BEYOND THE REEF

12. WELCOME…

LEWIS ROXBY, "the King of Cornwall," chose his moment with some care and then rose to his feet. It had been a magnificent dinner even by Roxby's expansive standards-his kitchen was said to produce the finest food in the whole county, and this would be talked about for months. It was not a large gathering by any means-twenty people in all-but it was an affair to be proud of, he thought. The best silver was on display, and all the candles had been changed throughout the meal: no smoke or untidy guttering here.

It was an event nobody had considered even remotely possible when they had all been gathered in the church at Falmouth. Now that was past, like a return from the dead.

Roxby looked along the table and saw Bolitho sitting beside Nancy, and wondered what it had all been like, truly like. Adam was halfway down the table, his face impassive, almost withdrawn as he toyed with a glass of madeira. He seemed different, perhaps because of the second gleaming epaulette on his shoulder, the coveted post-rank which had been granted even as Bolitho and Lady Catherine had returned home to a tumultuous welcome. The square, the coaching road, even the lane that led up to the Bolitho house had been packed with cheering people.

Roxby saw Lieutenant Stephen Jenour speaking quietly to his parents. The Jenours were very much in awe of the other guests, but the excellent meal and an endless procession of wines had done much to put them at their ease.

Bolitho's sister Felicity was also here, as was her son Miles who, Roxby noted, had splashed his shirt with red wine, like the victim of a duel.

A fellow magistrate and local landowner whose fortune was second only to Roxby's, Sir James Hallyburton and his lady, the port admiral from Plymouth, and a few other people who were useful business acquaintances rather than friends, completed the assembly.

Roxby cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, friends all-we are here to welcome home a man who is very special to us for many different reasons." He saw Bolitho staring along the table, not at him, but at the woman who sat at his right hand. When Bolitho had brought her into the drawing-room where Roxby had begun the reception, with its tall glass doors still open to the gardens despite the nearness of autumn, there had been many gasps of surprise. In a dark green gown, her hair piled above her ears to reveal Bolitho's gift of earrings, she was not as they had expected to see her after such an ordeal. Her neck and shoulders were bare, darkened so much by the scorching sun that she could have been from the South Americas, and her beauty seemed somehow more exotic, more defiantly unconventional. Roxby glanced down at her now, and saw the one revealing burn on her shoulder, as if she had been branded. She met his eyes, and he said quietly, "And we welcome you, Lady Catherine, and thank God for your safety. I thought this private gathering of friends would suit you far better than something grand, after all the travelling you have been forced to do since you reached Portsmouth, and then came west to us!"

She bowed her head, so that her high cheekbones caught the light from the candles, and her voice was composed as she answered, "Your kindness means so much to us."

Then she allowed her mind to drift as Roxby continued with his well-prepared speech.

It was still almost impossible to believe it was over, behind them. Separate incidents stood out more than others. Some she could not bear to think about. Perhaps most of all she recalled her shocked disbelief when the brig Larne had been sighted tacking around a necklace of reefs.

And poor Tyacke trying to welcome her, his seamen cheering as they had been pulled up from the jolly-boat; the boat that had been their salvation and prison, where men had died, and others had clung to their simple faith that Bolitho would somehow get them to safety, even when everything suggested otherwise.

Then, with exhaustion sweeping over her, she had felt her resistance give way because of Tyacke's unexpected gift: a gown, badly creased from months, perhaps years, of being crammed into a chest, which she now knew he had carried with him ever since the girl he had wanted for his own had rejected him.

He had muttered awkwardly, "You're a mite taller than she was, m'lady, but-"

She had gripped him in her arms and whispered, "It will suit very well, James Tyacke. I shall wear it with pride." And so it had been; the Portuguese gown he had bought for another woman had covered her bruised and burned body all the way to Freetown, where they had found a homeward-bound frigate about to weigh anchor.

More memories. Bolitho. Her man shaking hands with the Larne's officers, and then speaking alone with her commander, the devil with half a face. Then more cheers from the frigate's company, and weeks later, entering Portsmouth at the head of a blustery south-westerly. The ramparts of the old port's battery had been shining like silver in a sudden rain squall even as they ran down on their anchorage. Afterwards the coaches, through more cheering crowds to London where Bolitho had seen Admiral Godschale, the news preceding them on the telegraph's line of towers all the way from Portsmouth.

