"At times like these, there will be more captains than ships. It is the way of things when the guns are quiet. For how long, who can say? But there is a new frigate building and almost completed at Plymouth. I spoke with the First Lord and have written to the port admiral."
She still could not grasp that Keen was there, a vice-admiral now. She had been invited to the wedding, which was arranged for October. She heard herself say, almost in a whisper, "A new command, a fresh beginning." Snaring it, seeing his face when he received his orders.
She said, Thank you for that, Graham. I should have known."
He shrugged, unsure of himself, she thought. "Neither Adam nor Richard will tolerate favouritism. So I thought I should do something."
"It will do much to help both of them." She looked down as he put his hand on hers. "I am grateful, Graham."
He pressed her hand very gently. "If only, Catherine."
She withdrew it, and faced him. "As it is, remember? Not as it might have been. There has been dafhage enough already." She gave him a folded note. "My Chelsea address, in case you have forgotten it. If you receive any news, anything at all……" She did not go on.
She tugged off one glove, and held out her hand. This is less dusty."
He kissed it, lingering over it, while she watched his bowed head in silence. What might he think or say if he knew what she felt at this moment? Did he not realise that she lived on dreams and memories, homecomings and the painful farewells always so close in pursuit?
A clock chimed somewhere in the building, in that other, safe and respectable society where men in power could break the rules but still manage to shield their mistresses and keep them separate from their pious wives. But the anger would not come.
Bethune had pulled out another handkerchief. "Please. Use this. I I am so sorry I have upset you, Catherine."
She shook her head and felt a tear splash against her skin.
"It is not you. Don't you understand? I miss him so much… each day without him. I die a little more." She turned away and groped for the door. She had a vague impression of a figure in uniform bowing stiffly outside the room, and Bethune's curt, almost angry, "Wait for me inside! I'll not be long!"
She did not remember reaching the bottom of the narrow staircase with him, and yet she felt the urgency, the need for Bethune to go back, where some unemployed captain was waiting to plead for a ship. As Richard had once done.
And where his wife would be waiting to hear about that woman.
Bethune was holding the carriage door. "Tonight then, dear Catherine. Fear not, you have many friends."
She looked past him at the bustling carriages and carters, the sightseers, and the red coats of soldiers off duty.
"Here, perhaps." She glanced up at the Admiralty's arched entrance and imposing, pillared facade. "Elsewhere, I think not."
She climbed into the carriage and leaned back against the sun-warmed leather. She did not look round, but somehow she knew that Bethune was still gazing after her.
Hampton House, on the Thames Embankment, had been chosen as the venue for this latest of many receptions to honour the Duke of Wellington, and, indirectly, his victorious army. Although it was the London residence of Lord Castlereagh, the foreign secretary, it seemed likely that he saw less of it than anyone. Of all the statesmen and government leaders involved in negotiations with the allied powers, he had probably been the most active. The Treaties of Chaumont, followed two months later by the First Peace of Paris, which Castlereagh had settled with Metternich almost unaided, seemed no less a victory than Wellington's.
Catherine rested her hand on a footman's sleeve as she stepped down from the carriage. The air was still and heavy, with dark, brooding clouds broken only occasionally by a glimpse of early stars. There was still thunder in the air, like something physical. Perhaps, as she had thought at the Admiralty, she should not have come. She sighed, and walked slowly along a dark strip of carpet. If there was a downpour, the carpet would take the brunt of it.
The house was spacious, but seemed anonymous, unmemorable, like so many others on similar occasions. Every window glittering, every chandelier alight, strains of music, and a tide of voices audible even from here.
And now the garden, with more candles and coloured lanterns, people standing about in groups, taking advantage of any light breeze from the river. Faces turned to watch her, probably wondering who she would be with. She lifted her chin. At least Sillitoe did not care. People feared him. Needed him.
If Richard were here, he would see it differently, as no less a part of duty than firing a salute. He would make her smile at the absurdity, and the importance of appearance. Like a code, or a secret signal
"Lady Somervell?"
It was a well-dressed young man, neither servant nor guest.
He bowed. "Sir Graham Bethune has asked me to escort you to his party, my lady." He looked at her, and must have seen the unspoken question in her eyes. "Lord Sillitoe is delayed."
They returned to the house. People parted to allow them to pass, young women with daring gowns and bold glances, older women in gowns which neither flattered nor suited them. Uniforms of every kind, but not many sea officers; men who tried to catch her eye, then turned to their companions as if they had succeeded.
Toiling amongst them was an army of footmen, sweating in their heavy coats and wigs, and yet able to pass a glass of wine or retrieve an empty one before it was broken or trampled into the carpet.
Bethune came striding to meet her. "Welcome, Lady Somervell!"
They both smiled, remembering the informality of that dingy ante-room.
She curtsied. "Sir Graham, how pleasant."
She slipped her hand through his arm and saw the eyes following them. Surprised, perhaps disappointed that there was no new scandal.
Without turning his head, Bethune murmured, "Lord Sillitoe is with the Prince Regent. He sent word that he will not be long."
She glanced at him. "He trusts you, Graham."
"I am not certain that trust means the same thing to him."
She turned, seeing Susanna Mildmay on the arm of a major of the Royal Irish Dragoons. If Avery's lover had seen her, she did not reveal it.
Perhaps Avery had been saved from something. But he would never believe it.
Bethune said. The orders for Adam have been sent." Her fingers tightened on his arm "We shall always need dedicated captains. It would have been a waste, otherwise."
And the other Adam no one knew. The little mermaid… No one knows.
There was a loud bang on the floor, and a footman announced yet another prominent participant in that campaign which had ended so dramatically at Toulouse, when Napoleon had abdicated.
She said, "You are being watched. People will talk."
Bethune shrugged. "They will always do that, when there is beauty like yours to envy."
She did not have to look at him; his sincerity was obvious.
"Did you find that captain a ship?"
She spoke to calm herself, more than anything else. She had seen the group by an open window, Bethune's wife, poised and unsmiling, staring at her.
Bethune said, 'i could do nothing for him, even if I had wanted to." He glanced at her. "Do not concern yourself with them, Catherine. They are friends of mine."
Catherine offered her hand. "Lady Bethune, this is an unexpected pleasure."
Bethune's wife said, That is a lovely gown. It shows your skin to perfection." She gazed at the diamond pendant between her breasts. "Yes, to perfection." She turned away. "More wine, I think."
The others seemed affable enough, older officers and their wives, men employed at the Admiralty, or those who had been there when Bethune had first made his mark.
Catherine flicked open her fan to cool her face. Very dull, she thought. If only Sillitoe would arrive. He, at least, was never dull.
Bethune's wife had returned. Close to, and in spite of the expensive gown and jewellery, she was almost plain, and Catherine found herself wondering, not for the first time, how they had met, what had drawn them to one another.