Cross of St George

10. Time And Distance

SIR WILFRED LAFARGUE put down the empty cup and walked to one of the tall windows of his spacious office. For such a heavily built man he moved with remarkable agility, as if the young, eager lawyer was still there, a prisoner of his own success. Lafargue had once been described as handsome, but now, in his late fifties, he was showing signs of good living and other excesses which even his expensively cut coat and breeches could not disguise.

The coffee was good: eventually, he might send for more. But he was content for the moment to stand looking out of this window, one of his favourites, across the City of London, where, despite more buildings than ever before, there were still many restful parks and ornamental gardens. This was Lincoln ’s Inn, one of the centres of English law, and the prestigious address of many legal practices which served a world of both power and money.

This particular house, for instance, had once been the London residence of a famous general, who had met an ignominious death by fever in the West Indies. Now it held the offices of the legal firm which bore his family name, and of which Lafargue was the senior partner.

He idly watched some carriages as they rattled past on their way to Fleet Street. It was a fine day, with clear blue sky above the spires and impressive buildings. From the far window he would be able to see St Paul ’s, or at least the dome of the cathedral; it was a sight that always pleased him. Like the centre of things, in his world.

He considered the visitor who was waiting to see him. His staff had been busy on her behalf, but this would be his first meeting with the lady in question, Lady Catherine Somervell. When he had mentioned the appointment to his wife she had been sharp, even angry, as if it offended her personally in some way.

He smiled. But then, how could she understand?

Now he would see for himself what the notorious viscountess was really like. She was certainly one of the most discussed women of the day: if only a tenth of it was true, he would soon discover her strength and her weakness. She had risen above it all, the scandal and the secret slander. The fact that her last husband had died mysteriously in a duel had been conveniently forgotten. He smiled more broadly. Not by me.

He turned with irritation as a door opened slightly, and his senior clerk peered in at him.

“What is it, Spicer?” The offices revolved around the senior clerk, a dedicated man who missed no detail in all the legal papers and documents that passed through his hands. He was also very dull.

Spicer said, “Lady Somervell is about to leave, Sir Wilfred.” He spoke without expression. When the Prime Minister, Spencer Perceval, had been assassinated by some lunatic at the House of Commons the previous year, he had announced it in much the same fashion, as if it was a comment on the weather.

Lafargue snapped, “What do you mean, leaving? That lady has an appointment with me!”

Spicer was unmoved. “That was nearly half an hour ago, Sir Wilfred.”

Lafargue contained himself with an effort. It was his practice to keep clients waiting, no matter how high or low they stood on the social scale.

It was a bad beginning. He said curtly, “Bring her in.”

He sat at his vast desk and watched the other door. Everything was in its place, a chair directly opposite him, an impressive background of leather volumes from floor to ceiling behind. Sound, reliable, like the City itself. Like a bank.

He rose slowly as the doors were opened and Lady Catherine Somervell entered the room. It was far too large for an office but Lafargue liked it for that reason: it often intimidated visitors who had to walk almost its full length to reach the chair by the desk.

For the first time in his experience, the effect was completely reversed.

She was taller than he had expected, and walked without hesitation or uncertainty, her dark eyes never leaving his face. She was dressed all in green, and carrying a broad-brimmed straw hat with a matching ribbon. Lafargue was intelligent enough to appreciate that his clumsy ploy of allowing her to wait could never impress a woman like this.

“Please be seated, Lady Somervell.” He watched the easy way she sat in the straight-backed chair, confident, but wary. Defiant, perhaps. “I regret the delay. Some difficulty arose at the last minute.”

Her dark eyes moved only briefly to the empty coffee cup.

“Of course.”

Lafargue sat down again and touched some papers on his desk. It was hard not to stare at her. She was beautiful: there was no other possible description. Her hair, so dark that it might have been black, was piled above her ears, so that her throat and neck seemed strangely unprotected. Provocative. High cheekbones, and now the merest hint of a smile as she said, “So what news may I expect?”

Catherine had seen the assessing glance. She had seen many such before. This illustrious lawyer, recommended by Sillitoe when she had asked for his advice, was no different, in spite of the grand setting and the air of showmanship. Sillitoe had remarked, “Like most lawyers, his worth and his honesty will be measured by the weight of his bill!”

