BEYOND THE REEF

1. BAND OF BROTHERS

THE NORMALLY sheltered waters of Portsmouth Harbour seemed to cringe under the intensity of a biting north-easterly which had been blowing for some twelve hours. The whole anchorage was transformed into an endless mass of cruising whitecaps with lively catspaws to mark its progress around the many black-and-buff hulls of moored men-of-war, making them tug violently at their cables.

It was late March, a time when winter was still reluctant to release its grip and eager to display its latent power.

One of the largest ships, recently warped from the dockyard where she had suffered the indignities of repairs to the lower hull, was the second-rate Black Prince of 94 guns, her fresh paintwork and blacked-down rigging shining like glass from blown spray and a brief rainsquall which even now had reached as far out as the Isle of Wight, a dull blur in the poor light.

Black Prince was one of the most powerful of her kind, and to anyone but a true sailor she would appear a symbol of sea-power, the country's sure shield. The more experienced eye would recognise her empty yards, the canvas not yet sent up to give her life as well as strength. She was surrounded by lighters and dockyard longboats, while small armies of riggers and ropemakers moved busily about her decks, and the clatter of hammers and the squeak of tackles were evidence of the work being carried out in the deep holds and on the gun-decks.

Alone by the packed hammock-nettings Black Prince's captain stood at the quarterdeck rail and watched the comings and goings of seamen and dockyard workers, who in turn were supervised by the ship's warrant officers, the true backbone of any warship.

Captain Valentine Keen tugged his hat still tighter across his fair hair but was otherwise oblivious, even indifferent, to the biting wind and the fact that his flapping blue coat with its tarnished seagoing epaulettes was soaked through to his skin.

Without looking, he knew that the men on watch near the deserted double-wheel were very aware of his presence. A quartermaster, a boatswain's mate and a small midshipman who occasionally raised a telescope to peer at the signal tower or the admiral's flagship nearby, a sodden flag curling and cracking from her main truck.

Many of the men who had served the guns around him when they had fought and all but destroyed the big French three-decker off the coast of Denmark had been taken from his command while the ship had undergone repairs from that short, savage embrace. Some for promotion to other vessels, others because, as the port admiral had put it, "My captains need men now, Captain Keen. You will have to wait."

Keen allowed his mind to stray back over the battle, the terrible sight in the dawn when they had gone to assist RearAdmiral Herrick's Benbow in his defence of a twenty-ship convoy destined for the invasion of Copenhagen. Shattered, burning hulks, screaming cavalry horses trapped below in the transports, and Benbow completely dismasted, her only other escort capsized, a total loss.

Mercifully Benbow had been towed to the Nore for docking. It would be too painful to see her here every waking day. A constant reminder, especially for Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho, whose flag would soon break out again from this ship's foremast. Herrick had been Bolitho's oldest friend, but Keen had been more angered than saddened by Herrick's behaviour both before and after Benbow's last fight. It might well be her last too, he thought grimly. With the many ships they had seized from Copenhagen to bolster their own depleted fleets and squadrons, any dockyard might think twice before committing itself to such a programme of repairs and restoration.

Keen thought of Bolitho, a man he cared for more than any other. He had served him as midshipman and lieutenant, and with him in the same squadron until eventually he had become his flag captain. Keen imagined him now with his lovely Catherine, as he had done so often since their return to England. He had tried to close his mind to it, not to make comparisons. But he had wanted a love like theirs for himself, the same challenging passion which had captured the hearts of ordinary people everywhere, and had roused the fury of London society because of their open relationship. A scandal, they proclaimed. Keen sighed. He would give his soul to be in the same position.

He walked to the small table beneath the overhang of the dripping poop and opened the log at the place marked with a piece of polished whalebone. He stared at the date on the damp page for several seconds. How could he forget? March 25th 1808, two months exactly since he had put the ring on the hand of his bride in the tiny village church at Zennor, which had given her her name.

Like the battle which had preceded his wedding by four months, it seemed like yesterday.

