And there was the ship. He had studied her details, which the Admiralty had made available to him in their weighty folder of orders and sailing instructions. A strange ship, without familiar faces, so he would start from the beginning once more. Indomitable had taught him that he could do it, and much more besides.
All the way to Portsmouth, he had gone through the folder. He had travelled alone. It was still difficult to accept that he was wealthy, by his own standards, as the result of slave bounty still trickling through the Admiralty channels, and prize money which he had gained under Bolitho. He touched his burned face. His own coach. And, had he wanted it, he could have taken a room at the George.
He closed the window and sat down. The ship. If he could get through the next two days, he knew he could take the next all-important step. From a commander of a schooner and a lowly brig to Indomitable, and now Frobisher, a ship of the line. And all because of one man. I would serve no other.
He thought of Bolitho's Catherine, and wondered how she would deal with this new appointment so soon after Bolitho's return from Halifax. He was certain that Bolitho would not bring her to Portsmouth. Crowds, cheers and mindless well-wishers. What would they know of the cost of separation?
Tyacke looked at his open chest. Another journey. This time, how might it end?
He touched his leg, where a splinter had torn into it. It had been Indomitable's last battle; she would never fight again, according to the dockyard people at Plymouth.
It was like recalling someone else. He had taken a boarding-pike and driven it into the deck and had supported himself, despite the pain and the blood, until the guns had fallen silent. Were we really like that?
And Bolitho leading the boarding party over to the enemy's deck, that old sword dangling from his wrist, with Allday at his side.
The sounds from the street intruded again. It would be worse at night; he should have considered it. No private places to walk, to travel with his thoughts alone for company That he did remember about the Point. Somebody had once proclaimed that it was crowded with a class of low and abandoned beings who seem to have declared open war against every habit of decency. Obviously not a sailor, he thought.
Then he would spend his last few days here in this room. Perhaps he might read The Gazette, and any news sheet that might tell him how the war with the Americans was progressing.
He looked round as the door opened an inch.
"I am sorry to intrude, Captain Tyacke, I know you insisted on privacy. We have to be careful, of course, with so many sea officers waiting for ships."
Tyacke nodded. Praying for them, more likely.
The shabby wig was awry again, but his eyes were busily going around the room. Probably wondering why a post-captain, soon to assume command of a flagship, should choose such a humble place to stay.
Tyacke said patiently, "I am all attention, Mr. Tidy."
"There is a lady come hence to see you, sir. Say the word, and I will make the necessary excuses. I would not like people to think…"
"What is her name?"
He already knew. Had he merely been trying to avoid a decision, like tearing the letter to fragments?
"Mrs. Spiers, sir." Encouraged, he added, "A very pleasant lady, I would say."
"I'll come down."
"Please use my parlour." He paused. "Or this room, if you prefer."
Tyacke stood up. "No." How many women had been ushered into these rooms? And how often?
As he followed the small goblin figure down the creaking stairs, Tyacke was aware of something almost unknown to him. Fear. But of what?
She was facing the door when he entered the parlour, hands folded, the ribbons of a wide-brimmed straw hat dangling from her fingers. She must have changed over the years, had been married, borne two children, been widowed. But she was the same. Brown hair curled above her ears; the level, open gaze he had believed gone for ever, lost in that other darkness.
She spoke first. "Don't turn away, James… I did that once to you. I have thought of it so many times. I wrote to you."
"I wrote to you." His mouth could not form her name. "But you would have seen it only if I had fallen. I said… I said…" He imagined the little man in his wig listening outside the door. But there was nothing outside, nothing beyond this room or this place. He saw her move towards him, and said, "Don't, Marion. Not now. Not like this. I've tried so hard…"
She was very close, looking up at him; the same curved lashes. She reached up deliberately and touched his scarred face, without revulsion, without obvious emotion. Like her letter. Understanding, not asking forgiveness.
He heard himself ask, his voice that of a stranger, "How did you know? Who told you?"
She glanced at his epaulettes. "I read about Sir Richard Bolitho, and I knew you would be here as his captain again. The rest was easy, but you know what Portsmouth is like. A village, if you let it become one."
"I take command the day after tomorrow. After that, who can say…" He looked away and asked abruptly, "Are you well, Marion? Provided for?"
She nodded, her eyes never leaving him. "My husband was a good man. It was very sudden."
He glanced around the small, untidy parlour, with its smells of tobacco and wet soot.
"And the children… two, you said."
"Caroline is quite grown now." Then she did lower her eyes. "James is twelve. He hopes to enter the navy one day."
Tyacke said quietly, "They are not my children."
She smiled. It made her look vulnerable, and suddenly defeated.
"They could be, James. If you wanted. If you wanted enough."
He heard the landlord say loudly, "No, Bob, I've got somebody in there."
Tyacke turned into the light and said gently, "Look at me, Marion. Not at the captain, but at me, the survivor. Could you lie with me, search for a future, when we had no past?"
He had put his fingers to his face, where she had touched him. He could still feel the touch, and wanted to curse himself for his stupidity, for the hope which would betray him, if he allowed it.
He had not seen her move, but she was at the door, one hand on the catch.
"I had to come, James. I was very young… at that time.
Young, and transparent like gossamer. But I loved you then. I never forgot."
She played with her hat, and shrugged. "I'm glad I came. I had hoped we might be friends again."
"Nothing more?"
She watched him, perhaps trying to rediscover. "Write to me, James. I know you will be busy with your affairs, but please try to write, if you want to."
He was reminded sharply, vividly, of Catherine and Bolitho, as if he had just seen them. What they had overcome, what it had cost them, and how they had triumphed. As he had seen that day in Falmouth, when she climbed up the ship's side to the delight of his men… Of the yellow gown he had carried in his chest over the years, which Catherine had worn to cover her nakedness when Lame had found the open boat, when all hope of their survival had been abandoned. Except by me……
He replied, "I'm not much of a hand with writing, Marion."
She smiled, for the first time.
"If you want to."
She had put a small card in his hand. "If you have time, James. It is not so far."
He stared at the card, his mind, usually so cool and accurate, now like a ship taken all aback.
Where was the anger, the condemnation which had been his companions for so many years? Perhaps, like the pity, it had been something shared.
"I shall leave now." When he did not move, she came to him again, and said, "You are still that man, James." She felt him hold her, carefully, as if she might break, and wanted to cry when she saw how he turned the terrible scars away as she kissed his cheek. It was a small beginning.
When Tyacke looked again, she was gone, and the landlord was in the doorway beaming at him. As if it had all been only in his mind.