Darkening Sea (15 page)

Sampson stared at them, like a drowning man who sees the unexpected arrival of aid.

“I would be
delighted,
Sir Richard! I shall inform my servant immediately and send word to the
Prince Henry
in my launch.

Bolitho studied his flag lieutenant. “You take many chances, sir.” He saw him look down in embarrassment. “But as Our Nel was known to have said, standing orders will never replace a zealous officer's initiative!” He smiled. “He still may not come.” A small inner voice seemed to say,
You may never see him again. Never.
Like Sampson, like the ships that pass and remain only in memory.

Sampson's personal steward bustled in, almost another Ozzard but with the accent of the East London slums. He poured more wine and remarked, “Beggin' yer pardon, Sir Richard, but me old dad served under you in th' frigate
Undine.
Begs many a tot o' rum from anyone oo'll listen to 'is yarns abaht it!”

He left the cabin and Bolitho looked at the warm wine. The family again. And yet he had not even told him his name.

As dusk closed in across the moored ships and the riding lights twinkled on the water like fireflies, Bolitho heard a boat hooking on to the chains. The handful of available marines stamped to attention, and there were muffled voices as Sampson greeted the second flag officer to visit him in days.

Bolitho found he was watching the screen door, while Avery stood by the stern windows, barely more than a shadow in the flickering candlelight. Why had he doubted that Herrick would come? Not curiosity, or because of friendship, but because he was and always had been a stickler for duty and correct procedures. He would never show disrespect for Captain Sampson's invitation, no matter what he might think.

That was the worse part, Bolitho thought. He knew him so well, too well perhaps.

A marine sentry opened the door and they came into the candlelight.

Bolitho had two immediate surprises. He could not recall ever seeing Herrick out of uniform, even of the more casual order at sea, and he was shocked to see how he seemed to have aged in so short a time.

Herrick wore a dark frock coat; it could have been black, with only his shirt to break the sombreness of his appearance. He was a little more stooped, probably because of the wound taken aboard his flagship
Benbow.
His face was drawn, with deep lines at the mouth, but as he stepped into the dancing lights his eyes were unaltered, as clear and blue as the day Bolitho had met him as a lieutenant.

They shook hands, Herrick's grip still hard and firm like tanned leather.

Bolitho said, “It is
good
to see you, Thomas. I never thought we should meet like this.”

Herrick glanced at the tray of glasses, which the black servant was holding out for his inspection.

He asked curtly, “Ginger beer?”

Sampson shook his head and began to worry. “I regret, no, sir.”

“No matter.” Herrick took a glass of red wine and said, “I never thought it either, Sir Richard. But we must do what we must and I have no desire to remain in England,” his blue eyes steadied, “unemployed.”

Surprisingly Bolitho recalled the tall marine who had pointed out “the good stuff ” at Hamett-Parker's reception in London. How he had said it was wrong that Herrick should be sent to New South Wales.

Herrick glanced at Avery and then at the gold cord on his shoulder. “The other one was appointed elsewhere, I believe?”

“Yes. Stephen Jenour has a command now.”

“Another lucky young man.”

“He deserved it.”

Herrick watched the glass being refilled as if he did not recall drinking from it.

Then he turned to Captain Sampson. “Your health, sir, but I do not envy your task here.” To the cabin at large he continued, “It is strange, is it not, that on one hand we are weakening our defences and deploying men and ships when they are sorely needed elsewhere simply to find and free a lot of savages who sold each other to the slavers in the first place!” He smiled suddenly and for only a second Bolitho saw the stubborn caring lieutenant he had known. Herrick said, “While on the other hand we ship our own people like animals, nay, less than beasts, in vessels which can only degrade and brutalise every man and woman amongst them!”

He changed tack and asked, “And how is her ladyship, Sir Richard, and the child Elizabeth—is she well also?”

“Lady Catherine is in good health, Thomas.” Even calling him by his title had been like a slap in the face.

Herrick nodded gravely. “Forgive me. I forgot.”

The meal Sampson provided was surprisingly appetising with some sort of game bird as the main course, and succulent fish which had also been caught by local boats.

Sampson noticed none of the tension between his two principal guests, or pretended not to. By the time they reached the fruit and some excellent cheese left by a visiting Indiaman, he was barely able to speak without slurring his words.

Bolitho looked over at him. Sampson was happy nonetheless.

Herrick asked, “Do you have big matters arising, Sir Richard? They seem to use you hardly. Perhaps I shall be better off in the colony.”

A lieutenant peered into the cabin. “Mr Harrison's respects, sir, and the rear-admiral's boat is alongside.”

