memories, it was real. Now.
She untied a cord and dragged open the heavy draperies. It was still dark, with only a hint of grey to distinguish the land from the sky. Not even a star, nor had there been when she had crossed to this window during the night. Or did I dream that, too? What was Nancy doing, she wondered. She had been born here, in the old Bolitho house, the daughter of another naval captain. She gripped the cord until it hurt her fingers. Like Adam. Nancy, always busy with the affairs of her own estate, and much of the time with this one. She had two grown children and two grandchildren, who lived somewhere in London. Her husband, the formidable Lewis Roxby, was dead, but she seemed unbreakable. A gentle woman, but firm when necessary, she was nearly sixty years old, and always surprised that she could still turn a man's head when she passed.
Lowenna found a handle and carefully forced open the window. There was no wind, but the air took her breath away and touched her hair like frost. As if she were naked.
She closed it, but not before she had heard a voice below the wall around the drive from the stables. They were up and about, preparing for the arrival of the Bolitho carriage. How did they know? The roads in February could be treacherous, even though Young Matthew, as they still called the senior coachman, was said to know them better than any one.
Adam would be collected from an inn on the outskirts of Truro. She shivered again. Perhaps not far from the Old Glebe House, where she had posed for Sir Gregory Montagu and found her courage and her pride again. And where life had changed, when Adam had been directed through Montagu's big, untidy studio. It had been fate: good fortune or destiny, who could tell? And how much of those two years since their meeting had they shared? Weeks, or only days? Now was not the time to reckon them.
She found the lantern near the door and opened its shutter. It was not much of a light; somebody would deal with it later.
Like everything else in this house.
When would she stop being merely a visitor here and become a part of it? Like the midshipman who had once been Adam's servant. He was here now, and this was his only home.
Or did he still regard it as a refuge? Like me.
Most of the time this house was empty but for those who cared for it, and the ghosts of vanished Bolithos whose portraits lined the landing and hung in the fine old study. And the latest portrait of Adam, who was adamantly not a ghost, gazing from the canvas throughout the months of his long absence, wearing the yellow rose on his uniform coat. My rose… Montagu had asked for her advice: the portrait had not been quite right, not to his satisfaction. They had discussed it, and together they had found what was lacking: that elusive smile.
Now it was Adam.
She glanced at the window again. Brighter? Yes. She allowed herself to smile. Not a dream. He was coming home. And I am not afraid.
If only Montagu had lived to see and share her hopes and happiness, but he had never recovered from the terrible injuries suffered in the fire which had destroyed the Old Glebe House.
The Last Cavalier, Adam had called him. Always alert, dedicated, and passionate. Ageless, with his neat, rakish beard; even the paint-daubed smock he usually wore could never conceal his courtly charm. It was so easy to imagine a rapier replacing the brush.
She had been his ward, and he had saved her life. After I tried to end it.
She thought of the last time she had been with Adam, at the old boatyard where Montagu had often gone when he wanted to work on a painting undisturbed. They had been alone, and became the lovers in fact that they had been in name. was not afraid.
She could hear Montagu's voice, almost the last words he had spoken to her before the doctors had turned her away.
Destiny, my girl. Fate.
How many times had she clung to those dying words.
She heard some one whispering outside the door, the clink of glass or metal. It was time.
'Thank you, Gregory. So much. 'She could see him clearly, turning from a new canvas, a quizzical smile above the jaunty beard. The Last Cavalier.
Nancy, Lady Roxby, waited until the doors had closed behind her and held out her arms, her eyes shining with pleasure and emotion.
'It is so good to see you, Adam! 'She hugged him, imagining the smell of the sea on his clothing, her face cold against his.
'You must be tired out!'
Adam released her and looked at the girl, still standing in the arched entrance, surprised and a little unnerved by the warmth of the welcome.
It had been mid-morning when the carriage, with Young Matthew on the box, had swung around the curved drive and pulled up beneath the leafless trees. 'Grand to have you home again, Captain Bolitho! 'His cold-reddened face had split into a grin, and other figures had appeared as if to a signal. Some Adam knew only by sight. Others had always been part of his life, like old Jeb Trinnick, who had been in charge of the Bolitho stables as long as any one in the family could recall.
And there were faces he did not recognize, and some far older than when he had last seen them.
In this mood it had been overwhelming, although he should have been prepared for it. A Bolitho was back from the sea.
Smiles, shouts of greeting, others running to calm the horses. And Nancy leading the way, smiling, close to tears as he had known she would be. And then he saw Lowenna at the foot of the steps.
Less than a year: only a dog watch, the deepwater Jacks would say, but not to those who were always left behind.
He had held her, his hands on her waist, how long he did not know. As if they had been quite alone. She had turned her head very slightly and he had felt her shiver, or brace herself as she said, 'I've waited.
He bent to kiss her cheek, but she had turned her face suddenly, and he had kissed her mouth. Like that other time… Let them think what they like.
And now they were here. Some one was whistling; the carriage was moving away from the entrance. He heard a dog barking somewhere and a girl laughing, cut off sharply as if admonished by one of her superiors.
Lowenna unfastened the cloak from her shoulders. It was the same old boat cloak, cleaned and patched a few times. All those vigils along the headland or a beach somewhere, watching for the first sign of a ship. The ship.
He said, 'There's so much…'
She reached out and touched his lips. 'Hold me. 'She let her arms fall. 'Just hold me.'
Nancy watched them and then turned away, her heel catching on her own cloak, which she had thrown in the direction of a chair. 'I must do a few things. I've arranged your room.'
She picked it up. Neither of them had heard her. She was moved, and disturbed also, that she could still feel envy and loneliness.
When she glanced back, Adam's arms were around Lowenna without apparent pressure or insistence. One of the girl's hands clenched slightly into a fist, and she knew that he was stroking her hair.
There was a tang of woodsmoke in the cold air: fresh fires being lit. Nancy rubbed her eyes. She was not going to cry, not today.
The old house would be alive again.
Luke Jago stood back from the chair and wiped the scissor blades on a cloth.
'There, smart as paint. Good enough for an admiral. 'He grinned. 'One on 'alf pay, anyways!'
David Napier glanced across at the old desk, where the chair he had been occupying usually stood. It had been replaced by a larger version, more accommodating to Daniel Yoveil's portly shape. Even the desk seemed to have changed, with all the familiar ledgers and accounts but some leather-bound files as well, and a neat pile of dockets weighted with a large conch shell.
Even now, if a floorboard creaked or a door banged open, Napier still expected to see Bryan Ferguson, the one-armed steward of the estate.
Jago was dusting hairs from his sleeve.
'Better get yer shirt on. I seen a lad breakin 'ice at the pump just now.'
