Relentless Pursuit

13. Coming To Terms

THE. RUGGED STRETCH of parkland which ran down to the River Thames to mark the winding curve of Chiswick Reach was deserted. There were usually young riders exercising their skills here, as it was considered safe, at least during the daylight. It was July, and yet the wind off the river seemed cool, and strong enough to ruffle the bushes; the sky was almost hidden by cloud.

The smart landau in its dark blue livery stood alone, the matching greys resting now, shaking their harness after a lively trot across the park.

Catherine, Lady Somervell, tugged the strap and lowered one of the windows, tasting the air, the nearness of the river even though it was not visible from this place.

This place. She felt a shiver run through her. Why? Was it guilt, excitement? She stared across the park but only saw her own reflection in the glass. It was speckled with rain too. She shivered again.

There were two leafless trees standing apart from all the others. They had died long ago, but something or someone had decreed they should remain. It was said that they marked the last rendezvous for many duellists over the years. Pistol or blade; for officers from the nearby garrison, falling out over women or cards, or in a momentary fit of ill humour, it often ended here.

Her fingers tightened around the strap. Her husband had been killed in a duel. Someone else. She had never regarded him as a husband.

She heard the carriage creak as the coachman shifted his position on the box. Ready for anything. One of Sillitoe's men, most of whom looked more like prizefighters than servants.

He had not asked where she was going, or why. He would know. It was his way, and she had become used to it. Like this finely sprung carriage, unmarked, unlike his others, with the arms of Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick, the one he sometimes used for private business meetings. She shook herself, as if to drive it away. She had stopped questioning him.

She looked at her reflection again. The beautiful Catherine, who had won the hearts of the nation, and had been their hero's lover. Who had spurned the hostility and envy of society… She touched a lock of the dark hair at her brow. Until that man had fallen in battle and her world had ended.

She turned her thoughts aside, as a swordsman might parry a blade, and focused on Sillitoe.

Powerful, respected and feared. The man who had used his influence to keep her from Richard, and had never denied it. And yet he had been the rock which had saved her. From what? She still did not know.

She could sometimes even consider the horror of the night when she had returned unescorted to her little Chelsea house on the Walk. She would have been raped but for Sillitoe bursting into the room, where she had never slept again without remembering.

Now she lived in Sillitoe's house, which lay just around this sweeping bend of the Thames, and had accompanied him to Spain, on the excuse that she might help with his business affairs, as she spoke good Spanish. Or was the truth more simple, like the word whore carved on the door of the Chelsea house: because she needed him, now more than ever?

She often thought of her last visit to Cornwall, her talks with Richard's sister Nancy.

At first she had been tempted to return to Falmouth, and to live in the old house he had made into a home for her. She was, after all, used to spite and cruel gossip; it would have taken time, but they would have accepted her.

She knew even that was a lie. Nancy had said, envy and guilt walk hand in hand. She would know better than anyone.

And Adam, and his letters, which she had left unanswered. What else could she have done? She suspected that Adam knew as well as she what disaster would have resulted, intentional or otherwise.

The house by the river was almost spartan when compared with the mansions of other men of influence. And it would soon be empty, with only the servants to care for it, and memories she could only imagine. Like the portrait, alone on that wide landing, of Sillitoe's father, who had founded an empire upon slavery. There had been pride in Sillitoe's voice when he had spoken of him.

He might be thinking very differently now; rarely a day had passed when the issue of slavery did not appear in the newssheets. And now Algiers again. She controlled her breathing. Richard would have lived but for those ships at Algiers. Napoleon had landed in France after his escape from Elba; it had been inevitable. She thought suddenly of the man who was meeting her today. Now… Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune, a rising star in the Admiralty but still young, and alive. He should have relieved Richard in the Mediterranean. She had heard her lover say it so often; time and distance, wind and tide. A few days sooner, and he would have been replaced. Safe.

She heard the coachman shift again, the click of metal as he loosened the weapon he always carried. Something like a club, but it could change at the twist of a wrist to a foot-long stiletto.

"Comin', m' lady!"

She dabbed her eyes and looked again. A solitary horseman, approaching at a loose canter. Unhurried. Watchful.

She realised that it was the first time she had seen Bethune out of uniform. It was easy to recall her private visits to his office at the Admiralty. Up the back stairs, he had always called it.

