Boscawen House, his new home, was an imposing place with fine views over the Sound; sometimes, when he was alone, he had tried to imagine Zenoria there. The admiral's lady… He stared at the land. Like the image in his mind, it was misty, and eluded him.
Graham Bethune felt the damp, cold air on his face, and was glad he had come for this day. By using what influence he possessed, he had made certain that Unrivalled would go to no other captain. It was for Richard Bolitho; it was what he would want more than anything.
He recalled Catherine's pride and anger at the reception when Rhodes had presented Bolitho's wife. And later, when he himself had faced Sillitoe's fury and unrestrained contempt, he had known that this commission was for her sake also.
She was said to be in Malta with Bolitho; if anyone could manage it, she would. He thought of his wife's hostility, her shock and astonishment when he had turned on her and said coldly, "Honour? What would you or your family know of that?" She had scarcely spoken to him since.
He sighed. But neither had she spoken out against 'that woman'.
He walked over to Adam Bolitho and thrust out his hand.
"I am so glad for you. It is a day one never forgets." He saw the shadow in the dark eyes, and added kindly, "There will always be thoughts."
Adam bent his head. He had once said as much to John Whitmarsh.
"She's a fine ship, Sir Graham."
Bethune said, "I envy you. You cannot know how much."
Adam joined the others and walked aft to his quarters, where a party of Royal Marines had been detailed to act as rnessmen. When they had all departed the ship would close in on him, and make her own demands.
He paused, the first laughter and the clink of glasses washing over him, unheeded. There was so much to do before they would be ready to put to sea, to teach, to learn, and to lead.
He pulled out the heavy watch and held it in the grey light. In his mind he could still see the shop in Halifax, the ticking, chiming clocks, the proprietor's interest when he had chosen this odd, old-fashioned watch with the mermaid engraved on its guard.
Aloud, he said, "Unrivalled. Second to none." He thought of his uncle, and smiled. "So be it!"
Paul Sillitoe sat at his broad desk and stared moodily through the windows, across the swirling curve of the river to the leafless trees on the opposite bank. Everything was dripping from an overnight rain; it seemed that it would never stop. The new year of 1815 was only two days old; he should be filled with ideas and proposals to put before the Prince Regent at their next meeting. Today, if His Royal Highness was sufficiently recovered from yet another celebration.
The unwanted and costly war with the United States was over, ended by the Treaty of Ghent, which had been signed on Christmas Eve. There would still be battles between ships or even armies until the news was officially confirmed and carried; he had known several such incidents, partly due to the difficulties of communication across sea and wilderness, but also, he suspected, because the officers in command were not prepared to ignore any prospect of action.
He knew that his valet was hovering behind him with his coat. He pushed some papers aside, angry at his inability to summon any enthusiasm for the day's work, let alone a sense of urgency.
His valet said. The carriage will be here at the half hour, m'lord."
Sillitoe said curtly, "Don't fuss, Guthrie. I shall be ready!"
He stared at the river again, remembering the night when he had burst into her house in Chelsea. It was rarely out of his thoughts, like a curse or a fever from which there was no escape.
He had been surprised at his own behaviour on board the Indiaman Saladin. that he had been able to see her and greet her as if they were total strangers. Which we are. Sometimes he had confined himself to his quarters in order not to meet her. in case she should think he had forced the encounter. But when they had met, and supped alone, there had been a new awareness, something he had never known.
He had not greeted her when she had rejoined the ship on the return from Naples, but had found her on deck, hours after Saladin had worked out of Grand Harbour and had suddenly been totally becalmed, the island still in sight, like copper in the sunset.
She had repeated, "I am all right, I am all right," and for a moment longer Sillitoe had believed she had heard him approaching, and had wanted to be left alone.
Then she had turned towards him, and he had realised that she had not known he was there.
"I am sorry. I shall take my leave."
She had shaken her head. "No. Please stay. It is hard enough to leave him. To be tortured like this is cruel beyond measure!"
He had heard himself say, "When I reach London, I will do what I can." Even that had astonished him, to offer to seek on her behalf a favour which, if granted, would deprive him of any chance he might have believed he had.
He smiled grimly. Nevertheless, Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune would be leaving for the Mediterranean in a matter of days, to take charge of a squadron of frigates which could be used against pirate or corsair. A sea-going appointment; there would be no accommodation for Lady Bethune.
He had seen the orders himself. They would release Sir Richard Bolitho from duty, and he could return to England. To Catherine.
He had also been kept informed of Captain Adam Bolitho's affairs. Why anyone should want to throw his life away on the sea was quite beyond him. Ships, to him, meant only trade, communication, and a means of travel. And even that… He glanced round angrily, but it was Marlow, his secretary, this time. "Yes, what is it?"
"Some letters, my lord." Marlow's cautious eyes took in the unread news sheets on the floor beside the desk, the coffee and the glass of madeira untouched. They were inauspicious signs, and, with Sillitoe, almost unknown.
Sillitoe shook his head dismissively.
"I'll attend to them later. Make my excuses, Marlow. I shall go now to the Prince Regent."
"I have all the necessary papers, my lord." He broke off. Sillitoe had not even heard him.
"After that, I shall be engaged." Their eyes met. "Understood?"
Marlow did understand. He was going to that house, so discreet, so private. Where a man of influence could lose himself completely in the arms of a woman, without fear of scandal or condemnation. He had become used to Sillitoe's difficult ways and scathing comments, but it troubled him to see him so disturbed, like some ordinary being.
To his knowledge, Sillitoe had not visited the brothel since the incident in Chelsea. Sillitoe allowed his valet to help him into his coat, and stared around the room as if he had mislaid something.
Then he said, "There is one letter, Marlow, for Lady Somervell in Falmouth. Please send it post-haste. She will want to know."
He could already see it in his mind, the tears and the joy with which she would receive the news that her lover had been ordered home. He could deceive himself no longer. He heard the carriage on the cobbles and strode from the room. Like a duel, when you have fired and your opponent is still standing. He had lost.
His Britannic Majesty's schooner Tireless, messenger, courier and bearer of news, good or bad, lived up to her name. Rarely in port for longer than required for storing and watering, she would be off again with all haste to her next rendezvous.
She was a smart, lively little vessel, a young man's command. On this February morning the lookout had reported sighting the flagship Frobisher, and, taking full advantage of a soldier's wind under her coat-tails, she had set more sail to run down on the slow-moving two-decker. Lieutenant Harry Penrose, the schooner's captain, was well aware of the significance of his despatches, and very concerned that he should make a perfect approach to the flag of one so famous; it was a name with which he had been acquainted even before he had entered the navy.