He still did not know. Did she love him, or was her marriage an act of gratitude? He had rescued her from a convict ship, and from transportation for a crime she had not committed. Or did his uncertainty stem from the fact that he was almost twice her age, when he believed she could have chosen anyone? If he did not contain it, Keen knew it would drive him mad. He was almost afraid to touch her, and when she had given herself to him it had been an act without passion, without desire. She had merely submitted, and later during that first night he had found her by the embers of the fire downstairs, sobbing silently as if her heart had already broken.

Time and time again Keen had reminded himself of Catherine's advice when he had visited her in London. He had confessed his doubts about Zenoria's true feelings for him.

Catherine had said quietly, "Remember what happened to her. A young girl-taken and used, with no hope, and nothing to live for."

Keen bit his lip, recalling the day he had first seen her, seized up, almost naked, her back laid open from shoulder to hip while the other prisoners had watched like wild beasts, as if it had been some kind of savage sport. So perhaps it was, after all, gratitude; and he should be satisfied, as many men would be merely to have her.

But he was not.

He saw the first lieutenant, James Sedgemore, striding aft towards him. He at least seemed more than pleased with his lot. Keen had promoted him to senior lieutenant after the tough Tynesider Cazalet had been cut in half on this same quarterdeck on that terrible morning. The enemy ship had been the San Mateo, a powerful Spaniard sailing under French colours, and she had crushed the convoy and its escorts like a tiger despatching rabbits. Keen had never seen Bolitho so determined to destroy any ship as he had been to put down San Mateo. She had sunk his old Hyperion. He had needed no other reason.

Keen often found himself wondering if Bolitho would have held to his threat to keep pouring broadsides into San Mateo, which had already been crippled in the first embrace at close quarters. Until they strike their colours. Thank God someone still sane enough to think and act in that hell of iron and screaming splinters had brought the flags tumbling down. But would he have continued, without mercy, otherwise?

I may never know.

Lieutenant Sedgemore touched his hat, his face red in the stinging air. "I shall be able to get the sails ready for bending-on tomorrow, sir."

Keen glanced at the Royal Marine sentries by the hatchways and up on the forecastle. With the land so close there were always the reckless few who would try to run. It would be hard enough to get more hands, especially in a naval port, without allowing men the opportunity to desert.

Keen had much sympathy for his men. They had been kept aboard or sent directly to other ships to fill the gaps, without any chance to see their loved ones or their homes.

Keen had spent more time than was necessary on board, simply to show his depleted company that he was sharing it with them. Even as it crossed his mind, he knew that too was a lie. He had stayed because of his fear that he might make Zenoria openly reject him, unable even to pretend.

"Something wrong, sir?"

"No." It came out too sharply. "Vice-Admiral Bolitho will be coming aboard at noon." He looked across the nettings at the shining walls of the dockyard and harbour battery and on to the huddled buildings of Portsmouth Point, beyond which the Channel and the open sea were waiting. Bolitho might be over there already; at the old George Inn, perhaps? Unlikely. Catherine would be with him. He would not risk a snub or anything else which might distress her.

Sedgemore kept his young features impassive. He had never really liked his predecessor, Cazalet. A fine seaman, admittedly, but a man who was so coarse in his speech and behaviour that he had been hard to work with. He watched the bustling figures at the tackles, swaying up more bales and boxes from one of the lighters alongside.

Well, he was the first lieutenant now, in one of the navy's newest and most powerful three-deckers. And with an admiral like Sir Richard Bolitho and a good captain like Keen, there would be no stopping them once they were at sea again. Promotion, prize-money, fame; there was no end to it, in his mind anyway.

It was the navy's way, Sedgemore thought. If a dead man's shoes were offered, you never waited for a second chance.

Keen said distinctly, "Tell my cox'n to prepare the barge, and have the crew piped at six bells. Inspect them yourself, although I doubt if Tojohns will leave anything to chance."

