For My Country’s Freedom

13. LONELINESS

Lady Catherine Somervell rose from the tall leather-backed chair and walked to the window. Down in the street in front of the Admiralty main building, it was raining quite heavily.

She toyed with one of the thick gold ropes that held the curtains, and watched people hurrying for shelter. Heavy, cleansing rain, thinning the traffic, causing steam to rise from the dirty cobbles, refreshing the avenues of trees so richly green on this late summer’s day.

She turned and glanced at the empty fireplace, the old paintings of sea-battles. Richard’s world. She shook her head, rejecting the antiquated ships. No, more his father’s navy. She had learned much merely by listening, by being with him, just as he had shared her London, and, she hoped, learned to enjoy it in a manner he had not found possible before.

She studied herself in a gilded tall looking-glass, imagining nervous sea officers here, examining their reflections before being summoned to meet whichever admiral would decide their fate.

A plain green gown, the hem and sleeves of which were spotted with rain even as she had alighted from the carriage. She wore a wide-brimmed hat with a matching green ribbon. She had dressed with care, as she always did, not from vanity or conceit, but out of defiance, and because of Richard. Sixteen months now, and the ache was as cruel as ever.

The room was much as she had expected it would be. Unwelcoming, aloof from the rest of the building, a place of decisions, where men’s lives could be changed with the stroke of a pen.

She could imagine him here, as a very young captain, perhaps. Or afterwards, as a flag-officer, when their affair had become common knowledge. The whole world knew about them now. She half smiled, but the Admiralty would not be impressed by

her position in his life, or by her rank. If anything happened to Richard, it was ironic that Belinda would be the first to be told. Officially

Over the months she had kept busy, helping Ferguson, or independently with her own projects. But each day was an eternity her rides on Tamara her only escape. She had not been near the cliff path and Trystan’s Leap since the day of Zenoria’s death.

An old servant stood now between the tall double doors. Catherine had not noticed him, nor heard the doors open.

"Sir Graham Bethune will see you now, my lady."

He bowed slightly as she passed him. She could almost hear him creak.

Sir Graham Bethune strode to meet her. She had resented the fact that he had once been one of Richard’s midshipmen in his first command: even though he had explained the complexities governing seniority, it still seemed deeply unfair. Only one rank lower than Richard, and yet he was a lord of admiralty a power who could help or dismiss as he chose.

But Bethune was not what she had expected. He was slim, energetic, and was wearing a genuine smile to greet her; suddenly and rather unwillingly, she understood why Richard had liked him.

"My dear Lady Somervell, this is indeed an honour. When I heard you were in Chelsea and I received your little note, I could scarce believe my good fortune!"

Catherine sat in the proffered chair and regarded him calmly. He was charming, but he was quite unable to hide his curiosity and the interest of a man in a beautiful woman.

She said, "We were deeply concerned at Falmouth to learn of Anemones loss. I thought that if I came in person you might give me more news-if there is any, Sir Graham?"

"We will take refreshment in a moment, Lady Somervell." He walked to his desk and rang a small bell. "Yes, we have indeed

received more news, first by telegraph from Portsmouth yesterday, and then confirmed by courier." He turned and rested his buttocks on the table. "It is much as I expected. After the sinking, the American frigate Unity took what prisoners could be saved from Anemone, and because of her own damage was forced to cancel any further attempts on our convoy. It was a brave act on Captain Bolitho’s part. It will not go unrewarded." She put her hand on her breast and saw his glance follow it and linger there for a few seconds.

She said, "Then he is alive?"

A servant entered with a tray. He did not look at either of them.

Bethune watched the servant opening the bottle with the deftness of one who was called to perform the task often.

"I was told that you enjoy champagne, my lady. I think we have something to celebrate. Don’t you agree?"

She waited. Bethune was probably imagining other reasons for her concern.

He said, "He was badly wounded, but our informants have told us that, thanks to the American commodore, he was well cared for." He hesitated for the first time. "We are still uncertain as to the extent of his injury."

Catherine took the tall glass and felt its coolness through her glove. Word for word, Richard’s letter was engraved on her memory: Adam’s arrival at English Harbour, and his anguish at the news of Zenoria’s death.

It was like some playlet, in which they all had lines to speak. Richard and his dead brother; Adam and Zenoria; and yet to come, Valentine Keen.

Bethune held his glass to the window. "We have not been told officially what the Americans intend. Captain Bolitho, in the normal course of events, would be exchanged with one of our prisoners. However, as a frigate captain of some stature, with

many prizes and successes to his credit, they might decide to keep him, if only in a mood of self-congratulation."

