat, watching the comings and goings of the many harbour craft around the anchored two-decker.
Tolan paused by the wall, thinking of the girl he had seen earlier with her basket of fish, the beautiful way she had walked. He was not required on board the ship until dusk, when Bethune was receiving guests.
He remembered a house he had once visited when he had been here before. Like escaping, being himself, without a false identity and the fear of being trapped by some careless remark or deed.
A woman like that would give far more than her body.
