Heart of Oak

11. Refuge

George Tolan eased his back against the hard seat and felt the cart swaying around a bend in the lane, like a jolly-boat in a lively sea. Every muscle ached; he had given up counting the days and the miles. And the doubts.

He glanced sideways at the driver. His name was Dick, and he had described himself as a carter. He must have overheard him asking directions to the Bolitho house when he had been left by the coach at the Spaniards Inn.

Friendly enough. "I'm goin "that way m'self. Tes some far to walk with that great bag!"

Captain Bolitho might have been making a gesture, nothing more, no matter what his coxswain had insisted. They would both be at sea now in any case. And this was Cornwall, not London or some familiar port. Even the air was different: clean, indefinably tinged with the sea. He watched the passing colours in the hedgerows, foxglove, vetch, campion; the carter named them for him. Then, "You'll be a stranger in these parts? "Tolan had felt the warning. It had never left him, despite moments when he had begun to believe that he was safe. Out of reach.

He thought of Sir Graham Bethune, the vice-admiral he had served from his time as captain. Servant, aide, unofficial bodyguard: as close as any one could hope to be, while he had still been needed.

"Workin "up at the old house, then?"

Tolan said, "I think so, yes."

He nodded. "Be seem "Mister Yovell, I s'pect. Nice old stick, but sharp as a tack, so watch out! "He laughed and flicked the reins. "Don't tell he I said so. I does a good bit o "trade at the Bolitho house!"

Tolan loosened his coat. The sun was warmer than he had expected, or is it me? They might slam the door in his face, of course, as if he were some vagrant. Bolitho would have forgotten all about their last meeting, although the flag lieutenant, Troubridge, had done his best, providing Tolan with a warrant for travel by coach as far as Plymouth, and even for the final leg of the journey as an outsider with a few other passengers, swooping along narrow roads with branches almost brushing their heads.

He saw the sea again, dark blue, and hard in the reflected glare, a few whitecaps weaving a pattern closer to the land.

Like claw marks.

There was a small white-painted cottage now, a man with a long clay pipe standing to wave as the cart clattered past.

"Coastguard. "The carter pointed to a cluster of trees, dark green against the road and the sea beyond. Bent, but surviving the worst this storm-lashed coast could offer.

Tolan saw the house. Journey's end. He had learned the hard way: hope had to be proved. And it was dangerous.

He relaxed the hand which had been gripping his knee. Hope could be fatal…

Past some gates and turning now into another lane. People, a boy leading an unsaddled horse across cobbles. Some one polishing a smart landau, turning without curiosity at the sound of the cart.

Stables, and some kind of tower, a weathervane turning to flash in the sunlight. Doves taking flight as the wheels braked to a halt beside a water trough.

Dick the carter murmured, "Watch this un, my son. "But he smiled and raised his battered hat. "Good day to 'ee, Miss Bolitho!"

Tolan caught a brief glimpse of the girl as she strode toward the house, in riding habit, a crop swinging from her hand. She ignored the greeting.

"I pity the poor devil who tries to make his way with she!"

Tolan jumped down to the cobbles and reached into his coat pocket. The carter shook his head.

"Nay, tes my pleasure, this time. "He winked. "We'll meet again!"

Tolan picked up his bag. One step at a time. No stupid mistakes. Like the girl who had walked past. He had not even seen her face, but he had been reminded of his sister. Where was she now; had she married? Would she think of me without shame? Something like panic gripped him for a moment. Had he expected to stay safe, living a lie forever? Some one touched his arm. "Nobody looking after you? "and laughed. "Sorry to make you jump!"

Tolan faced him, calm again, on guard. "Mr. Yovell?"

"I'll take you to him. "Over his shoulder, "Come a long way, have you?"

Tolan followed him; the carter was already talking to somebody else, but raised his hat casually as he passed.

He replied, "Far enough, "but he thought it went unheard.

His guide said, "There "tis. He'll be in the office. "He smiled and went back into the yard.

Courteous. No questions. So far, just as Luke Jago had described. He swung round as he reached for the door handle and almost collided with a young, fair woman wearing an apron. She stared at him, startled.

"I'm sorryЦ I didn't knowЦ"

Upset, angry; it went deeper than that.

Tolan reached inside his coat, making no sudden movement.