Lafargue said, “You have seen all the details of your late husband’s affairs.” He coughed politely. “Your pardon. Your previous husband, I mean. His business ventures prospered even during the war between Great Britain and Spain. It was his surviving son’s wish that you receive that which was always intended for your own use.” His eyes flicked down to the papers. “Claudio Luis Pareja was his son by his first marriage.”

She said, “Yes.” She ignored the unspoken question: he would know, in any case. When Luis had asked her to marry him he had been more than twice her age, and even his son, Claudio, had been older than she. She had been afraid, desperate, lost, when the small, amiable Luis had taken her as his bride. It had not been love as she now knew it to be, but the man’s kindness, his need of her, had been like a door opening for her to step through. She had been a mere girl, and he had given her vision and opportunity, and she had learned the manners and graces of the people he knew or did business with.

He had died when Richard Bolitho’s ship had taken control of the vessel in which they had been passengers, on their way to Luis’s estate in Minorca. She had known afterwards that she loved Richard, but she had lost him. Until Antigua, when he had sailed into English Harbour with his flag flying above the old Hyperion.

She could feel the lawyer’s eyes exploring her, although when she looked at him directly he was examining his papers again.

She said, “So I am a very rich woman?”

“At the stroke of a pen, my lady.” He was intrigued that she had shown neither surprise nor triumph, not since they had first exchanged letters. A beautiful widow, envied, wealthy: the temptation would be a great one for many men. He thought of Sir Richard Bolitho, the hero, whom even common sailors seemed to admire. He glanced at her again. Her skin was brown like a country woman’s, like her hands and wrists. He speculated on their life together when they were not separated by the ocean, and the war.

The thought made him remark, “I have heard that things are moving at last in North America.”

“What is that?” She stared at him, one hand moving to her breast. How quickly it could happen. Like a shadow, a threat.

He said, “We received word that the Americans attacked York, crossed the lake in force and burned the government buildings there.”

“When?” One word, like a stone falling into a still pond.

“Oh, some six weeks ago, apparently. News is very slow to reach us.”

She stared at the window, at the fresh leaves visible beyond it. Six weeks. The end of April. Richard might have been there: he would be involved, in any case. She asked quietly, “Anything else?”

He cleared his throat. Her unexpected anxiety had encouraged him: perhaps she was vulnerable after all.

“Some story of a mutiny in one of our ships. Poor devils, one can hardly blame them.” He paused. “But there are limits, and we are at war.”

“What ship?” She knew he was enjoying her concern in some way. It did not matter. Nothing else did. Not the money, unexpected gift though it was from poor Luis, dead these many years. She asked more sharply, “Can you remember?”

He pursed his lips. “Reaper. Yes, that was it. Do you know her?”

“One of Sir Richard’s squadron. Her captain was killed last year. I do not know her, beyond that.” How could he understand? Mutiny… She had watched Richard’s face when he had described it, and what it cost the guilty and the innocent alike. He had been involved in the great naval mutinies, which had stunned the entire country at a time when the enemy was expected to invade. Some had believed it was the first fire of the same revolution which had brought the Terror to France.

How Richard would hate and loathe such an outbreak in his own command. Would blame himself for not having been there when the seeds were sown.

A total responsibility. And a punishment to him, also.

Lafargue said, “Now, the other matter we discussed. The lease of the property has become available.” He watched her hand at her breast, the glittering pendant moving to betray the heightened pulse. “The owner of the lease, an earl impoverished by bad luck or over-confidence at the tables, was more than willing to exchange deeds. Expensive property, madam. And occupied.”

He knew; of course he knew. She said, “By Lady Bolitho.” She glanced down at the ruby ring on her hand, which he had given her in the church at Zennor on the day Valentine Keen had married Zenoria. It wrenched at her heart. They would all be waiting for her in Falmouth: the admiral’s lady, or whore, as the mood dictated. “It was my decision. I intend to lower the cost of the lease.” She looked up suddenly, and Lafargue saw the other woman in her eyes, the woman who had braved the sea in an open boat after shipwreck, who had captured the hearts of all who knew her. Now, in her face, he could see that everything he had heard of her was true.

