9

SUMMER WINE

BOLITHO reined his horse to a halt beside a low mossy wall and stared across the fields to a cluster of tiny cottages beside the Penryn road. It had been three days since his unexpected arrival in Falmouth and he had never felt so well nor known such happiness. Every hour seemed to be filled with exciting discoveries, although he knew it was only that he was sharing them with Catherine. He had been born here, had grown up amongst these same villages and farms until, like all the Bolitho ancestors, he had gone off to join his first ship, the old Manxman of eighty guns which had been lying at Plymouth.

For England it had then been a rare moment of peace, but to the twelve-year-old Midshipman Bolitho it had been the most awesome experience of his life. The very size of the ship, or so she had appeared at the time, had taken his breath away, the towering masts and spread yards, the hundreds of busy seamen and marines and the terrible thought that he would never be able to find his way about, were unnerving enough.

He was quick to learn and had managed to laugh off, outwardly at least, the usual taunts and the brutal humour which he came to recognise as part of any ship, as much as the tar and cordage which held them together. He had never even laid eyes on an admiral until he had joined his second ship, and at no time had he believed he would reach the lordly heights of lieutenant, let alone live to see his own flag leading the line of battle.

Catherine edged her horse closer to him and asked, “What are you thinking?” She leaned over to put her gloved hand on his. “You were so far away from me.”

He looked at her and smiled. She wore a dark green riding habit, and her hair was plaited above her ears, shining in the bright sunshine.

“Memories. All kinds of things.” He squeezed her hand. “Of the past three days. Of our love.” Their eyes seemed to lock. Bolitho thought of the time they had found a quiet cove and left the horses to graze while they had explored it. By the tiny beach he had uncovered an old rusting and weed-covered ringbolt hammered into the stone. It was where, as a boy, he had come in his little dory, and had once been cut off by the tide and unable to pull the boat clear. They had found him clinging halfway up the cliff, the waves spitting at his ankles as if to pluck him down. His father had been away at sea, otherwise Richard doubted if he would have been able to sit down for a week.

She had listened to him and said, “We shall make it our cove.”

It still made him feel dazed to think about it. How they had made love on that tiny crescent of sand, as if the world were abandoned but for themselves.

She said quietly, “Then I was sharing your thoughts.”

They sat in silence for a long time while the countryside left them untroubled. The horses nuzzled one another, insects kept up a steady chorus and invisible birds joined in. A church clock seemed to rouse them, and Catherine took her hand away. “I like your sister Nancy very much. She has been most kind. I suspect she has never met anyone like me before.” She looked up directly at the sprawling house which lay beyond a pair of open gates as if it were waiting for them. “Her husband, too, has offered his services and advice without my asking.”

Bolitho followed her glance. It was huge, this place which Nancy and Lewis Roxby called their home; it had been in the Roxby family for generations, and yet Bolitho knew that for years Lewis, “the King of Cornwall,” had had his eye on the grey house below Pendennis Castle. His ancestors had perhaps been content to be the landowners and magistrates their position dictated. Not so Nancy’s husband. Farming, tin mining, even a local packet company were all a part of his empire. He was a hard-drinking, hunting squire when he was not dealing in business or hanging local felons for their crimes. He had little in common with Bolitho, but he had treated Nancy well and was obviously devoted to her. For that, Bolitho would have forgiven him almost anything.

Bolitho urged his mount forward once more, wondering what awaited them. He had sent a note to Felicity to tell her that they were coming. The horses rather than a carriage had been his idea, to give the impression of a casual visit rather than any sort of formality.

As they clattered into the courtyard two servants ran to take their bridles while another brought a dismounting stool, only to stare with astonishment as Catherine slid easily to the ground.

She saw Bolitho’s smile and put her head on one side, the unspoken question in her eyes.

Bolitho put his arm round her shoulders and said, “I am so proud of you, Kate!”

She stared at him. “Why?”

“Oh, so many reasons.” He hugged her. “The things you do, the way you look.”

“And there is someone peeping at us from an upstairs window.” For a brief instant her confidence seemed to falter. “I am not sure I should have come.”

He looked at her and replied, “Then here is something more to peep at!” He kissed her hard on the cheek. “See?”

She seemed to shake it off, and when a footman opened the tall doors and Lewis Roxby, red-faced and rotund, bustled to greet them, she returned his welcome with a warm smile and offered her hand to him.