He glanced at the open log again where the midshipman-of-the-watch was writing something, his tongue poking from one corner of his mouth with great concentration. Another picture crossed his mind. His coxswain, Tojohns, on his wedding day only two months ago, supervising the garlanded carriage which had been towed by the midshipmen and petty officers of this ship, his ship, with himself and his young bride inside.

He turned aft and stalked away beneath the poop to seek the one place he could be alone.

Sedgemore watched him go and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

A post-captain-what Sedgemore himself would be one day if everything went well for him, and he managed to avoid Cazalet's fate.

To be captain of a ship like Black Prince… He looked up and around him. There was no higher reward for any man. He would want for nothing.

He saw the midshipman staring at him and rasped, "Mr M'Innes, I'll trouble you not to waste your time, sir!"

It was uncalled for; but it made him feel more like a first lieutenant.

Lieutenant Stephen Jenour caught his breath as he turned the corner above the shining dockyard stairs which led directly down to the landing stage. After two months ashore either working for Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho or visiting his parents in Southampton, he felt at odds with the sea and the bitter wind.

He thrust open a small door and saw a blazing fire shining a welcome across the room.

A uniformed servant asked coldly, "Your name, sir?"

"Jenour." He added sharply, "Flag lieutenant to Sir Richard Bolitho."

The man bowed himself away, muttering something about a warming drink, and Jenour was childishly pleased at his ability to command instant respect.

"Welcome, Stephen." Bolitho was sitting in a high-backed chair, the fire reflecting from his gold lace and epaulettes. "We have a while yet."

Jenour sat down and smiled at him. So many things had changed his young life since joining Bolitho. His parents had laughed at him for vowing that one day he would serve this incredible man who had been, until Nelson's death at Trafalgar less than three years ago, the second youngest vice-admiral on the Navy List. Now he was the youngest.

He never tired of recalling each separate incident, even that stark moment when Black Prince had been about to leave Copenhagen in search of Herrick, and Bolitho had turned on him in pleading desperation and confirmed his worst fears. "I am losing my sight, Stephen. Can you keep a secret so precious to me?" And later when Bolitho had said, "They must not know. You are a dear friend, Stephen. Now there are other friends out there who need us."

Jenour sipped the hot drink. There was brandy in it, and spices too, and his eyes smarted but he knew it was from that memory and nothing else.

A dear friend, and one of the few who knew the extent of the injury to Bolitho's left eye. To be entrusted with such a secret was a reward greater than anything he had believed possible.

He asked carefully, "What will Captain Keen's answer be, Sir Richard?"

Bolitho put down his empty goblet and thought of Catherine, imagined he could still feel the warmth of her body in his arms as they had parted this morning. She would be well on her way to London now, to the house she had bought by the river in Chelsea. Their private place as she had called it, where they could be alone together when they were required to be in the capital.

It was strange to be without Allday, but his coxswain-his "oak"-had gone with Yovell, his secretary, and Ozzard his little servant, in the same coach. Catherine was fearless, but Bolitho felt safer on her behalf knowing that she travelled with such a staunch escort.

He thought too of his last interview with Lord Godschale at the Admiralty, and Godschale's attempts to soothe him whenever he touched on a point which might provoke controversy.

"Their lordships insist that you are the best choice of flag officer to go to Cape Town. You had, after all, a vital part in taking it from the Dutch-our people know you and trust you accordingly. It should not take long, but it needs your handling to establish regular patrols of smaller craft in the area, and perhaps to send more of the major men-of-war back to England. When you have installed a post-captain in overall charge there-acting-commodore if you like-you can return too. I will offer you a fast frigate, and do everything possible for you." He had given the great sigh of one overburdened with responsibility. "Even while Admiral Gambier and your own squadron were in Copenhagen preparing the prizes for their passage here, Napoleon was already busy elsewhere. God damn the fellow-twice he has attempted to seize the Danish fleet, and he has even provoked Turkey to turn against his old ally the Tsar of Russia. As fast as we seal one door, he explores another."