"Or perhaps to goad his uncle into some reckless action?"

"Has he written to that effect, my lady?"

"You know him, do you not? You should not need to ask me."

He smiled and refilled her glass. "True."

Then he said, "I hope you will do me the honour of allowing me to escort you to a reception." He hurried on, as if he already knew that she would refuse. "Sir Paul Sillitoe, whom I believe you know, wishes to celebrate his new title. He goes to the House of Lords shortly. He will be a powerful adversary there, by God."

Is a powerful adversary, she thought. "I cannot be certain, Sir Graham." She smiled faintly. "Would not your reputation be a trifle smudged by me?"

He looked away, and for only an instant she saw the freckled midshipman.

It was quickly past. "I would relish your company, Lady Somervell."

She said, "The rain is finished, and here comes the sun. I worship it, despite what it once tried to do to us."

He nodded gravely. "The Golden Plover, yes, I understand. May I enquire as to your plans for the remainder of the day?"

She faced him, unmoved by the hint in his tone.

"I shall interview a new personal maid, Sir Graham. But first, I must go to St James’s."

"The palace, my lady?"

She held out her gloved hand and felt him lingering over it. Then she laughed. "No, the wine shop, of course!"

Long after a servant had accompanied her downstairs, Bethune stood staring after her.

His secretary entered and placed some papers on the desk.

He said, "There is bad news, Sir Graham." He waited patiently for his lord and master to notice him.

Bethune asked, "Did you see her, man?" He seemed to realise what his secretary had said. "What news?"

"Not confirmed, Sir Graham, but we have received a despatch concerning our frigate Guerriиre of 38 guns, which was overwhelmed and captured by the U.S.S. Constitution after a fight lasting only two hours."

Bethune stood up again and walked to his window. "You are a melancholy fellow, Saunders. You make it sound both trivial and disgraceful in the same breath. Only two hours, you say? I have endured just such a trivial amount of time!" He swung away from the window. "Believe me, it is like hell."

"As you say, Sir Graham."

He dismissed the unctuous insincerity, recalling instead Bolitho’s voice in this very building, and the disbelief, even amusement in the room when the role of the fixed line of battle had been criticised. They might think differently now. A frigate was already reported missing in the Caribbean. With Anemone destroyed and now Guerriиre beaten and captured so easily, some might remember Bolitho’s words.

He looked out of the window again, but her carriage had gone.

Then he smiled, picked up Catherine’s half-empty glass and put his lips where hers had been.

Aloud he said, "We shall see!"

By the time Catherine reached Chelsea the sky had cleared, and the houses along the Thames embankment were basking in brilliant sunshine once more. Young Matthew lowered the step and offered his hand to assist her, his eyes everywhere like a watchful terrier.

"I’ll put the wine in the house once I’ve taken care of the horses, m’lady"

She stopped by the steps and looked at him. "You hate London, don’t you, Matthew?"

He grinned sheepishly. "Not used to it, m’lady-that’s all, I suppose."

She smiled. "Only until next week. Then we shall go home to Falmouth."

Matthew watched her open the front door and sighed. She was doing too much, taking too much on herself. Just like him.

Catherine pushed open the door and stopped dead in the entrance hall. There was a gold-laced hat on the hall table. Like Richard’s.

The new girl, Lucy, came bustling from beneath the stairs, wiping her mouth with her hand, flustered by her mistress’s unexpected return.

"Sorry, m’lady-I should have been here, ready like."

Catherine barely heard her. "Who is here?" It could not be. He would have let her know somehow. If only…

Lucy glanced at the hat, unaware of its significance. "He said you wouldn’t mind, m’lady. He said he would leave his card if you didn’t come, otherwise he’d wait in the garden."

She asked, "Who?"

Lucy was a decent girl; she had been recommended by Nancy. But another Sophie she was not. Good in the house and as a personal maid, but slow and sometimes maddening in her inability to think for herself.

Catherine brushed past her and walked blindly down the passage to the garden door.

Valentine Keen was standing by the wall in profile to her, only his hand moving as he stroked the neighbour’s cat. Unfamiliar in his rear-admiral’s uniform, his fair hair bleached almost white from the African sun.

Only when he heard her footstep on the terrace did he turn, and she saw the change in him: deep shadows beneath his eyes, the harsh lines around his mouth which even a smile failed to erase.

She said, "Dear Val, I’m so glad you waited. I had no idea." She clasped him in her arms. "How long have you been back?"