Roxby turned to Bolitho. “Dammee, Richard, you’re a sly old dog! I’d been hopin’ you’d stay away a bit longer so that your lady and I could get the better acquainted, what!”

He put his arms round them and guided them to the great room which overlooked his rose gardens. The doors were open and the room was filled with their scent.

She exclaimed, “What perfume!” She clapped her hands together and Bolitho saw the young girl she had once been in London. Not Belinda’s town, but the other London of rough streets and markets, pleasure gardens and bawdy theatres, water-men and beggars. He still knew so little about her, but all he could feel was admiration for her, and a love he had never known before.

Bolitho turned to another glass door and through it watched two women walking up towards the house.

Nancy never seemed to change, except that she was plumper each time he saw her. But with the kind of life she shared with Roxby it would have been surprising otherwise. She was the only one of his family who had their mother’s fair looks and complexion; her children were the same. But Bolitho could only stare at her companion with a kind of disbelief. He knew it was Felicity, who would be about fifty-one; she had the same Bolitho eyes and profile, but the dark hair was gone, replaced entirely by grey, while her face and cheeks were ashen as if she had only recently recovered from a fever.

Even when she entered the room and nodded her head to him, very slowly, he could sense no contact. She was a complete stranger.

Nancy ran forward and threw her arms around him, kissing him. She smelt fresh and sweet—like the garden, he thought.

“After all these years, here is our Felicity back home again!” Her voice was too bright, and Bolitho thought he saw a warning glance from her husband.

Bolitho said, “I should like to introduce you to Catherine.”

Felicity studied her coldly, then gave a brief curtsy. “My lady. I cannot bid you welcome here, as this is not my house … nor do I have one at present.”

Roxby said, “We’ll soon take care of that, what?”

Bolitho said, “I was sorry to learn of Raymond’s death. It must have been a terrible shock.”

She did not appear to hear. “I have sent word to Edmund by way of the regimental agents, Cox and Greenwood. My other son Miles has returned to England with me.” Her deepset eyes turned to Catherine again and seemed to strip her naked, as she added, “It was not an easy life. I had a little girl, you know, but she died out there. Her father always wanted a girl, you see.”

Catherine looked at her gravely. “I am sorry to hear that. I grew up in a demanding climate and I can sympathise.”

Felicity nodded. “Of course. I had forgotten. You were married to a Spaniard before you met your present husband, the viscount.”

Roxby said thickly, “Some wine, Richard?”

Bolitho shook his head. What had happened to Felicity? Or had she always been like this?

He said, “Catherine sent word that you were always welcome at our house while you are deciding where to settle. While I was away at sea—and Catherine had no idea when I was returning home—she acted as she knew I would wish.”

Felicity sat down in a high-backed gilt chair, “It has not been my home since I met and married Raymond. There is certainly no place there for me now.” She turned her gaze on Bolitho. “But you always were a thoughtless fellow, even as a child.”

Catherine said, “I find that hard to believe, Mrs Vincent. I know of no one more thoughtful when it comes to others.” Her eyes flashed but her voice remained calm. “Even when that compassion is not returned.”

“Of course.” Felicity dusted a speck of dust from her sleeve. “You would be in a better position than anyone to know his qualities, or otherwise.”

Catherine turned away and Bolitho saw her fingers digging into the fold of her riding skirt. It had been a mistake. He would make his excuses to Nancy and leave.

Felicity said, “However, there is a favour I will ask of you, Richard.” She looked at him, her face quite composed. “My son Miles has quit the East India Company. Perhaps you could arrange for him to be accepted for the King’s service? I have but few funds, and he would be quick to gain promotion.”

Bolitho crossed the room and took Catherine’s arm. “I will do what I can for him. Perhaps I could meet him at some time.”

Then he said, “I can accept the hurt which Raymond’s loss has done you. But I cannot, will not, tolerate your rudeness to Catherine. This house is not mine either, otherwise I might forget myself further!”

In those few seconds he saw it all. Catherine, very still, Nancy, fingers to her mouth and near to tears, and Roxby puffing out his cheeks, doubtless wishing he was anywhere else but here. Only Felicity seemed cool and unmoved. She needed a favour of him, but her dislike for Catherine had almost ruined even that.

