Second to None

16. In Good Hands

THE LETTER lay on the cabin table, held down by the knife Adam had used to open it, its flap moving slightly in a faint breeze from the stern windows, the broken seal shining in the sunlight like droplets of blood. He tried to think it through rationally, as he had taught himself to do with most things.

Unrivalled had anchored that morning, with Halcyon entering harbour close astern. A moment of triumph, a lingering excitement after the short, savage encounter with the chebecs and the sheer pleasure of greeting a filthy but grinning Galbraith, his shirt scorched almost from his back, and his equally dirty but jubilant companions.

Adam had taken his report ashore, only to be told that Bethune was neither at his headquarters nor aboard his flagship Montrose. He had boarded one of the squadron’s brigs, and with Sir Lewis Bazeley had gone to examine potential sites for new defences in Malta and the offshore islands.

He had already noticed that the courier schooner Gertrude was in harbour, and she was preparing to weigh and make sail again by the time he had returned to Unrivalled. As was the way of fleet couriers.

He had been expecting a letter from Catherine, hoping for one. It was stupid of him and he knew it. She would be recovering from her loss, and would need time to decide what she must do in the immediate future and with the rest of her life. But he had hoped, all the same.

Instead, there had been this letter. The same neat, round handwriting which had followed him from ship to ship, from despair to hope. Always warm, as she had been ever since that first day when he had arrived exhausted at the Roxby house after walking all the way from Penzance. From his mother’s deathbed.

Aunt Nancy, Richard Bolitho’s youngest sister, was the last person from whom he had been expecting to hear, and yet in his heart he knew there was none better suited to this task.

He walked to the stern windows and stared across at Halcyon, swinging to her cable and surrounded by harbour craft, with scarlet coats on her gangways to deter unwanted visitors. He had sent Captain Christie a copy of his report. Halcyon had done well, and between them they had lost only four men.

He looked at the letter again, as if his mind were refusing to lose itself in matters concerning the ship and the squadron. That other world seemed very close: rugged cliffs, treacherous rocks, and in contrast rolling hillside pastures and great, empty moors. A county which had produced many fine sailors, probably more than any other part of England. He could see Falmouth in his thoughts… the people, the quality of strength in its seamen and fisher folk.

Where Belinda, whose hand had once rested on his cuff as he had led her up the aisle to marry Falmouth ’s most famous son, had been killed. Thrown from a horse. Killed instantly, Nancy had written. And yet he could not come to terms with it. Perhaps he had never really known Belinda, or been close enough to understand what had destroyed his uncle’s marriage; she had always been beautiful, proud, but distant. She had been at the old house, and Adam could guess why, although the family lawyer had touched only in passing on it. Not wishing to trouble a King’s officer, fighting for his country’s rights.

And there was his cousin, Elizabeth. She would be about twelve or thirteen by now. She would stay with Nancy until things were “more settled.” Adam could almost hear her saying the words.

Nancy had also written to Catherine. The mare given to her by his uncle was now stabled at the Roxby house. Adam had known instantly that Belinda had been riding Tamara at the time of the accident.

The letter ended, “You must take good care of yourself, dear Adam. Here is your home, nobody can ever deny you that.”

The ink was smudged, and he knew she had been crying as she wrote, doubtless angry with herself for giving into it. A sailor’s daughter, and the sister of one of England ’s finest sea officers, she had had plenty of experience of separation and despair. And now that her husband was dead she was alone once again. Elizabeth would be a blessing to her. He picked up the letter, and smiled. As you were to me.

Catherine was in London. He wondered if she was alone, and was surprised by how much it could hurt him. Absurd… He glanced at the skylight, hearing voices, Jago’s carrying easily as he called out to the gig’s crew. Vivid memories: the leadsman’s chant, the closeness of danger on all sides, Massie and Wynter, and the boy who would rather risk death than take refuge below when the iron began to fly.

And he thought of Falmouth again. The house. The grave portraits, the sea always out there, waiting for the next Bolitho.

He turned almost guiltily as someone rapped at the door. It was Bellairs, who was assisting Wynter as officer of the watch.

“Yes?”

Bellairs glanced around the cabin. His examination was in orders, here in Malta. The next step, or the humiliation of failure.

“Mr Wynter’s respects, sir, and a new midshipman has come aboard to join.” He did not blink, although he must have been recalling his own time as a young gentleman.

“Ask Mr Galbraith…” He held up his hand. “No. I’ll see him now.”