"I was told to see Mr. Yovell. "He saw her breathing slow, one hand thrust some hair from her forehead. "I'm George Tolan. "There had been voices beyond the door. Now there was silence. "From London."

Her eyes were still fixed on his face. He had learned a great deal about people and their reactions during the time he had been serving Bethune. You didn't last long if you were too slow to measure up: his own words on more than one occasion.

And this girl was…

She bent her head slightly, looking away at last.

"I b'lieve I heard about it, zur."

He said quietly, "George" will suit."

She gestured to the door. "He'm in there, "and seemed to tense as the voices resumed. "I have to go. My place is in the house. "She turned, but something made her say over her shoulder, perhaps out of mere politeness, "Jenna is my name."

The boy who had been leading the horse was coming back, and she took the opportunity to hurry away.

Tolan rapped on the door and pushed it open.

Daniel Yovell was standing by a desk, facing him as he stepped into the office. Even this seemed familiar, because of Jago's descriptions: the shelves and ledgers, and a few framed prints and maps on the wall, one awry because the door had been slammed shut once too often. Even the stove, unlit now, where Jago had shared a wet from time to time with this neatly dressed, corpulent figure.

Yovell held out his hand.

"Take a seat. You are George Tolan, if I am not mistaken."

He plucked a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles from his forehead and laid them on the desk. "We had word you would be arriving. "He permitted himself a slight smile. "Eventually."

Tolan touched his coat again.

"I have a letter."

"Later. Captain Adam gave us all the details. The rest we can deal with in our own good time. "He moved a file of papers as if to cover something, a Bible or prayer book, Tolan thought.

Strangely, that fitted, too.

Yovell was saying, "We function here not unlike a ship of the line. Requiring loyalty, honesty, and no fear of hard work.

"How does that suit you?"

Tolan saw his irritation as another door banged, and he recognized the second voice he had heard. A tall man, built like a prizefighter, about his own age. What Jago would call full of himself.

Yovell said, without warmth, "Leaving, are you? "and did not wait for an answer. "This is Mr. Tolan, who is staying with us a while. Mr., ah, Flinders is steward of the adjoining estate, Roxby's. Lady Roxby is Captain Bolitho's aunt, as you will discover."

Tolan could feel the eyes, and the questions.

Yovell added smoothly, "Mr. Tolan was an aide to Vice Admiral Sir Graham Bethune."

"An' you'll know some good stories to tell, I expect?"

Flinders turned toward the door, "I shall send…" He seemed to be listening to something, and changed it to, "I shall bring the estimates for those repairs, and we can fix a price. "He looked directly at Tolan this time. "There was a deal of talk about your Sir Graham a while back. Had a real eye for the ladies, I hear."

"An' not just an eye, neither! "The door slammed behind him.

Daniel Yovell replaced his spectacles and studied the newcomer. What next? Nothing was ever straightforward.

But he said, "I believe you were speaking to our Jenna just now. A local girl, very respectable. Mrs. Ferguson's right hand these days."

Tolan said nothing, recalling the carter's amiable warning. Sharp as a tack, so watch out! He was right.

So it had been Flinders who had upset the girl. Used to getting his own way. A bully, and possibly a lecher. Nothing new, but not to be ignored.

"I shall take you over to the house and introduce you to Mrs. Ferguson. She'll be glad of some help, I daresay. "He did not elaborate. "Then I shall find you a corner to call your own."

Again that calm, owlish gaze. "While you're with us."

Tolan picked up his bag and followed him into the yard.

He felt the sun on his face and breathed the warm air with an odd sense of relief. Captain Bolitho had kept his word.

One of the stable hands looked over and gave him a grin. He quickened his pace. Yovell was holding open a door for him.

So cool and still after the noise of the stable yard. And right or wrong, it was his decision. There was no turning back.

Lowenna looked down at the portmanteau open on the floor, and touched the gown carefully folded on the top. She had worn it on their last day together.

It was too late now. She had said she would go.

She walked to the window and stared out across the terrace, toward the sea beyond. The letter had been brought by messenger from Mark Fellowes, Sir Gregory Montagu's closest friend. Two days in London, three at the most. The will had been settled; there were more papers to sign. Fellowes would take care of everything, even a carriage and accommodation in both directions. He was a good man, and a friend still, despite their mutual loss.

