15

FULL CIRCLE

CAPTAIN Valentine Keen cast a searching glance along the full length of his new command before turning and striding aft where a group of senior officers, Admiralty officials and their ladies, waited beneath the shelter of the poop.

The Black Prince, a powerful second-rate of ninety-four guns, had been completed here in the Royal Dockyard, Chatham, several months ahead of schedule.

For the latter weeks, after his appointment had been confirmed, Keen had stayed aboard for most of the time. On this bitter November forenoon he was very aware of the long days, and the constant demands on his services. He could feel the wind off the River Medway cutting through his limbs and body as if he were naked. Now, all but the formalities were over, and this towering three-decker was to be his.

Lying nearby was an old seventy-four like Hyperion. It was hard to believe that she had been so much smaller than Black Prince, and he found himself wondering if this great ship would ever match her in performance and memory. He had been reminded too that it was in this same dock area that Nelson’s last flagship Victory had had her keel laid, all of forty-seven years ago. And what might the navy become in the same period which lay ahead?

He doffed his hat to the port admiral and then turned to the man he had come to admire and love.

“The ship is prepared, Sir Richard.” He waited, sensing the silence at his back where the ship’s company had been piped to witness the official handing over of the new ship. On nearby walls and slipways the dockyard workers waited in the cold wind to watch. Pride of workmanship; and with the war showing little sign of ending it meant that another great keel would be laid down once Black Prince had been worked out to the Medway, and finally to the open sea.

Not so with most of the ship’s company, he thought. Some had been transferred from other vessels now laid-up for repair or refit without ever being allowed ashore to see their homes or loved ones. The press gangs had gathered the sweepings of the dockside and local harbours. Scum to be made, by example or more brutal methods, into seamen who would, when required, fight this ship with the loyalty of seasoned tars.

The assizes had provided a good sprinkling of poachers and petty thieves, and one or two harder men who chose the King’s service instead of the gallows.

Bolitho looked strained and tired, Keen thought. That last fight aboard the frigate Truculent must have demanded a lot from him. But it had not been difficult to picture Bolitho casting down his flagofficer’s rank to replace Poland as captain when he had fallen. Keen had served with Bolitho in frigates as midshipman and lieutenant, and had seen him in action so many times that he often wondered how they had survived this long.

Bolitho smiled at him. “It is good to be here on this proud day, Captain Keen.”

There was warmth in his voice, and he was probably amused by the formality they must maintain in front of such important visitors.

Keen turned about and walked to the quarterdeck rail, his eyes taking in everything, and marvelling how well his lieutenants and warrant officers had managed to be ready for this day. There had been moments when Keen had believed it would never end. The work, the hull full of carpenters and joiners, sailmakers and painters, while the newly appointed midshipmen were driven from pillar to post by Cazalet, his first lieutenant. Keen knew little of him yet as a man. But as his second-in-command, appointed from another ship of the line, he was beyond value. He never seemed to be without energy or an answer to somebody’s problem. Day by day Keen had watched him striding through the piled confusion of rigging and spare cordage, anchors and stores which descended on the dockside like an endless invasion. He looked up at the crossed yards and neatly furled sails, that same tangled cordage now in position, and tarred-down like black glass. On the forecastle he saw the scarlet square of Royal Marines matching their smart lines across the poop behind him.

The lieutenants in blue and white and in strict order of seniority; beyond them the midshipmen and warrant officers. Some of the “young gentlemen” would see this huge ship as the sure step to a lieutenant’s exalted rank, while others, so small they looked as if they should be with their mothers, stared around at the great masts and the double lines of the upper deck twelve-pounders. They would be reminded, no doubt, of the twelve miles of rigging they would have to know by name at first, then by touch if required when called on deck in a raging storm and in pitch darkness.

And there was the company of seamen. Old hands and new, pressed men and vagrants, watching him, knowing that of everyone aboard he could control their lives, while his skill as the captain might well decide if they lived at all.

His voice was clear and steady as he read from the scroll with its round copper-plate writing and the crest of Admiralty at the top. It was like hearing someone else reading it to him, he thought.