Bellairs hurried away, mystified that his captain, who had just inflicted a crushing defeat on some Algerine pirates, should concern himself with such trivialities.

Adam walked to one of the eighteen-pounders which shared his quarters and touched the black breech. Remembering; how could he forget? Anxious, worried, even defiant because he had imagined that his first captain, his uncle, would find fault or cause to dismiss him on that day which was so important to him.

He heard the marine sentry say, “Go in, sir.” Guarded, yet to be proved. A midshipman was neither fish nor fowl.

He saw the newcomer standing by the screen door, his hat beneath his arm.

“Come over here where I can see you!” Again the assault of memory. They were the very words his uncle had used.

When he looked again, the youth was in the centre of the cabin, directly beneath the open skylight. Older than he had expected, about fifteen. With experience he could be very useful.

He took the envelope and slit it with the knife he had used earlier, feeling the midshipman’s eyes watching every move. As I did. All those years ago.

He was not new, but had been appointed from another frigate, the Vanoc, which had been temporarily paid off for a complete overhaul. His name was Richard Deighton. Adam raised his eyes, and saw the youth look away from him.

“Your captain speaks well of you.” A young, roundish face, dark brown hair. He would be fifteen next month, and was tall for his years. Serious features. Troubled.

The name was familiar. “Your father was a serving officer?” It was not a question. He could see it all more clearly than the chebecs of only three days ago.

The youth said, “Captain Henry Deighton.” No pride, no defiance.

That was it.

“Commodore Deighton hoisted his broad-pendant above my ship, Valkyrie, when I was with the Halifax squadron.” So easily said.

The midshipman clenched one fist against his breeches. “The rank of commodore was never confirmed, sir.”

“I see.” He walked around the table, hearing Jago’s voice again. He had been there too on that day when Commodore Deighton had been shot down, it was thought by a Yankee sharpshooter. Except that after the sea burial the surgeon, rather the worse for drink, had told Adam that the angle of entry and the wound were all wrong, and that Deighton had been killed by someone in Valkyrie’s own company.

The matter had ended there. Deighton had already been put over the side, with the boy John Whitmarsh and others.

But the faces always returned; there was no escape. The family, they called it.

“Did you ask for Unrivalled?”

The midshipman lifted his eyes again. “Aye, sir. I always hoped, wanted…” His voice trailed away.

Bellairs was back. “Gig’s alongside, sir.” He glanced at the new midshipman, but only briefly.

Adam said, “Take Mr Deighton into your charge, if you please. The first lieutenant will attend to the formalities.”

Then he smiled. “Welcome aboard, Mr Deighton. You are in good hands.”

As the door closed he took out the letter once more.

It was like seeing yourself again… something you should never forget.

He picked up his hat and went out into the sunshine.

Captain Victor Forbes leaned back in Bethune’s fine chair and raised a glass.

“I’m glad you chose to come ashore, Adam. I’ve been reading through your report, Christie’s too, and I’ve made a few notes for the vice-admiral to read on his return.”

Adam sat opposite him, the cognac and the easy use of his first name driving some of his doubts away. The flag captain was obviously making the most of Bethune’s absence, although it was apparent from the occasional pause in mid-sentence to listen that, like most serving captains, he was ill at ease away from his ship.

Forbes added, “I still believe that raids on known anchorages, though damn useful and good for our people’s morale, will never solve the whole problem. Like hornets, destroy the nest. Time enough later to catch the stragglers.”

Adam agreed and tried to recall how many glasses he had drunk as Forbes peered at the bottle and shook it against the fading sunlight. “I’d have given anything to be there with you.” Then he grinned. “But with any luck Montrose will be a private ship again quite soon!”

“You’re leaving the squadron?”

Forbes shook his head. “No. But we are being reinforced by two third-rates, and about time too. Sir Graham Bethune will likely shift his flag to one of them. A damn nice fellow,” he grinned again, “for an admiral, that is. But I believe he is eager to leave, to get back to a stone frigate, the Admiralty again, most likely. I’ll not be sorry. Like you, I prefer to be free of flag officers, good or bad.”

Adam recalled Bethune’s restlessness, his sense of displacement even in a world he had once known so well. And there was a wife to consider.

Forbes changed tack. “I hear that you’ve got a new midshipman, a replacement for the one who was killed. Deighton-I knew his father, y’ know. We were lieutenants together in the old Resolution for a year or so. Didn’t know him all that well, of course…” He hesitated and peered at Adam as though making a decision. “But when I read the account of your fight with the Yankee Defender, in the Gazette I think it was, I was a little surprised. He never really struck me as being in the death-or-glory mould, one who would fall in battle like that. His son must be proud of him.” He sat back and smiled. Like a cat, Adam thought, waiting to see which way the mouse would run.

