Heart of Oak

2. Alive Again

The girl named Lowenna winced as her hip jarred against a small table, but she made no sound. She was more aware of the silence, and the floor that was like ice under her bare feet. She could not even remember getting out of bed, and yet her whole body was shivering, and she knew it was not only the cold.

The room was in complete darkness, and yet she thought she could discern the outline of a window, which had not been visible before. Before when? Nancy Roxby, Adam's aunt, had stayed with her for most of the day, making sure she was not alone even for a walk along the headland, where the wind off Falmouth Bay had been like a whetted knife.

She composed herself, running her fingers through her long hair to free it from beneath the thick shawl, which she did not recall taking from the chair.

The house was quiet. Still, as if it were listening. She pulled the shawl closer and felt her heart under her hand. Still beating too fast. The end of a nightmare: the nightmare. But why now? The long struggle was over. With the care and persistence of her guardian, she had won, although she shuddered now at the memory of pain and brutal violation, her pleas and screams only inciting worse attacks. Sometimes she seemed to hear her father's voice, sobbing and imploring them to stop, as if he were the victim.

She walked toward the window, her feet soundless, calming her mind as she had taught herself to do. Nothing could soil this day. Adam was arriving in Falmouth. Today. It was not a dream, or some cherished hoard of memories, it was real. Now.

She untied a cord and dragged open the heavy draperies. It was still dark, with only a hint of grey to distinguish the land from the sky. Not even a star, nor had there been when she had crossed to this window during the night. Or did I dream that, too? What was Nancy doing, she wondered. She had been born here, in the old Bolitho house, the daughter of another naval captain. She gripped the cord until it hurt her fingers. Like Adam. Nancy, always busy with the affairs of her own estate, and much of the time with this one. She had two grown children and two grandchildren, who lived somewhere in London. Her husband, the formidable Lewis Roxby, was dead, but she seemed unbreakable. A gentle woman, but firm when necessary, she was nearly sixty years old, and always surprised that she could still turn a man's head when she passed.

Lowenna found a handle and carefully forced open the window. There was no wind, but the air took her breath away and touched her hair like frost. As if she were naked.

She closed it, but not before she had heard a voice below the wall around the drive from the stables. They were up and about, preparing for the arrival of the Bolitho carriage. How did they know? The roads in February could be treacherous, even though Young Matthew, as they still called the senior coachman, was said to know them better than any one.

Adam would be collected from an inn on the outskirts of Truro. She shivered again. Perhaps not far from the Old Glebe House, where she had posed for Sir Gregory Montagu and found her courage and her pride again. And where life had changed, when Adam had been directed through Montagu's big, untidy studio. It had been fate: good fortune or destiny, who could tell? And how much of those two years since their meeting had they shared? Weeks, or only days? Now was not the time to reckon them.

She found the lantern near the door and opened its shutter. It was not much of a light; somebody would deal with it later.

Like everything else in this house.

When would she stop being merely a visitor here and become a part of it? Like the midshipman who had once been Adam's servant. He was here now, and this was his only home.

Or did he still regard it as a refuge? Like me.

Most of the time this house was empty but for those who cared for it, and the ghosts of vanished Bolithos whose portraits lined the landing and hung in the fine old study. And the latest portrait of Adam, who was adamantly not a ghost, gazing from the canvas throughout the months of his long absence, wearing the yellow rose on his uniform coat. My rose… Montagu had asked for her advice: the portrait had not been quite right, not to his satisfaction. They had discussed it, and together they had found what was lacking: that elusive smile.

Now it was Adam.

She glanced at the window again. Brighter? Yes. She allowed herself to smile. Not a dream. He was coming home. And I am not afraid.

If only Montagu had lived to see and share her hopes and happiness, but he had never recovered from the terrible injuries suffered in the fire which had destroyed the Old Glebe House.

