10

THE WAY OF THE WORLD

ADMIRAL the Lord Godschale was doing his best to show cordiality, to forget the coolness between himself and Bolitho when they had last met.

“It is time we had a good talk, Sir Richard. We in admiralty can too often become dry old sticks, missing out on greater deeds which officers like you seem to attract.”

Bolitho stood beside one of the tall windows and looked down at the sunlit roadway and the park beyond. Did London never rest, he wondered? Carriages and smart phaetons bustled hither and thither, wheels seemingly inches apart as their coachmen tried to outdo one another’s skill. Horsemen and a few mounted ladies made splashes of colour against the humbler vehicles, carriers’ carts and small waggons drawn by donkeys.

Jostling people, some pausing to gossip in the warm September sunshine, and a few officers from the nearby barracks, cutting a dash as they strolled through the park and trying to catch the eye of any likely young lady.

Bolitho said, “We are only as good as our men.” Godschale meant nothing of the sort. He was well pleased with his appointment and the power it gave him, and very likely believed that no ship or her captain would amount to anything without his guiding hand from afar.

Bolitho studied him as he poured two tall glasses of madeira. It was strange to realise that they once served together, when they had both been frigate captains during the American Revolution. They had even been posted on the same day. There was not much to show of that dashing young captain now, he thought. Tall, powerfully built and still handsome, despite a certain florid complexion which had not been gained on an open deck in the face of a gale. But behind the well-groomed sleekness there was steel too, and Bolitho could still recall how they had parted the previous year when Godschale had attempted to manoeuvre him away from Catherine and back to Lady Belinda.

Bolitho did not believe that Godschale had any hand in the terrible plan to falsify evidence which put Catherine in the filthy Waites prison. Sometimes she had awakened at his side, even after all the months which had passed since he had rescued her, and had cried out as if she had been trying to fight off her jailers.

No, Godschale was a lot of things but he would have no stomach for a plan which might cast him down from his throne. If he had a weakness it was conceit, an actual belief in his own shrewdness. He had probably been used by Catherine’s husband, convinced, as Belinda had been, that it was the only solution.

Bolitho gritted his teeth. He had no idea where Viscount Somervell was now, although he had heard rumours that he was on another mission for His Majesty in North America. He tried not to think about it, knowing that if ever they came face-to-face again he would call him out. Somervell was a duellist of repute, but usually with a pistol. Bolitho touched the old sword at his side. Perhaps someone else would cheat him of the chance.

Godschale handed him a glass and raised his eyebrows, “Remembering, eh?” He sipped at his madeira. “To great days, Sir Richard!” He eyed him curiously. “To happier ones also.”

Bolitho sat down, his sword resting across one leg. “The French squadrons which slipped through the blockade—you recall, m’lord? Before I sailed for Good Hope. Were they taken?”

Godschale smiled grimly. He saw the sudden interest, the keenness in Bolitho’s eyes, and felt in safer waters. He was well aware that Viscount Somervell’s wife was here in London, flaunting her relationship as if to provoke more hostility and rouse criticism. With Nelson it had been embarrassing enough; at least that affair had been allowed to rest. Nobody seemed to know where Emma Hamilton was now, or what had happened since his death at Trafalgar.

Godschale did not care much for Somervell’s character and reputation. But he still had friends, some very powerful, at Court, and had been rescued from scandal and far worse by no less than His Majesty himself. But even the King, or more likely his close advisers, had conveniently removed Somervell from London’s melting-pot until the problem of Bolitho’s involvement was solved, or destroyed.

The admiral was sensible enough to accept that no matter how he felt about it, Bolitho was probably as popular in the country as Nelson had once been. His courage was beyond doubt, and in spite of some unorthodox methods and tactics, he did win battles.

In peacetime his affair with Lady Somervell would not be tolerated for an instant: they would both be shunned and barred from society, while Bolitho’s own career would fly to the winds.

But it was not peacetime; and Godschale knew the value of leaders who won, and the inspiration they offered their men and the nation.