She added, “And I intend that she shall know it!”

Lafargue rang a small bell, and his senior clerk, with one other, appeared as if by magic.

He stood up and watched Spicer preparing the documents, a fresh pen already placed by her hand. He looked at the ring, assessing the cost: it was of rubies and diamonds, like the pendant she wore, which was in the shape of a fan. He thought of his wife and wondered how, or even if, he would describe his day to her.

Spicer said, “Here and here, my lady.”

She signed her name quickly, recalling the small, untidy lawyer’s office in Truro, which had handled the Bolitho affairs for generations. Chairs filled with files and dog-eared documents, far too dusty to ever have been used. Not surprisingly, it had been the portly Yovell who had guided her there when she had told him what she had heard from Seville. From Spain, where she had left childhood behind.

Untidy, yes, but she had been received there as if she had always belonged. As John Allday would have described it, one of the family.

Lafargue said, “We are accustomed to such transactions, my lady. A head so beautiful should never be troubled by affairs of business.”

She looked up at him, and smiled. “Thank you, Sir Wilfred. I value your skills as a lawyer. Flattery I can have at any time from a Billingsgate porter!”

She stood, and waited while Lafargue took her hand, and after a small hesitation held it to his lips.

“It has been an honour, my lady.”

She nodded to the two clerks, and saw the smile on the impassive features of the one named Spicer. It was a day he would remember, for whatever reasons of his own.

Lafargue made a last attempt. “I noticed that you arrived in Lord Sillitoe’s carriage, my lady…” He almost flinched as the dark eyes turned toward him.

“How observant of you, Sir Wilfred.”

He walked beside her to the double doors. “An influential man.”

She regarded herself in a tall mirror in passing. Her next visit was to the Admiralty, and she wondered if Bethune would eventually tell her about the attack on York and the mutiny.

“With respect, my lady, I think that even Lord Sillitoe would regard you as a challenge.”

She faced the lawyer again, her heart suddenly heavy. Wanting not to be alone: wanting Bolitho, needing him.

“I have found that a challenge can so easily become an obstacle, Sir Wilfred. One which may need to be removed. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Back at his favourite window, Sir Wilfred Lafargue saw the liveried coachman hurry to open the carriage door for her. One of Sillitoe’s hard men, he thought, more like a prize-fighter than a servant. He saw her pause to watch a clutter of sparrows drinking from a horse-trough’s overflow. Distance hid her expression, but he knew she did not see or care for the passers-by who glanced at her.

He tried to arrange his impressions rationally, as he might marshal facts and arguments in a law suit, or with an opposing brief. But all he could find was envy.

The Old Hyperion inn at Fallowfield was crowded on this warm June evening, mostly with workers from the surrounding farms, enjoying the companionship of their friends after a long day in the fields. Some sat outside at the scrubbed trestle tables, and the air was so still that the smoke from their long pipes hung in an unmoving canopy. Even the banks of tall foxgloves barely quivered, and beyond the darkening trees the Helford River gleamed in the fading light like polished pewter.

Inside the inn every door and window stood open, but the older customers, as was their habit year round, gathered by the great fireplace, although it was empty but for a tub of flowers.

Unis Allday glanced from her parlour door and was satisfied with what she saw. Familiar faces, thatchers from Fallowfield, and the carpenter and his mate who were still working on the local church, where she and John Allday had been married. She repressed a sigh, and turned to the cot where their child, little Kate, lay sleeping. She touched the cot: another reminder of the big, shambling sailor who was so far away. He had even made the cot with his own hands.

She heard her brother, another John, laughing at something as he drew and carried tankards of ale. A one-legged former soldier of the 31st Foot, he lived in a tiny cottage nearby. Without his company and support, she didn’t know how she would have managed.

She had had no letter from Allday. Over four months had passed since he had walked through that door to take passage to Canada, with the admiral he served and loved like no other. Lady Catherine would be feeling much the same loneliness, she thought, with her own man on the other side of the ocean, even though she had travelled far and wide herself. Unis smiled. She had never been further than her native Devon before coming to live in Cornwall, and although she had settled in well, she knew that to the local people she would always be a foreigner. She had been attacked on the coast road on her way here, by men who had attempted to rob and assault her. John Allday had saved her that day. She could even talk about it now, but not to many. She touched some flowers on the table. The stillness, the warm, unmoving air was making her restless. If only he was back. She tested the idea. For good and always…

She looked once more at the sleeping child, and then walked out to join her brother.

