Second to None (28 page)

She looked at the passing scene; the carriage was moving slowly in the congestion of the road. Grey-faced offices, one of which she had visited with Sillitoe when he had kept an appointment with some shipping agent; she had been politely entertained in another room.

There were stalls here, flowers and fruit, someone elsewhere making a speech, another drawing a crowd with a performing monkey.

Now they were returning to Sillitoe's house in Chiswick. Never once had he forced his presence on her, but he was always ready to help her, to escort her, or if necessary to give his opinion on her decisions for the immediate future.

She glanced at him now, on the seat opposite, frowning slightly as he leafed through yet another sheaf of papers. His mind was ever agile, ever restless. Like their last visit to Sir Wilfred Lafargue at Lincoln's Inn. He was a lawyer of repute, but when he and Sillitoe were together they were more like conspirators than legal adviser and client.

She thought of the letter she had received from Captain James Tyacke, a concise, unemotional account of why marriage to the woman he had once loved had proved impossible. It had saddened her, but she had understood his reasons, and the sensitivity he would never reveal. A man who had been utterly withdrawn, almost shy, when he had been forced to leave the only world he understood; she was proud to call him her friend, as he had been Richard's. Perhaps for him the sea was the only solution, but it was not, and never could be, an escape.

She realised that Sillitoe was looking at her, as he often did, when he believed she did not know.

‘I have to go to Spain.' Calmly said, as was his habit, but not the same. This was a mood she had not seen or sensed before.

‘You said that it was possible.'

He smiled. ‘And I asked you if you would come with me.'

‘And I told you that there has been enough damage done already because of me. And you know that is true.'

She averted her eyes to look at a passing vehicle, but saw only her reflection in the dusty glass.

Sillitoe's sphere of influence encompassed both politics and trade, although he was no longer Inspector-General. The Prince Regent, who was notorious for his infidelities, had feared whatever stain a liaison between his adviser and confidante and the admiral's whore might cast on his reputation as the future monarch. She felt the old, familiar bitterness. The men in power with their mistresses and their homosexual lovers were forgiven if their affairs were kept separate from rank and authority, and were not conducted where they might offend the royal eye.

She had rarely seen Sillitoe reveal anger. A week ago, a cruel cartoon had appeared in the
Globe.
It had depicted her standing nude and looking at ships below in a harbour. The caption had been,
Who will be next?

She had seen his anger then. There had been apologies. Someone had been dismissed. But it was there all the same. Hate, envy, malice.

Perhaps even the Prince's courtiers had had a hand in it.

She recalled Lafargue's advice on Belinda, Lady Bolitho.
Never underrate the wrath of an unloved woman
.

Sillitoe said, ‘You need security, Catherine. And protection. I can offer you both. My feelings remain unchanged.' He glanced round, frowning as a gap appeared in the buildings and the river was revealed. Masts and loose, flapping sails. Arriving and departing; sailors from every corner of the world. She wondered briefly if the coachman, who seemed to know London like the back of his own hand, had been ordered to avoid ships and sailors also.

She looked at him again. His face was tense, his mind obviously exploring something which troubled him.

He said, ‘You could stay at my house. You would not be molested by anything or anybody, my staff would see to that.' As he had said when someone had carved the word
whore
on the door of her Chelsea house.

He said abruptly, ‘There is always danger. I see it often enough.'

‘And what would people say?'

He did not answer her directly, but the hooded eyes seemed calmer.

‘If you come to Spain, you may be yourself again. I go first to Vigo, where I must see some people, and then on to Madrid.' He laid the papers aside and leaned forward. ‘You like Spain, you speak the language. It would be a great help to me.' He reached out and took her hand. ‘I should be a very proud man.'

She gently withdrew the hand, and said, ‘You are a difficult man to refuse. But I must confront whatever future remains for me.'

She heard the coachman making his usual clucking sounds to the horses, a habit she had noticed whenever they were approaching the Chiswick house. The journey had passed, and now she must do something, say something; he had done so much to help, to support her in the aftermath of Richard's death.