He said, “The larger of the two enemy squadrons was under the flag of our old opponent ViceAdmiral Leissegues. He managed to slip through all our patrols—nevertheless Sir John Duckworth, who was cruising off Cadiz, gained some intelligence that a French squadron was at St Domingo. Duckworth had already been chasing Leissegues, but had been about to give up when he had the news. He eventually ran them to ground, and even though the French cut their cables when Duckworth’s squadron was sighted, he brought them to close-action. All the enemy were taken, but the hundred and twenty gun Imperial went aground and was burned. She would have made a formidable addition to our fleet.” He sighed grandly. “But one cannot do everything!”

Bolitho hid a smile. It sounded as if the admiral had won the victory from this very room.

Godschale was saying, “The other French force was brought to battle and lost several ships singly before fleeing back to harbour.”

Bolitho put down his glass and stared at it bitterly. “How I envy Duckworth. A decisive action, well thought out and executed. Napoleon must be feeling savage about it.”

“Your work at Cape Town was no less important, Sir Richard.” Godschale refilled the glasses to give himself time to think. “Valuable ships were released for the fleet by your prompt intervention. It was why I proposed you for the task.” He gave a sly wink. “Although I know you suspected my motives at the time, what?”

Bolitho shrugged. “A post-captain could have done it.”

Godschale wagged an admonitory finger. “Quite the reverse. They needed inspiration by example. Believe me, I know!” He decided to change the subject. “I have further news for you.” He walked to his table and Bolitho noticed for the first time that he was limping. A problem he shared with Lord St Vincent, he thought. Gout—too much port and rich living.

Godschale picked up some papers. “I told you about your new flagship, the Black Prince. A fine vessel to the highest requirements, I understand.”

Bolitho was glad he was looking at his papers and did not see his own rebellious smile. I understand. How like Captain Poland. Just to be on the safe side, in case something was proved to be amiss.

Godschale looked up. “Chosen your flag captain yet, or need I ask?”

Bolitho replied, “Under different circumstances I would have picked Valentine Keen without hesitation. In view of his coming marriage, and the fact that he has been continuously employed under demanding circumstances, I am loath to ask this of him.”

Godschale said, “My subordinate did receive a letter from your last captain, offering his services. I thought it odd. I might have expected him to approach you first.” His eyebrows lifted again. “A good man, is he not?”

“A fine captain, and a firm friend.” It was hard to think clearly with Godschale talking about the new ship. What had happened to Keen? It made no sense.

Godschale was saying, “Of course, in these hard times, the lieutenants may be quite junior, and the more seasoned professionals that much older. But then none of us loses any years, what?” He frowned suddenly. “So I would appreciate a quick decision. There are many captains who would give their lives for the chance to sail Black Prince with your flag at the fore.”

“It would be a great favour to me, m’lord, if you would allow me the time to enquire into this matter.” It sounded as if he were pleading. He intended it to.

Godschale beamed. “Of course. What are friends for, eh?”

Bolitho saw his quick glance at the ornate clock on the wall, an elaborate affair with gilded cherubs supporting it, their cheeks puffed out to represent the four winds.

He said, “I shall be in London for the present, m’lord, at the address I have given to your secretary.”

Godschale’s humour seemed to have faded; his smile was fixed to his mouth. “Er, yes, quite so. Lord Browne’s town house. Used to be your flag lieutenant before he quit the navy?”

“Yes. A good friend.”

“Hmm, you don’t seem to be lacking in those!”

Bolitho waited. Godschale was picturing it all in his mind. Himself and Catherine together, caring nothing for what people thought. He stood up and readjusted the sword at his hip.

Godschale said heavily, “I don’t wish to fan old flames, but is there any chance of your returning … er … Dammit, man, you know what I mean!”

Bolitho shook his head. “None, my lord. It is better you know now—I am aware that your lady is a friend of my wife. It would be wrong to promote feelings which are not to be returned.”

Godschale stared at him as if trying to think of some crushing retort. When it failed him he said, “We shall meet again soon. When that happens I hope I will have fresh information for you. But until that moment, let me remind you of something. A French ball can maim or kill a man, but ashore, his person can be equally hurt, his reputation punctured in a hundred ways!”

Bolitho walked to the door. “I still believe the former to be the more dangerous, m’lord.”