The Last Cavalier, Adam had called him. Always alert, dedicated, and passionate. Ageless, with his neat, rakish beard; even the paint-daubed smock he usually wore could never conceal his courtly charm. It was so easy to imagine a rapier replacing the brush.

She had been his ward, and he had saved her life. After I tried to end it.

She thought of the last time she had been with Adam, at the old boatyard where Montagu had often gone when he wanted to work on a painting undisturbed. They had been alone, and became the lovers in fact that they had been in name. was not afraid.

She could hear Montagu's voice, almost the last words he had spoken to her before the doctors had turned her away.

Destiny, my girl. Fate.

How many times had she clung to those dying words.

She heard some one whispering outside the door, the clink of glass or metal. It was time.

"Thank you, Gregory. So much. "She could see him clearly, turning from a new canvas, a quizzical smile above the jaunty beard. The Last Cavalier.

Nancy, Lady Roxby, waited until the doors had closed behind her and held out her arms, her eyes shining with pleasure and emotion.

"It is so good to see you, Adam! "She hugged him, imagining the smell of the sea on his clothing, her face cold against his.

"You must be tired out!"

Adam released her and looked at the girl, still standing in the arched entrance, surprised and a little unnerved by the warmth of the welcome.

It had been mid-morning when the carriage, with Young Matthew on the box, had swung around the curved drive and pulled up beneath the leafless trees. "Grand to have you home again, Captain Bolitho! "His cold-reddened face had split into a grin, and other figures had appeared as if to a signal. Some Adam knew only by sight. Others had always been part of his life, like old Jeb Trinnick, who had been in charge of the Bolitho stables as long as any one in the family could recall.

And there were faces he did not recognize, and some far older than when he had last seen them.

In this mood it had been overwhelming, although he should have been prepared for it. A Bolitho was back from the sea.

Smiles, shouts of greeting, others running to calm the horses. And Nancy leading the way, smiling, close to tears as he had known she would be. And then he saw Lowenna at the foot of the steps.

Less than a year: only a dog watch, the deepwater Jacks would say, but not to those who were always left behind.

He had held her, his hands on her waist, how long he did not know. As if they had been quite alone. She had turned her head very slightly and he had felt her shiver, or brace herself as she said, "I've waited.

He bent to kiss her cheek, but she had turned her face suddenly, and he had kissed her mouth. Like that other time… Let them think what they like.

And now they were here. Some one was whistling; the carriage was moving away from the entrance. He heard a dog barking somewhere and a girl laughing, cut off sharply as if admonished by one of her superiors.

Lowenna unfastened the cloak from her shoulders. It was the same old boat cloak, cleaned and patched a few times. All those vigils along the headland or a beach somewhere, watching for the first sign of a ship. The ship.

He said, "There's so much…"

She reached out and touched his lips. "Hold me. "She let her arms fall. "Just hold me."

Nancy watched them and then turned away, her heel catching on her own cloak, which she had thrown in the direction of a chair. "I must do a few things. I've arranged your room."

She picked it up. Neither of them had heard her. She was moved, and disturbed also, that she could still feel envy and loneliness.

When she glanced back, Adam's arms were around Lowenna without apparent pressure or insistence. One of the girl's hands clenched slightly into a fist, and she knew that he was stroking her hair.

There was a tang of woodsmoke in the cold air: fresh fires being lit. Nancy rubbed her eyes. She was not going to cry, not today.

The old house would be alive again.

Luke Jago stood back from the chair and wiped the scissor blades on a cloth.

"There, smart as paint. Good enough for an admiral. "He grinned. "One on "alf pay, anyways!"

David Napier glanced across at the old desk, where the chair he had been occupying usually stood. It had been replaced by a larger version, more accommodating to Daniel Yoveil's portly shape. Even the desk seemed to have changed, with all the familiar ledgers and accounts but some leather-bound files as well, and a neat pile of dockets weighted with a large conch shell.

Even now, if a floorboard creaked or a door banged open, Napier still expected to see Bryan Ferguson, the one-armed steward of the estate.