There was another vehicle in the drive. So he had known she would refuse; the carriage was waiting to take her to Chelsea, a lonely place now without her companion Melwyn, whom she had sent back to St Austell temporarily to help her mother with work for a forthcoming county wedding.

They would surely notice the change in the girl. She had become confident, almost worldly.
As I once was at that age
.

She was aware now of Sillitoe's expression; ever alert, he seemed suddenly apprehensive, before he regained his habitual self-assurance. She followed his eyes and felt the chill on her spine. The carriage door bore the fouled anchors of Admiralty, and there was a sea officer standing beside it, speaking with Sillitoe's secretary.

So many times.
Messages, orders, letters from Richard. But always the dread.

‘What is it?'

He waited for a servant to run up and open the door for her. Afterwards, she thought it had been to give himself time.

He said, ‘I shall not keep you. The Admiralty still needs me, it would appear.' But his eyes spoke differently.

Marlow accompanied her into the house and guided her to the library, where she had always waited for Sillitoe.

‘Is something wrong?'

The secretary murmured, ‘I fear so, m' lady,' and withdrew, closing the tall doors.

She heard voices, the sound of hooves; the visitor had departed without partaking of hospitality. Sillitoe drank little, but always remembered those to whom the gesture was welcome.

He came into the library and stood looking at her without speaking, then, without turning his head, he called, ‘Some cognac.'

Then he crossed the room and took her hand, gently, without emotion.

‘The Admiralty has just received news on the telegraph from Portsmouth. There has been a fight between one of our frigates and two pirates.'

Without being told, she knew it was
Unrivalled,
and that there was something more.

Sillitoe said, ‘Lieutenant George Avery, my nephew and Sir Richard's aide, was killed.' He remained silent for a moment, then said, ‘Captain Adam Bolitho was injured, but not badly so.'

She stared past him, at the trees, the misty sky. The river. The war was over. Napoleon was a prisoner, and probably even now being conveyed to some other place of internment. And yet, although it was over, it was not yet over; the war was here, in this quiet library.

Sillitoe said, ‘George Avery was your friend also.' And then, with sudden bitterness, ‘I never found the time to know him.' He gazed at the window. ‘I see him now, leaving to rejoin Sir Richard when I wanted him to stay with me. I do believe that he felt sorry for me.' He waved his hand, and the gesture
seemed uncharacteristically loose and vague. ‘All this – and his loyalty came first.'

The door opened and Guthrie placed a tray and the cognac on a table, glancing at Catherine. She shook her head, and the door closed again.

Sillitoe took the glass, and sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs.

‘He was coming home, damn it. It was what we both needed. What we both
fought
!'

She looked around, feeling the silence, as if the great house were holding its breath.

Adam was safe. There would be a letter from him as soon as it was possible. In the meantime, he was at sea, in the one element he knew and trusted. Like James Tyacke.

She walked past the chair, her mind suddenly quite clear, with that familiar sensation of detachment.

She put her hand on his shoulder and waited for him to turn his head, to look at the hand, and then at her.

As she had been, defenceless.

She said softly, ‘My Spanish is not so perfect, Paul.' She saw the light returning to his eyes, and did not flinch as he took both her hands and kissed them. ‘Perhaps . . . we can both find ourselves again.'

He stood, and then held her fully against his body, for the first time.

He said nothing. There were no words.

Eventually there was a gentle tap on the door, and Marlow's voice. Unreal.

‘Is there anything I can do, m' lord?'

She answered for him. ‘Tell William to put away the carriage, please. It will not be required again today.'

It was done.

Bryan Ferguson hurried into the kitchen and all but slammed the door behind him.

He looked at his friend, seated in the chair he always occupied when he visited them, the familiar stone bottle on the table.

‘Sorry to have left you so long, old friend. I'm bad company today.' He shook his head as Allday pushed the bottle towards
him. ‘I think not, John. Her ladyship might think badly of the “servants” having a wet!'

Allday watched him thoughtfully.

‘She changed much?'