It was difficult not to admire Napoleon's ever-changing strategy, Bolitho had often conceded. Shortly after Herrick's hopeless fight to save his convoy, the French army had invaded Portugal, and by November was in Lisbon, with the royal family in flight to their possessions in Brazil. It was rumoured in Whitehall that Spain, another ally if an unwilling one, would be Napoleon's next target. He would then become a ruler of overwhelming strength, a threat once again with all the riches of Spain to support him.

Bolitho had said, "I think that this time he may have overreached himself. He has turned Portugal into an enemy, and will surely incite Spain to rise against him. It will be our one chance. A place to land an army where it will find friendship, and be treated as a liberation force."

Godschale had looked distant. "Perhaps, perhaps."

Another secret. Jenour knew; so did Yovell and Allday. Bolitho had refused to take passage in a frigate and had seen Godschale's heavy features go almost purple as he had exclaimed, "Do you mean to say that you are going to take Lady Catherine Somervell with you on passage to Cape Town?"

Bolitho had been adamant. "A ship of war is no place for a lady, my lord. Although I am sure Lady Catherine would accept without hesitation."

Godschale had mopped his face. "I will arrange it. A fast packet under Admiralty warrant. You are a damned difficult fellow to deal with, Sir Richard. What people will say when they discover-"

"We shall simply have to ensure they do not, my lord."

When he had told Catherine she had been surprisingly excited about it.

"To be there with you, dearest of men, instead of reading of your exploits in the Gazette, to be part of it all… I ask for nothing more."

The door opened and the servant peered in at them. "I beg your pardon, Sir Richard, but it is reported that your barge has just left Black Prince."

Bolitho nodded and remarked to Jenour, "I'll wager Captain Keen will be surprised to find that I am not staying aboard."

Jenour followed him from the snug shelter of the senior officers' waiting room.

He knew that Keen cared for Bolitho as much as he did himself. Would he leave Black Prince in exchange for some obscure position in Cape Town as captain in command of all local patrols? It would mean a broad-pendant, and the real possibility of promotion to rear admiral after that, if everything went well. But it would also mean leaving his bride behind so soon after their marriage, as well as severing his close links with the man who was even now standing at the top of the dripping stairs, peering across the tossing array of whitecaps.

I am fortunate that the choice is not mine. Not yet, in any case…

Bolitho pulled his boat-cloak around his body and watched the green-painted barge pulling lustily across the choppy water, the oars rising and falling as one, the bargemen very smart in their checkered shirts and tarred hats. Keen's coxswain would be in charge today, and Bolitho was suddenly uneasy, knowing that Allday would not be there.

He thought of Catherine's happiness at the prospect of their journey, when before, when he had told her about Cape Town, there had been only anger and despair. "Is there nobody else they can send, Richard? Must it always be you?"

When Godschale's acceptance of his request that she accompany him had been delivered to Falmouth, she had thrown her arms about him like a child. Together. The word which had become a symbol to both of them.

Ever since Keen's wedding they seemed to have spent days on the terrible winter roads: London, Falmouth and London again.

He thought of their last night at a small secluded inn Allday had recommended; as, seated in the waiting room before Jenour had arrived, he had stared into the fire, remembering it. The need of one for the other, until they had lain by the fire in the inn's private room, unwilling to waste the night in sleep.

The bargemen tossed their oars and sat stiffly facing aft while the bows were made fast to the stairs. The first lieutenant stepped lightly on to the wet stairs and raised his hat, his eyes everywhere, puzzled as he realised there was no chest or luggage to be stowed aboard.

"Good day, Mr Sedgemore." Bolitho gave a brief smile. "As you see, mine is a short visit this time."

He and Jenour settled themselves in the sternsheets and the barge cast off, shipping water over the stem as they quit the shelter of the wall.

"Repairs going well, Mr Sedgemore?"

The lieutenant swallowed hard. He was unused to casual conversation with a vice-admiral.

"Aye, Sir Richard. It will be a month or so yet, I'm told."