Jago was dusting hairs from his sleeve.

"Better get yer shirt on. I seen a lad breakin "ice at the pump just now."

Napier smiled. It was something to say, to help him in his own hard fashion. Jago could read your thoughts, if you let him.

It was stifling in the estate office, and the stove was roaring like a furnace. Even the cat, which was usually close by, had apparently found it unendurable.

He regarded himself in the spotted mirror that hung over a bookcase. His skin was still brown from the Caribbean sun. He balanced, tentatively, on the wounded leg, and tried to take his weight evenly on both, as the surgeon had insisted.

"Thank you. It looks fine."

"A good seaman can turn "is wits to anythin', given the chance."

Napier could hear the surgeon again. It could have been much worse. That was probably what they had told Ferguson when they had taken off his arm at The Saintes.

It was sometimes impossible to remember the order of things. Audacity reeling under the bombardment of the great guns invisible on the shore. The captain cut down, and the deck exploding around them as the heated shot turned the lower hull into hell. Men dying, others still standing to their guns, until they had no escape but the sea.

He heard some one call out, and the clatter of wheels. Yovell had gone down to speak with one of the local carters. He seemed able to deal with everything: an admiral, a captain, and now a Cornish estate. He felt his hair again. Good enough for an admiral. And so it was. He was happy to be back with Jago after his brief service in the frigate: Jago, who hated officers.

Jago, who had insisted on taking him out to join…

Jago was at the window. "Lot of new faces since we paid off Unrivalled. The Cap'n'll be thinkin "as much, I reckon. "He turned. "Th "big day today, eh? Th "Cap'n an' his lady will be on their way to see the GЦ "He had been about to say "God bosun'. "Preacher, round about now."

Napier pulled on his shirt, and saw the coat with its white collar patches lying across a chest. Twelve days since he had arrived here, with the wound reopened and the former cavalryman bandaging it in the carriage. It could have been so much worse.

He had never known such a welcome. They had even given him his own room, which looked out across fields. You "we seen quite enough of the sea for a while, my lad! Except when he slept, and the stark, flaming nightmare came back. He had not served in Audacity long enough to know many of her people, but, as always, her captain stood out.

Twenty-eight years old, "the same age as my ship', he had said.

A good officer, with a quick eye for efficiency or otherwise, but never preoccupied or too superior to offer advice or solve some problem. They had died together.

And now Captain Bolitho was going to the church with the girl with the long dark hair. Beautiful… He could not have put it into words, or told any one. That first night in the room, she had come to him, soothed him as she might have calmed a child, driving away the shame he had felt as he had awakened screaming from a ship exploding, masts falling in flames like broken wings.

She had whispered, "I understand. "And backed away, her last words lingering. "I understand. Our secret."

Napier had been there when the captain had arrived home, had stood and watched with all the others and seen him reach out for her. She had looked directly at the midshipman.

Perhaps in some strange way, they had helped one another. Our secret.

Jago was saying, "You'll have to look yer best, see. There's to be some sort of Up Spirits for all hands tonight."

Jago never used his name, and had only called him "mister" in front of others on the long passage from Antigua to Plymouth. Was the barrier, the old resentment, still lying in wait? "What will you do?"

He shrugged. "Oh, me an' old Dan Yovell will likely have a glass or two. Mrs. Ferguson, "a slight hesitation, "Grace'll serve up somethin "extra grand just for us."

It needed no words. They had only met Bryan Ferguson a few times, in welcome or farewell. Always here. He thought of Audacity's captain, and the others he had seen put over the side. At least Grace had been with her man almost to the very end.

In his mind he saw the girl with the long dark hair. She would be a sailor's wife. Would she be comparing their lives? He heard Yoveil's voice and that of some one else, and a horse being led across the cobbles.

The door banged open, the air bitter.

The newcomer was tall, erect, authoritative. Napier recalled seeing him once or twice before. Not young, but one who took care of his appearance.

