shall be able to release more and more ships to harass their convoys and forestall large troop movements by sea. Last September you proved, if proof were needed, that a well-placed force of powerful frigates was far more use than sixty ships of the line.” He smiled. “I can still recall their faces in the other room when you told Their Lordships that the line of battle was finished. Blasphemy, some thought, and unfortunately there are still many you have yet to convince.”
Bolitho saw him look at the clock yet again. Sillitoe was late. He knew the extent of his own influence and accepted it, knew too that people feared him. Bolitho suspected it pleased him.
Bethune was saying, “All these years, Richard, a lifetime for some. Twenty years of almost unbroken war with the French, and even before that, when we were in Sparrow during the American rebellion, we were fighting France as well.”
“We were all very young then, Graham. But I can understand why ordinary men and women have lost faith in victory, even now, when it is within our grasp.”
“But you never doubted it.”
Bolitho heard voices in the corridor. “I never doubted we would win, eventually. Victory? That is something else.”
A servant opened the fine double doors and Sillitoe came unhurriedly into the room.
Catherine had described the portrait of Sillitoe’s father, which she had seen at the reception in his house. Valentine Keen had been her escort on that occasion: that would have set a few tongues wagging. But as he stood there now, in slate-grey broadcloth and gleaming white silk stock, Bolitho could compare the faces as if he had been there with her. Sillitoe’s father had been a slaver, “a black ivory captain,” he had called him. Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick had come far, and since the King had been declared insane his position as personal adviser to the Prince Regent had strengthened until there was very little in the political affairs of the nation he could not manipulate or direct.
He gave a curt bow. “You look very well and refreshed, Sir Richard. I was pleased to hear of your nephew’s exoneration.”
Obviously, news travelled faster among Sillitoe’s spies than in the corridors of Admiralty.
Sillitoe smiled, his hooded eyes, as always, concealing his thoughts.
“He is too good a captain to waste. I trust he will accept Rear Admiral Keen’s invitation. I think he should. I believe he will.”
Bethune rang for the servant. “You may bring refreshments, Tolan.” It gave him time to recover from his shock that Sillitoe’s network was more efficient than his own.
Sillitoe turned smoothly to Bolitho.
“And how is Lady Catherine? Well, I trust, and no doubt pleased to be back in town?”
Pointless to explain that Catherine wanted only to return to a quieter life in Falmouth. But one could not be certain of this man. He who seemed to know everything probably knew that, too.
“She is happy, my lord.” He thought of her in the early hours of the morning when Avery had arrived. Happy? Yes, but concealing at the same time, and not always successfully, the deeper pain of their inevitable separation. Before Catherine, life had been very different. He had always accepted that his duty lay where his orders directed. It had to be. But his love he would leave behind, wherever she was.
Sillitoe leaned over the map. “Crucial times, gentlemen. You will have to return to Halifax, Sir Richard-you are the only one familiar with all the pieces of the puzzle. The Prince Regent was most impressed with your report and the vessels you require.” He smiled dryly. “Even the expense did not deter him. For more than a moment, that is.”
Bethune said, “The First Lord has agreed that orders will be presented within the week.” He glanced meaningfully at Bolitho. “After that, Rear-Admiral Keen can take passage in the first available frigate, no matter who he selects as flag captain.”
Sillitoe walked to a window. “ Halifax. A cheerless place at this time of the year, I’m told. Arrangements can be made for you to follow, Sir Richard.” He did not turn from the window. “Perhaps the end of next month-will that suit?”
Bolitho knew that Sillitoe never made idle remarks. Was he considering Catherine at last? How she would come to terms with it. Cruel; unfair; too demanding. He could almost hear her saying it. Separation and loneliness. Less than two months, then, allowing for the uncomfortable journey to Cornwall. They must not waste a minute. Together.
He replied, “You will find me ready, my lord.”
Sillitoe took a glass from the servant. “Good.” His hooded eyes gave nothing away. “Excellent.” He could have been describing the wine. “A sentiment, Sir Richard. To your Happy Few!” So he even knew about that.
Bolitho scarcely noticed. In his mind, he saw only her, the dark eyes defiant, but protective.
Don’t leave me.
2. For the Love of a Lady
BRYAN FERGUSON, the one-armed steward of the Bolitho estate, opened his tobacco jar and paused before filling his pipe. He had once believed that even the simplest task would be beyond him forever: fastening a button, shaving, eating a meal, let alone filling a pipe.
If he stopped to consider it, he was a contented man, grateful even, despite his disability. He was steward to Sir Richard Bolitho and had this, his own house near the stables. One of the smaller rooms at the rear of the house was used as his estate office, not that there was much to do at this time of the year. But the rain had stopped, and they had been spared the snow that one of the post-boys had mentioned.
He glanced around the kitchen, the very centre of things in the world he shared with Grace, his wife, who was the Bolitho housekeeper. On every hand were signs of her skills, preserves, all carefully labelled and sealed with wax, dried fruit, and at the other end of the room hanging flitches of smoked bacon. The smell could still make his mouth water. But it was no use. His mind was distracted from these gentle pleasures. He was too anxious on behalf of his closest and oldest friend, John Allday.
He looked now at the tankard of rum on the scrubbed table. Untouched.
He said, “Come along, John, have your wet. It’s just what you need on a cold January day.”
Allday remained by the window, his troubled thoughts like a yoke on his broad shoulders.
He said at length, “I should have gone to London with him. Where I belong, see?”
So that was it. “My God, John, you’ve not been home a dogwatch and you’re fretting about Sir Richard going to London without you! You’ve got Unis now, a baby girl too, and the snuggest little inn this side of the Helford River. You should be enjoying it.”
Allday turned and looked at him. “I knows it, Bryan. Course I do.”
Ferguson tamped home the tobacco, deeply troubled. It was even worse with Allday than the last time. He looked over at his friend, seeing the harsh lines at the corners of his mouth, caused, he thought, by the pain in his chest where a Spanish sword had struck him down. The thick, shaggy hair was patched with grey. But his eyes were as clear as ever.
Ferguson waited for him to sit down and put his big hands around the particular pewter tankard they kept for him. Strong, scarred hands; the ignorant might think them awkward and clumsy. But Ferguson had seen them working with razor-edged knives and tools to fashion some of the most intricate ship models he had ever known. The same hands had held his child, Kate, with the gentleness of a nursemaid.
Allday asked, “When do you reckon they’ll be back, Bryan?”
Ferguson passed him the lighted taper and watched him hold it to his long clay; the smoke floated toward the chimney, and the cat lying on the hearth asleep.
“One of the squire’s keepers came by and he said the roads are better than last week. Slow going for a coach and four, let alone the mail.” It was not doing any good. He said, “I was thinking, John. It’ll be thirty-one years this April since the Battle of the Saintes. It hardly seems possible, does it?”
Allday shrugged. “I’m surprised you can remember it.”
Ferguson glanced down at his empty sleeve. “Not a thing I could easily forget.”