She looked around the room. Impersonal, perhaps deliberately so. She was still a visitor here, while work was being done on the roof of the Roxby house where she was officially in residence. As Nancy had said, "For appearance's sake. Give all the busy tongues something else to wag about! "She felt herself smile.

When Adam came home. But when would that be? How long before…

Nancy was in Bodmin, on family business. She had asked her advice on the proposed trip to London.

"Better to do it yourself, my dear, rather than involve yet another lawyer looking to line his purse!"

It had made sense. But that was then.

There was a light tap at the door.

"Just looking to see if you needs any help?"

It was Grace Ferguson's girl. Friendly, feminine, efficient, and always ready to offer a hand or pass the time of day when she felt it was welcome.

"Have you been to London, Jenna?"

She clapped her hands together. "Never been out of CornwallЦ Lowenna. "She hesitated. "We'm surely going to miss you."

"I shall be back before you know it. Who was that I saw you talking to earlier? I didn't see him leave."

Jenna reached out to adjust a curtain.

"A man called Tolan. Mr. Yovell knew all about him. "She did not look at her. "Served with Captain Adam and an admiral."

Lowenna smiled. Adam had told her about Tolan, a loyal servant to Bethune, and discarded without a thought. Like the flotsam on the beach where she sometimes walked.

"What was he like? Did he seem a nice person?"

"I s'pose."

Lowenna crossed to the window again, touching the girl's arm gently. She should not have asked. Jenna had been sent out to work when she was very young. Walking home late one night, she had been raped by a soldier from the local garrison, although no one was ever charged or convicted. She had borne a child, which had lived only a few days.

It might have been me. And the brutal aftermath, the rumours, the whispers that would never die. There's no smoke without fire.

But now she was here, safe and cared for.

Like me.

"If you needs me…" The door closed softly.

Lowenna stared out at the sea, at a tiny sliver of sail unmoving on the shimmering water. Probably a fisherman coming in to port to sell his catch. Like that last time: the idlers on the waterfront watching the comings and goings of every vessel. Critical, but wistful too.

The only life they knew. Now only memories remained.

She thought of Jenna, and the new arrival, Tolan. Making new lives, starting again. They were to be envied.

She remembered Adam's face, his pleasure when she had recognized the vessel leaving Falmouth on that last day.

Would he recall that? want to belong, to share it and play a part, not just be a privileged possession. A rose in his lapel…

She thought of Nancy again: the daughter, sister, aunt of naval officers, and descended from generations of others, she understood better than many the iron grip of ships and the sea on those who had served and been rejected by them. Like Rear Admiral Thomas Herrick. Herrick would be such a good partner for the widowed Nancy, but pride or something fiercer stood in his way. And John Allday, Sir Richard's old coxswain, who had held him in his arms as he had died, and who was now the popular landlord of The Old Hyperion inn over at Fallowfield: he had in spirit never left that same deck.

Dan Yovell, Bryan Ferguson, so many others: no wonder this old grey house held such strength.

She stared at the tiny sail again. It had barely moved.

Tomorrow, then. She was afraid and she was determined.

She said aloud, "Walk with me."

No longer alone.

Thomas Herrick climbed down from the carriage and peered around, recovering his bearings, aware that Young Matthew had already left his box and was murmuring something to his horses. Careful to display no undue concern for his passenger, but always ready, in case he was needed.

He would never forget that other visit, the first time they had seen him with the empty sleeve, and his own outburst. "I'm not a cripple, for God's sake! "And his instant apology, ashamed that he had turned on a friend who could not answer back.

His companion on this short journey, James Roxby, had already descended and was speaking with two men on the drive before the imposing house. As old or even older than the one he had just left, but sprawling and a little shabby, and built on several levels, enlarged as required over the years. It must have seen many changes, and dominated an estate which was one of the largest in this part of the county.

Herrick recognized one of the men. Flinders had been steward of the estate for a good many years. Tough and competent: he would have needed to be, to satisfy his late master, Sir Lewis Roxby. "The King of Cornwall', as people still called him.

He saw them turn, and James Roxby smiled.

"This is Henry Grimes. "He waved his hand vaguely. "He is putting the old house to rights for us."