As the door closed Admiral the Lord Godschale smashed one fist down on his papers. “God damn his insolence!”

Another door opened cautiously and the admiral’s secretary peered around it.

“My lord?”

Godschale glared. “Not a damn thing!”

The man winced. “Your next appointment will be here very shortly, m’lord.”

Godschale sat down carefully and poured himself another glass of madeira. “I shall receive him in half an hour.”

The secretary persisted, “But there is no one else, m’lord, not until …”

The admiral exclaimed harshly, “Does nobody in the Admiralty listen to what I say? I know all about it! But with luck, Sir Richard Bolitho will renew his acquaintance with Rear Admiral Herrick in the waiting-room. I wish to give them the opportunity to share old times. Do you see?”

The secretary did not see but knew better than to wait for another tirade.

Godschale sighed at the empty room. “One cannot do everything!”

There were two captains sitting in the outer waiting-room, each avoiding the other’s eyes and trying to remain as separate as possible. Bolitho knew they were here to see some senior officer or Admiralty official; he had shared their apprehension and discomfort on more occasions than he could remember. Advancement or a reprimand? A new command, or the first step to oblivion? It was all in a day’s work at the Admiralty.

Both captains sprang to their feet as Bolitho walked through the long room. He nodded to them, accepting their recognition and curiosity. Wondering why he was here and what it might indirectly imply for them. More likely they were curious about the man and not the viceadmiral; his reputation, if it were true or false.

Bolitho was more concerned with Godschale’s announcement about his flag captain. He could still scarcely believe it. He had known how worried Keen had been about the age difference between himself and the lovely Zenoria. The girl he had rescued from a transport on her way to Botany Bay. Keen was forty-one years old, and she would be nearly twenty-two. But their love for one another had bloomed so suddenly out of suffering and been visible to everyone who knew them. He must discover what had happened. If Keen had signified his readiness to be his flag captain merely out of friendship or loyalty, Bolitho would have to dissuade him.

He had almost reached the tall double doors at the far end when they swung open, and he saw Thomas Herrick standing stock-still and staring at him as if he had just fallen from the sky.

Herrick was stocky and slightly stooped, as if the weight of his rearadmiral’s responsibilities had made themselves felt. His brown hair was more heavily touched with grey, but he had not changed since he had sailed to support Hyperion in that last terrible battle.

His palm was as hard as at their first meeting, when he had been one of Bolitho’s lieutenants in Phalarope; and the blue eyes were clear and as vulnerable as that very day.

“What are you …” They both began at once.

Then Bolitho said warmly, “It is so good to see you, Thomas!”

Herrick glanced warily at the two captains as if to ensure they were well out of earshot. “You too, Sir Richard.” He smiled awkwardly. “Richard.”

“That is better.” Bolitho watched his old friend’s uncertainty. So it was still as before. Because of Catherine. He had refused to come to terms with it, could not bring himself to understand how it had happened between them. Bolitho said, “I have been given Black Prince I shall hoist my flag as soon as she is fitted-out, whenever that might be. You know the dockyards and their strange customs!”

Herrick was not to be drawn. He studied Bolitho’s face and asked quietly, “Your eye—how is it?” He shook his head and Bolitho saw something of the man he had always known and trusted. “No, I have told no one. But I still think—”

Bolitho said, “What are you doing?”

Herrick’s chin was sunk in his neckcloth, something which had become a habit when he was grappling with a problem.

“I still have Benbow.” He forced a smile. “New flag lieutenant though. Got rid of that fellow with the Frenchie name, De Broux … too soft for my taste!”

Bolitho felt strangely sad. Just a few years since Benbow had flown his flag and Herrick had been the captain. Ships, if they could think, must wonder sometimes about the men and the fates which controlled them.

Herrick pulled out his watch. “I must present myself to Lord Godschale.” He spoke the name with dislike. Bolitho could well imagine how Herrick felt about the admiral.

As an afterthought Herrick said, “I am to command a squadron in the North Sea patrols.” He gave a genuine smile. “Adam’s new command Anemone is my only frigate! Some things never change, but I am well pleased to have him with me.”

Somewhere a clock chimed and Herrick said quickly, “You know me—I hate not to be punctual.”