Outside the tall doors Roxby muttered, “Sorry about that, Richard. Damn bad business all round.” To Catherine he added, “She’ll come round, m’dear, you’ll see. Women are a funny lot, y’know!” He took her proffered hand and touched it with his lips.

She smiled at him. “Aren’t we, though?” Then she turned as the two horses were led around the house from the stable-yard. “I never knew her poor husband, of course.” When she looked at Roxby again the smile was gone. “But it sounds as if he is well out of it. And as far as I am concerned I don’t care if she comes round or not!”

Once outside the gates again Bolitho reached over and took her hand. Her whole body was shaking.

He said, “I am so sorry, Kate.”

“It wasn’t that, Richard. I am used to bitches, but I’ll not have her talking to you like that!” The horses waited as if sensing her anger. Then she looked at him and said, “She is your sister but I would never have guessed it. After all you have done, for me and everyone else, and how you have paid dearly for it—” She shook her head as if to drive it all away. “Well, she can just go to hell!”

He squeezed her arm and asked quietly, “Tiger?”

She nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her glove.

“Never doubt it!” Then she laughed, “I’ll race you back to the house.” Then she was gone, the horse kicking up dirt from the road before Bolitho could move.

Roxby watched from the steps of his great house until they had both vanished into the fields.

Beside him his groom, who had worked for him for many years, remarked, “A lively mare an’ no mistake, sir.”

Roxby stared at him but the man’s eyes were devoid of amusement. “Er, yes, quite so, Tom.” Then he ambled into the house, adjusting his face for whatever was waiting.

What a woman, he thought. No wonder Bolitho looked so well, so young. He caught sight of himself in a tall mirror as he passed through the hallway. Bolitho was about his own age, and looked years younger. With a woman like that … He closed his mind and strode into the room they had just left, and felt a sudden relief at finding his wife alone.

“She’s gone to lie down, Lewis.”

Roxby gave a noncommittal grunt. But he was angry at seeing the tearstains on her cheeks.

“I’ll see what I can manage about finding her a suitable house, m’dear.” He walked round the chair and patted her hair fondly, his mind busy with how soon he could rid the place of her sister.

Then he said abruptly, “I wonder how she knows so much about Catherine’s past? I certainly didn’t tell her anything. Don’t know anythin’ neither, dammit!”

Nancy took his hand and kissed it. “I wondered about that too.” She stood up, the mood passing. “I’ll go and arrange supper for this evening, Lewis.” Then she added, “Richard looks so much better than when he lost his ship last October. They must be good for one another.”

Roxby made certain there were no servants nearby and patted her buttock as she passed.

“You’re not so bad yourself, m’dear!” He saw the flush mount to her cheeks, and the way she tidied her hair. Perhaps she was remembering how they had been before the children, and all the work to increase their wealth and living standards. Maybe like the two people he had seen galloping down the lane as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

It did not occur to him that his homely wife might have been thinking back down the years about the young midshipman she had fallen in love with; and had been seeing herself with him.

For two whole weeks life continued for Bolitho and his Catherine in the same unplanned, idyllic fashion. Rides down forgotten lanes, or long walks above the sea, never at a loss for words, each ready to contribute towards their new-found isolation.

It was as if the other world of war and threats of invasion lay out of reach, and only once when they had been standing on the headland above the HelfordRiver had Catherine mentioned it. A frigate had been tacking away from the land, her sails very pale in the bright sunshine, her hull low and sleek like the one which had done for Tyacke’s Miranda.

“When will you be told?” He had put his arm around her shoulders, his eyes distant as he watched the frigate. Was all this just make-believe after all? Any day he might receive new instructions, perhaps a summons to the Admiralty. He was determined that they would spend every possible minute together until …

He had replied, “There was a hint from Their Lordships about a new squadron. It seems the most likely. Provided enough ships can be found.”

The frigate had been setting her topgallants, shaking them out to the offshore wind like a creature awakening from a brief rest.

He thought suddenly of his nephew, Adam. That was one piece of good news he had come by at the Admiralty. He had commissioned his new command, a fifth-rate of thirty-eight guns named Anemone. What a proud moment it must have been for him. Captain of a frigate, his dream, at the age of twenty-six. Anemone, Daughter of the Wind. It seemed very suitable. He had Allday’s son with him as coxswain exactly as he had promised, and the ship had been ordered to the North Sea to carry out patrols off the Dutch coast.