Herrick had already noticed the gaping holes in one of the many rooftops, with workmen, stripped to the waist, crawling through them. All very industrious, and well aware of them.

Like hands working ship, he thought, when an officer made an unexpected appearance on deck.

"This is Rear-Admiral Herrick, a visitor. "He did not introduce Flinders.

Grimes was small and wiry, with grey hair pulled back in a tight, old-fashioned queue. Keen, brilliant eyes, which Herrick sensed missed nothing. He felt the familiar pain in his shoulder and realized he had straightened his back, out of habit, at the mention of his rank.

Grimes smiled broadly. "Glad to know you, sir. "He did not offer his hand. "I've been trying to explain about timber to my peopleЦ like talking to blocks of wood these days, if you'll pardon the expression! But you'll understand what I mean.

When I first started work in a shipyard, timber was of the finest quality, from the Growth of England, they always insisted. "He shook his head. "The way things are going, there won't be an oak left standing in the country!"

"How have you managed here? "Roxby sounded impatient, perhaps thinking of the final bill.

Herrick turned to watch as a young woman appeared by a builders "shack carrying a tray of glasses and mugs, and laughing as some of the men stopped work and gathered around her.

Grimes was saying, "They're breaking up an old two-decker down at the yard. Her old timbers are still rock-solid, despite her thirty-odd years."

Herrick said nothing, and did not ask the ship's name, afraid he would know her, and remember her as she had been.

What did I expect? Like that last visit to Plymouth: this time he had seen the admiral himself. He could hardly recall the preliminaries, and, in fairness, the admiral had not enjoyed it either.

He had ended it by saying, "You will shortly be receiving a formal appreciation from their lordships, and I feel certain that if your services are ever required in the future…"

Like hearing the door slam in his face, for the last time.

He had wanted to tell Nancy about it. But how could he? Grimes was saying, "Ships today are mostly fir-built, Baltic pine and the like. On active service they'll last eight, ten years at the most."

Some one called him away, and Roxby remarked, "Talks too much, but he knows his trade. "He lowered his voice. "This place is far too big. My late father was always too busy to give it the proper attention, and I want my mother to be free to enjoy her life, not be tied to the estate and the constant demands of farmers and tenants."

Herrick waited. He knew James Roxby was well respected in London; he had a fine mind and was ambitious, where many would be content.

But this was her life. Could he not understand? Grimes the builder was back, with sawdust in his hair.

"When we've cleared the old ballroom, we can give you a better idea. "Then, "You have another visitor."

Herrick thought he sounded relieved.

Flinders spoke for the first time. "Came lookin "for workЦ Dan Yoveil's dealin "with him. AnotherЦ "He bit it back, and Herrick saw him avert his eyes. Another lame duck, he had been about to say.

He watched the new arrival as he spoke to Young Matthew, before striding toward them.

Roxby said, "Fellow's on footЦ must've walked all the way from the house!"

Flinders scowled as two of the workmen pulled the servant girl's apron strings and made her protest, still laughing with them.

"Used to be a marine, served with Captain Adam, I heard."

Tolan crossed the last few yards, his eyes moving between them and settling on Roxby.

He held out a sealed envelope, then glanced at Herrick and knuckled his forehead. "Sir!"

Roxby said curtly, "Some one is coming to see me tomorrow, "folding the envelope and jamming it into his pocket. He nodded to Tolan. "Thank you for that. Speak to them over there, and tell them to give you refreshment."

Flinders said, "I'll deal with him, sir, "but stopped as Grimes the builder said to Tolan, "A moment. "Smiling, but quizzical.

"Don't I know you?"

Tolan faced him without expression. "Where did you serve, sir?"

Grimes threw back his head and laughed. "I was wrong! The only ships I served were the ones I helped to build. A long, long time ago!"

Roxby tugged out his watch.

"Must be getting back. My mother will return this evening, before it gets dark on the roads. We can tell her what we've been doing. "He glanced around, but he and Herrick were alone. "I consider it important. I believe she will, too."

Herrick walked beside him to the carriage. Even now Roxby was opening a sheaf of papers and frowning over the figures.

Tomorrow he might be the surgeon again, but at this moment, Nancy would recognize her husband. The King of Cornwall.

Roxby looked up at Young Matthew.

"Shall we wait for the fellow who brought the message?"

