In the King`s Name

4 DANGEROUS RENDEZVOUS

IN CORNWALL it had been a hard winter so far, but on this February morning the sky above Falmouth was clear and sunlit, at odds with further inland where the trees were still etched white with frost.

Not much wind, but what there was felt like a honed blade. There were plenty of people about, muffled up against the cold, and the hardier types behaving as if it were a spring day. A few, all women, waited by the fishermen’s wharf, but most of the boats were at sea or empty alongside. All the usual idlers waited on the waterfront, passing the time of day or waiting to share a drink with friends. A servant from the nearby inn had just been seen rolling an empty barrel across the courtyard, a welcome signal to the onlookers.

There had not been much movement in the harbour or Carrick Roads, but this day was different, and they were discussing the newcomer critically: a King’s ship, something of a rarity of late, with the exception of revenue cutters and naval supply vessels.

Many of the idlers were old sailors themselves, discharged, or thrown on the beach for a dozen different reasons. Many of them loudly proclaimed they were glad to be free of the navy and its harsh discipline, or various officers they had served in the past. Bad food and poor pay, and the constant risk of injury or death. But they were usually the first on the waterfront whenever a sail was sighted.

She was a brig, one of the navy’s maids of all work, busier than ever now with so many of the heavier vessels being paid off or scrapped. She was shortening sail as she turned slightly toward her anchorage, tiny figures spread out along the upper yards of her two masts, the canvas not even flapping as it caught the sunlight. Like her hull, the sails shone like glass and were hardened with salt and ice. A fine sight, but to some of the old hands watching from the shore she meant hazards as well as beauty. Fisting and kicking the frozen canvas into submission so that it could be furled and reefed was dangerous enough, but one slip and you would fall headlong onto the deck below, or into the sea alongside, where even if you could swim …

She was still turning, her sails almost aback, soon to be hidden by the old battery wall above the harbour. Only her masthead pendant showed to mark her anchorage. One man, who had brought a telescope, had seen the new arrival’s name and called out, “Merlin!”

But he was alone. His friends had drifted away.

Commander Francis Troubridge turned his back to the sun and stared at the land, the nearness of it. With the wind dropping to a light breeze, the approach had seemed endless. He would become used to it, with time and more experience. He had a good ship’s company; some had served aboard Merlin since she had first commissioned. One hundred and thirty all told. Hard to believe, he thought, when you considered she was only one hundred and five feet in length. Teamwork and companionship were vital. He looked at the houses, one above another on the steep hillside, but he could not see the church as he had the last time he had been in Falmouth. Only three months ago.

So much had happened since.

He glanced forward where men were stowing away loose gear, sliding down backstays, racing one another to the deck. A few were slower, quietly cursing the scrapes and grazes inflicted by the frozen canvas, which could tear out a man’s fingernails no matter how experienced a sailor he was.

Troubridge had come to know the names of most and remembered them, something he had learned as a flag lieutenant, when the admiral had always expected him to know everything. That was over. He was Merlin’s captain now. And she was his first command. And to most of these men he was still a stranger. It was up to him.

“Standin’ by, sir!”

He raised his hand above his head and heard the cry from the forecastle.

“Let go!”

The splash of the anchor and the immediate response as the cable followed it, men hastening it on its way and ready for any stoppages. There were none.

He had been in command for almost a year, and with previous experience, mostly at sea, he should have been used to it and prepared for anything. But at moments like this it was always new. Different. Beyond pride. If anything, what Troubridge felt was excitement.

“All secure, sir.” Turpin, his first lieutenant, was a square, muscular man who could move quickly when it suited him, from watching the anchor drop from the cathead, alert for any mishap, then aft again just minutes later. He was a born sailor with a strong, weathered face, and clear blue eyes that seemed to belong to someone else looking out through a mask at everything around him. And now at his captain.