Herrick stood up abruptly and looked at his watch. “On time anyway.” He glanced at the captain but he was fast asleep, snoring gently, with wine on his bulging waistcoat like the work of an enemy marksman.

“Good-bye, Mr Avery. I wish you well. I am sure your future will be as illustrious as your breeding.” Bolitho followed him through the door, but not before he had seen the bitterness in those tawny eyes.

In the comparative coldness of the dark quarterdeck, he said to Herrick, “In his case that is not true. He has had his share of damaging treatment.”

“I see.” Herrick sounded disinterested. “Well, I am sure you will set the right example for him.”

Bolitho said, “Can we not be friends, Thomas?”

“And have you remind me later how I abandoned you, left you to fight against the odds as I once did?” He paused, and then said quite calmly, “And to think of it, I lost everything I cared about when Dulcie died. While you threw it all away for . . .”

“For Catherine?”

Herrick stared at him in the light of the gangway lantern.

Bolitho said harshly, “She risked everything for your wife, and last year she endured things which have left her scarred like the sunburns on her body.”

“It changes nothing, Sir Richard.” He raised his hat to the side party. “We have both lost too much to cry salvage!”

Then he was gone, and seconds later the boat was pulling strongly from the chains until only the trailing wake could be seen.

“Just as well I came across, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho swung round and saw Allday by the quarterdeck ladder. “What made you come?” He already knew.

“I heard things. 'Bout Rear-Admiral Herrick going over to the
Marathon.
Thought you might need me.” He was watching him through the darkness. Bolitho could feel it.

Bolitho touched his arm. “Never more, old friend.” He almost stumbled, and a scarlet arm reached out as a marine made to help him.

“Thank you.” Bolitho sighed.
Probably thinks I'm drunk.
His eye blurred painfully and he waited for Allday to lead the way. Herrick had not even asked him about his injury, although he knew of it.

If only there were a letter from Catherine. Short or long: merely to see it, to read and re-read it, to imagine her with her hair hanging down over her shoulders in their room that faced the sea. Her expression as she paused and touched her lips with the pen as he had seen her do when working with Ferguson on the accounts.
I am your woman.

He said abruptly, “Come aft. We'll take a wet, as you term it!”

“The Cap'n won't welcome that, Sir Richard!”

“He is beyond caring, old friend.”

Allday grinned with relief, glad he had come. Just in time by the look of it.

They sat at the littered table, where Avery said uncertainly, “Quite a feast, Sir Richard.” He seemed nervous, disquieted.

Bolitho reached for one of the bottles.

He said, “Be easy, Mr Avery. There are no officers here tonight, only men. Friends.”

They solemnly raised their glasses.

Avery said, “To friends then! No matter where they are!”

Bolitho clinked his glass against the others. “So be it.”

He drank, recalling Herrick in his black coat. When he wrote to Catherine again he would not mention the fiasco of their meeting. She would have already known, while he had continued to hope.

It was over.

9
I
NTRIGUE

L
EWIS
R
OXBY
, squire, landowner and magistrate, nicknamed with some justification the King of Cornwall, stood at the foot of the bell-tower of the Church of King Charles the Martyr, his eyes watering in the chill breeze from Carrick Roads. Beside him the curate of Falmouth's famous church was droning on about the need for further alteration to the interior so that the new Sunday Schools which he had helped to found could be extended to the opening of a day school. But first more work was needed on the roof, and something had to be done to prevent the spread of rot in the bell-chamber.

Roxby was well aware of the importance of helping the church and the community, or rather to be seen doing it. Richard Hawkin Hitchens was a good enough clergyman, he supposed, and he took a great interest in the education of local children under the church's influence. The actual Rector of Falmouth only rarely visited the place, and his last appearance had in fact been at the memorial service for Sir Richard Bolitho, then believed lost at sea in the
Golden Plover.

Roxby remembered the wild excitement when two of Adam's lieutenants had galloped into the square with the news that Bolitho was safe. The unfortunate Rector's words had been lost in the bedlam as people had surged outside to the various inns to celebrate.

He realised that the curate had stopped speaking and was looking at him earnestly.

Roxby cleared his throat. “Well, yes, there is some value in it.” He saw the man's bewilderment and knew he had got it wrong. “I shall look into it. It does appear necessary, I suppose.”

It seemed to work and the curate beamed at him. Roxby turned on his heel, angry with himself, knowing it would cost him more money. He saw his horse waiting beside the groom's and summoned up happier thoughts, of the next hunt ball he would give.

The groom said, “She be comin', zur.”

Roxby watched as Lady Catherine Somervell on her big mare cantered round a corner by The King's Head and moved across the square. It was a tasteless name for an inn when you thought about it, Roxby reflected, considering the fate of King Charles.