"Already gone, sir. Cut across the fields, I reckon."

Herrick looked in that direction. So near the sea, but you could not catch a glimpse of it from here. He reached up to pull himself into the vehicle and thought he saw Young Matthew smile.

As the carriage rolled out on to the road, it halted for a herd of cows meandering toward a wide gate, and a red-haired youth turned to raise his stick like a salute; he had recognized the crest on the door. Herrick ran his hand along the polished sill. Richard would have used this vehicle whenever he came home from sea. And that last time, when he had left here to hoist his flag above Frobisher.

He could see his face, the smile. Sometimes he imagined the resemblance in Nancy, sometimes in Adam, something in the bone structure, or a gesture, or in the voice.

The carriage was slowing, Young Matthew calling to the horses as they topped the brow of a hill. Herrick leaned forward. Here was the sea again, a blue that recalled the MediterraneanWhat would Richard say if he knew his true feelings for his sister? He looked over at Roxby, but he was already immersed in another document.

That last visit to Plymouth, and the admiral's condolences, were blurring, out of focus. Like some distant memory. Like those times with Richard.

Ahead lay not defeat, but a challenge.

He smiled to himself. So let's be about it!

"As you can see, my dear, the house is much as Gregory left it."

Mark Fellowes paused at a bend in the grand staircase and waited for her to join him.

Lowenna looked down at the entrance hall, with its open door. The clatter of carriage wheels coming from the street seemed very loud in the silence. His study, its door half open.

A pale rectangle on one wall where one of his favourite paintings had hung.

It was strange to hear him named without his title. But Mark Fellowes had been his friend since… It was lost in shadows.

But the house was not as he had left it. She ran her fingers along the carved banister. It was dead.

She followed him across the broad landing. Quieter now.

Hard to believe that this was one of the busiest streets in London.

She was surprised that she was not tired after two days on the road, with only brief halts for rest and refreshment. True to his promise, Fellowes had ensured that she was watched over all the way by a soft-spoken agent engaged by the lawyers dealing with Montagu's affairs.

Her escort had not been so quietly spoken on one occasion.

They had stopped at an inn for the night, and somebody had called after her. She was not even sure what had been said. He might only have been the worse for drink. But in an instant her unassuming escort had the offender pressed against a wall, and she had heard the level voice take on a very different tone. The other man had fled.

When she had thanked him, he had merely shrugged. "Goes with the contract, miss."

Then a day with the lawyers. Papers to be signed, and it had been unsettling to see his familiar signature. Discreet enough, but she had seen the curious stares from the younger members of the staff and known they were trying to guess the nature of her relationship with Montagu.

She still found it hard to accept that he should have considered her in such a private matter, when he had already given her so much. Her very life had been his gift.

Even Mark Fellowes, who was used to more unconventional associates, had been unable to hide his surprise.

"Five hundred pounds! "He had beamed with genuine pleasure. "And the harp. "It was a replacement for the one which had been damaged beyond repair. She wondered if he remembered her last visit, when she had refused to pose with it.

She lifted her chin. She would keep her promise. Then back to Falmouth.

It was only a promise, not a debt.

And she would have something to contribute to their future.

Adam would understand. So unalike, and yet he and Sir Gregory had become fast friends. Together they had created Andromeda…

More stairs, completely quiet now. The whole house standing between the real world and Montagu's creation.

Fellowes said, "John Fielding is an artist of renown. I believe you have worked with him, and Gregory, of course."

She nodded. He seemed unsure, even nervous. It was not like him. Most people would think him easy-going, untroubled. An artist in his own right, he came from a wealthy family, which must have helped in this precarious profession.

He said, "He has brought his patron, "he cleared his throat, "his client, with him. He already owns two or three of your studies."

She looked at the big double doors, and remembered the long, bare room beyond, windows on one side, a walled garden below. Recalling his patience, his kindness. And his moments of frustration and anger, throwing brushes and palette in every direction. "It does not speak to me, my girl! "But it never lasted very long.

She halted. There were voices, one of them a woman's.

"Do I know him?"

He was looking at a clock, which had stopped.

"A name in the City, not our world. Meyrick. Lord Meyrick."

It meant nothing. She touched her gown, testing herself.

Tomorrow it would be behind her.