Turpin had always served in small ships, and had originally been promoted from the lower deck. When Troubridge had first stepped aboard, Turpin had conducted him over every inch of the ship, pointing out every store and cabin space, messdeck, magazine, even the galley. Proud, even possessive. He was about ten years older than his captain, but if he cherished any resentment he had not revealed it.

Merlin’s previous commanding officer had been put ashore, taken suddenly ill with a fever he had picked up on the anti-slavery patrols. He had since died. But as is the way in the navy, nobody now mentioned his name.

Her second lieutenant, John Fairbrother, was younger than Troubridge and seemed to look upon Merlin merely as a stepping-stone to promotion. The brig also carried a sailing master, who, like Turpin, was very experienced with smaller vessels and had served on three oceans. And, surprisingly for her size, Merlin boasted a surgeon,

Edwin O’Brien, although now, with peace and the brig assigned to the Channel Fleet, his might remain a minor role. It might have been different on the slavery patrols, or hunting pirates in the Mediterranean, where in a ship often sailing alone a surgeon’s skill was paramount.

The four of them made up Merlin’s little wardroom. She carried no midshipmen or Royal Marines and ceremonial was kept to a minimum.

Turpin said, “We are here to await orders, sir?” It sounded like a statement, but Troubridge had come to accept that. The lieutenant hardly ever seemed to write anything down; he carried everything in his head.

Troubridge stared across the water and saw the church for the first time since that day. The Church of King Charles the Martyr, where he had had the honour of taking the lovely Lowenna up the aisle to become Adam Bolitho’s wife.

Turpin broke into his dream-like reminiscence with a blunt, “Memories, sir?” The blue eyes gave nothing away, but no doubt he was remembering that the admiral had granted special leave so Troubridge could attend the wedding.

He nodded. “Yes. Good ones.”

“Will you be going ashore, sir?”

“We’re to remain here for five days, as you know. If nothing changes we’ll take on board two Admiralty officials. Like our last mission, I’m afraid. Not very exciting.”

Turpin said sharply, “Better ‘n being laid up.” The slightest pause. “Sir.”

It was the first hint of envy, and Troubridge was surprised by it. If only …

Someone yelled, “Boat headin’ our way, sir!”

Turpin grunted, “Mail boat. See to it, Parker!”

Troubridge walked across the deck, past the big double wheel and polished compass box, and reached the side in time to see the mail boat already pulling away from the entry port, somebody waving his arm and calling back to Merlin’s side party.

A seaman was coiling some rope and avoided his eyes when Troubridge moved past him. Maybe it was always like this. Adam Bolitho had mentioned the loneliness of command, trying to prepare him.

Turpin’s shadow was beside him again. “Only two letters, sir. Don’t know we’re here yet, I reckon.” He thrust one out. “For you, sir.”

“Thank you.” Troubridge walked into the shadow of the mast, knowing Turpin was watching him. He broke the seal. Not a letter but a card, undated. He had never seen her handwriting, so how could he have known it was from her?I saw you anchor this morning. Welcome back.Visit us if you can.Lowenna.

He walked back across the deck and gazed at the houses and the church tower.

She must have heard from someone, maybe the coastguard, that Merlin was arriving in Falmouth today and had made a visit to the headland, or here to the waterfront to watch them anchor. She might even be over there now. He felt for the card again. She was just being courteous, and was probably always surrounded by friends.

Troubridge replaced the card in its torn envelope and slid it into his pocket.

Visit us. What else could she have said? If she only knew …

“Everything all right, sir?”

He waved and said something insignificant and Turpin turned away to deal with a supply boat which was about to come alongside.

What he had hoped for, even dreamed about; and apparently she had thought about him, too. They were good friends, for all sorts of reasons … Troubridge recalled exactly when he had wanted to tell her that he would always be ready to come to her, if she were ever in need. In the church that day before the ceremony. He had got no further than if ever… and she had touched his lips with her fingers, scented with autumnal flowers. I know, and I thank you, Francis.