“He was killed by a single shot. It is common enough.”

Forbes exclaimed, “Thoughtless of me! Your uncle… I should have kept my damn mouth shut.”

Adam shrugged, remembering when Keen had left Halifax to return to England for promotion and high command at Plymouth. And to marry again… Deighton was to remain as commodore in charge until otherwise decided. He could remember Keen’s words to him, like a warning. Or a threat.

“Be patient with him. He is not like us. Not like you. ”

He said, “How is Sir Graham getting along with his visitor?”

Forbes gave him the grin again, obviously glad of the change of subject.

“They both know about wine, anyway!”

Adam smiled. “Claret, of course.”

A servant appeared with another bottle but Forbes waved him away.

He said, “I shall be dining with the army tonight. Don’t want to let our end down!”

Adam prepared to depart. It had been a friendly, informal discussion, but he had been a flag captain himself, and a flag lieutenant to his uncle. Both roles had taught him to sift fact from gossip, truth from rumour, and in this brief meeting he had learned that a new admiral was about to be appointed, and that Bethune would be leaving. The new flag would decide all future operations, as so ordered by the Admiralty. An aggressive demonstration of sea power might deter the Dey from any further attacks on shipping, or from offering refuge to any pirate or turncoat who offered his services in return for sanctuary.

Forbes had made a point of not mentioning Lady Bolitho’s death, although it was no doubt common knowledge in a place like this. Adam himself had said nothing about it; it was private, if not personal. Belinda was dead. I never knew her. But was it so simple?

Forbes frowned as a shadow moved restlessly beneath the door.

“Not like a ship, Adam. Too many callers, always wanting things. I’d never make an admiral in a thousand years!”

Adam left, cynically amused. He could see Forbes as precisely that.

Outside he paused to study the copper sky. It was a fine, warm evening, and in England the summer was over. It would be the first Christmas without war. And without his uncle.

Forbes had also avoided mentioning Bazeley’s lovely young wife. He wondered if she had fared any better aboard the brig, with its cramped quarters and limited comforts. After an Indiaman and then Unrivalled, a brig would seem like a work-boat. Eyes watching her every move, men deprived of a woman’s touch, the sound of a woman’s voice.

He had told Jago to return to the ship, saying that he would take a duty boat from the jetty. He grinned in the shadows. He had been expecting Forbes to ask him to stay. Instead, he would return to his own, remote cabin.

Something moved in a doorway, and his hand was on the hilt of his sword in a second, unconsciously.

“Who is there?”

The action and strain had cost him more than he would have believed.

It was a woman. Not a beggar or a thief.

“Captain Bolitho. It is you!”

He turned in a patch of golden light and recognised Lady Bazeley’s companion.

“I did not know you were here, ma’am. I thought you would be with Sir Lewis and his lady.”

The woman stood very still, and he felt the intensity of her eyes, although her features remained hidden in shadow.

She said, “We did not go. Her ladyship was unwell. It seemed the safest thing to do.”

He heard footsteps, measured, precise, and relaxed again. It was the marine sentry at the gates, pacing his post, his mind doubtless far removed from this place.

The woman touched his arm, and then withdrew her hand just as quickly, like an unwilling conspirator.

“My lady would like to see you before you leave, sir. We saw you earlier in the day. And then you came back.” She hesitated. “It is safe, if you will allow me to lead.”

Adam looked back, but there was only silence. Forbes must have known that the women had stayed behind, but had made a point of not mentioning that either.

Was she really unwell, or was she merely bored, needing to be amused? At my expense.

He said, “Lead on, ma’am.” Perhaps she wanted to remind him of his awkward advances, his clumsiness. He thought of the leadsman’s cry. No bottom! What it had meant, after the risk he had taken for what Lovatt would have called a gesture, a conceit.

The woman walked swiftly ahead of him, untroubled by the rough paving where he guessed guns had stood in the past when Malta had been in constant fear of attack. Perhaps she was used to running errands for her mistress. He recognised the same parapet as before, but knew it was at the opposite side of the rambling building, in shadow now, the old embrasures touched with colour from the melting light.

And the view was the same. When he had held her, and the invisible orchestra had offered its private gift of music. Ships anchored as before, some already displaying lights, topmasts clinging to the last copper glow, flags limp, barely moving.