He had hoped that the news might pull Allday out of his present gloom. When he had reached Falmouth with Ozzard and Yovell with all the baggage which Bolitho had left in London, he had gone straight to the inn to see the landlord’s only daughter.

Yovell had mentioned it to Bolitho in confidence. Not only had the inn passed into new ownership, but the young woman in question had gone away and married a farmer in Redruth.

At the end of the second week Bolitho was reading a copy of the Gazette where the recapture of Cape Town was mentioned for the first time. Time and distance had sharpened the memory for him, but the Gazette seemed to take it as a matter of course. There was no mention of the fireship at all.

Allday entered the room and said, “There’s a young gentleman who wishes to see you, Sir Richard. He is Mr Miles Vincent.”

“Very well. I will receive him now.” Catherine was down at the estate office with Ferguson. Bolitho was still amazed by the way she had sorted out facts and figures, and with Ferguson’s ready help had prepared her own ploughing and planting suggestions for the coming year. She had even been making comparisons with local grain sales set against those in the North and as far as Scotland. He had expected that Ferguson might have resented her vigorous ideas for the estate, but like the property itself she seemed to have given him new heart for the future.

He crossed to a window and looked towards the road, now hidden by thick bushes. Eventually they would leave here and face up to the world outside Falmouth. To London, to places where people would turn and stare. Where others might hide their envy behind false smiles.

The door opened and closed and he turned to see Felicity’s younger son standing in the dusty sunshine. His dress was simple, a plain blue coat and a frilled white shirt, but he gave the immediate impression of incredible neatness. Except for a certain solemnity for one so young, he might have been like Adam when he had been his age.

“Please sit down.” Bolitho took his hand. “We were sorry to learn of your father’s untimely death. It must have been hard on the family.”

“Indeed yes, Sir Richard.” He arranged himself in the chair, his hands folded in his lap.

Bolitho thought, like a youth about to ask his father for his daughter’s hand. Shy, but determined nonetheless. You would have known him for a Bolitho anywhere. He was nineteen years old, and had the same grey eyes, and hair almost as dark as his own. Behind this outer shyness was the barely concealed confidence which must be inevitable in any sea officer, no matter how junior.

“I understand that you intend to seek a King’s commission. That being so I can foresee no difficulty. Volunteers for the berth of midshipman, even those forced by proud parents, are plentiful enough. Others with experience such as your own are very thin on the ground.” It was meant to relax him, to draw him out. It could not be easy to sit down with a viceadmiral whose exploits at sea and ashore were food for gossip on all levels. Bolitho had no way of knowing what Felicity might have said, so he had expected Miles Vincent to be on edge.

He had not anticipated the youth’s reaction. He exclaimed, “I am most confused, Sir Richard! I was acting-lieutenant in the H.E.I.C., fully qualified in matters of seamanship and standing a watch. It was only a matter of time before I was advanced. Did you mean that I would be reduced to holding a warrant as a mere midshipman?”

The shyness was gone; instead, he looked closer to righteous indignation.

Bolitho replied, “Be easy now. You will know, as well if not better than I, that holding a rank in one of John Company’s ships is a far cry from the King’s service. The pay and conditions are far superior, the ships are not manned by the sweepings of the jails or the press gangs, and they are only called on to fight to defend their own cargoes … when I was a captain there was many a time I would have seized a few of their prime seamen for my own.” He paused. “In the King’s ships we are expected to do battle with the enemy, no matter what guise or force he comes in. My people do not serve for the money or the profit which any experienced man can make in the Company’s vessels, nor do they for the most part fight for their King and country!” He saw Vincent’s eyes widen and continued, “That surprises you? Then let me explain. They fight for each other, for their ship, which must be their home until they are released from a harsh and demanding service.”

The youth stammered, “You—make it very clear, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho smiled to himself. The nervous suitor was back again.

He said, “So if you are still of the same mind I will certainly sponsor your request to a captain who requires young gentlemen. I feel certain that one like yourself, with the qualities you have mentioned, will be promoted to lieutenant in a matter of months, perhaps less. The Fleet needs officers as never before. But if they cannot lead or encourage the people they are intended to command, I for one have no time for them.”

“If I may say, Sir Richard, your own gallant examples are much talked of.”

He sprang to his feet as Catherine walked in through a garden door.