He had never forgotten the time he and Adam Bolitho had broken down the door of a studio and found Lowenna standing over the man who had tried to rape her, the gown ripped from her shoulders, a brass candlestick poised over him. I would have killed him! And he had felt his own finger on the trigger of the pistol he was carrying.

He touched the card in his pocket. Like hearing her voice.

Turpin had rejoined him. “Can I do anything, sir?”

“I’ll need a boat in half an hour. I’m going ashore. Back before sunset. Send word to the revenue pier if you need me beforehand.”

Turpin glanced around conspiratorially, as if someone might be listening. “Somethin’ wrong, sir?”

Troubridge was staring after the mail boat, still pulling steadily toward the waterfront. “Something personal. I must leave a message. And thank you, Mathias, for your help.”

Turpin’s leathery face revealed surprise as well as concern. At having been allowed to share something he sensed was private, and also at the casual use of his first name. Then his face broke into a grin. “Leave it with me, sir.” He gestured to a bosun’s mate and added quietly, “Watch your back, eh?”

It was perhaps as close as they had ever been. But it was a beginning.

He would go below and write a short note to have taken up to the big grey house. After the flagship, Merlin‘s cabin seemed small. But it was a refuge, and it was his. Turpin had probably used it himself while he was waiting for the new commanding officer, or hoping for his own promotion.

Watch your back. But the immediate enemy was guilt.

Troubridge wedged his elbow against the seat as the vehicle lurched into another deep rut, hidden by one of the countless puddles left by heavy overnight rain.

Everything seemed to have happened so quickly that his mind was still reluctant to cope. A message, in a strong scholarly hand which he guessed belonged to Dan Yovell, the Bolitho steward, whom he had met several times, had been brought out to Merlin; the boatman had departed without waiting for any response. A carriage will be sent. And despite the weather and the roads, it was waiting for him on time.

Another face he remembered: Young Matthew, the coachman, who had driven them to the church that day. “Young” Matthew because his father, also Matthew, had been coachman at the estate before him. His father had died long since, but the nickname remained, although he was probably the oldest man there.

The carriage was a landau, new and beautifully sprung. Troubridge had seen some of them in London, and his admiral and Lady Bethune had used one while in residence there. The landau had twin hoods which folded right back and allowed the occupant to see and be seen, if the weather was kind enough. The hoods were made of greasy harness-leather, which had a strong smell when wet. Like now.

Once again he tried to grapple with his thoughts, but events were now out of his hands. There had also been a curt letter from the two Admiralty officials: their arrival would be a day later than expected. Sunday at noon. Equally curtly, it had stressed: No ceremonial. He had expected Turpin to be pleased about that, but if anything he had taken it as an insult. “Be different if we were a ship of the line, with a guard of honour, I suppose!”

Troubridge thought of it when he was leaving the ship: the trill of calls, Turpin doffing his hat and the boat alongside, oars tossed, ready to carry him ashore. Would he ever become used to it? Take it for granted as his right? He had heard Adam Bolitho say that if you did, you were ready for the beach. Or burial.

Once he had looked back at the brig, rolling easily in the offshore wind. Small, but able to give a good account of herself if challenged. She carried sixteen big thirty-two pounders, eight of them carronades. He had studied her figurehead, oblivious to the stroke oarsman watching him. The carver had produced a fine example of a merlin falcon, wings spread beneath the bowsprit, beak open, and ready to pounce, like a young eagle.

Troubridge could understand, and share, Turpin’s reaction to the message.

He saw two farm workers grin and wave mockingly as the landau splashed past them. The same two had overtaken them earlier when the deeply rutted track had slowed the horses to a walking pace.

There were a few cottages now, and he noticed that most of the frost had been melted by the rain. Two cows by a gate, breath smoking, and someone tying up dead branches, squinting at the vehicle clattering past. Then, around the side of a low hill, the sea, like water against a dam. Never far away, and in the blood of the people who lived here.