He doffed his hat and tried not to stare. She was dressed from head to toe in dark green velvet, with a hood partly drawn over her hair, accenting the beauty of her features.

He made to help her down but she withdrew one booted foot from its stirrup and landed beside him without effort. He kissed her hand and could smell the perfume she wore, even through her thick riding glove.

“It is good of you to come, Lewis.”

Even her easy use of his name made him shiver. No wonder his brother-in-law had fallen in love with her.

“I can think of nothing more pleasant, my dear.” He took her elbow and guided her around the corner of a grocer's shop. He apologised for his haste and added, “The curate has a hungry look. I fear he may think of something more he needs!”

She walked easily beside him and barely hesitated when they left the shelter of the houses and the keen air blew the hood down on to her shoulders. Roxby was already short of breath and made every effort to hide it from her as he did from his beloved wife, Nancy. It never occurred to him that as he drank heavily and consumed far too much rich food, it was not surprising.

Roxby said, “I must warn you, my dear, that what you intend could be an expensive failure.”

She looked at him, a faint smile on her mouth. “I know. And I am grateful for your advice and concern. But I want to help the estate. What use are crops if the prices are controlled by the markets? There are plenty of places where they need every kind of grain, where bad harvests have been commonplace to a point of poverty.”

Roxby watched her, still baffled by her involvement. He knew she had recovered a lot of money from the estate of her dead husband, but he would have thought it better if she had spent it on clothes, jewels, property and the like. But he knew she was very determined, and said, “I've found the vessel you wanted. She's the
Maria José
and she lies at Fowey. I have had a friend look her over. He is well used to the prize courts.”

“Prize?”

Roxby continued to hurry beside her, pacing himself to her stride. “She was taken by the revenue cutters. A smuggler. You could change the name, if you wanted to.”

She shook her head so that some of her dark hair tugged free of her combs and whipped out in the wind. “Richard says it is bad luck to change a vessel's name.” She looked at him directly. “I suppose I need not ask what happened to her crew?”

He shrugged. “They'll not be smuggling, m'dear, ever again.”

“Are we close to Fowey?”

“'Bout thirty miles by the main coach roads. But if the weather breaks . . .” He paused doubtfully. “I would not let you go unguarded. I'd go with you myself but . . .”

She smiled. “It would do very little for your reputation, I think.”

He flushed. “I would be honoured, Catherine, proud to take you. But I am needed here until the winter sets in. You could break the journey at St Austell—I have friends there. I will arrange it.” His tone implied
if you must go.

She looked past him at the cruising white cats-paws around the anchored merchantmen, at the boats under oars pitching and tossing while they went about their business. She could feel the cold even through her cloak. There were leaves floating on the water, and the bare trees were shining and black from the night's rain. Yet it was still only October, for a few more days anyway.

She had discussed the proposed purchase of a vessel with a lawyer who had come all the way from London upon confirmation of her plans. He had been as doubtful as Roxby. Only Ferguson, the one-armed steward, had shown excitement when she had explained it to him.

“A fine, sound boat, Lady Catherine, one able to take passage to Scottish harbours or across to Ireland if need be. They're no strangers to famine. It will make good sense to them, right enough!”

Roxby exclaimed, “There's one!” He pointed with his riding crop, his face even redder than usual in the bitter air.

“Two masts?” She looked at him, her dark eyes questioning. “A brig?”

He hid his surprise that she should know such things. “Not just a brig but a collier brig, broad in the beam, and deep holds that make them reliable craft for any cargo.”

She shaded her eyes and watched the collier brig tack and head slowly towards the harbour entrance, her heavy tanned sails framed against the headland and the St Mawes hillside battery.

“Two thousand pounds, you say?”

Roxby replied glumly, “Guineas, I'm afraid.”

He saw the same mischievous smile he had watched at his own dinner table. She said quietly, “We shall see.”

Seeing her determination Roxby said, “I will arrange it. But it is hardly the work for a lady, and my Nancy will scold me for allowing it!”

She recalled the young midshipman who had been Richard's closest friend, the one who had given his heart to the girl who had eventually married Roxby. Did Roxby know anything about it? Did Richard's sister still grieve for the boy who had died so young?

It made her think of Adam, and she wondered if Richard had yet been able to speak with him.

Roxby said, “I'll ride with you. It's on my way.” He beckoned to his groom, but she had already pulled herself into the saddle.

They rode almost in silence until the roof of the Bolitho house showed through the ragged, windswept trees. Solid, reliable, timeless, Roxby thought. He had imagined that one day he might make an offer for it, when things had been bad here.

