Adam said nothing, recalling the stern, unsmiling features of Stirling, the first lieutenant. Unmoved, unshaken even in the heat of battle. A man he had never understood. But was I to blame? Grenville stood up suddenly and walked to the nearest window. He wore a plain, perfectly cut blue coat, and it was easy to see him as a captain again.
Over his shoulder he remarked, almost offhandedly, "You had Lady Somervell buried at sea. That was your decision, I believe?"
Bethune must have told him, or the First Lord.
Adam stared past him at the overcast sky. He could see them now, as if it had only just happened. Bethune and Sillitoe staring each other down. The hatred, and something that was stronger than both of them.
He said, "She's free now, sir."
He looked over at the clerk. The pens were still in their standish. Unused.
He said quietly, "What of Sillitoe, sir?"
Grenville's shoulders lifted slightly.
"Others, far higher than their lordships, will have the disposal of him. Be sure of that. "He turned and regarded him steadily. "And what of you, Bolitho? Do you have plans?"
Adam was on his feet without realizing it. "Another ship, sir. "Like all those others in that waiting room. Refusing to admit any doubt.
Grenville looked at a clock on the mantel as it chimed delicately. He pulled out his watch, as if it were a signal. The clerk had risen from the desk and his eyes were on the door.
Grenville smiled, but his eyes gave nothing away.
"I heard that you intend to be married?"
"IЦ am hopingЦ "He stared down as Grenville seized his hand. The fingers were like iron.
"Then do it. Bless you both. "He turned away. "Be patient, Bolitho. A ship will come."
The door was open, and instinct told him another visitor was waiting for an audience with this man, so frail and so powerful.
Always on call to the First Lord himself; he would forget this meeting before that clock chimed again.
He saw that Grenville had turned his back on the door and was looking directly at him. He could feel the force of his gaze like something physical.
He said, "I hold a certain authority here in Admiralty. Some would describe it as influence. But I have never forgotten the truths that make a sailor. "He gestured around the room, dismissing it. "To walk my own deck, to hear the wind's voice above and around meЦ nothing can or will replace that. "He shook his head, impatient or embarrassed. "I had to know, Bolitho, to be certain. Now be off with you. The chief clerk will take care of your requirements."
Adam was in the passageway, and some one was handing him his hat.
"This way, sir. "A different porter, and the door was shut. As if he had imagined it.
But the words lingered in his memory. had to know, to be certain.
He touched the sword, pressing the weight of it against his hip. He did not see the same two officers turn as he passed them.
The old captain had seen all the faces of command.
The blame and recrimination as well as the huzzas of triumph when an enemy's flag dipped through the smoke of battle. And when pride vanquished the doubt, and the fear.
He could still feel the iron grip on his hand. Then do it! To see her again, to be with her. Walk with me.
It seemed to take an eternity before the chief clerk was satisfied. Questions, answers, papers that needed a signature.
Then it was done. On his way to the entrance hall, he passed the main waiting room again.
All the chairs were stacked at one end, and two men were mopping the floor in readiness for another day. A door opened and slammed, but neither looked up from his work.
The doors of Admiralty were opened, and the air like ice. It was pitch dark on the street outside. But there were carriages, and men's voices passing the time of day. One would take him to Bethune's house.
But all he saw was the officer who had just emerged from the sealed room. The last interview of the day. One of many…
Perhaps after the long wait, he had been offered some hope. How many times? Then suddenly he swung round and stared at Adam's uniform and the gold lace, caught momentarily in the light from the porters "lodge, and then, openly, at his face. Not envy.
It was hate, like a raw wound.
"This way, Captain Bolitho!"
He followed the porter down the steps and into the cold darkness. Like a brutal warning. Something he would never forget.
The coachman jumped down from his box and lowered the step with a flourish.
"Ere we are, sir. "Nother cold night, by the feel of it!"
Adam stamped his feet, looking up at the house. The coachmen employed by the Admiralty certainly knew their business: he would never have found his own way back to this place. Even so, it seemed to have taken far longer than his journey to Whitehall. Perhaps the coachman had taken a more indirect route, on the off-chance that his passenger might request some amusement after his day's dealings with their lordships.
It had been another world. Glimpses of a London he would never know: people standing around braziers in the street, waiting for their employers or merely for companionship. On one corner a whore, on another a tall, ragged man reciting poetry, or preaching, or perhaps singing. No one had appeared to be listening.
He felt for some coins, fumbling; he was more weary than he had thought. There were lights in most of the surrounding windows, but not at this house.
"Thank 'ee, sir! "The coachman's breath was like smoke in the lamplight. "I 'ope we meet again!"
Adam turned as the front door swung open. He must have handed him more than he knew.
"Welcome back, sir! I was beginning to think you had been held up somewhere! Perhaps literally!"
It was Francis Troubridge, Bethune's young flag lieutenant, still impeccably dressed, his uniform as neat as when he had boarded the stage at Portsmouth.
There was something odd about the house, though; something wrong. Baggage in the entrance hall, still covered with a waterproof sheet.
He swung round and saw Jago emerging from the shadows beneath the great, curving staircase, grim-faced, eyes steady.
Anticipating the worst and ready for it.
"No squalls, Cap'n? "And then, reading his expression, "I knew it, an' I told 'em as much!"
They shook hands, a hard grip, as if to settle something. Like those other times, when even survival had been in doubt.
"No ship yet, Luke. But no squalls either."
Troubridge watched and listened and made a mental note of it. The captain and his coxswain; but it went far deeper than that. He had learned a lot. He was still learning.
Adam was looking up the stairs.
"It's very quiet. Where is everybody?"
Troubridge said, "Sir Graham has gone. To join Lady Bethune… It was all very sudden."
Adam rubbed his cheek with his knuckles. Not like their arrivaclass="underline" Bethune had slammed through the house as if fired by some demonic energy, barking instructions and questions at Troubridge or his frog-like secretary and rarely waiting for a reply from either. More like the vice-admiral Adam had come to know and not the moody, despairing man, often the worse for drink, who had spent most of his time in his own quarters during Athena's final passage to Portsmouth.
"Did he leave word for me? I am relieved of duty until further orders, but he must have known that."
"He knew. "Troubridge bit his lip. "Lady Bethune left before him. I thought she was pleased at the turn of events."
Adam sat down on a carved, uncomfortable chair, and thought of the slight, white-haired Grenville. Some would describe it as influence.
He looked directly at the flag lieutenant.
"Forgive me. I intended to ask. What will you do?"
Troubridge looked vaguely around the gracious hallway.
"I am going to visit my father. He will doubtless know soon enough what has happened."
So many memories. Troubridge, the aide who so adroitly fended off any problem or difficulty that might trouble his superior, any day, at any hour. And the Troubridge who had become a true friend in so short a time. Here, in London, when he had been at Adam's side as they had burst into that sordid studio where Lowenna was fighting off an attack. Jago had been with them. What had Sir Richard called his closest friends and companions? My little crew. Or as he had heard another describe them, We Happy Few.