The landau stopped and he heard Young Matthew speaking to his horses, calming them as a heavy farm wagon splashed by, wheels almost touching theirs; greetings were exchanged, but even here he had noticed that Young Matthew kept a musket close to hand. He had said matter-of-factly, “This is called Hanger Lane, zur. Didn’t get that name for nothin’.”

Troubridge was unarmed. This was Cornwall.

He saw an inn lying back from the road. The Spaniards. Someone had mentioned it to him. It had been Thomas Herrick, Sir Richard Bolitho’s oldest friend; he was now rear-admiral, retired. He had shared the carriage too, en route to the wedding. Herrick had stayed at the inn and had spoken well of it. Just as well: it was the only accommodation around.

They were turning now, and Young Matthew leaned over from his box and peered through the window. “I have to stop and pick up somethin’, zur.” His eyes crinkled. “Bit too early when I came by this mornin’!”

Two figures had already hurried from somewhere, and Young Matthew waved to them. He was no stranger here, apparently.

He jumped down and stamped his boots on the cobbles. “Horses can do with a drink, too.” He opened the door and waited as Troubridge stepped down, wincing as the feeling returned to his legs and buttocks. “They roads do make a lot of folk seasick, zur.”

Troubridge noticed his arm was near enough to assist if required, and was reminded of his discreet understanding when the one-armed Herrick had arrived at the church. And the exchange of glances between the aging rear-admiral and the coachman. Appreciation, maybe more than that.

“I think you should step inside, zur. They always has a good blaze goin’ on days like this.” He looked at the sky and some rain spilled from his hat. “Wind do have changed. Us’ve seen the worst of it.”

He stumped beside Troubridge to the door and called to someone else. “Won’t be long, zur. I hope.”

Troubridge paused inside the dark entrance to get his bearings. The inn was old and had been added to and altered over the years. Perhaps Bolithos had paused here over the centuries on their way to join a ship, or return to one.

Like me.

“Can I fetch ‘ee somethin’, zur?”

“Thank you, no. I’ll be going directly.”

The inn servant wore an apron that touched the floor and had a feather duster protruding from his pocket, like a tail. “Then sit over’ ere, and get yer blood movin’ again!”

It was a high-backed seat, almost opposite one of the fires. Young Matthew was right. And there was probably more than one “good blaze” going today. He was aware of voices coming from a larger room close by. Maybe they were waiting for a local coach, or had horses stabled here.

He realised that the man in the apron was hovering nearby and said, “Perhaps I will have a drink. Something warm …”

“Taken care of, zur. Here in a trice!”

Troubridge relaxed slowly; the heat was doing its work. He felt as if he had just ended a watch on deck. Young Matthew had thought of everything. It was brandy with a measure of hot water. He felt it sting his tongue and knew there was not much of the latter. He would have to reward him in some way, and yet not offend …

Someone said, “That was the Bolitho carriage just drove in. Homeward bound, too. Must have been up an’ about bloody early.”

“I hear Cap’n Bolitho is at sea again.” A different voice, but Troubridge was now fully alert.

“Just got wed, too. What does she do with ‘erself while ‘e’s away?”

There was a harsh laugh. “Well, you know what they say. While the cat’s away, the mice will play! I could tell you things about that lady.”

The speaker must have shaken his head. “No, but not for much longer. I’ll have her beggin’ for it!”

Two things happened at once. Troubridge was on his feet and across to the connecting doorway, his eyes blazing. “Shut your filthy mouth, you drunken bastard, or I’ll do it for you!” At the same instant a door from the kitchen opened unhurriedly and Young Matthew paused to put a covered basket on the floor by his feet.

“Ready when you are, zur.” But he was looking at the loudmouth. “Surprised to find you here, Mister Flinders. With all that work goin’ on at your estate?” He looked directly at Troubridge and stooped to pick up his hat, which had fallen when he had jumped to his feet. “Finish your drink first, zur.”

Troubridge stared at the other man. Flinders. It meant nothing. And quite suddenly he was icily calm, as if he were watching the flash of gunfire and waiting for the fall of shot. He picked up the glass and said, “I’ll share it!” and threw the contents in the other man’s face.