He held her tightly, with affection or desperation; it could have been either.

"A few days ago. I came to Portsmouth. I was told you were in London. I thought, I must see her."

The words seemed to jerk out of him, but she did not interrupt. Who could have told him she was in London?

Arm in arm, they walked around the small garden with the sounds of London beyond the wall.

She said, "You should be careful of that cat. He uses his claws when you play with him."

Keen looked at her searchingly "Your letter was such a help to me. I wish it had not fallen on your shoulders." He swallowed hard. "She was buried in Zennor. How so? You must not mind my asking. I still cannot accept it."

She said gently, "There was no proof of suicide, Val. It may have been an accident. The church could not begrudge her a grave in her own parish churchyard."

"I see."

Catherine thought of the reluctant curate. The bishop had been signalling his disapproval because it was rumoured that the girl had taken her own life.

"The magistrate was very definite. Her death resulted from misadventure. It is small comfort, I know, but she rests in peace."

Roxby had been the magistrate, otherwise…

"And you were there. I should have known you would be."

She waited, knowing what was coming next.

He asked, "Were some of my family at Zennor when she was buried?"

"There were flowers. Do not feel bitter about it. There was grief enough, I expect."

He did not reply. He was going over it again and again. Try-

ing to understand the reasons, trying to assemble the truth, even if he could never accept it.

He said, "I loved her so. Even she never knew how much."

"I think she did, Val."

"I must go there and see the grave. As soon as I have dealt with things here." He looked at her, his face drawn, as though grief had made him ill. "Will you come with me, Catherine? To that church where we were married?"

"Of course. There is no stone yet. That is for you to decide." She held his arm, not daring to look at him. "Of course I will come."

After a time he said, "You went to the Admiralty Was there any news of Adam?"

"He is alive and a prisoner of war; it was all they knew. We can only hope."

She told him what Bethune had said and Keen murmured, "I expect they know more than they care to make public." Then he turned and looked at her. "There is to be a reception for Sir Paul Sillitoe. I was told of it today."

She forced a smile. "I know. I was invited to attend." She thought of Bethune’s eyes when he had mentioned it. Perhaps she had imagined what she saw there, but she had never known a man she could trust completely. Except one.

Keen said, "Then let us go together, Catherine. Nobody could say anything about it, and under the circumstances…" He did not continue.

As if someone else had answered, she heard herself say, "My dear, I would be honoured." Richard would understand; and he would know that he might need friends like Sillitoe where their power carried real weight.

Keen said suddenly, "How is Richard?"

"He worries. About me and about Adam, about his men and his duty" She smiled. "I would not change him, even if I could."

The light had dimmed. "More rain, I think. We had better go inside."

The housekeeper was waiting ominously by the stairs, and Lucy could be heard sobbing somewhere.

The housekeeper glanced incuriously at Catherine’s hand on the rear-admiral’s sleeve. She said, "Just broke two more cups, m’lady! God, that girl will put me in the poorhouse!" She softened slightly. "I’ll fetch some tea."

They sat by the window and watched the leaves shiver to the first heavy drops of rain. The cat had disappeared.

Catherine said, "There was talk of your removal to a house in Plymouth?"

He shrugged. "No longer. The flag-officer there is expected to have a wife by his side." With sudden bitterness he added, "It will be another sea appointment for me. It cannot be soon enough for my liking!"

"Have you seen your father yet?"

He shook his head. "When I leave you, I shall go. I am sure he will be ‘working late in the City!’"

She wanted to hold him, like a child, or like Richard, ease his grief, heal his despair. There was no one else.

He said, "I should have known, don’t you see? I had so many plans for her, the boy too. I never once asked her what she wanted. She was like you, Catherine, a living, precious creature. She might have been lost in my world. She never told me. I never asked her."

The housekeeper came in with the tea and departed without a glance or a word.

Keen was saying, "If I had only been with her!" He looked at her sharply. "She did take her own life, is that not true? Please, I must know the truth."

"She was not herself, Val."

He stared down at his hands. "I knew it. I should have seen the dangers all along."

She asked quietly, "Do you remember Cheney, the girl Richard married and lost?"

He hesitated. "Yes. I remember her."

"Even though we are denied marriage and the acceptance of society-even though marriage may have scarred us-even though such things are impossible, we found one another again, Richard and I. Might not good fortune take your hand too, Val, and give you happiness once more?"

He got to his feet and released her hand.