"God, it's like a bakehouse in here! "He laughed. "Sorry to disturb you!"

Yovell closed the door quietly and padded to the desk. "This is Mr. Flinders, from the Roxby estate. We lend one another a hand from time to time. "He frowned slightly, allowing the gold spectacles to drop on to his nose. "This shouldn't take long."

Flinders glanced at the hair clippings around the chair.

"Not very ship-shape, I'd say! "He laughed again, too loudly.

"Don't this lad have work to do?"

Yovell opened his mouth but said nothing as Jago reached over to pick up the jacket, and held it across Napier's shoulders.

"Why don't you ask him?"

Flinders stared at Jago and then at the white patches.

"Of courseЦ sir. I was forgettingЦ so much on my mind at present. "Like magic, Napier thought; the strong teeth, the grin, was back.

Yovell pursed his lips.

"I have the details of the slate delivery. We can save money, by my estimation."

Flinders bobbed his head. "Course. Good thinking. There are bound to be changes on both estates. I shall always be on hand to help if I'm needed."

He looked at Jago. "You're Captain Bolitho's man, right?"

Jago seemed to relax.

"His cox'n. Right?"

Flinders peered out of the window as a horse was led back across the stable yard.

"I must go, er, Daniel. Thought I should come by. You'll need all the help you can get with a new lady in the house. "He ducked his head to Napier. "And good day to you, young sir."

He turned his back on Jago and strode out of the office.

Jago breathed out slowly.

"Wouldn't trust that one within half a cable of a woman I cared about! "He shook his head at Yovell as if he might dispute it. "Ashore or afloat. His sort's always the same when women are on hand. Like a rat up a pump!"

Yovell looked meaningly at Napier and made a point of shuffling his papers.

"You've made an enemy of that one, Luke. But you already know that."

Jago touched the midshipman's jacket again.

"Let's go an' test that leg o "yours. We need some fresh air anyways after that little lot!"

Napier looked back from the door and found Yoveil's eyes on him, a fresh quill neatly grasped in his teeth, outwardly shocked by Jago's crude comment. Disapproving.

But he winked.

They stood side by side, very aware of the silence, the only sound their steps in the aisle as they walked from the main doorway. The sky had cleared during the morning, right across the bay. So bright that here in the chill of the parish church of King Charles the Martyr it took time to distinguish shadow from substance. Light filtered from the arched windows and reflected on the ranks of pews, and burnished the great cross and candlesticks on the high altar.

In one of the chapels faded banners and flags were on display, mementoes of old ships and the men who had fought them. Lowenna had told him of the time she had been here with Nancy and by chance they had met Thomas Herrick, his uncle's oldest friend. What twist of fate had brought them together?

And the pew where Lowenna had been sitting on that other day, their hands daring to touch, with no one to warn or discourage. When they had driven back to the old house, and his recall to duty had been waiting.

And the day when this same church had been packed to overflowing, to remember and to mourn Falmouth's most famous son, Sir Richard Bolitho. The flags had been dipped, while out at her anchorage the frigate Unrivalled… my ship… had fired a salute. Catherine had been beside him.

Adam touched her hand and felt her pull off the glove, her fingers warm and responsive. No words. Because they had been together so little, some would say. Or maybe there were none adequate for this moment.

Then he turned and looked at her, her hair catching the colours of the light from the stained glass, her dark eyes still in shadow. He heard the rustle of paper, a muffled cough. This great church, so much a part of Falmouth, was never empty.

Just a few anonymous shapes, bowed heads seeking some peace, or respite from everyday events. From life itself.

She was dressed in pale grey today, a soft, loose gown, reminding him of their first meeting. Doubt, uncertainty; perhaps they had both been afraid.

He said, "I love you, Lowenna."

Her fingers moved in his. "Are we truly here?"

Only a whisper, but one of the bowed heads lifted and cleared its throat.

"So much I want to say…"

Somewhere overhead, in another world, a clock began to chime.

Suppose something goes wrong? She might still change her mind.