Then he unfastened his boatcloak and folded it over his arm, replaced his hat and tugged it down over his forehead. He could hear deep breathing, and somebody retching in another part of the inn. But still nobody uttered a word.

Outside the rain appeared to have stopped, so that the puddles in the innyard seemed to glitter like fragments of broken glass. They walked to the landau without looking back, and Troubridge said abruptly, “Thank you. I’m sorry about the drink.”

One of the horses shook its head and rattled its harness, recognition or impatience. Young Matthew patted its neck and ears as he passed and said, “Easy, Trooper, we’m goin’ home now!” Then he opened the door and looked at Troubridge with only the hint of a smile. “What drink was that, zur?”

The road seemed in better condition hereabouts, and the horses were soon trotting briskly and, Troubridge noted gratefully, avoiding the ruts. There were several people about, and they overtook two farm workers plodding in the same direction. Surely not the same two? When so much had happened, and might have happened?

They had arrived, the curved driveway and the imposing grey house exactly as he remembered them. Even the old weathervane with the silhouette of Father Time against the sky.

Young Matthew’s boots hit the ground as he jumped down from his box, and others were appearing to hold the horses and take the basket from The Spaniards, or merely out of curiosity. There was another vehicle on the driveway, coachman and groom standing beside it, obviously waiting to depart.

Troubridge breathed out slowly. For a moment … But the doors had opened and he saw Nancy, Lady Roxby, waiting to greet him, her arms outstretched as he took off his hat and bowed over her hand. She was smiling, perhaps a little emotional as he stooped to kiss the hand, and clasped him around the shoulders.

“Francis, my dear! Welcome back!” She offered her cheek, and added, “Command suits you!” He must have glanced at the other carriage, and she shrugged. “Unexpected visitor. Just leaving-at last!”

Then she took his arm and together they walked into the spacious hallway. Some features he did not remember. Most of it was like yesterday.

And Nancy you could never forget. No longer young, she was Sir Richard Bolitho’s sister, but she had a beauty that never dimmed, and a wit to match it. She would deny both, but as Troubridge had seen for himself, heads always turned when she passed.

“Come and talk to me, Francis. The lady of the house will not be much longer.” She guided him into a large room that overlooked a garden and a line of leafless trees. It was well furnished, but his eyes were immediately drawn to a gilded harp, which stood with a stool beside it. He had heard about the harp and imagined it often.

When he turned, Nancy was seated on a couch, looking up at him.

“Sit down, Francis.” She gestured to a chair. “Get the chill out of your bones. I know too well what that road is like.”

He had not noticed how discreetly she had steered him toward the fire.

She was suddenly serious, even angry, one hand clenched into a small fist. “I heard you had words with our Mr. Flinders this morning.” She did not wait for confirmation. “This is Cornwall, remember? Bad news rides a fast horse!” She pushed some hair from her forehead; the gesture made her look even younger.

“I was told that he works on the estate, ma’am?”

“Did work! He was my steward.” She smiled thinly. “I gave him his marching orders this morning. I came here to tell Lowenna, but the carriage had already gone to collect you. Otherwise …” She glanced at the windows. “Well, the gentleman is leaving. About time, too!” There was a tartness in her voice that reminded him strangely of her nephew, Adam Bolitho.

Troubridge heard the wheels on the driveway and someone calling out to the coachman.

“I shall leave you both alone-you must have so much to talk about. I shall see you again presently, I hope, Francis?” She broke off as the door swung open.

It was Lowenna. She exclaimed, “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting like this! Jenna told me you had arrived, and in all that foul weather, too! And look at me!”

Troubridge took her hand and kissed it. She was wearing a long informal gown tied about her waist with a ribbon sash. Oddly, her feet were bare.

“He simply wouldn’t go. So many questions!” She turned her eyes from Nancy to Troubridge. “How lovely to see you, Francis. How long will you be in Falmouth?” He felt he was the only one in the room. She smiled again and touched her lips with her finger. “Ssh! I know, you’re not supposed to tell any one!”