He said, “Good business today, love. Picking up.” He watched an unwavering candle flame. “There’ll be a few ships’ masters cursing and swearing if they have to lie becalmed all night in Falmouth Bay. It’ll mean they’ll have to pay another day’s wages!”

She said, “What about the war, John? Out there, I mean.”

He said, “Soon be over, I expect. Once the Iron Duke forces the French to surrender, the Yankees’ll lose the stomach for a war on their own.”

“You do think that?” She remembered John Allday’s face when he had finally told her about his son, and how he had died in the fight with the Americans. Was it only last year? When he had come home and had taken their child, so tiny in his big hands, and she had told him she would not be able to carry another, would never give him another son.

His reply was still stark in her mind. She’ll do me fine. A son can break your heart. She had guessed then, but had said nothing until he was ready to tell her.

“Someone’s on the road.” He looked toward the window, and was not aware of the sudden fear in her eyes.

She heard the sound of a single horse, and saw the men around the empty grate pause in their conversation to stare at the open door. A horse usually meant authority out this way, so close to Rosemullion Head. The coastguard, or revenue men, or some of the dragoons from Truro, searching for deserters or hunting down footpads.

The horse clattered across the cobbles and they heard someone hurrying to assist the rider. Her brother said, “That’s Lady Catherine. I’d know her big mare anywhere.”

He smiled as his sister straightened her apron and her hair, as she always did.

“I’d heard she was back from London. Luke said he saw her.”

She came through the door, her dark hair almost touching the low beam. She seemed startled that there were so many customers, as if she were hardly aware of the time of day.

Some of the men stood up, or shuffled as though they would make the effort, and one or two voices called, “’Evenin’ to ’ee, m’lady.”

She held out her hand. “Please sit down. I am sorry…”

Unis reached her, and guided her to the small parlour. “You shouldn’t be out alone on this road, m’lady. ’Twill be dark soon. ’Tisn’t safe these days.”

Catherine sat and pulled off her gloves. “Tamara knows the way. I am always safe.” She took Unis’s hand impulsively. “I needed to come. To be with a friend. And you are that, Unis.”

Unis nodded, shocked by the quiet desperation in her voice. It did not seem possible. The admiral’s lady, a woman of courage as well as beauty, accepted even here where scandal, like sin, could be condemned openly every Sunday in church and chapel…

“None stronger, m’ lady.”

Catherine stood, and crossed to the cot. “Young Kate,” she said, and reached down to adjust the covering. Unis watched, and was oddly moved.

“Shall I make some tea, or maybe coffee? An’ I’ll see that someone rides with you when you go back to Falmouth. Five miles can be a long way on your own.”

Catherine barely heard her. She had rested very little since her return from London. There had been no letter waiting from Richard: anything might be happening. She had ridden to the adjoining estate to visit his sister, Nancy, and found Lewis Roxby very ill. Despite the stroke he had suffered, he had taken little heed of his doctors’ warnings. Without his hunting and his entertaining, and his hectic life as landowner, magistrate and squire, he could neither see nor accept any future as an invalid. Nancy had known: she had seen it in her eyes. Lewis was not merely ill this time; he was dying.

Catherine had sat with him, holding his hand while he had lain propped up in his bed, his head high enough for him to see the trees, and his stone folly, which was almost completed. His face had been grey, his grip without strength. But from time to time he had turned his head to look at her, as if to reassure her that the old Lewis Roxby was still there.

She had told him about London, but had not mentioned the unexpected settlement with which Luis’s estate had endowed her. Nor had she told him about her visit to Richard’s town house. The lawyer, Lafargue, had sent word to Belinda of her intended arrival, but her visiting card had been returned at the door, torn in two halves. But Belinda knew now that the house where she lavishly entertained, and lived in a style to which she had been unaccustomed before her marriage, was the property of the woman she hated. It would change nothing between them, but it might prevent her asking for more money. She would never admit to her circle of friends that she was living in a house owned by the one she had openly called a prostitute.