They had paused at the small house on the river in Chelsea, where she had at last changed out of Tyacke's gown into her own clothing. When Sophie had picked up the discarded gown and asked, "What about this, me lady?" she had answered, "Take good care of it. One day I shall return it, and remind him of his kindness." Sophie had watched her without understanding. "Apart from Richard, he is the only man who has ever made me cry."

She glanced now along the table and saw him watching her. She touched the ring on her finger, the rubies and diamonds flashing in the chandeliers' glittering light: a message to him from her. In response she saw him put his hand on his shirt where against his skin the locket was still in place, as it had been throughout those endless days and nights in the open boat.

She had accompanied him to the Admiralty, but only when he had insisted. "We are one, Kate. I am heartily sick of pretence!"

Godschale had appeared genuinely pleased to see her, and he had certainly noticed the ring, with which she considered Richard had married her in the little church at Zennor. Then while Bolitho had gone to discuss other matters, she had walked through the corridors of Admiralty to the carriage waiting for her by the steps.

She realised now that Richard's other sister Felicity was watching her with hostile eyes. An enemy, and she would always be so.

Catherine thought instead of Richard, speaking to the men in the jolly-boat, hiding his disappointment when they had sighted land only to discover it was that cruel, deserted island. She remembered his face, feature by feature, when he had rallied them together with the promise of another island, water, and survival. No, she would never forget.

She looked at Adam's thoughtful profile and wondered if he had seen Zenoria, who had left with Keen's sisters to be reunited with her husband in Hampshire.

It was strange how everyone seemed to have changed… even the house, where they had been received with wild excitement by Ferguson and the others, and not without a few tears, either. Richard, in contrast, was able to accept it; he was used to being away at sea for far longer periods. But his reunion with Adam had been very moving, and only when she herself had embraced Adam had she seen the quiet desperation in his eyes. Vulnerable. Like Tyacke, who had lost something he would never regain. She looked away as Adam turned towards her. It might be safer not to dwell upon it.

Roxby unintentionally put paid to all that.

He beamed along the table, his forehead shining from exhilaration and good port.

"My one regret is that Captain Valentine Keen and his lovely young bride are not with us tonight. I'll lay odds there were some wet eyes when they came face to face, for it seemed everything was set against them." Catherine saw Adam's fingers bunch into a tight fist as Roxby continued, "But a sailor has to have someone waiting for him when he returns from serving his King." He glanced fondly at his own two children, James and Helen. The latter had recently married a prosperous young lawyer; no risk of separation there, he thought. "So I am hoping that our gallant Captain Keen will soon know the joy-" he winked towards his wife-"and the challenge of raising a family!"

That brought some laughter and banging on the table. Catherine knew Richard was watching her still. She was probably wrong, imagining it; and Richard must never know.

Roxby became solemn. "I bid you all stand and raise a glass to Falmouth's greatest son, and to the Lady Catherine, whose beauty is matched only by her courage!"

They drank the toast and then made themselves comfortable again while the servants began to set plates of fruit compote at every place.

Bolitho sighed. He had never had much of an appetite since he had been a midshipman. He smiled at the memory. Even ship's rats fed on biscuit crumbs had sometimes been the young gentlemen's lot… He looked at Catherine, wanting to be near her, touch her: this separation and interminable hilarity reminded him of the night they had met again at English Harbour, when her treacherous husband had given a dinner such as this for him. It had been torture; and he had seen all the dangers, and had disregarded them.

He plucked at his waistcoat. He had returned home much thinner after their ordeal in the jolly-boat, but Lewis Roxby's massive feast of fish, fowl, venison and a procession of other dishes was taking care of that.

He thought over the extraordinary things Godschale had told him. He had asked what had happened to Captain Hector Gossage, Herrick's flag captain in the ill-fated convoy.

Godschale had been pouring some wine, and had paused to wag a finger at him.

"RearAdmiral Gossage, if you please. He will also have a special pension when he is finally finished with the navy… at present he's in charge of a mission seeking out timber for ship building. God knows there are few enough forests left in England suitable for the purpose." He had shaken his head. "In truth, it makes little sense."