Bolitho watched the passing dockyard boats, and a yawl towing a new mast for some ship undergoing refit. If Napoleon did invade Spain, the naval blockade would have to be tighter than ever until they could put an army ashore to meet the French in open battle. He thought sadly of Herrick. Even his poor, battered Benbow might be sent back into the fray.

He heard the distant crack of a musket, and saw figures running on to Black Prince's forecastle; he guessed that a marine had just fired on a would-be deserter.

Sedgemore said between his teeth, "I think they got him."

Bolitho looked at him calmly. "Would it not be more useful to put your pickets on the foreshore and catch them if they swim there? A corpse is little use for anything, I'd have thought." It was mildly said, but Jenour saw the first lieutenant wince as if he had been hit in the face.

The next few moments put all else from his mind. The climb up the slippery side, the trill of calls and the stamp and crash of the Royal Marines' guard of honour. Then Keen, his handsome features full of welcome as he stepped forward to greet him.

They shook hands, and Keen guided him aft to the great cabin.

"Well, Val?" Bolitho sat down and looked at his friend. "You will not be hampered by me again just yet."

He watched Keen pouring claret, noting the lines around his mouth. Strain of command. The many, many difficulties of completing a refit and putting right the wounds of battle. Making up a depleted company, storing, taking on powder and shot, preparing new watch-bills to eke out the experienced hands among the volunteers and pressed men. Bolitho had known all these challenges even in his first command, a small sloop-of-war.

"It is good to see you." Keen offered him a goblet. "Your visit sounds something of a mystery." He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

"And how is Zenoria? Missing you, no doubt?"

Keen turned away and fumbled with his keys. "There was a despatch delivered on board this morning, sir. It came by post-horse from the Admiralty." He opened a drawer and took it out. "I forgot, in the excitement of your arrival."

Bolitho took it and glanced at the seal. Something was wrong. Catherine had hinted as much.

He said, "I am ordered to Cape Town, Val, to ensure there is no further complacency. We need more local patrols than ever now that the anti-slavery bill has been passed in Parliament. Slavers, pirates, privateers-they will all need seeking out."

Keen stared at him as if he had not heard properly.

Bolitho added quietly, "They require an experienced post-captain to command there. He will have the broad-pendant of commodore for his pains. I will return to Black Prince eventually, but if you accept this appointment, you will not."

"I, sir?" Keen put down his goblet without seeing it. "Quit Black Prince?" He looked up, his eyes full of dismay. "And leave you, sir?"

Bolitho smiled. "This war is coming to a crisis, Val. We must put an army into Europe. We shall need our best leaders when that time comes. You are an obvious choice-you've earned it ten times over, and the fleet will need flag officers like you now that Our Nel is dead."

He recalled the general he had met just before they had managed to retake Cape Town. Despite all the triumphs at sea, they will be as nought until the English foot-soldier plants his boots on the enemy's own shores.

Keen walked to the spray-streaked stern windows and stared down at the distorted waves beneath the counter.

"When might this be, sir?" He sounded dazed by the sudden turn of events. Trapped.

"Soon. Black Prince, I am assured, will be in dockyard hands for some while yet."

Keen turned. "Advise me, sir."

Bolitho took a knife and slit open the thick envelope. "I know what it means to be parted from a lover. But it is the lot of every sea officer. It is also his duty to seize any opportunity for advancement, to which he is truly suited, and from which his country may benefit."

Keen looked away. "I would like to accept, sir." He did not even hesitate.

Bolitho read quickly through the neat lettering and said gravely, "You have a further duty while you hold command here, Val." He tossed the letter on to the table. "There has been a court of enquiry at the Governor's house here in Portsmouth. Their lordships have decided that RearAdmiral Herrick must stand trial at a court martial on the prescribed date."

Keen picked up the letter. "Misconduct and neglect of duty…" He did not continue. "My God, sir."

"Read on. The court martial will be held here in Black Prince, your command and my flagship."

Keen nodded, understanding at last. "Then I am eager for the Cape, sir." He finished with sudden bitterness, "I will not be needed here."

Bolitho took his hat from the cabin servant. Then he said, "When you are ready, Val, please tell me… tell us. It is what true friends are for."