“… and once satisfied you will go on board and take command of captain in her accordingly …”

He heard one of the women give a gentle cough behind him, and recalled how he had seen some of them peering around after Bolitho had stepped aboard. Looking for Catherine, preparing the gossip. But they had been disappointed, for she had remained ashore, although Keen had not yet had time to speak with Bolitho about it.

“… all officers and company appointed to said ship shall obey, follow and serve you to this purpose, when His Britannic Majesty King George shall charge to accept the said ship Black Prince into his service …”

Keen glanced over the scroll and saw his coxswain Tojohns standing beside the powerful figure of Allday. Their familiar faces gave him strength, a sense of belonging in this teeming world of a ship of the line where every man was a stranger until proved otherwise.

“… hereof, not you nor any of you may fail as you will answer the contrary at your peril and according to the Articles of War … God Save the KING!”

It was done. Keen replaced his hat and tucked the scroll inside his coat again while the first lieutenant, Cazalet, stepped smartly from the group of officers and shouted, “Three cheers for His Majesty, lads!” The response could have been better, but when Keen glanced round he saw that the port admiral was beaming, and there were a lot of handshakes amongst the men who had planned and supervised for this day, and those who would profit by the end of it.

Keen said, “Dismiss the hands, Mr Cazalet, then come aft to my quarters.”

He thought he saw the other man raise an eyebrow. It was now time to entertain the visitors. By the look of some of them it was going to be difficult to get rid of them. He called after the first lieutenant, “Tell Major Bourchier to double his marine guard.” He had almost forgotten the major’s name. In a few weeks he would know them better than they did each other.

Lieutenant Jenour touched his hat. “I beg your pardon, sir, but Sir Richard is leaving now.”

“Oh, I had hoped …” He saw Bolitho standing apart from the others, as they flowed aft on either side of the great double-wheel which was yet to feel the fury of wind and rudder in contest.

Bolitho said, “Pay my respects, Val. But I have to go. Lady Catherine …” He looked away as some visitors passed by, one of the women staring at him quite unashamedly.

He added, “She would not come aboard. She thought it best. For me. Later perhaps.”

Keen had heard about Browne’s death and the duel which had preceded it. He said, “She is a wonderful lady, Sir Richard.”

“I cannot thank you enough for standing by her in my absence. My God, Fate soon determines who your true friends are!”

He walked slowly to the quarterdeck to look down at the guns, the neatly-packed hammock nettings.

“You have a fine ship, Val. A floating fortress. There’s no flag captain I’d rather have, and you know it. And have faith, as I did, although to others the odds against my finding Catherine again were a million-fold. Zenoria needs time. But I am certain that she loves you.” He clapped his arm. “So no more melancholy, eh?”

Keen glanced aft where the din of voices and laughter was already growing. “I’ll see you over the side, Sir Richard.”

They went down to the entry port together, and Keen noticed there were already more marines in evidence with their muskets and fixed bayonets and immaculate, pipeclayed, crossbelts. Their major had acted promptly; there were still those who might try to desert before the ship was at sea, and order and discipline took root. Keen was a fair and understanding captain, but he was mindful that he was still fifty men short of his full complement of eight hundred officers, marines and sailors. The sight of the armed sentries might make the foolhardy think twice.

“Man the side!” The gleaming new barge was rolling gently in the sluggish confinement of the dockyard, Allday in the sternsheets, the crew neatly turned out in checkered shirts and tarred hats.

Bolitho hesitated. A ship without history, without memory. A new start. Even the idea seemed to mock him.

He said, “You will receive further orders within the week. Use all the time you can to work the people into a team we can be proud of.”

Keen smiled, although he hated to see him leave after so brief a visit. “I have had the best of teachers, sir!”

Bolitho turned, then felt himself falling. Keen seized his arm, and there was a clatter as one of the marines dropped his musket with surprise. The lieutenant in charge of the side-party snarled something at the luckless marine and gave Bolitho a few seconds to recover his wits.

“Is it the eye, Sir Richard?” Keen was shocked to see the expression of utter despair on Bolitho’s features when he faced him again.

“I’ve not told Catherine yet. They can do naught to help me, it seems.”

Keen stood between him and the guard and boatswain’s mates with their silver calls still poised and ready.