Bolitho recalled the private discussion he had observed between the judge advocate and Sir Paul Sillitoe during Herrick's court martial. Am I so naive that I cannot recognise a bribe? They had persuaded Gossage to give evidence clearing Herrick's name, to say nothing of absolving the Admiralty of debts it would otherwise have had to pay.

Other news. When Golden Plover had been reported lost, Godschale had hastily sent a replacement to the Cape of Good Hope. Yet another face: RearAdmiral the Right Honourable Viscount Ingestre, who had been one of the three senior officers of the court martial.

Godschale had been in a jovial mood. "God's teeth, Sir Richard, it does my heart good to see you and that lovely creature who came with you. Only think, man, if you had arrived a month or so later you could have attended a splendid memorial service in your own honour, here in London!"

So Golden Plover's loss had changed everything. Keen would not now be a commodore, and any role in the Portuguese campaign was out of the question. He had told Catherine most of it, while the carriage rolled along the embankment and into the peace of Chelsea. When it suited their lordships, he would hoist his flag again over Black Prince, which was still lying at Portsmouth. His flagship's latest caprice seemed scarcely credible -could a ship so new, without memories, possess a will of her own as his old Hyperion had once done? She had left her moorings at the completion of her repairs, with a new captain in command and an admiral yet to be selected, and had immediately collided with an old two-decker being used as a stores hulk. The two-decker had heeled over and sunk with her side still above water, and Black Prince had returned to her dock for further repairs. Her new captain was now faced with a court martial. Fate. It had to be.

Godschale studied him grimly. "It'll be the Caribbean again if you accept, Sir Richard. I'd not blame you if you rejected it, after all you've endured."

Bolitho knew the admiral well enough to understand that he really meant the opposite.

Catherine had listened to him in silence, her eyes moving over the passing scene, the river and the traders, the stray dogs and the soldiers with their women by the tavern.

"I'll not argue, my love. I know what you are. I have seen and shared that other life as few could ever do." She had faced him with sudden pride. "I love thee so…"

He looked up from something Nancy was murmuring to him and heard his sister Felicity say, "To be alone in a boat with all those men, Lady Catherine. It must surely have presented certain… difficulties?"

Catherine looked at her, her eyes flashing. "We did not serve tea every day, Mrs Vincent, and the privacy we can take for granted here was scarce. But we had other things to distract us."

"It is the opinion of some that you possess great beauty, Lady Catherine. I would have thought…"

Roxby began to intervene as everyone else fell silent, but Catherine reached out and touched his arm. She said, "I think everyone here knows what you would have thought, Mrs Vincent." She saw Miles Vincent hide a snigger. "But out of respect for our hosts, and because of the love I bear the bravest, kindest man I have ever known, I will curb my tongue. But I must say, if it occurs again I shall be less than agreeable."

Felicity rose and a footman ran to hold her chair.

"I have a headache. Miles, give me your hand-"

Nancy said hotly, "She fills me with shame and disgust!"

But Bolitho was looking at the woman who had just declared her love for him, openly, without question, without shame.

Roxby said loudly into the silence, "I think some more port, eh?" He shook his head at his wife and sighed noisily with relief. "That was good of you, Lady Catherine. I did not want her to spoil this little affair for you."

She laid her gloved hand on his. "Spoil it?" She threw back her head and gave her bubbling laugh. "When you have shared an ocean with blood-crazed sharks, even that embittered woman seems none too bad!"

Much later, as young Matthew drove the carriage along the narrow lanes and the fields gleamed in bright moonlight, Catherine opened both windows to it, so that her bare shoulders shone like silver.

"I never dreamed I would see this again, nor smell the richness of the land."

"I am sorry about my sister-"

She swung round and put her fingers on his mouth. "Think only of what we did together. Even when we are separated, for so must we be, I will be with you as never before. Your ship and your men are a part of me too." Then she asked tenderly, "How is your eye now?"

Bolitho glanced out at the moon. The misty circle was still around it. "It is much better."

She leaned against him so that he could smell her perfume, her body.

"I am not convinced. But I shall write to that doctor again." She hugged him, and gasped as he bent over and kissed her bare shoulder.

"But first, love me. It has been so long. Too long…"

Matthew, half dozing on his box, because the horses knew this road like their own stable, jerked awake as he heard their voices, their laughter and then the intimate silence. It was good to have them back, he thought. Complete again.

Allday had told him how she had stood beside Sir Richard and had faced the mutineers fearlessly, until they had won the day.