"I must leave now, Catherine. I feel better for speaking with you… stronger, in some way." He did not look at her. "If there was ever such a good fortune, and things I have seen of late make me doubt it, then I could hope for no more admirable a woman than one like you."

She walked with him to the door, knowing very well what he had really meant. He was not just attractive and amusing company, in other circumstances; it went much deeper. It would not be difficult to love a man like him.

"I shall ask Matthew to take you."

He picked up his hat and looked at it, ruefully, she thought.

He said, "Thank you, but my carriage is waiting in the mews."

She smiled. "You did not wish to set the tongues awagging by leaving it at my door?"

On the steps he took her hand and kissed it gently. Few passers-by took any notice of them; nor could they or he, she thought, ever guess at her true emotions.

As he turned the corner Catherine stared across the river, remembering those other times. The Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens; laughter through the trees and the dancing lanterns; kisses in the shadows.

She touched her throat. Dearest of men, come back to me. Soon, soon.

The tray of tea still lay untouched on the table.

Sir Paul Sillitoe held out his arms so that Guthrie, his valet, could help him into his fine silk coat. As he did so, he glanced at his reflection in the windows. Guthrie brushed his shoulders and nodded with approval. "Very nice, Sir Paul."

Sillitoe listened to the sound of music from the wide terrace where the reception would be held. The whole place seemed to be full of flowers; his housekeeper had not spared the purse for this occasion. It was all sheer extravagance. He smiled at his reflection. But he felt elated, light-headed even, an alien sensation for one so habitually controlled.

He could hear carriages already clattering into his large driveway: friends, enemies, people with favours to ask once he had consolidated his position in the Lords.

Power, not popularity, was the key to most challenges, he thought.

He watched the opposite bank of the Thames, the great curve of Chiswick Reach still holding the late sunshine. There would be torches on the terrace, champagne and endless dishes for the guests to sample. More expense. This time he could not take it seriously.

Why had she decided to come? To congratulate him? It was unlikely. For a favour, then, or on some personal mission or intrigue, like the secret she had shared with him even before Bolitho knew it, when she had asked for his help on the death of her hated father in that stinking slum in Whitechapel. Quaker’s Passage, that was the name. How could she ever have lived there as a child?

But she was coming. And with Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen, another friend of Bolitho’s. Or was he? With his young wife dead-and Sillitoe’s agents had insisted that she had taken her own life-might he not look to the lovely Catherine for comfort?

If he held out such hopes, she would soon dissuade him,

Sillitoe thought. And if he persisted, his next appointment might well take him back to Africa and beyond.

He patted his stomach. Flat and hard. Unlike so many men he knew, he took care to use his energy in play as well as work. He enjoyed riding and walking; for the latter he usually had his secretary Marlow trotting beside him while he outlined the letters and despatches for the day. It saved time.

Swordsmanship was another of his interests, and he was rarely beaten in mock duels at the academy where he exercised.

And if the need commanded him, he would go to a particular house where he was known to the proprietor and her girls, and where his peccadilloes would be respected.

When he received his title he would have achieved everything he had planned, and would still retain his influence over the Prince Regent when he was eventually crowned King.

A complete life, then? He thought of Catherine Somervell again. Perhaps it still could be.

His valet saw him frown and asked, "Is something amiss, Sir Paul?"

"I shall go down, Guthrie. It would be churlish not to be present from the beginning."

As his guests were announced Sillitoe smiled, and said much the same to each one. Not precisely a welcome, but an acknowledgement that they came out of respect. Or fear. The thought gave him immense satisfaction.

His eyes moved restlessly to the great arched entrance, then to the bewigged footmen sweating in their heavy coats as they bustled with trays of glasses, while others stood at the long tables of food, bowing over their charges like priests at an altar loaded with offerings.

Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune and his frail-looking wife. Two or three generals and their ladies, politicians and merchants from the City Rear-Admiral Keen’s father had at first been unable

to accept the invitation, pleading a previous engagement. Sillitoe had seen to that.

The footman tapped his staff on the marble floor.

"The Viscountess Somervell!" A pause. "And Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen!"

The noise of conversation faded away like surf dying on a beach as Sillitoe took her hand, and kissed it.

"It was so gracious of you to come, Lady Catherine."

She smiled. "How could I not?"

Sillitoe offered his hand to Keen. "It is good to have you back at home, sir. Tragic news, of course. My sincere condolences."

To Catherine he said, "I will see you again very shortly." His eyes lingered on the diamond fan at her breast. "You do me too much honour."

Catherine and her escort walked out on to the terrace as the conversation buzzed into life once more.