She watched him wheel round towards the carriage. Another one who had done little to hide his feelings for her. The youngest vice-admiral since Nelson, with a brilliant career ahead, and a wife and two children to support his endeavours. He was taking a risk simply by meeting her today. She had never forgotten the savage cartoons, herself, naked and shedding tears while looking out at the assembled fleet. The caption Who will be next? had roused Sillitoe's fury more than anything she had seen; he was usually too clever to show emotion.

William called down, "This 'im, m' lady?" No chances, or he would answer for it.

Bethune swung down from his horse and doffed his hat.

She said, "Come in," and moved along the seat. Richard had always spoken warmly of him; Bethune had been a mere midshipman in the Sparrow, his first command, and he had never lost that youthful look.

Bethune was studying her.

He said, "We can always meet here, when you need to see me. It is secure enough."

She said, "It was good of you to come." It was not so easy after all. They were like strangers. But it was safer this way. "I have something for Adam." She groped in her shawl, knowing that he was watching her, as she had seen him do in the past. He had never forgotten that it had been he who had allowed her to return alone to Chelsea, when the nightmare had been waiting for her.

He had blamed himself, and his wife for conspiring with Belinda on that same night.

She said, "It is Richard's Nile medal. I think Adam should have it." She knew Bethune was about to protest. "Richard gave it to me at Malta. That last time." She faltered, and tried again. "I think he knew then that he was going to die. Adam must have it. It will help him."

His hands closed around hers to cradle the little package.

"I will attend to it. Unrivalled will be at sea, but I can make arrangements." The grip remained firmly on her hands. "You are looking wonderful, Catherine. I think about you constantly." He attempted to smile, the midshipman again. "I did think that you might have married."

He hesitated. "Forgive me. I had no right."

She released her hands and smiled at him for the first time.

"I lost my way. And what of you, Graham?"

"Their lordships are very demanding at times." He seemed to come to a decision. "I have been hearing a great deal of Sillitoe's involvement with the slave trade. I am certain that he is in no way a party to the continuation of such illegal dealings, but his other connections may bring criticism. The Prince Regent, as you may know, has discontinued his seals of office. Some people are quick to forget past favours."

She nodded. She did not know about the Prince Regent. He had already revoked Sillitoe's appointment as Inspector General. Because of rumour. Because of me.

Bethune cocked his head to listen to a church clock somewhere.

"I have heard that Lord Sillitoe intends to visit the West Indies, some of his old interests?" He took her hands again, and this time he did not release them. "I would ask that you do not accompany him. I would feel safer if you remained in England." He looked at her openly. "In London. Where I might see you. Do not seek trouble for yourself, I beg you, Catherine."

She felt him touch her face, her hair, and she was suddenly ashamed. Is this what I have become?

The door opened and closed and Bethune was looking up at her again.

He said quietly, "Remember. I am always ready. Always at your call… but you know that?"

She watched him swing easily into the saddle. My own age? Younger? She wanted to laugh. Or cry.

"Back to the house, please, William."

The river came into view, a few coloured sails on the grey water.

But all she saw was the door.

Whore.

Unis Allday walked slowly across the inn yard and felt the sunshine hot across her neck and bare arms. She enjoyed it, even after the heat of the kitchen and the baked bread, fresh from the oven. It was afternoon, in some ways the best time of the day, she thought.

She looked at the front of the inn, freshly painted and welcoming, a place to he proud of. She waved to a passing rider, one of the estate keepers, and received a greeting in return; they all knew her now, but nobody took liberties with her. If they did it would only he once, small though she was.

Even the inn sign had been repainted, The Old Hyperion under full sail. To strangers passing through Fallowfield, on the fringe of the Ilelford River, it might be just another name for a local inn, but not to Unis, or the man she had married here. Hyperion was a real ship, and had taken one husband from her in battle and given her another, John Aliday.

She could smell the paint. The two additional rooms for guests were almost finished; the new road nearby would bring coaches, and more trade. They had done well, despite, or perhaps because of the struggle at the beginning.

At noon it had been busy, with men in from working on the road, and they were young men, proof that the war was truly over. Men who could walk free without fear of a press-gang, or the misery of returning home crippled and unwanted.