Matthew grinned, and knew that had it been lighter he might have been seen to be blushing.

With a woman like that, Sir Richard could conquer the whole world.

Bodmin, the county town of Cornwall, was filled with inns and post-houses, as well as cheap lodgings for the passengers of the many coaches that spread their routes eastward to Exeter and as far afield as London, north to Barnstaple and to the great ports of the West Country like Falmouth and Penzance. It was a plain old town, set on the fringes of the forbidding moor, which had long been the haunt of footpads and highwaymen, some of whom could be seen rotting in chains at the roadside as a warning to others.

The parlour of the Royal George was low-ceilinged and pleasant, little different from most other coaching inns where travellers could take a tankard of ale or something stronger to wash down the excellent cheese and cold cuts of meat while the horses were changed for the next leg of the journey to Plymouth.

Captain Adam Bolitho declined to offer his hat and cloak to an inn servant but found a high-backed seat away from the fire, retaining his outer clothing as a kind of protection against local curiosity. In any case he was not particularly warm, despite the body heat of the other passengers and, now, a blazing log fire. He had left Falmouth early, on the first available coach, his collar turned up and the clasp of his boat-cloak fastened to conceal his rank. His fellow passengers had been civilians, merchants mostly, and those who had managed to remain awake during the journey had been discussing the new possibilities they saw in trade with Portugal and later with Spain, as the war expanded. One of them had noticed Adam's hat, which he had kept more or less discreetly beneath his cloak.

"A commander, eh, sir? One so young, too!"

Adam had said shortly, "Post captain." He did not intend to be rude, nor to give offence, but those sort of people made him sick. To them, war was profit and loss in business, not broken bones and the roar of cannon fire.

The man had persisted, "When will it be over? Can nobody destroy this Bonaparte?"

Adam had replied, "We do our best, sir. I suggest that if more gold were put into sound shipbuilding, and less into the bellies of city merchants, it would be over much sooner." The man had not troubled him again.

That particular passenger wasn't here in the parlour, and Adam guessed, thankfully, that Bodmin was the end of his journey.

One of the maids gave him a quick curtsy. "Something for the cap'n?" She was young and saucy, and no stranger to the attention of lecherous passengers, he thought.

"Do you have brandy, my girl?"

She giggled. "Nay, zur-but to you, yes." She hurried away and soon returned with a large goblet and some fresh cheese. "From the farm, zur." She watched him curiously. "Be you in command of a King's ship, zur?"

He glanced at her, the brandy hot on his tongue. "Aye. Anemone, frigate." The brandy was excellent, no doubt run ashore by members of the Trade.

She said with a smile, "Tes an honour to serve you, zur."

Adam nodded. And why not? He did not need to be in Plymouth as early as he had said. His first lieutenant would be enjoying his temporary command in his absence. The next coach would do. She recognised the uncertainty on his grave features and said, "Well, now, if you be a-passing of this way again…" She took his goblet to refill it. "My name be Sarah."

She placed the goblet beside him and hurried away as the red-faced landlord bellowed out some demands from waiting passengers. It did not take long to change horses, and for the guard and coachman to down a few pints of cider or ale. Time was money.

Adam sank back against the tall chair and let the din of voices wash over him. The dinner; Lady Catherine's sharp exchange with Aunt Felicity, who would never acknowledge him as her nephew. His uncle… His thoughts stopped there. It had been like finding a brother, after fearing him to be dead.

He was glad to be returning to Plymouth for orders: despatches for the Channel Fleet, patrols in the Bay of Biscay or around Brest to assess the enemy's strength or intentions. Anything to keep him busy, his mind too full to allow any thought of Zenoria. In the same instant he knew he could not forget her, any more than he could stop himself remembering their love-making, her lithe body naked in his arms, her mouth like fire upon his. He had known several women, but none like Zenoria. Her fear had gone, and she had returned his passion as if it were all new and unspoiled, despite what she had endured.

He glanced at the goblet. Empty, and yet he had barely noticed it. When he looked again it was refilled. Perhaps he could sleep for the rest of the journey, and pray that the torment did not return.

Now she was with her husband, offering herself out of duty, out of guilt, but not out of love. It made him sick with jealousy even to think of them together. Keen touching her, brushing away her shyness, and possessing her as was his right.

