Herrick had donned his uniform for the occasion, which had not helped.
Looking back, it seemed the retired rear-admiral had been even more uneasy.
Some one exclaimed, 'Coming now!'
The crowd was thicker; even those he had thought only casual onlookers had pressed closer to join the others.
A smart carriage with a crest he did not recognize on its door was wheeling round to the foot of the steps.
For an instant longer he saw the girl in the untidy studio, when Adam had smashed down the door and he had found himself with a pistol in his hand, ready to shoot. To kill, given the slightest provocation. And Lowenna, the gown ripped from her shoulder, with a brass candlestick in her hand, the man who had tried to rape her sprawling at her feet. would have killed him, she had said.
So would I.
The carriage stopped and some one ran up to hold the horses.
The coachman had jumped down from his box and let down the step before Troubridge could move.
He thought of the coachman who had driven them from the house. Young Matthew, they had called him, although he could have been their father… And he had seen the quick exchange of glances, and the smiles when Young Matthew had been ready to assist the one-armed Herrick from the carriage, but he had declined. No words had been necessary.
He stared, startled, for an instant as a midshipman stepped from the coach and turned to take the bridal bouquet, a spray of golden chrysanthemums tied with ribbon.
But the 'midshipman' was a girl, in a perfect copy of a uniform jacket, with a white skirt that skimmed her ankles. Her tall, slim figure would never pass unremarked on any gangway.
He moved toward them, his eyes on Lowenna. She was wearing a gown of heavy cream silk, the sleeves long and puffed and the bodice shirred with gold thread that caught the faint sunshine, her dark hair piled up and caught with a cluster of white silk roses and a drift of veil. The single pearl and diamond drops which had been Adam's gift flashed at her throat and ears as she stood, quite motionless, looking up at the church tower, and then directly at him.
'Francis, it is so good, so right, to see you today.'
He took her hand and kissed it, and there was a murmur of approval from the watching crowd. Neither of them heard it.
She lifted her chin. Pride, a little defiance as she reached out to take his arm.
Troubridge said, 'If ever…' He checked himself.
She looked at him and touched his mouth with her fingers, and he caught the faint, cold, autumnal scent of the flowers.
'I know. And I thank you, Francis.'
They walked toward the open doors, Elizabeth, the midshipman, close behind them, her arms full of chrysanthemums.
A few steps from the entrance, Lowenna stopped and faced the crowd for the first time.
There was a man standing almost against the door frame, stiffly, propped on a crutch, his foot a wooden stump. He must have been here for hours, Troubridge thought, to have found a place so close.
With great dignity he lifted his old hat and smiled.
'God bless you an' Cap'n Adam, an' fair sailing!'
She waved and smiled back as the crowd broke into another burst of cheering.
Perhaps one of the old sailors from the waterfront, where she had walked with Adam, and found hope. But the one-legged figure had gone. A ghost, then…
She looked at her escort and pressed her hand against his arm. She was ready, but the tears had been very near.
Walk with me.
Adam stood below the high altar with his back to the reflected sunlight, glad of the shadows. The church was as crowded as he could ever remember. There were even some additional benches near the nave, which had been occupied when he had arrived.
Nancy and Herrick were sitting close by, and young David Napier. He remembered his face, his surprise and obvious delight when he had told him that of course he was invited. One of the family.
He looked around at the carvings and the tablets. So many of Falmouth's sons were remembered here.
Like the day he had stood in this church, beside Catherine, when the flags had been lowered to half-mast, and Unrivalled had fired a salute to the memory of Sir Richard Bolitho. And years before, when he had escorted his uncle's bride up to this same altar. Belinda, Elizabeth's mother, who had died after a riding accident. Had she been trying to prove something even then? And now there was Elizabeth, no longer a child. She had already proclaimed that she would never marry a sailor, who would put the sea before his wife.
He looked through the church, his eyes accustomed to the cool shadows. Like taking over a watch before dawn…
He thought of Onward, her wounds entrusted to the care of the builders, and of the action and its aftermath, Nautilus now awaiting her fate in Gibraltar. And the Turk, Mustafa Kurt: killed in the whirlwind of his own sowing, or vanished in some new guise to join or ferment further rebellion elsewhere? He heard the discreet cough, and knew the clergyman had received some message or signal.
Lowenna was arriving now.
He glanced around. All the faces, some so well known, part of himself. Allday and his Unis; Yovell, spectacles balanced on his forehead, as Adam could imagine even if he could not see them. Grace Ferguson, despite all the memories this church would evoke. Perhaps she had nothing now but the Bolitho family.
There were uniforms here in plenty, naval, and red coats from the garrison. But mostly they were local folk.
He saw a hand move and raised his own to Jago, standing in his special place for today. He and Allday would have a few yarns to share before the day was over.
There were sudden cheers outside, and a few late arrivals hurried across a shaft of sunlight to be guided clear of the aisle.
Then he saw Lowenna, with Troubridge beside her, flowers on her arm, and more following close behind her in Elizabeth's hands. Every head turned to her, the air quivered as the organ breathed into life, but her eyes were on his, and remained so until their hands joined and together they faced the altar.
At the very back of the church, one of the ushers managed to find a seat in a crowded pew for a latecomer. And that was only because he was limping badly, obviously recovering from an injury or wound. And he was a foreigner, and Cornish folk prided themselves on making strangers welcome.
'Are you a guest of the Bolitho family?'
Capitaine Luc Marchand smiled, and shook his head.
'He is my friend.'
It was enough.