Bolitho watched his struggle, but when it burst out it was not what he had been expecting.

“Your new flagship. She is completing at Chatham?” He hurried on as if the thing which troubled him could not be contained. “When you visit the ship, and I have been your subordinate too many times in the past not to know your habits, would you find time to call upon my Dulcie?”

Bolitho asked gently, “What is it, Thomas?”

“I am not sure and that is the God’s truth. But she has been so tired of late. She works too hard with her charities and the like, and will not rest when I am away at sea. I keep telling her, but you know how they are. I suppose she’s lonely. If we had been blessed with children, even the one like you and Lady Belinda—” He broke off, confused by his own revelation. “It is the way of the world, I suppose.”

Bolitho touched his sleeve. “I shall call on her. Catherine keeps trying to drag me to a surgeon, so we may discover someone who might help Dulcie.”

Herrick’s blue eyes seemed to harden. “I am sorry. I was not thinking. Perhaps I was too fouled by my own worries and forgot for a moment.” He looked along the room. “Maybe it would be better if you did not pay Dulcie a visit.”

Bolitho stared at him. “Is this barrier still between us, Thomas?”

Herrick regarded him wretchedly. “It is not of my making.” He was going. “I wish you well, Richard. Nothing can take my admiration away. Not ever.”

“Admiration?” Bolitho looked after him and then called, “Is that all it has become, Thomas? God damn it, man, are we so ordinary? “

The two captains were on their feet as Herrick strode past them, their eyes darting between the flagofficers as if they could scarcely believe what they were witnessing.

Then Bolitho found himself outside the Admiralty’s imposing facade, shivering in spite of the sunshine and strolling people.

“Be off with you, you wretch!”

Bolitho glanced up, still breathing hard, and saw a young man, accompanied by two girls, shaking his fist at a crouching figure by the roadside. The contrast was so vivid it made his head swim … the elegantly dressed young blade with his giggling friends, and the stooping figure in a tattered red coat who was holding out a tin cup.

“Belay that!” Bolitho saw them turn with surprise while several passers-by paused to see what would happen. Ignoring them all, Bolitho strode to the man in the shabby red coat.

The beggar said brokenly, “I wasn’t doin’ no ‘arm, sir!”

Someone shouted, “Shouldn’t be allowed to hang about here!”

Bolitho asked quietly, “What was your regiment?”

The man peered up at him as if he had misheard. He had only one arm, and his body was badly twisted. He looked ancient, but Bolitho guessed he was younger than himself.

“Thirty-First Foot, sir.” He stared defiantly at the onlookers. “The old Huntingdonshire Regiment. We was doin’ service as marines.” His sudden pride seemed to fade as he added, “I was with Lord Howe when I got this lot.”

Bolitho turned on his heel and looked at the young man for several seconds.

“I will not ask the same of you, sir, for I can see plainly enough what you are!”

The youth had gone pale. “You have no right—”

“Oh, but I do. There is at this very moment a lieutenant of the Tower Hill press gang approaching. A word, just one word from me, and you will learn for yourself what it is like to fight for your King and country!”

He was angry with himself for using such a cheap lie. No press gang ever ventured into an area of quality and wealth. But the young man vanished, leaving even his companions to stare after him with surprise and humiliation at being abandoned.

Bolitho thrust a handful of coins into the cup. “God be with you. Never think that what you did was in vain.” He saw the man staring at the golden guineas with astonishment, and knew what he was saying was really for his own benefit. “Your courage, like your memories, must sustain you.”

He swung away, his eyes smarting, and then saw the carriage pulling towards him. She pushed open the door before the coachman could jump down and said, “I saw what you did.” She touched his mouth with her fingers. “You looked so troubled … did something happen in there to harm you?”

He patted her arm as the carriage clattered back into the aimless traffic. “It harms us all, it would appear. I thought I understood people. Now I am not so sure.” He looked at her and smiled. “I am only certain of you!”

Catherine slid her arm through his and looked out of the carriage window. She had seen Herrick stride up the Admiralty steps. The rest, and Bolitho’s angry confrontation with the young dandy, needed no explanation.

She answered softly, “Then let us make the most of it.”