She thought of her brother, the other John, who had lost a leg fighting in the line with the Old Thirty-First. Now, at least, he would talk about it, instead of looking upon his injury as some kind of personal failure. Without him she would never have managed to build the inn into a successful, even prosperous business.

She heard the clatter of glasses and guessed it was Tom Ozzard, our latest recruit, John had called him. Another link, a veteran from that other world she could only imagine. Sir Richard Bolitho's servant, who had been with him until the day he had been killed. Out of nowhere, Ozzard had appeared here in Fallowfield, more like a fugitive than a survivor. A man haunted and hunted by something, and she knew that but for John's sake she would never have considered offering him a roof, and work which he understood.

Despite his dour and sometimes hostile manner he had proved his worth, with wine, and with some of the more demanding customers, auctioneers and traders in particular. An educated man, he had made the inn's bookkeeping and accounts seem simple, but he never shared a confidence, and she sensed that even her John knew little about him beyond that world they had shared at sea.

She saw a shadow pass the parlour door. It was Nessa. Tall, dark-haired, and rarely smiling, but she would turn the head of any real man. Her brother John, for instance. But it was hard to know if there was anything between them. Turned out by her parents because she had conceived and lost a child by a soldier from the Truro garrison, Nessa had become part of the family here, and had rejected the past. And she was so good with little Kate, necessary at a busy inn when you needed six pairs of eyes at once.

The Old Hyperion was doing well, and would do even better. She paused, one hand on the wall, the bricks almost as hot as new bread. So why was she worried?

She thought of the big, shaggy, some might say ungainly man who had burst into her life. Rough, but respected as a true seaman and Sir Richard's friend, John Allday had won her heart. He had come ashore now; he had done far more than his duty, but he was still not over it. When he made his trips to Falmouth she knew he would be watching the ships, coming or going; it was always the same. Trying to hold on. To remain a part of it.

She considered his last visit to Falmouth, when he had met Captain Adam Bolitho; she had been painfully aware of his uncertainty, his misgivings as he had tried to decide whether he should go back to the old house he had once called his home, when he was not at sea with Sir Richard.

She had heard Bryan Ferguson say that Sir Richard and her John were like master and loyal dog, each afraid of losing the other. Perhaps that was so. She clenched her fists. She would allow no harm to come to him now.

She had asked John how he had found Captain Adam. lie had thought about it, his chin in the big, awkward hands which could be so loving and so gentle in their private world.

He had said, "Like his uncle, a good and caring captain to all accounts, but stands alone. Shouldn't be like that." As if he felt somehow responsible.

She entered the parlour, so familiar now, the shining copper and pewter, the lines of tankards, and the mingled smells of food, flowers, and people. In the place of honour was the beautiful model of the old Hyperion, exact in every detail and scale, and made by those same big, scarred hands. But it had been moved, something forbidden to everybody except… She walked into the next room, the one with the fine view of a long line of evenly matched trees; when the light was right you could see the river, like molten silver beyond them.

John Allday was sitting at the table, his face deep in thought as he studied the canvas roll of tools, blades and strips of bone arranged in front of him.

Like many sailors, he could take on most jobs. He could make furniture, like the beautiful cot he had fashioned for little Kate, and the chest he had built for the lieutenant named George Avery who had become so much a part of Unis's life. Because Allday was illiterate, Avery had written his letters to her, and had read her letters to him. It would have been a rare and wonderful relationship in any walk of life, let alone aboard a man-of-war. Now the quiet, almost shy Avery was gone, one more name on the roll of honour. For King and Country.

"What is it, John?"

She put her arm around his massive shoulders. Sir Richard had called him my oak, but she could feel his slow, careful breath ing even now. The terrible wound in the chest left by a Spanish sword, at a place no one could remember, and it was getting worse. But he had always insisted he could manage, when Sir Richard had needed him.

Now I need you, dearest John.

"When I gets time on my hands." He did not look up at her. "I gets to thinking, another model, mebbee?"

She hugged him. "You're always busy! Make some of the youngsters sit up an' take notice, I can tell you!"

He sighed. "You knows me, love, I'm not one for passing time with the old Jacks, swinging the lamp with every tankard of ale! Your brother's got the right idea, puts 'em in their place!" He looked round. "Where's Kate?"

"Resting. Nessa'll keep an eye on her."

