In the King`s Name

They had arrived, the curved driveway and the imposing grey house exactly as he remembered them. Even the old weathervane with the silhouette of Father Time against the sky.

Young Matthew’s boots hit the ground as he jumped down from his box, and others were appearing to hold the horses and take the basket from The Spaniards, or merely out of curiosity. There was another vehicle on the driveway, coachman and groom standing beside it, obviously waiting to depart.

Troubridge breathed out slowly. For a moment … But the doors had opened and he saw Nancy, Lady Roxby, waiting to greet him, her arms outstretched as he took off his hat and bowed over her hand. She was smiling, perhaps a little emotional as he stooped to kiss the hand, and clasped him around the shoulders.

“Francis, my dear! Welcome back!” She offered her cheek, and added, “Command suits you!” He must have glanced at the other carriage, and she shrugged. “Unexpected visitor. Just leaving-at last!”

Then she took his arm and together they walked into the spacious hallway. Some features he did not remember. Most of it was like yesterday.

And Nancy you could never forget. No longer young, she was Sir Richard Bolitho’s sister, but she had a beauty that never dimmed, and a wit to match it. She would deny both, but as Troubridge had seen for himself, heads always turned when she passed.

“Come and talk to me, Francis. The lady of the house will not be much longer.” She guided him into a large room that overlooked a garden and a line of leafless trees. It was well furnished, but his eyes were immediately drawn to a gilded harp, which stood with a stool beside it. He had heard about the harp and imagined it often.

When he turned, Nancy was seated on a couch, looking up at him.

“Sit down, Francis.” She gestured to a chair. “Get the chill out of your bones. I know too well what that road is like.”

He had not noticed how discreetly she had steered him toward the fire.

She was suddenly serious, even angry, one hand clenched into a small fist. “I heard you had words with our Mr. Flinders this morning.” She did not wait for confirmation. “This is Cornwall, remember? Bad news rides a fast horse!” She pushed some hair from her forehead; the gesture made her look even younger.

“I was told that he works on the estate, ma’am?”

“Did work! He was my steward.” She smiled thinly. “I gave him his marching orders this morning. I came here to tell Lowenna, but the carriage had already gone to collect you. Otherwise …” She glanced at the windows. “Well, the gentleman is leaving. About time, too!” There was a tartness in her voice that reminded him strangely of her nephew, Adam Bolitho.

Troubridge heard the wheels on the driveway and someone calling out to the coachman.

“I shall leave you both alone-you must have so much to talk about. I shall see you again presently, I hope, Francis?” She broke off as the door swung open.

It was Lowenna. She exclaimed, “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting like this! Jenna told me you had arrived, and in all that foul weather, too! And look at me!”

Troubridge took her hand and kissed it. She was wearing a long informal gown tied about her waist with a ribbon sash. Oddly, her feet were bare.

“He simply wouldn’t go. So many questions!” She turned her eyes from Nancy to Troubridge. “How lovely to see you, Francis. How long will you be in Falmouth?” He felt he was the only one in the room. She smiled again and touched her lips with her finger. “Ssh! I know, you’re not supposed to tell any one!”

Nancy looked at Lowenna’s robe with what Troubridge thought was disapproval. “Did he …?”

Lowenna laughed. “No, he only wanted to see my shoulders, to make a sketch or something.” She walked to the open fire and shivered. “Come into the study, Francis. There’s a proper blaze there.”

Nervous, excited, shy; he did not know her well enough to tell. You don’t know her at all.

She said, “I hated keeping you waiting.” She walked across the entrance hall, her bare feet soundless on the cold floor, and opened the library door. “That was Samuel Proctor. Sir Samuel, as he is now.”

Troubridge looked curiously around the big panelled room, at dark portraits and paintings of ships, men-of-war in action. He said, “I’ve seen some of his work. Fine pictures.”

She turned and stood with her back to the fire, smiling. “You are full of surprises, Francis. He was a friend of my guardian’s … or claims he was!”

She bent down to pick up a piece of cloth before using it to cover another painting, which stood against the bookcase that lined one wall. He had already seen it: the perfect body, her long hair across one shoulder. And the harp.

She was saying, “He painted Lady Hamilton. Poor Emma. She never lived to see it.”

She looked up and into his eyes, her chin lifted. Like that moment in the church. Pride or defiance? “He wants me to sit for him.”

“Are you pleased?”

“Honoured.” She touched his arm. “I want to hear about you, Francis. Your new ship, everything.” And then she looked away, just as suddenly. “I didn’t want it to be like this. I was told about this morning.”

“Lady Roxby?”

She did not answer. “I had told Young Matthew to stop at The Spaniards to collect some cheese. They make their own, and I remembered how you enjoyed it when you were last here.” She faced him again, and he could see her breathing. “It was some filth about me, wasn’t it?” She reached out and touched his lips, that intoxicating gesture. “I know. Elizabeth saw it before I did. She said he was ‘always watching.’”

She shuddered.

He said quietly, “I would have killed him.”

She gazed at him, her expression exactly as it had been captured in the painting. She repeated slowly, “Lovely to see you, Francis …” and drew in her breath as he put his arms around her. “Don’t. I’m not made of stone!”

But she could feel his hands on her back, her spine, and knew the gown had slipped from her left shoulder; she tensed as he kissed it.

Like a fantasy or a fever. Not the heat from the fire, but their own.

She heard herself say, “Stop,” and then in the next breath, “Kiss me.” She was pressed against him, their mouths making words impossible, their tongues sealing their embrace. He was kissing her shoulder again, and she had felt his hand against her skin. Her breast.

They stood quite still, their bodies a solitary shadow against the books. Somewhere a bell was ringing, and there was a sound of hooves. She buried her face against his shoulder. A single horse. But she could not move.

Now a man’s voice she did not recognise, and a woman’s: young Jenna.

She stood back and covered her bare shoulder. Her gown was dishevelled, and the ribbon sash unfastened.

He said, “Let me …”

But she could not look at him. She opened the door and saw Jenna standing with a man in uniform, his boots and spurs caked with mud.

“Who is it, Jenna?” How could she sound so calm?

The girl bobbed her head. “Courier-for the commander, ma’am.”

Troubridge walked past her, seeing the courier’s eyes flick over his uniform before he handed him a sealed envelope. He did not know the handwriting: the seal was enough.

He said quietly, “I must return to the ship.” He did not even say my ship.

Nancy was here now, glancing from one to the other. She had seen Lowenna’s gown; he hoped she could not imagine the rest.

Troubridge said, “A change of plan. My passengers are arriving a day earlier after all!”

Nancy said easily to the courier, “Something hot to drink before you go?”

“Why, thankee, m’ lady!” He clumped away.

Lowenna said, “I’ll tell Young Matthew. If I sent you with any one else, he’d never forgive me.”

It was over. And she thought she could hear Harry Flinders laughing.