Tom Ozzard paused to lean against a stone balustrade to find his bearings, and was surprised he was not out of breath. The little man had been walking for hours, sometimes barely conscious of his whereabouts but at the back of his mind very aware of his eventual destination.

Along the Thames embankment, then crisscrossing through dingy side-streets where the shabby eaves almost touched overhead as if to shut out the daylight. Around him at every turn was the London he remembered as if it were yesterday. Teeming with life and street cries, the air rank with horse dung and sewers. On one corner was a man bawling out his wares, fresh oysters in a barrel, where several seamen were trying their taste and washing them down with rough ale. Ozzard had seen the river several times on his walk. From LondonBridge to the Isle of Dogs it was crammed with merchantmen, their masts and yards swaying together on the tide like a leafless forest.

In the noisy inns along the river sailors jostled the painted whores and flung away their pay on beer and geneva, not knowing when or if they might ever return once their ships had weighed. None of them seemed at all perturbed by the grisly, rotting remains of some pirates which dangled in chains at Execution Dock.

Ozzard caught his breath; his feet had brought him to the very street as if he had had no part in it.

He found that his breathing was sharper as he hesitated before forcing his legs to carry him along the cobbled roadway. It was like a part of his many nightmares. Even the light, dusky orange as evening closed in on the wharves and warehouses of London’s dockland; it was said that there were more thieves and cut-throats in this part of London than in all the rest of the country. This was or had been a respectable street on Wapping Wall. Small, neat houses owned or rented by shopkeepers and clerks, agents from the victualling yards and honest chandlers.

A shaft of low sunshine reflected from the top window of his old house. He caught his breath. As if it was filled with blood.

Ozzard stared around wildly, his heart thumping as if to tear itself free from his slight body. It was madness; he was mad. He should never have come, there might still be folk here who remembered him. But when Bolitho had come to London he had accompanied him in another carriage. Allday, Yovell and himself. Each so different, and yet each one a part of the other.

Hardly daring to move, he turned his head to look at the shop directly opposite the row of neat houses.

On that horrific day when he had run from his home, heedless of the blood on his hands, he had paused only to stare at this same shop. Then it had been titled, Tom Ozzard, Scrivener. Now he had enlarged the premises and had added & Son to his name.

He thought of the time when the surgeon Sir Piers Blachford had spoken out about this same scrivener, and had remarked that it was the only time he had heard the name Ozzard. He had nearly collapsed. Why did I come?

“You lookin’ fer somethin’, matey?”

Ozzard shook his head. “No. Thank you.” He turned away to conceal his face.

“Suit yerself.” The unknown man lurched away towards a tavern which Ozzard knew lay behind the shops. Knew, because he had paused there for a glass of ginger beer on his way home. The lawyer who had employed him as his senior clerk had sent him off early to show his appreciation for all the extra work he had done. If only he had not stopped for a drink. Even as the hazy idea formed in his mind he knew he was deluding himself. She must have been laughing at him for months. Waiting for him to go to his office near Billingsgate, then for her lover to come to her. Surely others in the street must have known or guessed what was happening? Why hadn’t someone told him?

He leaned against a wall and felt the vomit rising in his throat.

So young and beautiful. She had been lying in her lover’s arms when he had walked in unsuspectingly from the street. It had been a sunny day, full of promise, just as today had started out.

The screams began again, rising to a piercing screech as the axe had smashed down on their nakedness. Again, again, and again, until the room had been like some of the sights he had seen since he had met with Richard Bolitho.

He did not hear the heavy tramp of feet and the clink of weapons until a voice shouted, “You there! Stand and be examined!”

He could barely stop himself shaking as he turned and saw the press gang poised on the corner he had just come around. Not like the ones you saw in fishing villages or naval seaports. These men were armed to the teeth as they hunted for likely recruits in an area which was crammed with sailors, nearly all of whom would have the right papers, the “Protection” to keep them free of the navy.

A massive gunner’s mate, a cudgel hanging from his wrist, a cutlass thrust carelessly through his belt, said, “Wot’s this then?” He peered at Ozzard’s blue coat with the bright gilt buttons, the buckled shoes beloved by sailors whenever they had funds enough to buy them. “You’re no sailor, I’ll be damn sure o’ that!” He put a hand on Ozzard’s shoulder and swung him round to face his grinning party of seamen. “What say you, lads?”

