John Allday was not very good at hiding things from her, neither his love for her and their child, nor his grief.
People who did not understand always wanted to know, were always asking him, despite her warnings, about Sir Richard Bolitho. What he was like, truly like as a man. And always asking about his death.
Allday had tried, and was still trying, to fill every day, as if that was the only way he could come to terms with it. As his best friend Bryan Ferguson had confided, “Like the old dog losing his master. No point any more.”
And Unis knew that the old wound was troubling him, although if she had asked him he would have denied it. Ferguson had said that he should have quit the sea long ago, even as he had known, better than anyone, that John Allday would never leave the side of his admiral, his friend, while they were both still needed.
Unis saw the pain in his face more frequently now, as he made himself useful about the inn, especially when he was lifting barrels of ale on to their trestles. She would get some of the other men to do it in future, if she could manage it without Allday finding out.
She knew that he went occasionally across to Falmouth, and this was something she could not share, nor attempt to. The ships, the sailors, and the memories. Missing being a part of it, not wanting to become just another old Jack, “swinging the lamp,” as he put it.
Unis often thought of the ones who had become close to her. George Avery, who had stayed here several times, and who wrote her husband’s letters at sea for him, and read hers to him. John had told her that Avery never received any letters himself, and it had saddened her in some way.
And Catherine, who had called here when she had needed to be with friends. Unis had never forgotten that, nor would she.
Nothing was the same, even at the big grey house below Pendennis Castle. Ferguson had said little about it, but she knew he was deeply concerned. Lawyers had been to the house from London, pursuing the matter of a settlement, he had said. The estate had been left to Captain Adam Bolitho; it had been signed and sealed. But there were complications. Sir Richard’s widow and his daughter Elizabeth had to be considered. No matter what Sir Richard had wanted, nor what Catherine had meant to him.
Where would she go now? What would she do? Bryan Ferguson would not be drawn on the possibilities. He was worried about his own future; he and his wife had lived and worked at the estate for many years. How could lawyers from London know anything about such things as trust and loyalty?
She thought, too, of the memorial service at Falmouth. She had heard of the grander services at Plymouth and in the City of London, but she doubted they could match the united bond of pride and love, as well as sorrow, that day in the crowded church.
Her brother walked into the kitchen, his wooden leg thumping heavily on the flagstones.
He reached for his long clay pipe. “Just spoke with Bob, the farrier’s son.” He took a taper from the mantel and held it to the flames, careful not to look at her. “There’s a frigate in Carrick Roads. Came in this morning.” He saw her fingers bunch into her apron, and added, “Don’t fret, lass, none of her people will come this far out.”
She looked at the old clock. “He’ll be down there, then. Watching.”
He studied the smoke from his pipe, almost motionless in the warm air. Like that day when he had been struck down. All in a line, like toy soldiers. The smoke had lingered there too. For days. While men had called out, and had eventually died.
“He’s got you, and young Kate. He’s lucky. Luckier than most.”
She put her arms round him. “And we’ve got you, thank God!”
Someone banged his tankard on a table and she dabbed her face with her apron.
“There now, no rest for the wicked!”
Her brother watched her bustle out of the kitchen, and heard her call out to somebody by name.
Hold fast there, John. He did not know if he had spoken aloud, or to whom he had been speaking, himself, or the sailor home from the sea.
He heard a gust of laughter and was suddenly proud of his neat little sister, and even perhaps ashamed that he had given way to his bitter memories. It had not always been so. He squared his shoulders and tapped out his pipe in the palm of his hand, carefully, so as not to break it. Then he strode in to the adjoining room and picked up an empty tankard. Like the old Thirty-First. Stand together, and face your front.
He was back.
Lady Somervell gripped a tasselled handle and leaned forward as the carriage with its matching greys turned into the imposing gateway. The sky over the Thames was clear, but after several days of thunderstorms and heavy rain nothing seemed certain.
She was alone, and had left her companion Melwyn to pay the men who were repairing the front door of her Chelsea house.
Sillitoe had sent his carriage to collect her, and she had seen several people in the Walk turn to watch, some to smile and wave.
It was still hard to accept. To come to terms with. To understand.
Some had left flowers for her; one had even placed an expensive arrangement of roses on her doorstep with the simple message, For the Admiral’s Lady. With admiration and love.
And by contrast, last night, probably during the thunderstorm, someone had scratched the word whore on the same door. Melwyn had been outraged, the affront sitting strangely on one so young. Because she felt a part of it.
She watched the horses’ ears twitching as the carriage rolled to a halt. She could see the Thames again. The same river, but a world apart.
As speculation about the war had hardened into fact, she had wondered how the news would affect Adam. She had written to him, but she knew from bitter experience that letters took their time reaching the King’s ships.
Once, when she had been passing the Admiralty, she had realised how complete her isolation from Richard’s world had become. She knew no one in those busy corridors, or even “by way of the back stairs,” as he had called it. Bethune was in the Mediterranean, in Richard’s old command, and Valentine Keen was in Plymouth. She thought of Graham Bethune’s concern for her, and his furious estrangement from his wife. He was an attractive man, and good company. It was probably for the best that he was so far away.
A boy in a leather apron had opened the door and was lowering the step. He, at least, should be spared the suffering and the separation of war.
She climbed down and looked up at the coachman.
“Thank you, William. That was most comfortable.” She sensed his surprise, that she had remembered his name, or because she had spoken at all. She saw his eyes move to her breast and the diamond pendant there, and just as swiftly move away. Like the men painting the front door. She had seen their expressions. Their curiosity.
She thought of the blind lieutenant and the crippled sailors at the cathedral. It made the others seem lower than the dust.
A servant opened the doors for her, a man she did not know. He gave a quick bow.
“If you will wait in the library, m’ lady. Lord Sillitoe will join you presently.”
She walked into the room and saw the chair where she had sat, waiting for Sillitoe on the day of the memorial service. Only two weeks ago. A lifetime.
And now she was here again. Sillitoe had taken it upon himself to deal with the legal complications; she had seen another carriage in the drive, and somehow knew it was that of the City lawyer, Sir Wilfred Lafargue. Sillitoe seemed to know everyone of consequence, friend or enemy. Like the private article someone had shown her in the Times news-sheet, a very personal appraisal, a dedication to the one man she had loved.