“I will lay odds she knows.” He wanted to offer some kind of help so badly that even his own worries seemed beyond reach.

“If that is the case …” Bolitho changed his mind and touched his hat to the guard before lowering himself down the stairs from the entry port, where Allday’s hand was outstretched to guide him the last few steps into the barge.

Keen watched the boat until it was out of sight beyond a moored transport. He had commanded several ships during his service, and this should have been his greatest reward. Older captains than himself would give their blood for such a command. A new ship, soon to fly a viceadmiral’s flag, could only bring honour to the man who controlled her destiny. So why did he feel so little? Was he so affected by the Hyperion, or was it that he had been so near to death on too many occasions?

He frowned at the laughter from his quarters. They neither knew nor cared about the people who would serve this ship.

A lieutenant blocked his way and touched his hat. “I beg pardon, sir, but another lighter is putting off from the victualling pier.”

“Are you the Officer-of-the-Watch, Mister Flemyng?” The young lieutenant seemed to shrink as Keen added sharply, “Then do your work, sir, for if you cannot I will seek out another who can!”

Almost before the lieutenant had made to move away he regretted it.

“That was uncalled for, Mr Flemyng. A captain’s rank has privileges, but abuse of them is beyond contempt.” He saw him staring in astonishment. “Ask as much as you like. Otherwise we may all be the poorer when it concerns something vital. So send for the boatswain and the duty-watch to deal with these stores, eh?”

As the lieutenant almost ran across the quarterdeck, Keen gave a sad smile. How true had his words been just now to Bolitho.

I have had the best of teachers.

The thought seemed to rally him, and he looked along the deck again to the black, armoured shoulder of the proud figurehead. Then he stared aloft at the curling masthead pendant and some gulls which screamed through the rigging with an eye for scraps from the galley. Almost to himself he said, “My ship.” Then he spoke her name, “Zenoria.” Afterwards he thought it had been like releasing a bird from captivity. Would she ever call him in return?

The light carriage, with mud splashed as high as its windows, reached the top of a rise and reined to a halt, the two horses steaming in the cold air.

Yovell groaned and released his grip on a tasselled handle and exclaimed, “These roads are indeed a disgrace, m’lady.”

But she lowered a window and leaned out regardless of the fine, intermittent drizzle which had followed them all the way from Chatham.

“Where are we, Young Matthew?”

Matthew leaned over from his box and grinned down at her, his face like a polished red apple.

“The house is yonder, m’lady.” He pointed with his whip. “‘Tis the only one hereabouts.” He puffed out his cheeks and his breath floated around him like steam. “A lonely spot, in my opinion.”

“You know these parts, Young Matthew?”

He grinned again, but with a certain wistfulness as the memory clouded his eyes. “Aye, m’lady. I was here ‘bout fourteen years back—I were just a boy then, working for my grandfather who was head coachman for the Bolitho family.”

Yovell said, “Before my time with Sir Richard, I think.”

“What were you doing in Kent?”

“The master was sent here to hunt down smugglers. I was with him an’ helped a bit. Then he sent me back to Falmouth ‘cause he said it were too dangerous, like.”

Catherine withdrew her head. “Drive on, then.” She sat back in the seat as the carriage rolled forward through a succession of muddy ruts. Another part of Bolitho’s life she could not share. Allday had made some mention of it. How Bolitho had still been recovering from the terrible fever he had caught in the GreatSouthSea, but had desperately tried to obtain a ship, any ship. War with France had still been just a threat, but England had allowed the fleet to rot, her sailors thrown on the beach. There were few ships, and only Bolitho’s persistence, his daily visits to the Admiralty, had found him employment at the Nore. Recruiting, but also hunting smugglers, to stamp out their vicious trade, a far cry from the romantic tales which abounded about their exploits.

But when the blade fell on the King of France’s neck everything had changed. Allday had put it in his simple way. “So they gave us the old Hyperion. It were a bit of a shock for the Cap’n, as he was then, him being a frigate man. But that old ship changed our lives, m’lady. He found you, and I found out I had a grown-up son.” He had nodded, his clear eyes faraway. “Aye, we sailed through some blood and tears together.”