She stared from Bolitho to the stiff-backed figure in blue and commented, “You must be Miles.” She tossed a wide-brimmed straw hat onto a chest and kissed Bolitho lightly on the cheek. “It is such a lovely day, Richard, we must walk along the cliff this evening.” She shot him a questioning glance as the youth sprang forward to hold a chair for her. “Thank you, young sir.”

Vincent was gazing at the portraits, which marked each section of the staircase like silent onlookers.

“All great sailors, Sir Richard. I would wish nothing more than to be like them.” He glanced at Catherine, his features expressionless. “To add honour to the name of Bolitho!”

With the same precise care he made his excuses and left the house and Bolitho remarked, “A pretty speech anyway.” He looked at her and then knelt beside her chair.

“What is it, dearest Kate? Tell me.”

She touched his face with sudden tenderness. “That young man. His face, those eyes … he is so much a part of your family background. Like all the other mysteries I cannot share.”

Bolitho took her hand and tried to make light of it. “His manners are faultless, but they train them well in the H.E.I.C., so that their young officers may flirt with the ladies of quality and lovesick maidens who take passage to distant parts!” It was not working. “I want to share everything with you, dearest Kate, and share you with nobody.”

Catherine placed her palm on his face and smiled. “You always know, Richard. It is like a bond stronger even than marriage, because it is of our making and choice.” Her dark eyes searched his face feature by feature. “I will be all that you want me to be. Lover, companion, friend—” She laughed and threw back her head. “Or the lady for whom young officers carry chairs. What did you make of him?”

“What has Felicity made of him, would be a fairer question!” He took her arm. “Come—the cliff walk. I never tire of it. You can tell me about your plans for the estate as we go.”

Allday closed the door as they walked out into the garden and down towards the small gate.

He tried not to think about the girl at the inn. What had he expected? How could he have hoped to marry her and still serve Bolitho at sea? The questions were still unanswered when he found Ozzard making his way to the kitchen, where he sometimes helped Mrs Ferguson with her duties.

“Did you see the lad who came about joining the service?”

Ozzard frowned. “He’s a dark one, I shouldn’t wonder. Why did he quit the East India Company—that’s what I’d like to know before I gave him any authority!”

Allday sighed. It had been good to see Bolitho and his lady walking together, but it only added to his own sense of being unwanted, with nothing useful to do until the next orders came. Even that prospect gave him no satisfaction.

He said half to himself, “If only she’d waited.”

Ozzard turned on him with unexpected fury. “Wait? They never bloody well wait, any of ‘em, and the sooner you get that through your skull the better— matey!”

Allday stared after him with astonishment. Usually there was none milder. So he wasn’t the only one with troubles after all.

It was, many proclaimed, one of the best summers anyone could remember. The crops, like the lambing, had done well, and even the coastal fishermen were not heard to complain. But for the absence of young men around the farms and in the streets of Falmouth, they might have been at peace.

The news of the war was sparse and, apart from some reports of French men-of-war being sighted near Biscay, and then only in small numbers, it was as if the whole enemy fleet had been swallowed up. Bolitho sometimes thought of the French frigate which had been sheltering at Good Hope, or the coded letters they had found aboard the slaver Albacora. Was it part of an over-all plan, or were these ship movements and occasional attempts to breach the tightly-stretched English blockade merely at the whim of their local commanders?

He had spoken infrequently of his thoughts to Catherine because she was preparing herself in her own way for the inevitable. When it came on the last day of August she said quietly, “It is a part of your life which I cannot share; no woman can. But whatever it is, Richard, wherever duty takes you, I shall be with you.”

They had been riding along the cliffs and unlike other times they had said very little, had been content with each other’s nearness. They had found the little cove again, where they had made love so passionately and had cast all inhibitions to the sea-breezes. This time they had dismounted but remained on the cliff, holding the horses’ heads, then touching hands in silence. It was as if they had both known. As Catherine had sensed the nearness of his ship when it had sailed on to Portsmouth.

When they had entered the stable-yard Bolitho had seen Allday waiting by the door.

Allday looked first at Catherine, then at him. “Th’ courier’s been an’ gone, Sir Richard.”

Perhaps he too had been expecting it. He might even have been willing it to come. To be at sea again, serving the one who meant more to him than any other living soul. Doing what he had given his life to.

