"Something amuses you, Lady Somervell?"
She said, "One hears all the time that there is a shortage of senior officers, in the navy at least. And yet, when I look around me, all I see are generals, and not a few admirals! Is that not strange?"
"Do you have any children? By your marriage, I mean to say?"
Catherine controlled her anger. Oh yes, I know exactly what you mean. "No. Perhaps it is a blessing."
Bethune's wife nodded, her lips tight. "It could seem so. But my husband and I believe that children are the foundation of any marriage.
In the navy, it is sometimes all one can cling to."
Catherine faced her. "And love, madam, what part does that play?"
Surprisingly, the tight lips folded into a smile. "I should have thought you could answer that question better than I." She raised her hand. "Why, my dear General Lindsay, how well you are looking! You are quite recovered, I hope?"
Catherine sensed, rather than saw, the footman approach with the tray of glasses. She took one, and said, "Wait," and drank the contents; it was hock, and almost cool, or so it seemed. She replaced the' glass on the tray and took another.
"That was most welcome. Thank you very much."
If the footman had been another Allday, he might almost have winked.
Instead, he murmured, "It sometimes 'elps, m'lady!"
Bethune was hurrying toward her.
"Catherine, what has happened?" He looked over at his wife, who was speaking to a portly officer with as much animation as if he were her greatest friend.
She answered softly, "I should have gone when I heard about Sillitoe."
What was the matter with her? She had dealt with far worse, endured far worse, and triumphed. But not without pain. So why could she not hide it now, treat this with the contempt it deserved? An innocent remark, then? Never… "I shall speak with her." He looked down at her hand on his wrist, perhaps remembering how she had removed her glove for him.
"Say nothing. You have too much to lose." She gazed at him steadily. "I can understand why Richard cares so much for you. Please, never change!"
There was more banging on the floor, and it was with some reluctance that the din of voices died down.
But it was not a footman this time.
Catherine thought she felt Bethune tense as Admiral Lord Rhodes climbed heavily to the top of a flight of marble stairs.
"Shortly we shall dine, ladies and gentlemen!" Someone gave a loud hand clap and several of the younger women shrieked with laughter.
Rhodes did not respond. "Just a few words, if I may."
One of Bethune's friends murmured, "Oh, for God's sake."
Rhodes stared around the room, his face shining in the flickering candlelight.
"I may be biased, some claim it is a fault, but I sometimes believe that upon these occasions, and this one in particular, we tend to offer all the laurels to our military friends." He paused while Susanna Mildmay's major gave a cheer. "And overlook the achievements of our own service, without which no soldier would put his foot on foreign soil, nor hope to keep it there!"
This time the cheering was genuine.
Catherine glanced at Bethune again. He was unsmiling, his face grim, like a stranger's.
Rhodes was saying '… and, as our naval heroes cannot all be here tonight, let us remember one of our most outstanding and gallant sailors, who serves us still!"
Catherine felt her heart leap as Rhodes added, "Sir Richard Bolitho. Admiral of the Red." He reached out, beckoning. "So who better? A hero's lady!"
Bethune exclaimed, "God damn the man!"
Catherine watched as Belinda Bolitho was guided up onto the stairs. Rhodes started to clap and then others followed, some barely aware of what was happening.
Then the applause died, but the noise of conversation did not resume.
"Catherine, I had no idea!" Bethune took her hand in his. "Believe me!"
She looked over at Bethune's wife. So poised. Smiling now, unlike those around her.
She said, "I shall leave. Make my excuses." It was like a nightmare, when none of the words you needed were ever there, when all you wanted to do was run.
Bethune stared around, his face cold, beyond anger. "Sillitoe will be here soon, I am certain of it!"
She touched his arm, and looked directly into the eyes of his wife.
"Some people have short memories. I do not." She curtsied to the others, wanting to scream at them, to spit in their faces. "They speak of honour, when they know it not." She turned round, her gown hissing against a pillar.
Bethune said, "I shall accompany you to your carriage."
His wife called. "Graham! We are to go into the great hall!"
Bethune regarded her with contempt. "You used my name! I had all but forgotten!"
He guided Catherine to the stairway, his hand firmly on her arm.
"I shall take you to your house."
She felt the damp heat of the night on her face and bared shoulders, and saw, shining blackly, the Thames.
"No." She forced a smile. "It seems I am still vulnerable." She did not give her hand. "But I have a strength which others can never begin to understand."
People moved round her and she was aided into the carriage,
while another footman ensured that her gown was clear of the door.
Like this morning… how could it be the same day? Bethune stood watching her, his fists bunched against his sides, then, as the horses nudged forward, he turned abruptly and strode back into the house, with something like hatred in his face.
The carriage rattled across the cobbles and Catherine stared out of the window at the passing river. So many views, so many aspects. The house she had just left; Sillitoe's on that great sweep of the river; and her own at Chelsea.
Far across the other side of this same river she saw the first lightning. Like the opening shots of a sea fight, reflected as they were in the dark water.
She gripped her fan until the pain steadied her.
She said aloud, "God keep you safe, dearest of men."
Perhaps he would hear her.
Catherine closed the door and went directly to her room. She heard the carriage clattering away, the driver doubtless glad to be going into shelter before the storm began in earnest.
She lighted another stand of candles near the bed; the housekeeper would ordinarily have done it, but it was her night for visiting in Shoreditch with her married sister.
She listened to another pattern of thunder, closer now but not much. Perhaps it might pass over after all. She walked to the window and watched a livid flash of lightning. How quiet the house was; Mrs. Tate would be returning at six in the morning to prepare breakfast. As usual.
She pushed one curtain aside as it hung loose across the window, and with her other hand tugged the combs from her hair and tried to calm herself. But all she could see were the stares, the bewilderment, and the hostility. It had always been there, but she had managed to accept, if not ignore it. Richard must never know. He would not rest until he had dealt with the culprits, high or low.
The window shivered as another roll of thunder broke the stillness, and in the lightning she saw the first drops on the glass. Perhaps the sound of rain would make her sleep.
The air quivered again, and she reached out to raise the loose curtain. She saw the river. There would be no boats moving out there tonight.
She glanced at her reflection in the dappled glass, and felt her heart throb with sudden pain. Her thoughts were gone, scattered in a second.
It was real. It was now.
She turned very slowly, her back to the downpour and flashes of light. The man stood by the half-open door, his face in shadow, only his eyes alive in the flickering candlelight.
He must have entered the house earlier. Had been intent on robbery, perhaps knowing that she and the housekeeper were not expected to return.