And then he saw her, her gown pale against the dull stone, the fan open in her hand.

She said, “So you came, Captain. You honour us.”

He moved closer and took the hand she offered him.

“I thought you were away, m’ lady. Otherwise-”

“Ah, that word again.” She did not flinch as he kissed her hand. “I heard there was fighting. That you were fighting.”

It sounded like an accusation, but he said nothing. Nor did he release her hand.

She said in the same level tone, “But you are safe. I heard you laugh just now. Recognised it. Enjoying some of Sir Graham’s cognac in his absence, yes?”

He smiled. “Something like that. And you, I hear you were ill?”

She tossed her head, and he saw her hair fall loose across one shoulder.

“I am well enough, thank you.” She withdrew her hand slowly and deliberately, then turned slightly away, towards the ships and the harbour.

She said, “I was concerned, about you, for you. Is that so strange?”

“When we last met-”

She shook her head again. “No. Do not speak of it! There were so many things I wanted to say, to share, to explain. I could not even manage that unaided.”

There was a catch in her voice, more from anger than despair.

“I showed you arrogance when I wanted only to thank you for helping me as you did. There has been no word of it, so I knew you had said nothing.” She held up the fan to silence him. “Others would, and well you know it!”

He said, “Because I cared. I still do. You are another man’s wife, and I know what harm this might cause. To both of us.”

She did not seem to hear him. “I know that people talk behind my back. Giving myself to a much older man, because of power, because of wealth. I am not so young that I do not understand how they think.”

He said abruptly, “Walk with me.” He took her hand again, expecting her to resist, to turn on him, but she did neither. “Like old friends, you see?”

She held his arm and fell into step beside him. Only by the parapet could the sounds of the harbour and a nearby street reach them.

She said, “I spoke with your Captain Forbes. He told me of you and your family.” He felt her turn to look at him. “Your uncle. I knew some of it. I guessed some of it, too, when I heard you speak that night with such conviction, and when you were talking with your men and did not know I was there.” He felt the pressure of her hand on his arm. “And then you helped me.”

“When you were sick.”

She laughed softly. “I was drunk, like some dockside slut!” She quickened her pace, and he could sense her mind moving, exploring it again. “He came to me that night, did you know? He is like that. He cannot believe that I need to be myself on occasion, a person-not some thing to arouse his passion!”

He said, “I think you should stop, m’ lady. I came here because I wanted to see you. Even if you had spat in my face, I would have come.”

She stopped by the parapet once more and stared at the anchored vessels. Almost to herself, she murmured, “Your world, Adam. Something I can never share.” She turned. “I did not marry from choice, or out of greed, for myself.”

Without realising what he was doing, he put his fingers to her lips.

“There is no need to tell me. I am not proud of some of the things I have done, or what I might have done, if my life had been different. So let this be a secret between us.”

Gently, firmly, she pulled his hand away.

“My father was a fine man, but when my mother died of fever he seemed to fall apart. Sir Lewis, as he now is, was his junior partner, a man of ambition. He was quick to come to his assistance.” She touched the buttons on his coat. “And he taught him how to enjoy himself again.” She laughed, a small, bitter sound on the still air. “Introduced him to others who would help to expand the business, the only thing he had left to care about. Gambling, drink… he would not listen to a word against Lewis. He could not see the ground opening beneath his feet. There were debts, broken contracts with government commissions, with the military as well as the navy. In the end,” she gave a little shrug, and Adam felt it like a blow, “prison was the only reality. We would have been left like beggars. My two brothers also work for the business. I was given little choice. No choice at all.”

He hardly dared to speak, afraid to break the moment.

“So he asked you to marry him, and then all the debts would be made good, and the business restored.”

“You know my husband,” she said. “What do you believe?”

“I believe I should go. Leave here without delay.” He felt her move as though she too would go, but he did not release her. “I know I have no right, and others would condemn me…”

She said softly, “But?” Only one word.

“That night, aboard my ship, I wanted you.” He pulled her closer, feeling her warmth, her nearness. Her awareness. “I still do.”

She leaned against him, her face in his shirt, perhaps giving herself time to recognise the danger, and the folly.

She said, “You have not been fed by the gallant Captain Forbes. I can at least do something about that.” She tried to laugh. “I can smell the cognac, so I was right about the pair of you!”

But when he held her again she was shivering.

“We will go inside… then you can tell me all about yourself.” She could not continue. “Come, now. Quickly. Banish all doubts!” She paused only to look at the harbour. “All that can wait, this once.”