"I think we should go in. "He took her arm. "Together."

The voices were silent now, but she did not notice them, only the long, littered table with its chalks and crayon, pads that still bore Montagu's notes and preparatory scribbles. The canvas, propped where it held the light without reflection. A plain stool, and the harp.

Mark Fellowes was greeting the artist, John Fielding, older than she remembered, but the same almost casual stance, which she had soon learned was to put his subjects at their ease. No mean feat in some of the studios to which Sir Gregory had conducted her. He must have had great faith in her, when she had none.

Lord Meyrick was not what she expected. Tall, with an athlete's body in expensively cut clothes. A bony, hawk-like face. A countryman, perhaps once a soldier.

"With all respect to the late Sir Gregory Montagu, his paintings do not do you justice. "His voice was low, almost soft. Unlike the hand that took hers and brushed it against his lips.

Lowenna saw the woman who had accompanied him, lounging in one of the tall gilt chairs. Not comfortable enough to encourage sightseers, Montagu had said dryly.

She turned her attention to the canvas. Her own face, gazing out at her, the rest roughly sketched from the painter's imagination. It gave her time. The woman was hardly what she had expected, either, even as a casual companion.

Meyrick was saying, "I have another fine likeness of you, one of his most explicit, I believe. "The Rape of Helen". "He laughed. "I felt only envy!"

She said, "But there was nothing that…"

Mark Fellowes moved the harp slightly.

"While the light is so favourable, I think we should begin."

Meyrick gave a slight bow.

"Please do. I am all attention. "To the woman he said, "Be patient. You need not have come here."

John Fielding was already stooping over the table, selecting and discarding brushes.

"You will recall where everything is kept, Lowenna."

Fellowes called, "I shall be back in a moment, "and the doors clicked shut.

Lowenna walked behind the screen and looked from the window to the sheltered garden below. All green now, with few flowers, overgrown and uncared for. Like the house. The last time she had stood behind this lovely old Oriental screen, all the leaves had been brown, or scattering in the wind.

She saw the smock draped over a bench and held it to her face. The same one. Even the dried paint where she had wiped her fingers…

She was conscious of urgency, and a determination not to reveal it. The voices were speaking again, but she ignored them, shut them out. It was done.

Her gown folded over the bench, her reticule beside it. She saw herself reflected in the window. The loose smock, the feet bare on the floorboards.

She walked deliberately into the studio, and felt nothing.

Like being guided.

When Fielding spoke, and touched her shoulder, it could have been Montagu.

She was sitting on the stool, and if she reached out she would feel the harpstrings. Like that day when Adam had ridden away, after seeing her. Perhaps wanting her even then. She must not think, where was he now? Shall I always be asking, hoping?

"The hair should be free, looser. You can change it, can't you?"

The soft hands were on her neck, and she could feel the weight of her unbound hair dragging at the smock as it slipped from her shoulders.

"Like this. "She heard the woman say something, but the hands remained.

Another voice. "If you're certain, my lord?"

"Very, very certain."

She could feel his breath on her neck where the hair had been pulled aside, then the smock had fallen and she felt his fingers around her breast. She was on her feet, clutching the robe, attempting to cover herself. A laugh, cracking into a gasp and a curse of pain, and the hand was suddenly gone.

Like madness. Or like being an onlooker.

Mark Fellowes bursting through the double doors, a tray perhaps with glasses splintering on the floor. And Meyrick's hand pressed to his eye, reeling from the blow she could still feel burning through her arm, as if she herself had been struck.

Meyrick was shouting, "You bitch! I should have known! " His woman was pulling at him, calling out, laughing or sobbing, it was impossible to tell. "You can whistle for your bloody money after this!"

Fielding said nothing, standing with one arm across the canvas, as if to protect it.

Mark Fellowes was staring at the doors as they banged together.

"If I had thought for an instantЦ"

She shook her head. Later, every detail would be clear. She walked to the windows again and stared out at the garden, then at her own reflection. It had to be now, or she might break.

"Finish the painting. For me. You will be paid."

She turned with that new, cold deliberation and returned to the stool and the harp, drew her fingers across the strings, heard the sweet notes in the utter silence. She knew the others were watching her as if unable to move.

She arched her shoulders and felt the smock fall around her ankles.

No fear. His final gift.