Keen said, "I am never certain of that man."

"You are not the first, Val." She took a goblet from a tray. "Or the last. It is as well to be wary of him."

She had not expected to be participating in any social activities during what had been intended as a brief visit to London, and had brought only one suitable evening gown, a particular favourite of Richard’s. It was of kingfisher-blue satin, so that her piled hair seemed to reflect in it as if she stood above moving water.

But it was cut very low, and she knew that the sunburns she had suffered in the shipwreck were still visible after nearly four years. So long, she thought, how could the time have passed so quickly? She would not allow herself to dwell on the precious hours and days she had spent with Richard since then, because they could never be relived, could never be had back again.

The torches were lit, and the lights and the river reminded her sharply of the pleasure gardens where she had taken him.

To her surprise she recognised Valentine Keen’s father, who had been ushered in without any announcement and presented to Sillitoe. She heard Sillitoe say silkily "I am so grateful'you changed your arrangements." Neither of them smiled.

Sillitoe glanced up at an overly ornate clock and left his place by the doors.

Then he saw them and came to join them, taking a glass as he passed a footman.

"I have done my part as host, Lady Catherine. Now let me bask in the light which you seem to create wherever you go." He barely glanced at Keen. "Your father is here, sir. He craves a word. I think it may be useful if you oblige him."

Keen made his excuses and left to look for his father. He had said nothing of his relationship with the rest of his family, but he appeared angry at the interruption.

"Was that true, Sir Paul?"

He looked directly at her. "Of course. But I do see a rift between father and son, which is a pity. Over the girl from Zen-nor, no doubt."

"No doubt." She refused to be drawn.

"Why, Sir Paul!" It was Vice-Admiral Bethune, with his wife. "May we both offer our congratulations?" But his eyes moved too often to Catherine.

Bethune’s wife said, "A pity Sir Richard cannot be so rewarded for all that he has done for England."

Sillitoe was, for once, caught off guard.

"I am not certain what…"

She said rudely, "A peerage such as yours, Sir Paul. After all, Lord Nelson was so honoured!"

Bethune said angrily, "You have no right!"

Catherine took another glass of champagne and found a few seconds to thank the footman. She was inwardly burning with anger, but her voice was quite calm.

"If Sir Richard and I were parted, madam, he would still not return to his wife, but then I am certain you know that already."

Bethune almost dragged his wife away, and Catherine heard him muttering, "Do you desire to ruin me?"

Sillitoe said, "I should have prevented it. I know something of that woman’s spite."

Catherine smiled but her heart was still beating furiously. No wonder Bethune had eyes for other women. He surely deserved better.

Sillitoe said abruptly, "Let me show you something of the house."

She said, "Very well, but not for too long. It would be discourteous to my escort."

He smiled. "You seem to have a habit of provoking sea officers, my dear."

They walked along a colonnade and up a staircase, which was bare of any paintings except one, of a man in dark clothing, a sword with an outdated basket hilt at his hip. Despite the neat Spanish-style beard and the clothing, it could have been her companion.

He was watching her profile, the smooth curve of her breasts, her breathing shown only by the diamond pendant.

"My father."

She looked at it more closely. It was strange that she knew nothing about this man but his present power, and his confident use of that power. It was as though a door or a locked chest had been opened for the first time.

"What was he like?"

"I barely knew him. My mother was in poor health and he insisted we were in the West Indies as little as possible. I yearned to be with him. Instead I was sent to school, where constant bullying taught me that it was sometimes necessary to hit back."

She turned her head to change the light on the portrait. Even the same hooded, compelling stare.

The West Indies. He had mentioned his estates in Jamaica and elsewhere. He was obviously very wealthy, but still lacked satisfaction.

She said, "Was he a man of business, or a courtier like his son?"

He took her arm and guided her to a wide balcony, which overlooked the terrace with its flickering torches and the river beyond.

He gave a harsh laugh. "He was a slaver. A Black Ivory captain. The best!"

She heard her gown hissing against the balustrade, the din of voices from the terrace. It looked so far away.

"You are not disagreeable to that, Lady Catherine?"

"They were different days." She thought suddenly of Tyacke, coming to their rescue in his brig Larne. "There will always be slaves, no matter what people promise and pretend."

He nodded. "A wise head as well as a beautiful one."

They reached the end of the balcony and she said, "I think we must go back."

"Certainly." He seemed to be grappling with something. "I must say, Lady Catherine, that you are quite lovely. I can take care of you-you would want for nothing. There would be no more scandal, no harm done to you by simpering fools like Bethune’s wife. Believe me, I would see to that!"