Nancy looked at Lowenna’s robe with what Troubridge thought was disapproval. “Did he …?”

Lowenna laughed. “No, he only wanted to see my shoulders, to make a sketch or something.” She walked to the open fire and shivered. “Come into the study, Francis. There’s a proper blaze there.”

Nervous, excited, shy; he did not know her well enough to tell. You don’t know her at all.

She said, “I hated keeping you waiting.” She walked across the entrance hall, her bare feet soundless on the cold floor, and opened the library door. “That was Samuel Proctor. Sir Samuel, as he is now.”

Troubridge looked curiously around the big panelled room, at dark portraits and paintings of ships, men-of-war in action. He said, “I’ve seen some of his work. Fine pictures.”

She turned and stood with her back to the fire, smiling. “You are full of surprises, Francis. He was a friend of my guardian’s … or claims he was!”

She bent down to pick up a piece of cloth before using it to cover another painting, which stood against the bookcase that lined one wall. He had already seen it: the perfect body, her long hair across one shoulder. And the harp.

She was saying, “He painted Lady Hamilton. Poor Emma. She never lived to see it.”

She looked up and into his eyes, her chin lifted. Like that moment in the church. Pride or defiance? “He wants me to sit for him.”

“Are you pleased?”

“Honoured.” She touched his arm. “I want to hear about you, Francis. Your new ship, everything.” And then she looked away, just as suddenly. “I didn’t want it to be like this. I was told about this morning.”

“Lady Roxby?”

She did not answer. “I had told Young Matthew to stop at The Spaniards to collect some cheese. They make their own, and I remembered how you enjoyed it when you were last here.” She faced him again, and he could see her breathing. “It was some filth about me, wasn’t it?” She reached out and touched his lips, that intoxicating gesture. “I know. Elizabeth saw it before I did. She said he was ‘always watching.’”

She shuddered.

He said quietly, “I would have killed him.”

She gazed at him, her expression exactly as it had been captured in the painting. She repeated slowly, “Lovely to see you, Francis …” and drew in her breath as he put his arms around her. “Don’t. I’m not made of stone!”

But she could feel his hands on her back, her spine, and knew the gown had slipped from her left shoulder; she tensed as he kissed it.

Like a fantasy or a fever. Not the heat from the fire, but their own.

She heard herself say, “Stop,” and then in the next breath, “Kiss me.” She was pressed against him, their mouths making words impossible, their tongues sealing their embrace. He was kissing her shoulder again, and she had felt his hand against her skin. Her breast.

They stood quite still, their bodies a solitary shadow against the books. Somewhere a bell was ringing, and there was a sound of hooves. She buried her face against his shoulder. A single horse. But she could not move.

Now a man’s voice she did not recognise, and a woman’s: young Jenna.

She stood back and covered her bare shoulder. Her gown was dishevelled, and the ribbon sash unfastened.

He said, “Let me …”

But she could not look at him. She opened the door and saw Jenna standing with a man in uniform, his boots and spurs caked with mud.

“Who is it, Jenna?” How could she sound so calm?

The girl bobbed her head. “Courier-for the commander, ma’am.”

Troubridge walked past her, seeing the courier’s eyes flick over his uniform before he handed him a sealed envelope. He did not know the handwriting: the seal was enough.

He said quietly, “I must return to the ship.” He did not even say my ship.

Nancy was here now, glancing from one to the other. She had seen Lowenna’s gown; he hoped she could not imagine the rest.

Troubridge said, “A change of plan. My passengers are arriving a day earlier after all!”

Nancy said easily to the courier, “Something hot to drink before you go?”

“Why, thankee, m’ lady!” He clumped away.

Lowenna said, “I’ll tell Young Matthew. If I sent you with any one else, he’d never forgive me.”

It was over. And she thought she could hear Harry Flinders laughing.