He could not hate Valentine Keen. He had, in fact, always liked him, and knew that Keen felt as deeply towards his uncle as Adam himself did. Brave, fair, a decent man whom any woman would be proud to love. But not Zenoria. Adam sipped the brandy more carefully. He must be doubly careful in everything he did and said. If he were not, Valentine Keen would become a rival, an enemy.

I have no right. It is not merely a matter of honour, it is also the name of my family.

Horses clattered in the yard, and more voices announced the arrival of another coach; it would be the one that had left Falmouth this morning too, but which had travelled by way of Truro and outlying villages. The landlord's face split into a fixed grin. "Mornin', gentlemen! What'll it be?" The girl named Sarah was there too, running her eye over the incoming faces.

Adam ignored them. What if he and Zenoria were brought together again? And if he persisted in avoiding her, would that not make it even more obvious? How would she behave? Submit, or tell her husband what had happened? That was unlikely. Better so, for all their sakes.

He would go outside and let the air clear his head until the coach was ready to proceed. He reached for his hat and then his hand poised, motionless, as he heard someone mention the name "Bolitho."

Two men were standing by the fire, one a farmer by the look of his clothing-sturdy boots and heavy riding gloves. The other was plump and well-dressed, probably a merchant on his way to Exeter.

The latter was saying, "Such a commotion while I was staying in Falmouth-I was glad not to miss it. All the town turned out when Sir Richard Bolitho came back. I never knew that any man could inspire such affection."

"I was there too. Often go for the market sales. Better 'n some, as good as most." He tilted his tankard and then said, "The Bolitho family's famous thereabouts-or notorious, should I say?"

"Are they, by God? I've read something of their exploits in the Gazette, but nothing…"

His companion laughed. "Rules for some, but not for t'others, that's what I say!" Their coach must have stopped at other inns longer than the Royal George. His voice was loud and slurred.

He continued, as if addressing the whole room. "Sleeping with another man's wife, an' talk of rape an' worse. Well, you know what they say about rape, my friend-there's usually two sides to it!"

Adam could feel the blood pounding in his brain, the man's voice probing his mind like a hot knife. Who was he talking about? Catherine? Zenoria? Or was he even hinting about Adam's own father, and his mother who had lived like a whore to raise the son Hugh Bolitho had not known about until it was too late?

He stood up and heard the girl ask, "Be you a-goin', zur?"

"Directly-er, Sarah." She was staring at him, unsure what was happening. He added, "A tankard, if you please. A large one." She brought it, mystified, as Adam moved out of the shadows and to a hatch which opened on to the inn kitchen. A face peered out at him. "Zur?"

"Fill this with the filthiest scummy liquid you have." He pointed at a large tub where a young girl was rinsing out the bedroom chamber pots. "That will do quite nicely."

The man still gaped at him. "Oi don't understand 'ee, zur…" He hesitated, and then something in Adam's face made him hurry away to the tub. Adam took the tankard and carried it towards the fire.

The landlord, polishing a jug, called out, "Plymouth Flier be ready to board, gentlemen!"

But nobody moved as Adam said, "I gather you were speaking of the Bolitho family in Falmouth." His voice was very quiet and yet, in the silent parlour, it was like a clap of thunder.

"And what if I was?" The man swung on him. "Oh, I see you're a gallant naval gentleman-I would expect the likes of you to disagree!"

Adam said, "Sir Richard Bolitho is a fine officer-a gentleman in the truest sense, which obviously you would never understand."

He saw the bluster begin to fail.

"Now, just a minute-I've had enough of this!"

The landlord called, "I'll have no trouble here, gentlemen!"

Adam did not drop his gaze from the other man. "No, landlord, not here. I am offering a drink to this loud-mouthed oaf."

It took him off guard. "Drink?"

Adam said gently, "Yes. It is piss, like the foulness of your mouth!" He flung it into his face and tossed the tankard to one side. While the other man spluttered and choked he threw back his cloak and said, "May I introduce myself? Bolitho. Captain Adam Bolitho."

The man stared at him wildly. "I'll break your back, damn your bloody arrogance!"

"How much more must I insult you?" Adam struck him hard in the mouth, and said, "Swords or pistols, sir? The choice is here and now, before the next coach."

The landlord said urgently, "You take it back, Seth. The young cap'n 'ere d'have a reputation."

