wild daffodils which she had been given to present as their own welcome.
Then she saw him, straight-backed and tall in his fine gold laced coat, the old family sword at his side. And close on his heels, turning only to wave to the men on the schooner, was Allday, as she had known he would be.
She stood and watched him, oblivious to the cold. It was so important, too important to ruin in the presence of all these smiling, cheering faces. There were tears, too: there would be many who were not so lucky today. But the tears would not be hers.
The baker’s wife gave her little girl a gentle push, and she trotted forward with her daffodils.
Catherine clenched one fist until she felt her nails break the skin, as Richard brushed against the child with his knee.
Allday was there in an instant: she had heard that he was good with children. The puckered face which had been about to burst into tears was all smiles again. The moment was past.
Catherine held out her arms. Richard had not seen the child. He could not.
Afterwards, she did not recall speaking, although she must have said something. Allday had grinned, and had made light of it.
Only in the carriage did she hold him, take his hands and press them against her to disperse his uncertainty, and his despair.
It was not a dream, and the ache would be gone until the next time, if it had to be.
Once he’d kissed her neck and said, “Don’t leave me.”
She had answered strongly, for both of them, “Never.”
Beyond the harbour, the sea was quieter now. Waiting.