Now, with the late afternoon sunshine casting almost horizontal beams across the big room, the house seemed strangely silent as Bolitho slit open the heavy, red-sealed envelope with the Admiralty fouled anchor in its corner.

She stood with her back to him, her straw hat dangling from her hand, watching the garden, trying to remain calm perhaps, with the taste of the salt air on her lips. Like dried tears.

He laid down the letter and said, “Apparently I am being given a squadron.” He watched her turn towards him as he added, “Eventually. Also a new flagship.”

She crossed the room in quick strides, her hat falling unheeded to the floor. “Does that mean we are not to be parted yet?” She waited for him to hold her. “Just tell me that is so!”

Bolitho smiled. “I must go to London.” He tightened his hold, feeling the warmth of her body against his own. “We shall go together, if that is what you want.”

She nodded. “I understand what you mean. What to expect from some quarters.” She saw the pain in his grey eyes and touched his face. “I knew your thoughts just now about your next flagship. She will not be your old Hyperion. But she is safe from those who would dishonour her by turning her into a hulk after all her years of service.”

He stroked her hair. “You read me like a book, Kate. I was thinking that. The new ship is named Black Prince and is completing fitting-out at the Royal Dockyard, Chatham. I will take you there, too … I don’t want to lose you for a moment!”

She seated herself near the great fireplace, now empty, but with the dark stains of countless winter evenings on the stonework. While Bolitho moved about the room she watched him, saying nothing which might distract him or interrupt his thoughts. This was the other man whom she cherished so dearly, so possessively. Once he paused in his restless pacing and looked at her, but she knew he had not seen her.

He said suddenly, “I shall ask for a good flag captain. I will insist.”

She smiled sadly. “You are thinking of Valentine Keen?”

He walked over to her and took her hands. “Once more, you are right. He is not yet called into service again; and it is not like Val not to have announced the day chosen for their marriage. Strange, too, that Zenoria has not written to you.” He shook his head, his mind made up. “No, I would not request that he continues as my flag captain. Neither of them would thank me for that!” He squeezed her hands. “Like me, Val was late in finding the right woman with whom to share his life.”

She looked up at him, seeing the light in his eyes. “When we are in London will you promise to see that surgeon? For me, if for no other reason.”

He smiled. It was what he had asked of Tyacke. “If time allows.” He let out a sigh. “We have to leave for London in two days. How I loathe that journey … the only one in the world which gets longer every time!”

She stood up and looked around the quiet room. “Such memories. Without these past weeks I do not think I could have faced this news. But now it is home to me. It will always be waiting.” She faced him and added, “And do not fret over Val and his Zenoria. It is not long since they came together. They will want time to arrange matters, and then they will tell us.”

She dragged him to the window and exclaimed, “And if time allows—” She saw him grin as she attempted to mimic his words, “I shall show you some different sights in London so that you will not feel so gloomy each time you visit the Lords of Admiralty.”

They walked out into the garden and to the wall where the small gate opened on the path to the stile and the cliff. Where she had come to meet him on that first night.

She said eventually, “And you must not worry about me while you are gone. I would never stand between you and your ships. You are mine, so I am part of them too.”

Ozzard watched them from an upstairs window where he had been polishing some pewter dishes for Mrs Ferguson. He did not turn as Allday entered the room but remarked, “We’re off again then?”

Allday nodded and massaged his chest as the old ache returned. “Aye. ‘Tis London first though.” He chuckled. “Just happened to hear it.”

Ozzard began to polish a dish he had already shone to perfection. He looked troubled, but Allday knew better than to disturb his thoughts. Instead he said, “She’s the Black Prince, brand-new second-rate of ninety-four guns. Bit larger than we’ve got used to, eh? Like a palace, an’ that’s no error!”

But Ozzard was far away. In that street along the old Wapping Wall where he had blundered from his little house on that hideous day.

He could hear her pleading and screams; and afterwards, when he had hacked his young wife and her lover to death until he had lost all strength in his arm, the terrible silence.

It had been haunting him ever since, revived by a casual comment made by the senior surgeon who had been in Hyperion during her last fight. When the old ship had started to go down, Ozzard had wanted to go with her, to stay with Bolitho’s things in the hold, where he always went when the ship, any of their ships, had been in action.

But it was not to be. He let out a long sigh.

All he said was, “It’s London, then.”