She had pressed him to add, “That was why he fought Truculent like he did. Cap’n Poland could never ‘a’ done it, not in a thousand years.” He had shaken his head like an old dog. “There’ll not be another like Hyperion, I’m thinkin’. Not for us anyways.”

She watched the River Medway in the distance. All the way from Chatham it had barely been out of sight, twisting and turning, a wide stretch of water, sometimes silver, sometimes the colour of lead, as the sky and weather dictated. She had found herself shivering when she had caught sight of some prison hulks moored out in the stream. Mastless and forlorn, and somehow frightening. Full of prisoners-of-war. She had another stark memory of the Waites prison, the degradation and filth. Surely it would be better to die?

Bolitho would be on board his new flagship. After that they would be together again—but for how long? She swore that she would make every moment a precious one.

For a few moments she forgot why she had made this journey, and the fact that RearAdmiral Herrick’s wife might not even allow her in the house. She was back in the small chapel in South Audley Street, then in the adjoining St George’s Burial Ground, at any other time just a short walk from the Somervell house.

Nobody had spoken to her except the vicar, and he had been a total stranger. A few faceless people had been in the chapel, but by the graveside there had been only her Richard. There had been several carriages, but the occupants had not alighted, content apparently to watch and pass judgment. One figure had hurried away from a wall as she had made to leave. His steward, no doubt, who for whatever true reason had always been with him.

The carriage responded to Matthew’s brake, and slowed again while it turned off the road and along a well-laid driveway.

Catherine could feel her heart pumping against her ribs and was surprised at her sudden nervousness. She had come uninvited and without sending word of her intention. To do so would have invited a snub. But she accepted that it was important to Bolitho that she should try to get to know the wife of his old friend. She knew that Herrick would never change towards her and it saddened her, although she had managed to hide it from the one she loved more than life itself.

Yovell groaned; he had obviously suffered from the joltings of the journey. “A goodly house.” He said it with approval. “A big step.”

Catherine did not know what Yovell meant but guessed it might be because Herrick had come from humble, even poor beginnings locally, and his marriage to his beloved Dulcie had brought him the comfort and encouragement denied him in his struggle for eventual recognition in the navy. She felt a momentary bitterness as Yovell handed her down from the carriage. Bolitho had given his friend much more than encouragement. This should have been the time to repay him with the loyalty and friendship he needed. Instead … She shook her head and said, “Stay with Young Matthew, will you please, Daniel.” She bit her lip. “I do not expect to be long.”

Matthew touched his hat. “I’ll take the horses to the yard for some water.” He and Yovell exchanged glances as she mounted the stone steps and lifted a large brass knocker in the shape of a dolphin. The door opened instantly, and she vanished into the interior.

When the carriage reached the stable-yard Yovell, who had climbed up beside the coachman, emitted a grunt of anxiety. Two stable hands were washing down another carriage.

“It’s Lady Bolitho’s.” Matthew gave it a professional scrutiny. “No mistakin’ that ‘un!”

Yovell nodded. “Too late now. I’d better go round—Sir Richard’ll never forgive me.”

Young Matthew climbed down and said, “Leave ‘er be. You can’t ‘andle two mares at once.” He gave his cheeky smile. “My money’s on our Lady Catherine!”

Yovell stared at him. “You damned rogue!” But he stood fast all the same.

After the creak of wheels and leather and the occasional slashing rain across the windows, the house felt oppressively still. Like a tomb. Catherine looked at the small servant who had opened the door. “Is your mistress at home?”

The girl stammered, “She is, Ma’am. She be in bed.” She peered anxiously at some double doors which led off the hallway. “They moved ‘er downstairs. She got a visitor.”

Catherine smiled. The girl was too open to be a liar. “Would you please announce me? Catherine Somervell—Lady Somervell.”

She walked into an anteroom and through its misted windows watched two men working in the gardens, in spite of the rain.

But it was getting heavier, and they paused beneath the windows to wait its passing. It was still a few moments longer before she realised they were speaking Spanish.

She heard the doors swing open across the hall and when she turned she saw Belinda, framed in the light from other windows on the far side of the room.

She had never laid eyes on her before, and yet she knew instantly who she was. She had something of the looks in the portrait Catherine had had restored to its place at Falmouth, the hair, the shape of the face—but nothing more.