She remembered his dismay when the child had turned away from him, when they had met for the first time on his return from sea. To her he must have seemed like a stranger, an interloper. But he had won her over in his own patient fashion. He could even pick her up and play with her now without fear of damaging her in some way. And Unis loved him for it.

Allday said suddenly, "I meant to ask about young Elizabeth, Sir Richard's daughter-she'll be growing up now, right enough. I wonder what the King of Cornwall thinks about having her in his great house."

She hugged him again, and said nothing. Sir Lewis Roxby had died back when Lady Catherine was still living at the Bolitho house.

She said, "You're going to make a model of the Frobisher," and bit her lip to steady herself. "We'll have to find a real special place for that!"

Then Allday did look at her, his eyes very clear, the frown gone.

"I shall give it to Cap'n Adam. From both of us."

Afterwards, alone in their room, she wondered. Who did he really mean?

Nancy, Lady Roxhy, saw the rambling old building swing into view as the carriage swayed over the rutted track.

It was an open vehicle, and she could feel the dust gritting between her teeth, but she liked it this way, always had since she was a small girl, the younger daughter of Captain James Bolitho. She often thought about her father, the man; she sometimes felt that the one she knew existed only in the portrait at the Bolitho house, while his character and upbringing were like entries in a diary or history book.

"Go straight in, Francis. I doubt this will take long."

The shadow of the old glebe house rose above her, as always grim and unwelcoming. Ideal perhaps for an artist and a recluse, but few others.

She felt a twinge of excitement and rebuked herself Roxby would have called her too curious for her own good. She smiled sadly. But he would have loved her for it.

The dark windows were blind to the outside world, the ruined chapel adding to the air of mystery. Gossip, more likely; this place was well known for its tales of witchcraft and evil spirits.

The coachman said doubtfully, "I don't think we are expected, m' lady."

He had not been with her very long. Otherwise, he would have known about her impulses. She heard Roxby again. Damn impudence, more like!

The sky was bright and clear, without even a wisp of cloud over the hills or the sea beyond.

Adam would be out there now somewhere, doing what he had always wanted and dreamed about. She thought of his face, so near, when she had last spoken to him, and then had pressed his cheek against her own. Doing what be wanted and believed in. But this time had been different. As if he was leaving something behind.

She said impatiently, "Get down and knock on the door, Francis!"

She saw the horse shaking its ears, irritated by the buzzing insects. She could remember a time when she would have ridden here herself, and across country if the mood took her. It was wrong to look back too often… perhaps because since Roxby had died there had been so little joy, and nothing to anticipate.

So many things had changed. Like young Elizabeth, who had been so surprised at the way local children lived and played… how could it be, that she had been so sheltered from an endless war which had threatened every mile of this coastline? She thought of the girl's mother, Belinda, and tried once again to come to terms with it.

She heard voices, Francis, tall and ramrod-straight like the soldier he had been until a year ago, and the servant she had met on her previous visit, when she had called to arrange for the portrait.

She climbed down, and grimaced a little. Her breathing was fast. Just to remind me. On her next birthday she would be fiftyseven years old. People told her to settle down and enjoy these years. She was secure, and had two fine children, and now two grandchildren. She should be more than satisfied…

She grimaced again. She was not.

Francis called, "He says that his master is not here, m' lady. He will gladly take a message." It was as if the servant was invisible. Perhaps they were like that in the cavalry.

She said, "It is about my nephew's portrait." Even that made her sound ancient. "In Captain Bolitho's absence I thought I should enquire…"

"May I be of any help, my lady?"

Nancy turned in the direction of the voice.

"Thank you, my dear. Have we met before?"

The girl looked towards the house, as if regretting her first impulse. But she said, "I am Lowenna. I am staying here."

Nancy took a deep breath and stepped into cool shadows. In her heart, she had hoped for this meeting with one who until now had been little more than a name, an occasional visitor to these parts, and then only in the company of Sir Gregory Montagu.

She followed her along the deserted passageway, conscious of her poise, her apparent confidence. She remembered her vaguely as a child; it was coming back to her like her father's history, like fragments from the pages of a diary. She had been born in Bodmin, where the family name had been Garland. A successful arrangement, they had said at the time, between a promising scholar soon to be appointed to a prestigious college in Winchester, and the daughter of a Bodmin corn chandler… Nancy saw the girl pause, as if to ensure that she was still following… She saw the date in her mind. Around 1790, when news had reached her of Richard's fever in the Great South Sea; he had been in command of the frigate Tempest. Allday had been with him even then.