Keen seemed to search his face for something.

"That I shall never forget."

"I am depending on it." He hesitated, hearing the marine guard stamping into line at the entry port. "Your pain is mine, as mine has too often been yours."

Ebenezer Julyan, the sailing-master, was loitering by the wheel, and Bolitho guessed he had been waiting purposely to see him. As though it were yesterday, he recalled Julyan's grin of pleasure as they had sailed to meet the towering San Mateo, when Bolitho had given him his own gold-laced hat to wear to make the enemy believe that Black Prince was a Danish prize.

He called, "Did you give that hat to your boy, Mr Julyan?"

The man laughed. "I did that, sir. It made a rare stir in th' village! It be good to see 'ee again, Sir Richard!"

Bolitho looked round at other familiar faces, who had also faced death that day. He thought too of Keen's bitter comments; then he touched the silver locket through his shirt, the one she had fastened around his neck this morning as she always did when they were to be parted, even for a few hours.

May Fate always guide you. May Love always protect you.

With Keen so downcast, it seemed wrong to think of all the happiness she had given him.

Catherine, Lady Somervell, walked to the window with its small iron balcony and looked out across the swirling Thames. The city had been wide awake by the time her mud-spattered carriage had clattered to a halt outside this small, elegant house in Chelsea, the streets full of traders and carters from the various markets hawking meat, fish, vegetables, all a reminder of the London she had known as a very young girl; the London she had shown in part to Bolitho.

It had been a long hard journey on that appalling road, past leafless trees stark against a cold moon, and splashing through a downpour an hour later. They had stopped every so often to eat and drink, but not until Bolitho's portly Devonian secretary Yovell had inspected each inn to make certain it was suitable for her to enter. Several times he had climbed back into the carriage, grimly shaking his head to signal Matthew to drive on.

They had looked after her wonderfully, she thought. They had refilled her copper foot-warmer with boiling water at each stop, and ensured that she had been well wrapped in rugs as well as her long velvet cloak, and independent though she was, she had been glad of their company.

The house felt strange after Falmouth, damp and unfamiliar, and she was thankful for the fires blazing in most of the rooms. She thought of the grey Bolitho house below Pendennis Castle, and was still strangely surprised that she could miss it so much when she was away from it. She heard Allday laugh in the kitchen, and somebody, probably the faithful, silent little Ozzard, putting logs on one of the fires.

Once during the journey on a comparatively smooth stretch of road, when Yovell had fallen asleep and Ozzard had been outside on the coachman's box, she had engaged Allday in conversation, listening intently as he had answered her questions and spoken of his early days with the man she loved. The ships and the battles, although she knew he had skirted around the latter. He never tried to shock or impress her, and he seemed to feel free enough to speak with her on equal terms, almost as a friend.

When she had asked him about Herrick, he had been more wary.

"I first knew him as one of the Cap'n lieutenants in the old Phalarope-back in eighty-two, it was." He had given his lazy grin. "Course, I didn't exactly volunteer, so to speak." It seemed to amuse him. "When the Cap'n finally left Phalarope he took us with him, me an' Bryan Ferguson. Then I became his cox'n." He had shaken his head like a big shaggy dog. "Lot of water since them days."

Then he had looked at her very directly. "RearAdmiral Herrick is a stubborn man, begging your pardon, m'lady. An honest gentleman, an' that's rare enough these days, but…"

Catherine had watched his uncertainty. "Sir Richard is deeply concerned about him. His oldest friend, would you say?"

It had given Allday the time he needed. "Next to me, m'lady! But folk don't change, no matter what their circumstances. Sir Richard never has. A flag officer he may be, a hero to most people he certainly is, but he's no different to the young cap'n I saw in tears at the death of a friend."

"You must tell me that too, Allday. There are so many gaps I want… I need to fill."

The carriage had lurched into a deep rut and Yovell had awakened with a startled grunt.

"Where are we?"

