Authors: Alexander Kent
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 It had been replaced by a larger version, more accommodating to Daniel Yovell’s portly shape.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 G—” 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’ve 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 Yovell’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 course—sir. I was forgetting—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 Yovell’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 Lowenna’s 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.”