'Warned him? Because I told her of the danger to her, if she remained in Antigua?'
'Loyalty reaches two ways, Sir Graham, as I have learned to my cost.'
Bethune was on his feet. 'Then I have put her in peril, is that what you are saying?' He came around the table, his coat sweeping his glass to the deck in fragments. 'Tell me, Adam -it's all I care about! '
Adam measured his words with care.
'If the ships are gone when we reach San Jose, no harm will have been done but to our reputations. Our pride.'
He felt Bethune's grip on his shoulder, heard one word. 'Miner
He persisted, 'If not, we can put our plan into action. This man Carneiro will not risk being expelled from Cuba when he already has his eye on making Brazil separate from his own country. Independence or rebellion, what matters is at which end of the gun you are standing.'
Bethune let out a slow breath.
'Old head on young shoulders, Adam. I should have remembered.'
He swung away and slopped more cognac into unused tumblers.
When he faced him again his eyes were very bright, with alcohol, emotion or sheer excitement. He thrust out his glass. 'To us, then! Captains all! ' Adam knew it was not something he would ever forget.
15. Reaching Out
The girl named Lowenna paused on the steeply sloping path that ran down from the narrow coastal road, and stared across Falmouth Bay. She had been warned about loose stones on this uneven track; in bad weather it could be treacherous.
She looked at the small, fan-shaped beach directly below her, which she had visited several times. It had become special to her, although she could not explain why. And always at this moment, with the tide on the turn, the sand hard and unmarked even by the rapacious gulls. Soon the tide would fall still further, and this small beach would join hands with the larger expanses around the immediate headland.
The breeze off the bay was cool, but she hardly felt it beneath the heavy cloak she had borrowed from Nancy.
She walked slowly down the remainder of the slope, and stepped on to a slab of rock which must have been washed from the cliff in some forgotten storm. It was perfectly shaped, like a giant door stone.
She tucked some rebellious hair beneath the cloak's hood and gazed once more across the bay. It was almost noon, and opposite her St. Anthony Head was partly hidden in mist, or spray blowing in from the sea.
A private place. She knew that if she looked back up the path the coastal road would be invisible, as would the stable boy who was minding the pony and Elizabeth 's horse. She could almost feel the girl watching her. Curiosity, amusement, she still did not know her well enough to determine.
They had ridden three times together. This would be the fourth.
The pony, Jory, had been the model of behaviour; he had apparently been around as long as any one could remember. Elizabeth had remarked, 'Something bigger and little more lively soon, Lowenna.' She was very much at home in the saddle, and knew it.
Lowenna sat down on a piece of rock and dragged off her boots. They were made of soft Spanish leather, and fitted her perfectly, and she wondered where Nancy had got them in the first place.
She stood slowly. Jory was gentle enough, but she could feel the effort of gripping him with her knees. She wondered what had made her do it, her legs bare astride the well-worn saddle.
Elizabeth had pronounced a side-saddle too dangerous. 'More so on these roads! '
Lowenna could imagine that, too. When a storm rolled into the bay they had told her that the road, no more than a track at the best of times, became impassable, and some parts had been washed away. She took the first steps on the hard, wet sand and watched the bubbles exploring her toes, the pressure of her feet changing the colour from gold to silver. It was cold, too, and she shivered.
She thought of the letter which had been brought to the Roxby house that morning, crumpled, stamped and counter-stamped. She had pressed it to her face and mouth. It even tasted of the sea, of Adam. It was not like watching the ships entering Falmouth, and Carrick Roads. Clinging to those few precious, desperate memories.
Adam had been here, with her. She had read it three times, but Nancy had said nothing, not even remarking on the fact that she had forsaken her breakfast before joining Elizabeth in the stable yard.
Like hearing his voice, seeing that little smile. Feeling his hands on her.
She cherished the memory of that last time together. Her fear, her anxiety, and then a wanton, uncontrollable desire which she had believed she would never experience.
He had written very little about the ship, or his relationship with his vice admiral
I would that I could deliver this letter myself, dearest Lowenna.
She staggered as her feet sank into a softer layer of sand.
When would he come back to England? She had to shut her ears to those who spoke of commissions extended at the whim of some politician or senior officer. It was still another world. So much to learn and understand.
She turned and looked up the beach and the fallen cliff beyond. She could see the boy's head over a slate wall, but nothing else.
What must she do? She felt it sweep over her again, like panic. I cannot stay here forever, although Nancy makes it easy enough. I am still a stranger. Only my past is remembered.
She thought of that last visit to London, to Montagu's lawyer. The will was being contested, and in any case… But while she had been there she had met Sir Gregory's oldest friend, Mark Fellowes, soon, it was said, to be honoured by the Prince Regent for a portrait he had completed. The subject had not been mentioned.
Fellowes had asked her if she would pose for him while she was in town. Natural enough, especially after all that Sir Gregory had taught her.
Elizabeth had touched on it unknowingly shortly after her return to Cornwall; she must have been giving it a good deal of thought. Like the discussions they had had about her sketches of mermaids. She had heard herself say, when you pose you become a study, not a body.
It had been with her ever since, when she allowed it to take her unaware.
The studio beside the Thames, like any other. Mark Fellowes and two or three associates. She could not even remember that clearly.
It was like the recurrence of a nightmare.
When she had started to disrobe, something had snapped within her. Like that moment when Adam and young Troubridge had burst into that other studio, and she had nearly killed the man who had tried to take her like a common whore.
I would have killed him…
She had run out of the room. Fellowes had written to her since, but she had not known how to reply.
I did not feel like a subject. I felt like a living woman.
She heard feet on the wet sand, and wondered what the girl would think if she really knew her thoughts.
'What is it?'
Elizabeth said, 'I don't like that man.'
Lowenna realized that there was another shadow moving below the path.
Nancy had introduced him once, following Bryan Ferguson's funeral, and she had seen him on the Roxby estate a few times. Harry Flinders was Roxby's steward, and at one time his senior bailiff, when 'the King of Cornwall' had been a magistrate here. Tall, strongly built, with the brisk and efficient manner of a soldier. But she had heard Francis, Nancy 's coachman, who was ex-cavalry himself, observe on one occasion, 'Soldier, that one? We weren't that short of men, even when Boney was just across the Channel! ' Obviously not popular. But why Elizabeth?
'Well, ladies, a bit off your usual promenade, ain't you?'
Lowenna smiled coolly. 'Keeping an eye on us, were you, Mr. Flinders?'
About forty, maybe older. A man who took care of himself, and one with ambition.
She realized that Flinders was carrying her boots.