He glanced sideways at the woman in green. That was in the past. With a woman like her, his brother-in-law could do anything.

“You must sup with us again soon,” he said affably.

She tightened the reins as Tamara quickened her pace at the sight of home.

“That is kind of you. But later on, yes? Please convey my love to Nancy.”

Roxby watched her until she had gone through the weathered gates. She would not come. Not until she knew, until she had heard something of Richard.

He sighed and turned his horse back on to the track, his groom trotting behind him at a respectful distance.

He kept his mind busy and away from the lovely woman who had just left him. His morning would be full tomorrow. Two men had been caught stealing chickens and had beaten the keeper who had challenged them. He would have to be present when they were hanged. It always drew a crowd, although not as large as for a highwayman or pirate.

The thought of pirates made him reflect again on the collier brig. He would provide a letter of introduction for Lady Catherine to give to his friends, as well as one for their eyes only. He was honoured that he could afford her some protection, even if he did not agree with her mission to Fowey.

He was tired and vaguely depressed when he reached his own grand house. The drive and outbuildings were well tended, the walls and gardens in good condition. French prisoners of war had done much of it, for the most part glad to be free of the jails or even worse, the hulks. It made him feel charitable again, and he was in better spirits when his wife met him in the hall brimming with news. It seemed Valentine Keen, who had been made commodore, and his young bride would be calling to see them before Keen took up some new appointment.

Roxby was pleased but he scowled as he said, “If they bring that brat with them, keep him away from me!” Then he laughed. It would be good for Nancy to have some company. He thought of Catherine. And for her too.

“We'll invite a few people, Nancy.”

She asked gently, “How is Catherine?”

Roxby sat down and waited for a servant to drag off his boots, while another approached with a goblet of brandy. As a magistrate he believed it wiser not to enquire too closely into its origins.

He thought about her question.

“Missing him, m'dear. Drives herself hard to make the days pass.”

“You admire her, don't you, Lewis?”

He looked into her pretty face and the eyes which, in his ardent youth he had fancied were the colour of summer lavender. “Never seen a love like theirs,” he said. As she moved to his chair he slipped his arm around her substantial waist, which had once been so slender. “Except for ours, of course!”

She laughed. “Of course!”

She turned as rain rattled suddenly against the windows. Roxby, earthy landowner that he was, could ignore it. But she was a sailor's daughter, and the sister of the most respected officer in the navy now that Nelson was no more, and she found herself murmuring, “Lord, to be at sea on a day like this . . .”

But when she looked, Roxby had fallen into a doze by the fire.

She had everything, she told herself. A gracious house, a prominent position in society, two fine children and a husband who loved her dearly.

But she had never forgotten the young man who had offered his heart to her all those years ago, and in her dreams sometimes she still saw him in his blue coat with its white patches on the collar, his open face and fair hair like Valentine Keen's. But she thought of him now as if he were still out there somewhere, braving the seas and the storms, as if one day he might stride up to the house, and neither of them would have aged or changed.

She felt a lump in her throat and whispered, “Oh, Martyn, where are you?”

But only the rain answered.

Lady Catherine Somervell walked into the bedroom and paused to listen to the heavy rain drumming against the roof and pouring down from the overflowing gutters.

There was a cheerful fire in the grate and despite the bitter cold outside the house, in here it was warm and welcoming. She had had a hot bath and her body still tingled from the rubbing Sophie had given her back and shoulders. It was as well she had not waited longer in Fowey or with Roxby's friends at St Austell: every road, even the high coaching way, would be flooded or a muddy trap for horse and carriage alike.

Everyone had been kind to her, and even the prize agent at the harbour had eventually been able to overcome his surprise at dealing with a woman.

She poured some of Grace Ferguson's coffee, beside which someone had discreetly placed a glass of cognac.

It was good to be back, especially when she discovered that Valentine Keen and his young wife had arrived at the house just before her.

She imagined them now in the large room at the end of the corridor. In one another's arms perhaps, already spent with love-making. Or quiet, as they had been at dinner, unable to think of anything but that they were soon to be parted. Commodore Keen, as he was now, was full of news about his tiny son whom they had left in Hampshire. One of Keen's sisters had insisted on taking care of the baby so that they could make this journey together.

Catherine had wondered if the real reason was to spare her feelings, because she had once told Zenoria that she was unable to bear children. She had not told her why, nor would she.

Whenever she had encouraged Keen to talk of his new appointment she had seen the pain in Zenoria's eyes. Separation so soon after the
Golden Plover
's dreadful end and their discovery of one another again, their joy at the birth of their son; it might all be lost once Keen had joined his squadron.