Ozzard said shakily, “I—I do serve—”

“Stand aside!” A lieutenant pushed through his men and regarded Ozzard curiously. “Speak up, fellow! The Fleet needs more hands.” He ran his eye over Ozzard’s frail person. “What ship, if serve you do?”

“I—I am servant to Sir Richard Bolitho.” He found he was able to look up at the lieutenant without flinching. “ViceAdmiral of the Red. He is presently in London.”

The lieutenant asked, “Hyperion—was she your last ship?” All his impatience had gone. As Ozzard nodded he said, “Be off with you, man. This is no place for honest people after dark.”

The gunner’s mate glanced at his lieutenant as if for consent, then pressed some coins into Ozzard’s fist.

“‘Ere, go an’ get a good wet. Reckon you’ve bloody earned it after wot you must ‘er seen an’ done!”

Ozzard blinked and nearly broke down. A wet. What Allday would have said. His whole being wanted to scream at them. Didn’t they see the name on the shop front? What would they have said had he told them how he had run most of the way to Tower Hill to seek out a recruiting party? In those days there was always one hanging around near the taverns and the theatre. Ready to ply some drunken fool with rum before they signed him on in a daze of patriotic fervour. How would they have behaved if he’d described what he had left behind in that quiet little house? He made himself look at it. The window was no longer in the sun.

When he turned the press gang had vanished, and for a second longer he imagined it was another part of the torment, the stab of guilt which left him no peace. Then he looked down at his hand and opened the fingers while his body began to shake uncontrollably. There were the coins the gunner’s mate had given him. “I don’t want your pity.” The coins jangled across the cobbles as he flung them into the lengthening shadows. “Leave me alone!”

He heard someone call out, saw a curtain move in the house next to the one which had once been his. But nobody came.

He sighed and turned his back on the place, and the shop with his stolen name on the front.

Somewhere in the warren of alleys he heard a sudden scuffle, someone bellow with pain, then silence. The press gang had found at least one victim who would awake with a bloody head aboard the Thames guardship.

Ozzard thrust his hands into his coat pockets and began the long walk back to that other part of London.

His small figure was soon lost in the shadows, while behind him, the house was as before. Waiting.

Just a few miles upstream from Wapping where Ozzard had made his despairing pilgrimage, Bolitho bent over to offer his hand to Catherine, and assist her from the wherry in which they had crossed the Thames. It was early darkness, the cloudless sky pin-pointed with countless stars: a perfect evening to begin what Catherine had promised to be “a night of enchantment.”

Bolitho put some money into the wherryman’s hand, with a little extra so that he would be here to carry them back across the swirling black river. The man had a cheeky grin, and had not taken his eyes off Catherine while he had pulled his smart little craft lustily over the choppy water.

Bolitho did not blame him. She had been standing in Lord Browne’s hallway beneath a glittering chandelier when he had come down the staircase. In a gown of shot silk, very like the one she had worn that night in Antigua when he had met her again for the first time after so long. Catherine loved green, and her gown seemed to change from it to black as she had turned towards him. It was low-cut to reveal her throat and the full promise of her breasts. Her hair was piled high, and he had seen that she was wearing the same filigree earrings which had been his firstever gift to her. The ones she had somehow managed to sew into her clothing when she had been forced into the Waites prison.

The wherryman flashed him a broad grin. “I’ll be ‘ere, Admiral—nah you go off an’ enjoy yerselves!”

Bolitho watched the little boat speed back across the river to seek out another fare.

“I don’t understand.” He looked down at his plain blue coat, bought in Falmouth from old Joshua Miller. He and his father had been making uniforms for the Bolitho family and other Falmouth seaofficers longer than anyone could recall. “How did he know?”

She flicked open her new fan and watched him above it, her eyes shining in the glow of many lanterns. “More people know about us than I thought!” She tossed her head. “What do you think, Richard? My little surprise—to take your mind off weightier matters?”