But Allday had looked at her in that same level way, as he had at English Harbour when her husband had been alive, and Bolitho had become her lover again after their stupid separation.

"I'll tell you, m'lady, don't you fret. This passage we're makin' to the Cape will show you the man we sees, not the one who comes home from the ocean. The King's officer."

She heard herself laugh. "I do believe you are filling in your own gaps about me, Allday!"

Now for a few more moments she was alone in the room where they had loved so demandingly, as if they were trying to make up for the lost years.

She thought of Valentine Keen, his troubled face when he had spoken to her of his hopes and fears for his marriage to Zenoria. Another mystery: so close a band of brothers-poor Oliver Browne's "happy few"-and yet there was a coldness between Herrick and Keen. Because of Bolitho, or because of Zenoria?

She had never mentioned to Richard what she had seen in Adam's face at Keen's wedding. She might after all have been mistaken. In the same heartbeat, she knew she was not; she was too experienced not to recognise that Adam, Richard's nephew and the nearest to a son he would ever know, was in love with Keen's Zenoria.

But Adam was a captain now, albeit a very young one, and his first frigate, the Anemone, was somewhere at sea with the Channel Fleet. It was just as well, at least until things settled down again.

She tossed away her cloak and gazed at herself critically in a tall mirror. A woman envied, admired and hated. She cared for none of it.

She saw only the woman who was loved by England's hero. The man. She smiled, remembering Allday's sage-like confidences. Not the King's officer.

She was waiting for Bolitho when he reached the house in the late evening, although she had had no forewarning of the time of his arrival. He strode through the doors and gave his hat and cloak to the new maidservant, before taking Catherine in his arms.

They kissed, and he studied her for several seconds.

"Thomas Herrick is to be court-martialled."

She put her arms around his neck. "My news is not good either."

He held her away, searching her face anxiously. "You're not ill, Kate? What has happened?"

She said, "There was a woman here today."

"Who?"

"She left a card." Her voice was husky, almost despairing. "It was 'expected' that you might be here, she said." She looked at him directly. "Your daughter is unwell. The person sent as messenger would tell me nothing further."

Bolitho stared at her, expecting bitterness or resentment. There was neither. It was more an acceptance of something which had always been there, and always would.

Catherine said, "You will have to go, Richard. No matter what you feel for your wife, or for what she connived at with my late husband. It is not in your nature or mine to run away." She touched the cheek near his damaged eye, her voice a whisper so soft that he could barely hear it.

"Some may call me the vice-admiral's whore, but such fools are to be pitied rather than scorned. When you look at me as you are doing now I can barely let you go. And every time you enter me it is as the first time, and I am reborn." She lifted her chin and he saw the pulse beating in her throat. "But stand between us, my darling Richard? Only death will ever do that."

She turned away and called to Allday, whom she had sensed to be waiting in the hall. "Stay with him-you are his right arm. Under these circumstances I cannot go. It would only harm him."

The carriage had returned to the door. Bolitho said, "Wait for me, Kate." He looked strained but alert, his black hair still dishevelled from travel, with the single loose lock above his right eye almost white where it hid the terrible scar on his forehead. A youthful, sensitive face; he might still have been the captain Allday remembered and described so vividly, in tears for a fallen friend. Then she moved against him and touched the old family sword, seen in all those portraits in Falmouth.

"If I had a wish in the world it would be to give you a son to wear this one day. But I cannot."

He held her closely, knowing that if her reserve broke he could not leave her, now or ever.

"You once said of me, Kate, that I needed love 'as the desert needs the rain.' Nothing has changed. It's you I want. The rest is history."

As the door closed she faced the stairway. Yovell was standing there, anxiously polishing his small gold-rimmed spectacles.

She said aloud, as if Yovell were not even there, "If she tries to hurt him again, I will surely kill her."

Yovell watched her pass. Distress and anger could not diminish the beauty which turned so many heads. He thought of all the immediate obstacles. Herrick's court martial, the rumours he had gleaned about Captain Keen's marriage, and now this.

Perhaps it was as well they were all sailing for the Cape.