She stared at him. "Can you see me as your mistress, what it would do to the one and only man I love?"

He gripped her arms. "As a wife, Lady Catherine. That is what I am asking you. As a wife."

She released herself gently and slipped her arm through his.

"I am sorry, Sir Paul. I thought…"

"I can imagine." He pressed her arm against his side. "Let me hope?"

"You overwhelm me." She glanced at his face, but saw only the man in the portrait. "Once I came to you for aid. I shall not

forget. But do not hurt me or Richard if I decline."

"Ah, your escort is approaching!"

She turned, but Sillitoe seemed quite composed. It was as though she had imagined all of it.

When he had withdrawn, Keen asked suspiciously, "What happened? I was concerned for you."

She saw heads turning, mouths whispering behind fans on this humid summer’s night. She thought of Sillitoe’s words, his cool pride for his father.

"He showed me some of the house. And you?"

"My father had some wild plan for me to leave the navy. He has just signed a deed of contract with the East India Company. Expansion, progress, you know the kind of language he uses."

Catherine watched him with sudden concern. He had been drinking rather heavily and had lost some of the confidence she had seen in Chelsea.

Keen said, "He doesn’t understand. The navy is my life. My only life, now. The war will not last for ever, but until it ends I shall stand in the line of battle as I have been entrusted to do!"

His voice was louder than he had intended. She said gently, "You speak very much like Richard."

He rubbed his eyes as if they were hurting him. "Richard, oh Richard! How I do envy you!"

Sillitoe appeared as if by magic. "You are leaving, Lady Catherine?" His glance flickered to Keen. "Are you quite safe?"

She offered her hand and watched him kiss it. Like an onlooker.

"Safe, Sir Paul?" She touched the diamond pendant on her breast. "I am always that!"

She knew he was still watching them as Matthew brought the carriage smartly around the drive to the steps.

An eventful evening, and a disturbing one. She would write

to Richard about it. No secrets. There never would be between them.

Keen leaned against her and she guessed he was falling asleep. The ride from Portsmouth, London and then his father trying to force his plans on him again. Did he have no remorse, no sense of shame that Zenoria had been allowed to throw herself away while in the care of the family?

She watched the trees flitting past in the moonlight and wondered where Indomitable lay, what Richard was doing.

She felt Keen’s face on her shoulder. Drowsy but not asleep. She could smell something stronger than champagne; his father’s idea, no doubt.

She pressed her head back against the cushions and tried to hold her breath as she felt his lips on her skin, gentle and yet more insistent as he murmured, "Oh, Catherine!" He pressed his lips on the curve of her breast and kissed her again, his breath hot, desperate.

Catherine clenched her fists and stared into the shadows. His fingers were on her gown, she could feel it moving, her breast rising out of it, to his mouth.

Then his hand fell across her legs, and with great care she moved him back on to his seat.

She rapped on the roof and when Matthew answered she called, "We shall take the admiral to his father’s house."

"You all right, m’lady?"

She smiled but her heart made it a lie, and readjusted the gown.

"I am always safe, Matthew."

She waited for her breathing to steady. It had been a near thing. The thought shocked and disturbed her.

Was that what loss and loneliness could do?

When they reached the Keen town residence in a quiet, leafy

square she watched a footman hurrying down the steps to meet the carriage. Was he always there, night and day, just in case someone arrived?

The idea made her want to laugh. She touched Keen’s shoulder and waited for him to recover himself. She knew that if she allowed it, there were more likely to be tears, which she would be unable to stop.

Keen said, "Shall you come in and meet my father?"

"No. It is late." She could sense Matthew listening and added, "I leave for Falmouth shortly."

He took her arm and peered at her in the darkness. "I wronged you, dear Catherine! I was beside myself."

She put her finger on his lips. "I am not a piece of stone, Val."

He shook his head. "You’ll never trust me again. I must have been a fool."

She said, "I will take you to Zennor. So I must trust you."

He kissed her on the mouth and she could feel herself tensing, until just as gently he moved away.

Matthew flicked the reins and watched the house slide away into darkness. What would they say in Falmouth if they could see him driving to all these fine houses and places they’d never even heard of?

He thought of the young officer he had just delivered, and relaxed slightly before pushing a heavy cudgel back under his cushion.

Admiral or not, if he had laid a finger on her ladyship he’d not have woken up for a week!

Then, whistling softly between his teeth, he turned the horses’ heads once more towards the river.