Even though he had never set foot in the place before, he knew it was the same. Here Catherine had spent her last night with her Richard, in these rooms which Avery had found so difficult to describe, and of which Bethune had carefully avoided speaking, as if it was too painful even for him.

He walked to a window and eased the shutter aside very slightly and looked down into the courtyard, dark now but for the reflected glow from a copper dusk.

He heard the sentry at the gates stamp his feet, and the clink of metal as he shifted his musket, yawning at the dragging hours.

There were no lights in the windows opposite. Forbes had gone to dine with the army; the staff had probably been left to do as they pleased until Bethune’s return.

He felt his muscles contract. Voices now, very low, the sound of glasses. And when he closed the shutter and turned he saw her facing him from the other side of the room, her eyes very clear in the glow of candles which must have been arranged here earlier.

She said, “A little wine, Adam. It is as cool as can be expected. Some food can be sent for later.”

She watched him cross the room, and turned slightly so that the piece of silver at her breast shone suddenly like a flame. She wore a plain white gown which covered her from her throat to her feet, now bare on the marble floor.

He put his hands on her arms, and said, “You kept it. I thought you’d thrown it away.”

He touched the small silver sword and felt her stiffen as she answered, “I am wearing it for you. How could I not wear it?”

He lowered his mouth to her shoulder and kissed it, feeling the smoothness of her skin beneath the gown.

“The wine.” She pressed him away. “While it’s cool.”

He brought the glasses from the table and held one to her lips, and they looked at one another over the rims, all pretence gone, all reason scattered.

She did not resist or speak as he kissed her shoulder again, and each breast in turn until she gasped softly and put her arms around him, holding him there, her head moving from side to side as if she could no longer contain herself.

He stood, and held her at arm’s length, seeing the darker patches on the silk, where he had kissed and roused the points of her breasts.

There was a tall mirror on the wall and he turned her towards it, his hands around her waist, seeing the reflection of her eyes in the glass, then deliberately he unclipped the little sword, and opened and removed the gown. He looked over her shoulder, his face in her hair as he watched with her, as if they were onlookers, strangers. Exploring her body, feeling every response like his own, until she twisted round in his grip and said, “Kiss me. Kiss me.”

He lifted her as he had the night aboard Unrivalled, holding her tightly as they kissed again. And again. He laid her on the broad bed and threw off his coat, and the old sword slid unnoticed to a rug by his feet.

She propped herself on one elbow, and said, “No! Come to me now!”

He knelt beside her, his mind and reason gone as she struggled to free him from his clothes, pulling him down to kiss her mouth once more until they were breathless.

He gazed at her, hungry for her, the hair disordered across the pillows, the hands, suddenly strong, gripping his shoulders, one moment holding him away and then drawing him down to her body, her skin hot and damp as if with fever.

He felt her nails breaking his skin as he came against her, and she moved still further, arching her body until they were almost joined. Then she opened her eyes, and whispered, “I yield!” and gave a small, soft cry as he found and entered her.

It was like falling, or being carried along by an endless, unbroken wave.

Even when they lay exhausted she would not release him. They clung to one another, breathless, drained by the intensity of their congress, their need.

Hours later, after they had explored every intimacy, she sat on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chin as she watched him pulling on his breeches and shirt.

“A King’s officer. To everyone else but me.” She reached out impetuously and touched him again, held him, while he bent to kiss her. She had found and touched the old wound and had kissed the jagged scar, her passion roused again. No secrets, Adam…

When he looked again she was dressed in the thin robe, the silver clasp in place, as if the rest had been a wild dream.

A chapel bell was ringing tunelessly; someone was already awake. She opened the door, and he saw that fresh candles had been brought to light the stairs. Hilda, ensuring that nothing would go amiss.

He held her, feeling the supple limbs through the silk, wanting her again in spite of the risks.

She said, “No regrets.” She was still looking after him when he reached the courtyard.

Her voice seemed to hang in the warm air. No regrets…

The guard at the gate was being changed, and a corporal was reading out the standing orders, too tired or too bored to see the naval officer striding past.

He paused in a deserted alley, which he thought was the one where he had purchased the little silver sword. He could still feel her, enclosing him, guiding him, taking him.

He might never see her again; if he did, she might laugh at his desire. Somehow he knew that she would not.

He thought he heard the creak of oars, the guard-boat, and quickened his pace.

But regrets? It was far too late for them now.