It was too late now. She had said she would go.
She walked to the window and stared out across the terrace, toward the sea beyond. The letter had been brought by messenger from Mark Fellowes, Sir Gregory Montagu's closest friend. Two days in London, three at the most. The will had been settled; there were more papers to sign. Fellowes would take care of everything, even a carriage and accommodation in both directions. He was a good man, and a friend still, despite their mutual loss.
She looked around the room. Impersonal, perhaps deliberately so. She was still a visitor here, while work was being done on the roof of the Roxby house where she was officially in residence. As Nancy had said, 'For appearance's sake. Give all the busy tongues something else to wag about! 'She felt herself smile.
When Adam came home. But when would that be? How long before…
Nancy was in Bodmin, on family business. She had asked her advice on the proposed trip to London.
'Better to do it yourself, my dear, rather than involve yet another lawyer looking to line his purse!'
It had made sense. But that was then.
There was a light tap at the door.
'Just looking to see if you needs any help?'
It was Grace Ferguson's girl. Friendly, feminine, efficient, and always ready to offer a hand or pass the time of day when she felt it was welcome.
'Have you been to London, Jenna?'
She clapped her hands together. 'Never been out of CornwallЦ Lowenna. 'She hesitated. 'We'm surely going to miss you.'
'I shall be back before you know it. Who was that I saw you talking to earlier? I didn't see him leave.'
Jenna reached out to adjust a curtain.
'A man called Tolan. Mr. Yovell knew all about him. 'She did not look at her. 'Served with Captain Adam and an admiral.'
Lowenna smiled. Adam had told her about Tolan, a loyal servant to Bethune, and discarded without a thought. Like the flotsam on the beach where she sometimes walked.
'What was he like? Did he seem a nice person?'
'I s'pose.'
Lowenna crossed to the window again, touching the girl's arm gently. She should not have asked. Jenna had been sent out to work when she was very young. Walking home late one night, she had been raped by a soldier from the local garrison, although no one was ever charged or convicted. She had borne a child, which had lived only a few days.
It might have been me. And the brutal aftermath, the rumours, the whispers that would never die. There's no smoke without fire.
But now she was here, safe and cared for.
Like me.
'If you needs me…' The door closed softly.
Lowenna stared out at the sea, at a tiny sliver of sail unmoving on the shimmering water. Probably a fisherman coming in to port to sell his catch. Like that last time: the idlers on the waterfront watching the comings and goings of every vessel. Critical, but wistful too.
The only life they knew. Now only memories remained.
She thought of Jenna, and the new arrival, Tolan. Making new lives, starting again. They were to be envied.
She remembered Adam's face, his pleasure when she had recognized the vessel leaving Falmouth on that last day.
Would he recall that? want to belong, to share it and play a part, not just be a privileged possession. A rose in his lapel…
She thought of Nancy again: the daughter, sister, aunt of naval officers, and descended from generations of others, she understood better than many the iron grip of ships and the sea on those who had served and been rejected by them. Like Rear Admiral Thomas Herrick. Herrick would be such a good partner for the widowed Nancy, but pride or something fiercer stood in his way. And John Allday, Sir Richard's old coxswain, who had held him in his arms as he had died, and who was now the popular landlord of The Old Hyperion inn over at Fallowfield: he had in spirit never left that same deck.
Dan Yovell, Bryan Ferguson, so many others: no wonder this old grey house held such strength.
She stared at the tiny sail again. It had barely moved.
Tomorrow, then. She was afraid and she was determined.
She said aloud, 'Walk with me.'
No longer alone.
Thomas Herrick climbed down from the carriage and peered around, recovering his bearings, aware that Young Matthew had already left his box and was murmuring something to his horses. Careful to display no undue concern for his passenger, but always ready, in case he was needed.
He would never forget that other visit, the first time they had seen him with the empty sleeve, and his own outburst. 'I'm not a cripple, for God's sake! 'And his instant apology, ashamed that he had turned on a friend who could not answer back.
His companion on this short journey, James Roxby, had already descended and was speaking with two men on the drive before the imposing house. As old or even older than the one he had just left, but sprawling and a little shabby, and built on several levels, enlarged as required over the years. It must have seen many changes, and dominated an estate which was one of the largest in this part of the county.
Herrick recognized one of the men. Flinders had been steward of the estate for a good many years. Tough and competent: he would have needed to be, to satisfy his late master, Sir Lewis Roxby. 'The King of Cornwall', as people still called him.
He saw them turn, and James Roxby smiled.
'This is Henry Grimes. 'He waved his hand vaguely. 'He is putting the old house to rights for us.'
Herrick had already noticed the gaping holes in one of the many rooftops, with workmen, stripped to the waist, crawling through them. All very industrious, and well aware of them.
Like hands working ship, he thought, when an officer made an unexpected appearance on deck.
'This is Rear-Admiral Herrick, a visitor. 'He did not introduce Flinders.
Grimes was small and wiry, with grey hair pulled back in a tight, old-fashioned queue. Keen, brilliant eyes, which Herrick sensed missed nothing. He felt the familiar pain in his shoulder and realized he had straightened his back, out of habit, at the mention of his rank.
Grimes smiled broadly. 'Glad to know you, sir. 'He did not offer his hand. 'I've been trying to explain about timber to my peopleЦ like talking to blocks of wood these days, if you'll pardon the expression! But you'll understand what I mean.
When I first started work in a shipyard, timber was of the finest quality, from the Growth of England, they always insisted. 'He shook his head. 'The way things are going, there won't be an oak left standing in the country!'
'How have you managed here? 'Roxby sounded impatient, perhaps thinking of the final bill.
Herrick turned to watch as a young woman appeared by a builders 'shack carrying a tray of glasses and mugs, and laughing as some of the men stopped work and gathered around her.
Grimes was saying, 'They're breaking up an old two-decker down at the yard. Her old timbers are still rock- solid, despite her thirty-odd years.'
Herrick said nothing, and did not ask the ship's name, afraid he would know her, and remember her as she had been.
What did I expect? Like that last visit to Plymouth: this time he had seen the admiral himself. He could hardly recall the preliminaries, and, in fairness, the admiral had not enjoyed it either.
He had ended it by saying, 'You will shortly be receiving a formal appreciation from their lordships, and I feel certain that if your services are ever required in the future…'
Like hearing the door slam in his face, for the last time.
He had wanted to tell Nancy about it. But how could he? Grimes was saying, 'Ships today are mostly fir-built,