“I did not know you were here, otherwise—”

Belinda replied sharply, “Otherwise you would have stayed in your proper place! I don’t know how you have the brazen audacity to come.” Her eyes moved slowly over Catherine from head to toe, lingering on the dull black silk of her mourning gown.

“I am surprised you have the impudence to—”

Catherine heard someone call out in a small voice and said, “Frankly, your reactions, disgust or otherwise, don’t matter a jot to me.” She could feel the anger rising like fire. “This is not your house, and I shall see whom I intended, if she will allow it!”

Belinda stared at her as if she had struck her. “Don’t you dare take that tone with me—”

“Dare? You talk of daring after what you tried to do to me when you connived with my husband? I wear these clothes because it shows respect, but it is for Richard’s dead friend, not my damned husband!” She strode to the door. “I notice that you have no difficulty in dressing in the latest, and finest fashion!”

Belinda fell back, her eyes never leaving Catherine’s face. “I shall never …”

“Give him up? Is that what you were about to say?” Catherine looked at her coldly. “He is not yours to give. I suspect he never was.”

The voice called again and Catherine walked past her without another word. Belinda was exactly what she had expected. It made her angrier and sad at the same time. A woman like that with—She stopped short of a large bed, and gazed at the woman who was propped there on several pillows and cushions. Herrick’s wife studied her much as Belinda had done; but there was no hostility.

Belinda said, “I shall be back shortly, Dulcie my dear. I need some air.”

Catherine heard the doors close. “I beg forgiveness for this intrusion.” It no longer seemed to matter, and she could feel her body go cold despite the great fire in the room.

Dulcie placed one hand on the bed and said softly, “Sit here where I can see you the better. Alas, my dear Thomas has sailed just recently to join his squadron. I miss him so much.” The hand moved towards Catherine and after the slightest hesitation took hers in it. It was hot and dry. She murmured, “Yes. You are very beautiful, Lady Somervell … I can see why he loves you.”

Catherine squeezed her hand. “That is a kind thing to say. Please call me Catherine.”

“I was sorry to hear about your late husband’s death. Is it still raining?”

Catherine felt something like fear, usually a stranger to her. Dulcie was rambling, even as she clung to her hand.

She asked carefully, “Have you seen a doctor recently?”

Dulcie said distantly. “So much sadness. We couldn’t have any children, you know.”

“Nor can I,” she said gently. She tried again. “How long have you been unwell?”

Dulcie smiled for the first time. It made her look incredibly frail.

“You are like Thomas. Always fussing and asking questions. He thinks I work too hard—he does not understand how empty it can be when he is at sea. I could not be idle, you see.”

Catherine felt terribly alone with her secret. “Those men working in the gardens. Who are they?”

For a moment she thought Dulcie had not heard, as she whispered, “Belinda is such a good person. They have a little girl.”

Catherine glanced away. They. “The men were speaking Spanish …”

She had not heard the door re-open, and Belinda’s voice was like a knife. “Of course, you were also married to a Spaniard at one time, were you not? So many husbands.”

Catherine ignored the sneer in her voice and turned back to the bed as Dulcie said wearily, “They are prisoners. But they are allowed here on trust. They are very good gardeners.” Her eyes flickered. “I am so tired.”

Catherine released her hand and stood up. “I will take my leave.” She backed away from the bed, oblivious of Belinda’s bitter stare, her hatred for her.

“I would like to talk again with you, dear Dulcie.” She turned away, unable to lie.

Outside the room she faced Belinda. “She is very ill.”

“And you are concerned, is that it? You came prepared to win her over—to prove that you are the only one who really cares!”

“Don’t be a fool! Has she seen a doctor?”

Belinda smiled. Arrogantly, she thought. “But of course. A good local man who has known Dulcie and RearAdmiral Herrick for years.”

Catherine heard the carriage moving to the front of the house again. Yovell was a good judge.

“I must leave. I’ll send for a competent doctor from London.”

Belinda said violently, “How can you speak like this? I can see for myself what you are, but don’t you know what you are doing to my husband’s career and reputation?” She was spitting out each word, unable to hide her spite. “He has fought duels over you before, or didn’t you know? One day he will pay for it!”