They had scarcely been alone together. So many things to be done, and for the sake of appearances, as Nancy had said. She had made light of it, but she meant it.

Lowenna would be thinking about it, with so many reminders of the past on every hand. Famous names, great events, proud as well as tragic, but always the inevitable sadness.

He thought of all the ships he had known. Each one had taken a part of him, and remained a part of him. What would she have? Glances, rumours? Like a cutlass on the stone, every version of the story would sharpen with retelling. He reached out and held her shoulders, so that they faced each other. He felt resistance, uncertainty, but before he could speak she whispered, "Take me, Adam. I don't care.

They both turned as the voice boomed out of nowhere, like an echo.

"Can you forgive me for keeping you waiting? Time is always at a premium when we most cherish it."

A big man with bushy white eyebrows, who took their arms in his and turned them toward a door by the chapel, as if, Adam thought, they had been friends for years.

"So let us not waste it, shall we? We will sit a while, and we can consider our options, eh?"

He guided them into a small, spartan room, not unlike the cell at the Admiralty.

The senior curate was bluff, outspoken and forthright.

Nancy had warned him that he might be surprised.

This church had had the same rector for over twenty years, but to her knowledge he had never once visited Falmouth. A good and reliable curate was, however, always on hand.

He was saying, "I have read your letter, Captain Bolitho, and Lady Roxby has kept me fully informed of the circumstances and your proposed marriage. A very good woman, never too busy to offer her assistance for the benefit of our parish."

He leaned back in the chair, his fingers interlaced across his stomach. Outwardly unconcerned, but Adam sensed that he missed very little.

"The last commission was cut short. I am awaiting orders…"

One hand lifted slightly. "Your recent exploits are well known. Many would suggest you might expect, even demand some release from duty. We are at peace now. But we must never allow ourselves to become complacent or unwary again."

The massive eyebrows wrinkled. "We in the Church must also stand to our guns, as it were, and be ready. "He stared up at the arched ceiling and intoned, "God and the Navy we adore When danger threatens, but not before." "And chuckled. "I don't recall who said that, but it is still, sadly, true."

He looked intently at Lowenna, and then at Adam.

"I cannot promise an early wedding, but I will do what I can.

This church is always open if you need help or comfort. I shall send word when we are able to confirm a date. "He gestured to some small, velvet-covered books. "We will join in prayer before you go."

The bell was ringing somewhere overhead, and there were whispering voices outside the door, and echoes from the body of the church.

The curate held out his hand.

"A pleasure, Captain. I would have spoken to you before, at Sir Richard's memorial service, but my time was not my own."

The handshake, like the smile, was genuine. How had he managed to remember, and mark him out? So long ago, and among so many people. He watched the big hands take Lowenna's.

"I hope we shall meet again very soon. Love is not always the most patient of messengers. "He nodded. "I knew Sir Gregory Montagu quite well. "Adam saw her tense, her chin lifting slightly, as if she were suddenly on guard. "Sometimes our views and concepts were at odds, but he was a man among men. Sorely missed."

Adam heard her murmur something and wanted to interrupt, but when he saw her face he knew there was no need. She said quietly, "He saved my life. Now I know why."

They stood outside the little chapel and looked along the nave. Nothing had changed; only the sunlight had shifted.

They began to walk slowly down the aisle, toward the entrance, where Francis was waiting.

There would be people coming to the house this evening, some strangers, curious or with minds already biased. She gripped his arm. Her eyes were no longer in shadow, and she was smiling with a radiance he had not seen before.

She reached up to touch his face.

"Take me home, Adam. "Three figures walked past, stepping aside to avoid them. They could have been invisible. "Time is an obstacle. It is not an enemy."

Francis had the carriage door open and watched them coming down the steps. It was going to be a long day, but he would tell his wife all about it when he got home, if she was still awake.

He was aware of some passers-by who had stopped to stare or smile. She looked so much the radiant bride.

Together.