The man seemed to shrink. "I didn't know. It was just talk, y'see!"

"It nearly cost you your wretched life." He glanced at the sweating landlord. "I beg your pardon for all this. I will make it worth your while." There were gasps and a sudden, hurried grating of chairs as he produced a pistol and examined it, giving himself time. He knew he would have killed him. It was always there-lies about his family, several attempts to tarnish their honour, while the liars hid themselves in secret cowardice.

The man was practically in tears. "Please, Captain-I'd had too much to drink!"

Adam ignored him and turned towards a solitary brass candlestick where the flame was always kept burning for the tapers of customers wishing to light their pipes.

The crash of the shot brought shouts of alarm and screams from the kitchen. The flame had gone, but the candle was still intact. Before thrusting the pistol beneath his coat he asked quietly, "Who told you these things?"

A coach guard stood in the doorway, a blunderbuss in his hands, but even he fell back when he saw the gleaming epaulettes of a naval captain.

The man hung his head. "Some young blade, sir. I should've guessed he were a liar. But he said he was connected with the family."

Adam knew instantly. "Named Miles Vincent? Yes?"

The man nodded unhappily. "In the market, it were."

"Well. We shall just have to see, won't we?" He walked from the silent parlour and paused only to put some coins in the landlord's fist. "Forgive me."

The landlord counted it at a glance: it was a large amount. The ball had smashed into the wood panelling. He smiled. He would leave it there, and perhaps put a little plate above it to tell its story for the benefit of customers.

The girl was waiting beside the coach, while passengers bustled past averting their faces, in case they too provoked some violence.

Adam took out a gold coin and said, "Live your life, Sarah. And don't sell yourself cheap." He slipped the coin between her breasts. "For a place that sells no brandy, you certainly know how to fire a man's spirits!"

The coach was long out of sight and its horn almost lost in distance as it approached the narrow bridge and the road for Liskeard before anyone spoke in the inn parlour, where the pistol smoke hung near the low ceiling like some evil spirit.

The man protested, "How was I to know?" But nobody would look at him.

Then the landlord said, "By God, Seth, it was nearly your last hour!"

The girl Sarah plucked the coin from her bodice and gazed at it intently, remembering the touch of his fingers, the easy way he had addressed her. She had never been spoken to like that before. She would never forget. She carefully replaced the coin, and when she stared down the empty road her eyes were filled with tears.

"God keep you safe, young cap'n!"

The landlord ambled from the inn door and put his arm around her shoulders. "I knows, my dear. There's not many d' think much o' they hereabouts, and what they risk every time they do leave harbour." He gave her a squeeze. "I'd not care to fall afoul o' that fiery young master!"

Aboard the Plymouth Flier Adam stared out of the dusty window at the passing countryside. Whenever he glanced at his travelling companions they were all either asleep or pretending to be. But sleep was denied him, and in the window's reflection he seemed to see her face. The girl with the long, beautiful hair: the girl with moonlit eyes, as his uncle had once called her.

He had been a fool back there at the Royal George. Post-captain or not, he would have been ruined if he had killed the other man in a duel. It would have meant disgrace for his uncle yet again. Was it always to be so?

… Miles Vincent. Yes, it would be. Perhaps his mother had put him up to it. Adam doubted it: the motive was too obvious. Hate, envy, revenge… his fingers tightened around his sword and he saw a flicker of apprehension cross the face of the man opposite him.

He thought suddenly of his father. He had heard from an old sailing-master who had known Hugh that he had been violent and quick-tempered, ready to call any one out if the mood took him: the memory of him still hung over the old house at Falmouth like a storm-cloud. I will not make the mistake of following in his wake.

Watery sunlight played across the sea for the first time in this journey.

He thought of his Anemone, daughter of the wind. She would be his only love.

Bryan Ferguson sat at the kitchen table of his cottage and surveyed his friend, who was standing by the window. He wanted to smile, but knew it was far too important a moment for amusement.

Allday plucked at his best jacket, the one with the gilt buttons, which Bolitho had given him to mark him as his personal coxswain. Nankeen breeches and buckled shoes: he was every inch the landsman's idea of the Jack Tar. But he seemed troubled, his deeply-sunburned features creased with uncertainty.

