His own words then came back to him now, as if he had spoken aloud. I would serve no other.
He glanced around the room. He would have to leave it soon, if only to let them clean it. And suppose the appointment to the anti-slavery squadron was delayed even beyond the port admiral's estimate of a year? What then? Would it always be like this, hiding in rooms, walking out only at night, avoiding every kind of human contact?
He touched the dress coat which hung over a chair, and bore the twin gold epaulettes of a post-captain; a far, far cry from his previous command, the little brig Larne.
His mind explored the years since the Nile, and his slow recovery from his wounds. Fifteen years had passed since hell had burst into Majestic's lower gundeck and turned it into an inferno. He had been in Haslar Hospital at Portsmouth for what little treatment could be offered, and Marion had eventually dared to come and see him. She had been young then, and pretty, and he had hoped and expected to marry her.
It had been an ordeal for her, like all the others who had ventured to Haslar in search of friends or relatives. Officers wounded in a dozen or more sea- fights, their faces so hopeful and so pitiful each time another visitor arrived. The burned, the maimed, the limbless and the blind, the living price of every victory, although few ever saw it.
After that, she had married another, an older man who had given her a pleasant house by Portsdown Hill, not far from that same hospital. There had been two children of the marriage, a boy and a girl.
Eventually her husband had died. Tyacke had received a letter from her while Indomitable had been at Halifax, the first news he had had of her for those fifteen years. It had been a letter written with great care, offering no excuses, no compromise, very mature, so different from the young girl he had once loved.
He had written a reply to her, and had locked it in the strongbox before the last battle with Retribution; she would only have received it if he had died that day. Afterwards, he had torn it into pieces and had watched them drift away beneath his ship's shot-pitted side. When he had needed her,
and had sometimes found himself praying for death, she had turned away from him. He had told himself often enough that it was understandable. But she had not returned. So why had her letter disturbed him so much? The years had been another man's reward, and, like the two unknown children, were a part of something he could never share.
There was a quiet tap at the door, and after a moment it opened a few inches.
Tyacke said, "It's all right. Jenny, I am just going out for a walk. You can see to the room."
She gazed at him gravely. "Not that, zur. There's a letter come for you."
She held it out and watched him carry it to the window. She was a local girl and had six sisters, and at the inn she often saw the uniforms of army or navy, so that she did not feel so cut off from Plymouth, that bustling seaport which her sisters were always quick to compare with this place.
But she had never met anyone like this man before. He spoke only when it was necessary, although everybody knew all about him. A hero: Sir Richard Bolitho's friend and his right arm, they said. They said a lot more too, probably, when she was not within earshot.
She studied him now, his head lowered while he held the letter to the light of the window; he always turned his terrible injury away from her. He had a strong face, handsome too, and he was courteous, not like some of the gentry who called in for a glass. Her mother had warned her often enough about the dangers, about other girls who got themselves into trouble, especially with the garrison near Tavistock.
She felt herself flushing. All the same… Tyacke was unaware of the scrutiny. The note was from the port admiral. To present himself at his earliest convenience. Even addressed to a post-captain, that meant immediately.,
"I'll need the carter, Jenny. I have to go to Plymouth." I
She smiled at him. "Right away, zur!"
Tyacke picked up his coat and brushed the sleeve with his fingers. The walk would have to wait.
He stared around the room, the revelation hitting him like a fist. It was what he wanted. It was the only life he knew.
The carriage slowed, and Bolitho saw groups of idlers and passers-by shading their eyes against the evening sun to peer in at the occupants. Some even waved their hats, although they could not possibly have recognised him, he thought.
He felt her hand on his sleeve. "It's their way of showing their feelings." She raised the hand to the nearest crowd and a man shouted, "It's Sir Richard an' his lady, lads! Equality Dick!" There were cheers, and she murmured, "You see? You have many friends there."
The house on the river was ablaze with lights, the chandeliers burning even more brightly than this late sunshine.
How Sillitoe must hate it, Bolitho thought. Wasteful but necessary. Necessary was the word for it. His world.
Catherine said, "I hear there are receptions all over London tonight to celebrate the victory." She watched his profile, and wanted to put her arms around him, and let the crowds think what they liked.
He said restlessly, "I wish it was young Matthew up there on the box, and we were heading down to Falmouth." He looked at her and smiled. "I am poor company for one so lovely. Kate." Strangely, the realisation seemed to give him strength. She was wearing a new gown in her favourite green shot silk, high- wasted, her shoulders bared, the diamond pendant resting between her breasts. Beautiful, poised, and outwardly very calm, and yet the same woman who had given herself to him with such passion, again and again until they were exhausted, in the house on the Walk at Chelsea. around the next great sweeping bend of this river.
She said, "At least it will not be like that terrible feast at Carlton House. I have never eaten so much in my life!" She watched his mouth lift, the way he smiled when they spoke of such things together.
She peered out at the other carriages turning in Sillitoe's drive, the crowds of footmen and grooms. Sillitoe must have gone to a great deal of expense.
There were women too, but not many wives, she decided. She never forgot that Sillitoe had helped her when there had been no one else. He had made no secret of his feelings for her after that. Like the man, it had been a statement of fact, cool and deliberate, not something open to doubt.
She glanced down at her gown. Daring perhaps, as some would expect of her. She lifted her chin and felt the pendant shift against her skin: Bolitho's woman, for the whole world to see.
And then they were there; the door was opened, and Bolitho stepped down to assist her from the carriage.
Servants bowed and curtsied, while here and there Sillitoe's own men, hard and watchful, reminded Catherine of that last visit to Whitechapel. Some of Sillitoe's men had accompanied them then; there was always an air of mystery and danger where Sillitoe was concerned.
Bolitho handed his hat to another servant, but she retained the silk shawl, which she wore across her bare shoulders. There were no announcements, no footmen to scrutinise invitations, only waves of noisy conversation, and, from somewhere nearby, music. It was neither joyful nor martial, merely an unobtrusive background for people who quite obviously knew one another, either by sight or reputation.
"You look well, Sir Richard!" Sillitoe appeared from behind a pillar, his hooded eyes everywhere. Then he took Catherine's hand and held it to his lips. "As always, my lady, I never find words for such beauty."
She smiled, and saw several of the other women turning to stare. Sillitoe gestured impatiently as a footman appeared with a laden tray.
Then he said, " Rhodes is here. I thought you should meet him, in view of the immediate future."