"We may talk in here, if you wish." Very composed, and, in the filtered sunlight, quietly beautiful. A woman then, aged about twenty-six or twenty-seven.

Nancy glanced around the room. Untidy, but she was aware of the order of things in this, a painter's domain. A place wherein he could work, leave for a week or a month if he chose, and know that it would be exactly how he wanted it when he returned.

She often spent her spare time painting flowers, or scenes on the shore, and she had been moved by Elizabeth 's readiness to copy her. It had been their first real point of contact.

She observed the girl. Dressed in a pale blue robe without any sort of decoration, or even a belt. Loose and airy. She had already noted the long hair, and the easy way she walked, but now that she was facing her she was more aware of her eyes. So dark that they concealed her thoughts, like a barrier between them.

Lowenna said, "The portrait is over here. Sir Gregory is pleased with it, I think."

Nancy waited as she uncovered the canvas; she even did that with a graceful, unhurried movement. She knew she sat for Montagu: perhaps that was it. Poise…

She studied the unfinished portrait; unbelievable that one man could possess such a great talent. It was Adam to the life, the way he held his head when listening, or answering a question. The dark eyes, like the eyes of the girl she knew was watching her, instead of the painting. There was an uncompleted yellow rose in Adam's coat and she almost mentioned it, but some deeper sense seemed to warn her that this tenuous contact would be broken instantly. And Adam's small, elusive smile; Montagu had caught it precisely. No wonder he could turn any woman's head, and break his own heart.

She said, "It is exactly right. How I think of him when he's away. Which is too often these days."

She turned, and saw the astonishment which for only a second had broken through the girl's composure.

Lowenna said quietly, "I had not realised…"

"That we were so close?" Nancy looked at the portrait again, the flood of memories pushing aside all reserve. "He came to me when his mother died. He had walked all the way from Penzance. He was only a boy." She nodded slowly, without knowing she had done so. "Came to me."

"Thank you for telling me." So simply said, like a very young girl again.

"Will you be staying here long, Lowenna?"

She shook her head, the sunlight touching her hair like fine gold. "I don't know. I may be going back to London. Sir Gregory has several paintings to finish." She glanced at the portrait again, almost shyly, as if she were testing something. "But he will complete this first."

Nancy walked to a window, seeing the harp and the stool beside it. Then she saw the other unfinished painting, the naked girl chained to a rock, the sea monster about to break surface beside her.

She looked at her again. Defensive, or defiant? The dark eyes gave nothing away.

She said softly, "You are very beautiful."

"It is not what it may appear, my lady."

"I am far older than you." She shrugged. "Unfortunately. I have been in love twice in my life. I know how it feels." She made to hold out her hand, but instinct prevented her. "I also know how it looks. I care deeply for my nephew, perhaps, dare I say it, more than a son. He is brave, loyal and compassionate, and he has suffered." She saw the words reaching her. "As I believe you have."

"Who said that of me?"

"Nobody. I am still a woman, still young at heart."

She tried not to listen to the sound of carriage wheels. Montagu was back, but it would make no difference who it was. She made up her mind. "You see, I believe my nephew has lost his heart to you. It is why I came here today." She walked towards the door. "Now that I have met you, I am glad I came." She turned, one hand on the door. "If you feel the need, Lowenna, come to me."

She did not move. But the hostility was gone.

She said, "As Adam came It was the first time she had used his name.

Then Nancy did reach out and take her wrist. "As a friend, if you like." She felt that in another moment the girl would have pulled away.

She said calmly, "A friend, then, my lady."

Along the same bleak passageway, and the bright square of sunshine through the opened doors.

It was not Montagu, but a man she recognised from a wine merchant's in Falmouth. He touched his hat and beamed at her.

"'Tes a fine day, m' lady. Summer at last, mebbee?"

Nancy looked back at the pale blue figure by the stairway. "Yes, Mr Cuppage, it is a fine day." She raised one hand to the girl and added, "Now it is."

She walked out into the dusty air again. Afraid to stop and consider, even to look back.

Francis and a stable boy were by the horse; the dour-faced servant had disappeared. She might have imagined all of it.