Catherine looked away, and did not see the flash of triumph in Belinda’s eyes. She was remembering the VauxhallPleasureGardens, where Bolitho had tossed a contemptuous challenge to the drunken soldier who had fondled her arm as if she was a common whore. And only days ago when he had sent the effeminate Colonel Collyear packing after a similar challenge.

But when she raised her eyes again she saw Belinda’s features had gone pale, her sudden confidence evaporated.

Catherine said evenly, “I know that you have no true pride in Richard. You are not fit to carry his name. And let me assure you that had we two been men I would willingly call you out. Your ignorance is far more offensive than your smugness!”

She walked towards the door. “Dulcie has a fever. I heard the gardeners speaking of it outside.” Her eyes flashed dangerously. “Yes, being married to a Spaniard does have its advantages!”

Belinda said, “You are trying to frighten me.” But there was no defiance now.

“There is an outbreak on the hulks—it sounds like jail fever. You should have been told. How long has she been like that?”

Belinda’s hands plucked at her rich gown, confused by the swift change of events.

“A few days. After her husband’s ship sailed.” Her voice faltered. “What of it?”

Catherine did not answer immediately. “Send for Mr Yovell. He must take a message for me. Do not make a stupid scene of it. All the servants will go if they understand. It would be better if they were kept away from this room.”

“Is it so terrible?”

Catherine regarded her thoughtfully; she would be useless. “I shall stay with her.”

She remembered Belinda’s frantic question. “It is typhus.” She saw the word bring terror to her eyes. “I fear she will not survive it.”

The door opened and Yovell tiptoed across the hallway, although he had not yet been summoned. He listened, his round face expressionless while Catherine explained what had happened.

“This is bad, m’lady.” He watched her gravely. “We should send for expert help.”

She saw his anxiety, and laid her hand on his plump arm. “Even then it will be too late. I have seen it before. Had she been treated earlier …” She looked at the windows; a watery sunlight was breaking through. “Even then I think it would have been hopeless. She is in pain, and there were traces of a rash when her shawl was moved. I must stay with her, Daniel. No one should die alone.”

Belinda crossed the hallway, her hands agitated. “I will have to return to London. My daughter is there.”

Catherine said, “Go then.” As Belinda hurried to the stairs she remarked, “You see, Daniel? I have no choice now, even if I wanted one.”

“What do you wish, m’lady? Anything, and I shall do it.”

She smiled, but her thoughts were once more in the past. When she had climbed naked into Bolitho’s bed when he had been dying of fever, to bring warmth to his tormented body. And he had never remembered it.

“Go to Chatham. We have sworn to have no secrets, so I must let him know.”

She smiled again and thought sadly, As he will eventually tell me about his eye.

Yovell said, “I shall do that, m’lady.” Then, with a glance at the closed doors, he hurried away.

Belinda came slowly down the staircase, her eyes all the while on the woman in the dull black gown.

By the door she turned and said, “I hope you die!”

Catherine looked after her impassively. “Even then he would not come to you.” But Belinda had gone; and she heard her carriage moving rapidly over the cobbles towards the road.

The same servant was back, staring at Catherine as if she were some secret force which had suddenly come amongst them.

Catherine smiled at her. “Fetch the housekeeper and the cook.” She saw her uncertainty, the beginning of fear perhaps. “What is your name, girl?”

“Mary, m’lady.”

“Well, Mary, we are going to look after your mistress. Make things easier for her—do you understand?”

The girl bobbed and showed her teeth. “Make ‘er better, like?”

“That is so. Now off you go and fetch them, while I make a list of things we shall require.”

Alone once more, Catherine leaned her head in her hands and closed her eyes tightly to hold back the hot tears which were waiting to betray her. She had to be strong, as she had been in the past when her world had turned into a nightmare. Danger and death were not new to her, but the thought of losing him now was far more than she could bear. She heard Dulcie calling for someone; she thought she had spoken Herrick’s name. She clenched her fists. What else can I do?

She seemed to hear Belinda’s hatred hanging in the still air. I hope you die!