She heard herself say, “Something a little stronger, Unis. Some brandy, if you have any.”

Unis hurried to a cupboard. Was it possible, that there was no one else she could turn to now that Sir Richard was away? Perhaps Bryan Ferguson and his wife at the big grey house were too close, painful reminders of those others who were absent: Bolitho’s “little crew,” as she had heard John call them.

Catherine took the glass, wondering where the brandy had come from. Truro, or run ashore along this rocky and treacherous coast by freetraders in the dark of the moon?

Beyond the door, the conversation and laughter had resumed. It was something to relate to their wives when they finally reached their own homes.

Unis said gently, “When… I mean… if Sir Lewis gives up the fight… what will become of all that he’s worked for? Just the son of a local farmer, they tells me, and now look at him. A friend of the Prince himself, owner of all that land-will his son not take over?”

Now look at him. A grey, tired face. Every breath an effort.

“I believe that his son is making a name for himself in the City of London. Lewis wanted it. He was so proud of him, and of his daughter. There will be many changes, no matter what happens.”

She sat for some time in silence, thinking of the visit to the Admiralty, which had been her final task in London. Bethune had greeted her warmly, professing surprise at her arrival, and had offered to take her to a reception somewhere, and introduce her to some of his particular friends. She had declined. Even as she had sat in that familiar office, watching him, listening to him, she had sensed his genuine interest in her, the undeniable charm which might lead him into serious trouble if he became careless or over-confident in his affairs. He had been unable to give her any information about the war in North America, although she had suspected that he knew more than he was saying. On her last night in Chelsea she had lain awake on the bed, almost naked in the bright moonlight across the Thames, and had considered what might have happened if she had pleaded with Bethune to use all his influence, and his obvious affection and admiration for Richard, to enable him to be brought back to England. She had had little doubt what the price would have been. She had felt the sudden tears scalding her eyes. Could she have gone through with it? Given herself to another, whom instinct told her would have been kindness itself? She knew she could not have done it. There were no secrets between herself and Richard, so how could she have pretended with the man she loved?

To think that she could even consider such a bargain disgusted her. They called her a whore. Perhaps they were right.

Nor had she been able to tell Lewis what had happened after she had left Belinda’s house. In the square, she had seen the child walking with her governess. If the place had been crowded with a hundred children, she would still have known it was Elizabeth, Richard’s daughter. The same chestnut hair as her mother, the poise and confidence, so assured for one so young. She was eleven years old, and yet a woman.

“May I speak with you?” She had immediately sensed the governess’s hostility, but she had been totally unprepared when Elizabeth had turned to look up at her. That had been the greatest shock of all. Her eyes were Richard’s.

She had said calmly, “I am sorry. I do not know you, ma’am.” She had turned away, and walked on ahead of her companion.

What could I have expected? Hoped for? But all she could think of was the child’s eyes. Her contempt.

She stood up, listening. “I must leave. My horse…”

Unis saw her brother in the doorway. “What is it, John?”

But he was looking at the beautiful woman, her long riding habit torn in places where she had ridden carelessly, too close to the hedgerows.

“The church. The bell’s tolling.” Then, as though making a decision, “I can’t allow you to ride at this hour, m’ lady.”

She appeared not to hear him. “I must go. I promised Nancy.” She walked to the open window, and listened. The bell. An end of something. The beginning of what?

John had returned. “One of the keepers is here, m’ lady. He’ll ride with you.” He hesitated, and looked at his sister as if appealing to her. “Please. Sir Richard would insist, if he were here.”

She held out her hands to them. “I know.”

Some envied her, others hated her, and one at least feared her after her visit to the lawyer. She must not give way now. But without him I am nothing, have nothing.

She said, “I needed to be with friends, you see. Needed to be.”

Tamara was already outside the door, eager to leave.

Sir Lewis Roxby, Knight of the Hanoverian Guelphic Order and friend of the Prince Regent, was dead. She remembered his many bluff kindnesses, and particularly the day when, together, they had found Zenoria Keen’s body.

The King of Cornwall. So would he always remain.