She thought of Adam and his ship, under orders again after so brief a respite. It was his life, and she was a sailor's daughter and the sister of England's naval hero. She took Francis' arm and pulled herself up into the carriage before glancing back at the house. But now, I am Adam's aunt.

She saw a brief movement by a window. Pale blue. Where she had seen the harp, and the other painting.

She said aloud, "There is nobody else!"

As the carriage moved away, she imagined she heard Roxby laugh.

RearAdmiral Thomas Herrick got up from the chair and walked to a nearby window. He could not remember how many times he had done so, or how long he had been here.

He stared down at the familiar scene, the unending parade of carriages, mostly open to the watery sunshine, a few bright parasols and the wide-brimmed hats of ladies being driven from one form of amusement to another. A troop of dragoons trotting past, a young helmeted cornet turning in his saddle as a straight-backed man stepped from the crowd to raise his hat to the colours at the head of the troop. He had only one arm.

Herrick turned away, angry with himself, unable to ignore or forget the raw pain in the stump of his own arm, even at the slightest movement, and all the more so in his heavy dress coat.

He sat again and stared at the opposite wall, and two paintings of sea fights: colours flying, swirling gunsmoke, the enemy's canvas riddled with shot-holes. But they never showed the blood, the dead men, and the pieces of men.

He studied the polished marble, the neat array of gilded chairs. It must take the equivalent of a watch of seamen to maintain this great vault of a building. He grunted and eased the shoulder of his coat, beneath the heavy bullion epaulette whose presence could still surprise him.

This was the Admiralty, where their lordships and an army of staff officers controlled the strands of the web connecting them to every squadron, every ship, and every captain on every ocean where their flag flew, almost unchallenged.

And after this? Ile thought of the lodgings he was using close to Vauxhall. Not fashionable, especially for a flag officer, but comfortable enough. And cheap. He had never been careless with his hard-earned money. Ile had come up the hard way, and was well aware of the navy's habit of reversing a man's fortunes along with his destiny.

He had been at the Admiralty the whole forenoon, going over the charts and reports of the antislavery patrols with the admiral concerned, and he knew men well enough to understand that the admiral, pleasant though he was, had not the least idea what Freetown and the appalling conditions of slavery entailed. Perhaps it was better, safer that way.

There would be more discussions tomorrow; a Member of parliament on the interested committee would also be there. Herrick had explained in his reports, and face to face, that they needed ten times the number of agile patrol vessels, and a diligent leadership in direct command, before any real results would be manifest. Money was always the objection; there was none to spare for an overall increase. And yet Herrick had been hearing nothing else since he had arrived in London but the rumour of a massive show of force against the Algerine pirates and the Dey who had persisted in defying all attempts to unseat him. This time it would be no less than a fleet, and under the command of Pellew himself. Herrick could not be bothered with the frills and fancies of grand titles; "Pellew" was good enough for him.

There did not seem to be much in the way of secrecy; even The Times had hinted at a "determined intervention" to free the Christian slaves who languished in the Dey's prisons.

And now this had happened. A messenger had caught him just as he had been about to leave the building.

He had been requested to present himself to Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune, the newly appointed deputy, and no stranger to the lords of admiralty.

He had no thoughts on Bethune as a senior officer. I was Richard's first lieutenant a year after Bethune was one of his midshipmen. Now he outranks me. He had grown used to such distinctions. He did not have to like them.

He found that he was at the window again. Perhaps Adam Bolitho had told a superior officer, maybe Keen, what he had divulged about Sillitoe and his part in the slave trade. No. Adam might be hotheaded, even indiscreet, but he would not violate something as strong as personal trust. He watched a smart carriage passing among some market vehicles, saw the woman who sat alone, her face shaded by a broad-brimmed hat. It could have been Richard's mistress. That woman. Why had he told Adam Bolitho? Concern, or was it guilt?

It had been Adam who had brought the news to him, that his own very dear Dulcie had died. Just as Herrick had once carried the tragic news of Bolitho's young wife's death…

He stared with something like hatred at the garishly painted battles. The roots and memories were stronger than many believed.

He heard unhurried footsteps approaching, and braced himself. Perhaps it was a mistake, or Bethune had taken another appointment.

"Sir Graham Bethune can see you now, sir."