Bolitho had heard of the London pleasure gardens but had never visited any. This one at Vauxhall was the most famous of all. It certainly looked enchanted. Lantern-lit groves, wild rose hedges, and the sound of birds who enjoyed the merriment and music as much as the visitors.

Bolitho paid the entrance fee of half a crown each and allowed Catherine to guide him into the Grand Walk, a place for promenade, lined with exactly matching elms, and past little gravel walks with secret grottoes and quiet cascades and fountains.

She tightened her grip on his arm and said, “I knew you’d like it. My London.” She gestured with the fan towards the many supper booths where splendidly dressed women and their escorts listened to the various orchestras, sipping champagne, cider or claret as the fancy took them.

She said, “Many of the musicians are from the finest orchestras. They work here to keep their pockets filled, their bellies too, until the season returns.”

Bolitho removed his hat and carried it. The place was packed with people, the air heavy with perfume to mingle with the flowers and the distant smell of the river.

Catherine had been wearing a broad Spanish-style shawl, for it was known to be cold along the river at night. Now she let it drop to her arms, her throat and breasts shining in lanternlight or changing into provocative depths and shadows as they walked along a path.

It was like an endless panorama, where comic songs and bawdy ballads shared the same status as the work of great composers and lively dancing. There were plenty of uniforms too. Mostly red with the blue facings of the Royal regiments, and some sea-captains from the many ships moored below LondonBridge, and the twisting route which would carry them back to the sea once more.

They paused where two paths crossed, so that it was possible to hear the music of Handel from one angle, while from the opposite direction they could listen to someone singing “Lass of Richmond Hill.” And neither seemed to detract from the other, Bolitho thought. Or perhaps it really was enchanted …

On the extreme of the brightly lit gardens was “The Dark Walk.” Catherine led him into the deep shadows where other couples stood and embraced, or merely held one another in silence.

Then she turned and lifted her face to him, pale in the darkness. “And no, dearest of men, I never walked here with another.”

“I would not have blamed you, Kate. Or the man who would lose his heart to you as I did.”

She said, “Kiss me. Hold me.”

Bolitho felt her arch towards him; sensed the power of their love which hurled all caution and reserve aside.

He heard her gasp as he kissed her neck and then her shoulder, and pulled her closer without even a glance as a pair of strolling lovers passed by.

He said into her skin, “I want you, Kate.”

She pretended to push him away, but he knew her excitement matched his own.

She touched his mouth with the fan as he released her and said, “But first we eat. I have arranged for a booth. It will be a private place.” She gave her infectious laugh, something which at times in the past Bolitho had thought never to hear again. “As private as anything can be in VauxhallPleasureGardens!”

The time passed with an impossible speed while they sat in their little flower-bedecked booth, toying with their salads and roasted chicken, enjoying the wine and the music, but most of all each other.

She said, “You are staring at me.” She dropped her eyes and took his hand in hers across the table. “You make me feel so wanton—I should be ashamed.”

“You’ve a beautiful neck. It seems wrong to hide it, and yet …”

She watched him wondering.

“I will buy something for it. Just to adorn what is already so lovely.”

She smiled. “Only in your eyes.” Then she squeezed his hand until it hurt. “I am so in love with you, Richard. You just don’t know.” She touched her eyes with a handkerchief. “There, see what you’ve done!” When she looked at him again they were very bright. “Let us go and find our lecherous wherryman. I have such need of you I can scarcely wait!”

They walked back along the path towards the gates. Catherine pulled her long shawl over her bare shoulders and shivered. “I never want the summer to end.”

Bolitho smiled, passion and excitement making him light-headed, as if he had had too much wine.

“Wait here in the shelter. I will make certain that the waterman you described so well is alongside.”

She called after him as he turned by the gates. “Richard. I do like your hair like that. You look so … dashing.”

She watched him pass into the shadows and drew the shawl more tightly around her; then she turned as a voice said, “All alone, my dear? That’s very remiss of somebody!”

She observed him calmly. An army captain; not very old, with a lopsided grin which told of some heavy drinking.

She said, “Be off with you. I am not alone, and even if I were—”

“Now let’s not be hasty, m’dear.” He stepped closer and she saw him stagger. Then he reached out and seized the shawl. “Such beauty should never be hidden!”