Ferguson walked to the window and stared at the stable yard, giving himself time to consider it. The smart carriage was as before, and Young Matthew was talking to the coachman. He smiled sadly.
Young
Matthew, the Bolitho household's senior coachman. Filling out now, and a little stooped. But he had always been called ‘young', even after his father had died.

He said, ‘Yes. More than I thought.' It stuck in his throat. Like a betrayal.

Allday said it for him. ‘High an' mighty, is she? Thought so, when I last seen her.'

Ferguson said, ‘She walks from room to room with that damned lawyer, making notes, asking questions, treating my Grace like she's a kitchen maid! Can't understand it!'

Allday sipped the rum. It, at least, was good. ‘I can remember when Lady Bolitho was no more'n a paid companion to the wife of some bloody-minded old judge! She may have
looked
like Sir Richard's wife, but it went no deeper. That's it an' all about it!'

Ferguson only partly heard. ‘As if she owns the place!'

Allday said, ‘Young Cap'n Adam's away, Bryan, an' there's only the lawyers to fight over it. It's nothin' to them.'

Ferguson touched his empty sleeve, as he often did when he was upset, although he was not aware of it.

‘She asked about the sword.' He could not stop himself now. ‘When I told her that Lady Catherine had given it to Captain Adam, like Sir Richard had intended, all she said was,
she had no right!
' He looked at his oldest friend. ‘Who had any better right, eh? God damn them, I wish she was back in the house where she belongs!'

Allday waited. It was worse than he thought, worse than Unis had warned him it might be. ‘She done the right thing to stay away while this is goin' on, an' you knows it. How would it look, that's what a lot of people would say. A sailor's woman, but she got pride too, an' that's no error! Look what happened to Lady Hamilton. All the promises and the smiles came to naught. Our Lady Catherine's not like any of 'em.
I know, I seen her in that damned boat after the wreck, an' other times, the two o' them laughin' and walkin' together, just like you have. We'll not see the likes o' them again, you mark me well!'

Ferguson felt the empty sleeve again. ‘Seemed to think I was getting past my duties here. That's how it sounded to me anyway. God damn it, John, I don't
know
anything else!'

‘It's all written down. Your position here is safe. Sir Richard took care o' that, like he did for everyone else.' He looked away suddenly. ‘'Cept for himself, God rest him.'

Ferguson sat at the table. Sir Richard had always called Allday his oak, and suddenly he understood, and was grateful for it.

He said in a calmer voice, ‘An' then she went into the big room,
their
room.' He gestured towards the house. ‘She told the lawyer that Sir Richard's picture should be down with all the others of the family. The ones of Cheney and Catherine she said could be removed as far as she was concerned.'

Allday asked, ‘She stayin' overnight?'

‘No. Plymouth. With Vice-Admiral Keen.'

Allday nodded sagely, his head shaggy in the reflected sunshine. He enjoyed his visits here. One of the family, he had always described it, until good fortune had offered him Unis, and the little inn in Fallowfield.

‘I hopes that one'll be on the lookout for squalls!'

A stable boy thrust his head around the door, but hesitated when he saw Allday, who had become something of a legend around Falmouth since Sir Richard Bolitho's last battle.

Ferguson said, ‘What is it, Seth?'

‘They'm comin' now, Mister Ferguson!'

Ferguson stood up and took a deep breath.

‘I won't be long.'

Allday said, ‘We done a lot worse together, Bryan, remember?'

Ferguson opened the door, and smiled for the first time.

‘That was then, old friend.'

He walked across the yard, so familiar underfoot that he would have known every cobble in the dark.

He considered Allday's question.
Has she changed much?
He saw her now, on the broad steps leading up to the entrance,
elegant in a dark red gown, a hat which he guessed was fashionable in London shading her face. In her late forties, with the same autumn-coloured hair, like the young wife she had replaced when Cheney Bolitho had been killed in a carriage accident. It was hard to believe that he himself, with only one arm, had carried her, seeking help, when she and her unborn child were already dead.