Herrick stood up, and winced as the heavy dress coat dragged at his stump. So damned typical of this place. Can see you now. As if it was a favour!

He knew he was being unreasonable, and blamed his pain for it. He hated the way people stared, or clucked sympathetically when they met him. I IC could recall a surgeon suggesting that he should wear ostrich quills on his coat to steer people away from jostling or reopening the wound. He could even hear himself.

Afraid of war, are they? Or of what it does to those who have to fight it?

If Dulcie had been alive… Ile saw the doors swing inward, and Bethune waiting to greet him. Standing, his arm outstretched, his left arm, to match his own.

"Good to see you, Thomas!" I lis handshake was firm, his paten still that of a sailor. "Seat yourself. There'll be some wine in a moment, but we are served by snails in this cathedral!"

Herrick sat down, taking time to adjust himself in the chair, like someone searching for a trap. Then he looked directly at Bethune. He had always prided himself in being honest and open with others, and grudgingly he recognised those qualities in Bethune, something which the vice-admiral's lace and the grand office could not hide.

Bethune said, "I saw your reports. I was particularly interested in your views on Freetown and the Windward Coast-I have said as much to the First Lord. You should get the credit you deserve. I suspect you may he requested to return to that or some other aspect of the slave trade, but I don't suppose you'll mind about that." It was not a question.

Herrick almost smiled. Requested; a term they used when you had attained flag rank. It still meant that you had no choice in the matter.

Bethune strode to a window and opened it, admitting the ceaseless din of iron-shod wheels and the clatter of many horses: London on the move, never at rest.

Herrick watched him. He too was restless, full of energy. Still a young man, like the one who had commanded that fine frigate depicted in this room's only painting.

Bethune went on, "I especially liked your report on Captain Tyacke, another officer who might well have gone unnoticed, passed over, but for someone caring enough to act."

Herrick clenched his remaining fist. As if Tyacke were also in this room, listening to the street, watching the dragoons, like the man in the crowd. He said without hesitation, "Sir Richard did as much for me, Sir Graham."

Bethune nodded, satisfied perhaps. "You served with him at the Nile?"

Herrick rubbed the arm of his chair. This was not what he had expected.

"Yes. In Lysander. I was Sir Richard's flag captain then."

Bethune turned from the window. Herrick would say no more, but it was enough.

"Tyacke was at the Nile also, where he was so cruelly wounded."

A servant entered and began to place glasses on a tiny square of cloth. More like a woman than a grown man, Herrick thought.

For a moment he thought he had misheard as Bethune dismissed the servant and repeated, "Lady Somervell. I saw her here, in London." He glanced over at him. "This is Rhenish-I hope it will suit? It should be cool, although after its journey up those stairs one can only hope!" And laughed, completely relaxed. Or was he?

Herrick said, "It is some time since I saw her. It was in Falmouth, when I was intending to take up an appointment with the revenue service."

Bethune critically examined a glass. He knew about that, and thought he knew why Keen had intervened. Not all grudges faded with the years.

He said, "A brave and lovely woman. I admire her greatly." Ile thought of the Nile medal she had entrusted to him. Another link. But it had always been there. He suspected that she knew how he felt.

He tried to shut it from his mind and said, "I think that Baron Sillitoe may become more involved with his business affairs in the West Indies, even Cuba."

Herrick stiffened. Cuba, still the world's clearing house for slaves.

Bethune said, "We must put all past disagreement aside. The fleet is committed to the Algiers venture, as it is elsewhere where the trade flourishes. You know this, and I know it. I would take it as a great favour if you would pass on to me what you may hear about said involvement, so that the innocent can be protected." He raised his glass very slowly until their eyes met.

Herrick swallowed; if the hock was warm or ice-cold, he did not notice it.

"I understand, Sir Graham." It was utter madness, and if anything went wrong Bethune would deny any association.

He watched Bethune's tanned hand refilling the glasses.

When Dulcie had died of typhus, Lady Somervell… he hesitated even over her name… Catherine had stood by her. The only one, to the end. She could so easily have been infected by the fever herself. But she had stayed.

"It shall be done."

Their glasses touched.

Committed, then. And Thomas Herrick was suddenly alive again. Restored.

Tomorrow he might regret it. He smiled quite openly.

But that was tomorrow.