“Take your hand off my lady.” Bolitho had not even raised his voice.

Catherine said shortly, “He is full to the gills!”

The captain stared at Bolitho and gave a mock bow. “I did not realise; and in any case she looked like the sort of woman who might favour a poor soldier.”

Bolitho was still very calm. “I would call you out, sir—”

The captain grinned stupidly. “And then I would willingly accept your seconds!”

Bolitho opened his plain blue coat. “You did not let me fin-ish. I would call you out if you were a gentleman and not a drunken lout. So we will settle it here.” The old sword simply seemed to materialise in his hand. “And now!”

Another soldier lurched through some bushes and gaped at the small, tense scene. He was tipsy, but not too drunk to recognise the danger.

“Come away, you damned fool!” To Bolitho he exclaimed, “On his behalf, Sir Richard, I crave your pardon. He is not normally like this.”

Bolitho looked at the captain, his eyes hard. “So I would hope, if only for the sake of England’s safety!”

He slid the sword into its scabbard and deliberately turned his back on the pair. “The boat is ready and waiting, my lady.”

She took his proffered arm and felt it shaking.

“I have never seen you like that before.”

“I am sorry to behave like some hot-headed midshipman.”

She protested, “You were wonderful.” She held up the small reticule which hung from her wrist, and added, “But if he had tried to hurt you he would have got a ball in the buttocks to quieten him down. My little carriage pistol is quite big enough for that.”

Bolitho shook his head. “You are full of surprises!”

By the time the wherry was halfway across the river, weaving expertly through packs of similar craft, he was calm again.

Then he said, “It really was a night of enchantment, Kate. I shall never forget it.”

Catherine glanced at the staring waterman and then allowed the shawl to drop from her shoulders as she leaned against Bolitho and whispered, “It is not yet over, as you will soon discover.”

The waterman left his wherry to assist them out on to the pier. In his trade he carried them all. Men with other men’s wives, sailors and their doxies, young bucks on the hunt for excitement or a brawl which would end blade to blade. But his two fares this evening were like none he had ever carried, and for some strange reason he knew he would always remember them. He thought of the way she had teased him with her shawl and gave a rueful grin. It had been well worth it.

He called after them, “Any time, Sir Richard! Just ask for Bobby—they all knows me on the LondonRiver.”

The carriage which had been put at their disposal was standing in line with many others, the coachmen nodding while they waited for their masters who were still over at Vauxhall.

Bolitho saw Ozzard’s gilt buttons glinting in the carriage lamps. It was like a silent warning, and he felt Catherine’s grip tighten on his wrist.

“Is something wrong, Ozzard? There was no need for you to wait with the carriage.”

Ozzard said, “There was a messenger from the Admiralty, Sir Richard. I told him I didn’t know where you were.” His tone suggested he would not have told him anyway. “He left word for you to present yourself to Lord Godschale at your earliest convenience tomorrow.”

Somewhere in another world a church clock began to chime.

Catherine said in a small voice, “Today.”

As they reached the house in Arlington Street, Bolitho said, “It cannot be so urgent. I have no flagship yet, and in any case—”

She turned on the stairway and tossed her shawl impetuously over the curving banister rail.

“And in any case, my gallant admiral, there is still the night!” He found her waiting for him beside one of the windows from which, in daylight, you could see the park. She looked at him, her face almost impassive as she said, “Take me, use me any way you will, but always love me.”

Down in the deserted kitchen Allday sat at the scrubbed table and carefully filled a new clay pipe. It had cost him a fortune in London but he doubted if it would last any longer.

He had heard the carriage return and had seen Ozzard going quietly to his bed. Something was troubling him sorely; pulling him apart. He would try and find out what it was.

He lit the pipe and watched the smoke rising in the still air. Then he pulled a tankard of rum towards him and tried not to think of them upstairs.

All the same, he thought, it would make everything just perfect. To feel her defences giving way.

Allday snatched the tankard and took a great swallow.

Aloud he said thickly, “Just watch out for squalls, that’s all I asks of ‘em!”

But as he thought of them up there together, he knew that nothing would make any difference.