Curiously, it seemed to give her the strength she needed, and when the two women who controlled Dulcie’s household entered she spoke to them calmly and without hesitation.

“Your mistress must be bathed. I shall attend to it. Prepare some nourishing soup, and I will need brandy.” The cook bustled away and the housekeeper said quietly, “Don’t ‘ee fear, missus, I’ll stay with ‘ee till it’s over.” She bowed her grey head. “She’s bin good to me since my man died.” She raised her head and looked at Catherine steadily. “He went for a soldier, missus. Fever took ‘im from me in the Indies.”

“So you knew?”

The old housekeeper shrugged. “Guessed, more like. But ‘er ladyship said I was bein’ foolish.” She glanced around. “I see she’s gone all the same.” Then she looked at Catherine and nodded as if in recognition. “Your man would know about it, I reckon. Rats leavin’ the sinkin’ ship.” She unbuttoned her sleeves. “So let’s make a start, shall we?”

“Send someone for the doctor. Good or bad, he should know.”

The housekeeper studied Catherine’s gown. “I got some servants’ clothin’ you could wear. It can be burned afterwards.”

The word afterwards was still with Catherine when night, like mourning, eventually covered the house.

It was very late by the time Young Matthew turned the carriage through the familiar gates, the air from the sea cold enough for snow. As they had rattled through the town, Bolitho had stared out of the window as if expecting to see changes. He always felt like that when he returned to Falmouth, no matter how long or short his absence had been.

Lights still twinkled from some houses and shops, and when they climbed the hill to his home he saw the cottages, their windows lit by candies, with coloured paper and leaves as decoration. It even felt like Christmas. Catherine, muffled in her cloak and fur-lined hood, watched the passing scene with him; she had never expected to see this place again.

It made Bolitho feel sick just to imagine what could so easily have happened. When Yovell had brought word of Dulcie’s terrible illness to the inn where they had been staying near the dockyard, he had been beside himself. More so because the carriage had lost a wheel in the darkness, adding an extra day to her lonely vigil.

Bolitho had not waited for the carriage but had taken a horse, and with Jenour keeping pace beside him had ridden hard all the way to Herrick’s house. It had been over even before he reached her. Dulcie had died, mercifully after her heart had failed, so that she was spared the final degradation of the fever. Catherine had been lying on a bed, covered by a blanket but otherwise naked as the old housekeeper burned her borrowed clothes. How easily she might have been infected; she had tended to Dulcie’s most painful and intimate needs to the end, had heard her despairing delirium, when she had called out names Catherine had never heard before.

The doctor had eventually attended, a weak sort of man who had been overwhelmed by the manner of Dulcie’s death.

The carriage had followed several hours after Bolitho, when Yovell had commented that Lady Belinda had left since his departure for Chatham. He glanced at Catherine’s profile and held her arm even tighter. Not once had she mentioned that Belinda had abandoned her to cope with Dulcie on her own. Almost anyone in her position would have done so, if only to bring contempt and scorn on a rival. It was as if she no longer cared. Only that they were together. Six days on the awful roads, a long and tiring journey, but now they were here.

Ferguson and his wife, the housekeeper, were waiting for them, while other familiar faces floated into the carriage lamps, gathering luggage, calling greetings, glad to see them back.

Ferguson had had no idea of the exact date of their return but he had been well prepared. Great fires in every room, even in the stone hallway, so that the contrast with the cold outside was like an additional welcome. Alone at last in their room facing the headland and the sea beyond, Catherine said she would have a hot bath. She looked at him gravely. “I want to wash it all away.” Then she held him tightly and kissed him.

She said just one word before she prized herself away. “Home.”

Ozzard came up to collect his uniform coat and left with it, humming softly to himself.

She called through the door, and Bolitho guessed it had been on her mind for much of the time.

“When will he be told?”

“Thomas?” He walked to the low window and peered out. No stars, so it was still overcast. He saw a tiny light far out to sea. Some small vessel trying to reach port for Christmas. He thought of Herrick coming to him and bringing the news of Cheney’s death; it was something he could never forget. He answered quietly, “Admiral Godschale will send word on the first vessel carrying despatches to the squadron. I sent a letter to go with it. From us both.” He thought he heard a catch in her voice and he said, “You are not only lovely, you are also very brave. I would have died if anything had happened to you.”