"Lucky I didn't lose this on that damned Golden Plover." He tried to grin. "Must have known there was something wrong with that little pot o' paint!"

Ferguson said, "Look, John, just go and see the lady. If you don't, others will. She'll be a rare catch if she gets the Stag on its feet again."

Allday said heavily, "An' what have I got to offer? Who wants a sailor? I reckon she'd have had a bellyful o' that after losing her man in Hyperion."

Ferguson said nothing. It would either blow over, or this time it would be in earnest. Either way, it was so good to have Allday back again. He marvelled at the fact that Grace had never lost faith; she had earnestly believed that they would be saved.

Allday was still talking himself out of it.

"I've no money, just a bit put by, nothing for the likes of her…"

Ozzard came through the door. "You'd better make up your mind, matey. Young Matthew's brought the cart round to drive you to Fallowfield."

Allday peered at the looking glass on the kitchen wall and groaned. "I don't know. I'll make a fool of myself."

Ferguson made up his mind. "I'll tell you something, John. When you and Sir Richard were said to be lost, I went over to the Stag."

Allday exclaimed, "You didn't say nothing, for God's sake?"

"No. Just had a stoup of ale." He prolonged it. "Very good it was too, for a small inn."

Allday glared at him. "Well, did you?"

Ferguson shook his head. "But I did see her. Done wonders for the place."

Allday waited, knowing there was something else.

Ferguson said quietly, "I'll tell you another thing. She came all the way into town just to be at the memorial service." He grinned, the relief still evident on his face. "The one you missed!"

Allday picked up his hat. "I'll go then."

Ferguson punched his massive arm. "Hell, John, you sound as if you're facing a broadside!"

Ozzard said, "Her ladyship is coming."

Ferguson hurried to the door. "She'll want to see the books. 'Tis a fair tonic to have her here again."

Ozzard waited for him to bustle away and then, secretively, laid a leather bag on the table. "Your half. Sounds as if it might come in useful."

Allday opened the string and stared with disbelief at the glittering gold inside.

Ozzard said scornfully, "You didn't think I'd throw good gold to the sharks, did you? I sometimes wonder about you, I do indeed." He relented. "Lead pellets made just as much of a splash, or so I thought at the time."

Allday looked at him gravely. "Anything I can ever do for you-but you knows that, don't you, Tom?"

Ferguson came back, puzzled. "Lady Catherine wasn't there."

Ozzard shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Probably changed her mind. Women do, you know."

Allday walked out into the pale sunlight and climbed into the little cart, the one used for collecting wine or fresh fish from the harbour. Young Matthew, too, took particular notice of Allday's smart appearance, but like Ferguson he decided not to risk making any sort of joke.

When they reached the little inn, with the Helford River showing itself beyond the trees, Matthew said, "I'll be back for you later." He looked at him fondly, remembering what they had once seen and done together, the "other life" Lady Catherine had once wanted to learn about, which she had now so bravely shared.

"I've never seen you like this afore, John."

Allday climbed down. "Hope you never do again." He strode towards the inn and heard the cart clatter away before he could change his mind.

It was cool inside the door, a smell of freshness, the simple furniture scrubbed and decorated with wild flowers. There was a lively fire in the grate, and he guessed it would be getting cold earlier in the evenings so close to the river and the sea.

He tilted his head like an old dog as he caught the aroma of newly baked bread and something cooking in a pot.

At that moment she came through a low door and stopped dead when she saw him. With one hand she tried to wipe a smudge of flour from her cheek, while with the other she swept a loose lock of hair from her eyes.

"Oh, Mister Allday! I thought it was the man with the eggs! Seeing me like this-I must look an awful sight!"

He crossed the room carefully as if he were treading on something delicate. Then he put down his parcel on a serving table. "I brought you a present, Mrs Polin. I hope you like it."

She unwrapped it slowly, and all the while he was able to watch her. An awful sight. She was the dearest woman he had ever laid eyes on.

Without looking up she said shyly, "My name's Unis." Then with a gasp of surprise she lifted out the model ship on which Allday had been working before leaving for the Cape of Good Hope.

He said nothing; but somehow she knew it was the old Hyperion.

"Is it really for me?" She stared at him, her eyes shining.

Then she reached out and took one big hand in both of hers.

"Thank you, John Allday." Then she smiled at him. "Welcome home."