She came out wearing a robe, her face glowing from the bath which was something else Ferguson had thought of.

“Dulcie said something of that to me.” Her lip trembled but she composed herself. “I think she knew what was happening to her. She called for her husband several times.”

Bolitho held her against him so that she could not see his face. “I will have to join the Black Prince quite shortly, Kate. A few weeks, perhaps less.”

She rested her head against his shoulder. “I know … I am prepared. Don’t think of it—take care of yourself as much as you can. For me. For us.”

He stared desperately at the crackling log fire. “There is something I did not tell you, Kate. There was so much to do, after the duel and … everything—then poor Dulcie.”

She leaned back in his arms as she so often did to study him, as if to read his innermost thoughts before he uttered a word.

She whispered, “You look like a little boy, Richard. One with a secret.”

He said bluntly, “They can’t help me with my eye.” He gave a great sigh, relieved to have got it out at last, fearful what she might think. “I wanted to tell you, but—”

She broke away from him and took his hand to lead him to the window. Then she thrust it wide open, oblivious to the bitter air. “Listen, darling—church bells.”

They clung to each other as the joyous peal of bells echoed up the hill from the church of Charles the Martyr, where so many Bolitho memories were marked in stone.

She said, “Kiss me. It’s midnight, my love. Christmas morn.”

Then she closed the window very carefully and faced him.

“Look at me, Richard. What if it were me? Would you cast me aside? Do you think it makes any difference, could make any? I love you, so much you’ll never know. And there is always hope. We shall keep trying. No doctor is God.”

There was a tap at the door and Ozzard stood there with his tray and some finely cut goblets. He blinked at them. “Thought it might be proper, m’lady.”

It was champagne, misted over with ice from the stream.

Bolitho thanked the little man and opened the bottle. “The only thing of any value to come out of France!”

She threw back her head and gave her bubbling laugh, something Bolitho had not heard since the pleasure gardens.

Bolitho said, “You know, I think this is the first Christmas I have been in Falmouth since I was a midshipman.”

She turned down the bed, the half-empty glass still in her other hand. Then she let her robe fall to the floor and faced him, with pride and love in her dark eyes.

“You are my man. I am your woman. Then let us celebrate.”

Bolitho bent over and kissed her breast, heard her gasp, all else forgotten. And so it would be, he thought. The new flagship, Herrick, a court-martial … even the war could wait. He touched her breast with some champagne and kissed it again.

She pulled him down. “Am I stone that I can wait so long?”

Ferguson and Allday were crossing the yard to share a last drink before the festivities in the house and on the estate commenced in earnest. Allday glanced up at a candlelit window. Ferguson, his friend since being pressed into Bolitho’s Phalarope, heard him sigh, and guessed what he was thinking. He had known his wife Grace since childhood. Allday had nobody to call his own.

He said, “Come and tell us all about it, John. We’ve heard a few rumours, but not much else.”

“I was thinking about RearAdmiral Herrick. Takes you back, don’t it, Bryan? Phalarope, the Cap’n, us an’ Mr Herrick. Come a long way. Now he’s lost his wife. Full circle, that’s what.”

Ferguson opened the door of his little house and glanced round to make sure Grace had retired at long last.

“Here, I’ll fetch some grog from the pantry.”

Allday gave a sad grin. Like them up there in that great bedroom. A sailor’s woman. “I’d relish that, matey!” All of us, holding things at bay, knowing it must end, but making the best of it.

He coughed on the rum and spluttered, “God, this is the stuff to fill the sails!”

Ferguson smiled. “Got it off a trader from Port Royal.” He saw the shadow lifting from Allday’s face, and held up his glass.

“Welcome home, old friend!”

Allday’s eyes crinkled. What Bolitho called him. “An’ here’s to those who won’t never come home.” He laughed, and the cat sleeping by the fire opened one eye with irritation. “Even the officers—well, some of ‘em!”

As Ferguson went away to open another bottle, Allday added quietly, “An’ to you both over yonder. May God protect you!”

When he looked out, their window was in darkness and only the distant boom of the sea gave him an answer. Always waiting.