All was as it had been before. But she knew she had just lost everything.
Bolitho paused by the ballroom's pillared entrance, using the time it took for a bewigged footman to notice him to accustom his own eyes to the light.
The footman had a reedy voice, and he thought it unlikely that anyone heard his announcement above the scrape of violins from an orchestra and the great din of voices. It was certainly a very impressive house in fashionable St. James's Square, 'noble' as Catherine had aptly described it, and far too large for Hamett-Parker alone. The admiral had lost his wife in a hunting accident, but had certainly retained a liking for lavish living. Bolitho had also noticed a marble statue of a centurion in the entrance hall, and had realised then that it had been put there by the house's original owner, Admiral Anson, to commemorate his own flagship of that name.
Footmen and some Royal Marines pressed into service to assist them laboured through the throng. There were red coats and the scarlet of the marines, but the navy's blue and white made up the majority of guests: there were very few below the rank of post captain. Of His Majesty there was no sign, and Bolitho had heard that he quite often failed to attend such receptions even though he was reminded of them by his long-suffering staff.
He felt a prickle of annoyance as he saw the large number of women present. Some might be wives: some, with their bold glances and barely-covered bosoms, were unlikely guests. But they did not count because nobody cared. If any ordinary officer were having an affair others would merely ignore it. But if Catherine had been on his arm, looking as she did on these rare occasions, you could have heard a pin drop, and every eye would be staring.
Someone took his hat and was lost amongst the crowd. Another, a Royal Marine, reached him with a tray and turned it carefully towards him. Bolitho glanced at him questioningly and the marine said in a conspiratorial whisper, "That's the good stuff, Sir Richard." He nearly winked. "I'm proud to be servin' you. Wait till I tells the lads! "
Bolitho sipped the wine. It was good. Cold too, surprisingly enough. "Do I know you?"
The man grinned, as if such things were impossible. "Bless you, no, Sir Richard. I was one o' Benbow's after guard when you came for us." His face was suddenly grim. "I'd bin wounded, y'see, otherwise I'd 'ave bin lyin' dead with all me mates."
Bolitho heard someone snap his fingers, and turned to see a captain he did not know beckoning to the marine.
This was one of Thomas Herrick's own marines, a man who thought himself lucky to be alive and recovered from his wound, unlike so many on that terrible day.
He snapped, "Have you no manners, sir?"
The captain stared at him and at his rank and seemed to sink into the throng like a fish in a pond.
He said, "Rear-Admiral Herrick was my friend."
The marine nodded gravely. He had seen the captain flush, then cringe at this man's sharp rebuke. Something else to tell the lads in the barracks.
"I knows it, Sir Richard. Beggin' yer pardon, I think it's wrong to send 'im to New South Wales."
Bolitho took another goblet from among the good stuff and nodded. Why had he said, 'was my friend'? Was there no hope? Was friendship really dead between them? Herrick had always been a stubborn man, sometimes beyond sense or reason. He could still not accept Bolitho's love for a woman not his wife, even though Catherine had been the only one to stay with Herrick's own beloved Dulcie when she had been dying so horribly of typhus. It was a miracle that Catherine herself had not fallen to the same fate.
He looked through a gap in the crowd and saw Hamett-Parker watching him intently, his pale eyes reflecting the hundreds of candles like chips of glass.
Bolitho walked towards him. The marine had vanished for another tray. Bolitho had smelt brandy on his breath: he had better watch his step if his officer noticed it.
Hamett-Parker bobbed his head. "I was aware of the charisma they say you possess, Sir Richard. That common fellow was obviously an admirer."
"I always draw comfort from such men, Sir James. I saw what he and his comrades endured. He and others like him make me very aware of what we owe them in leadership."
The admiral grunted. "I'll not deny that. But we must all take care that popularity does not win more friends than leadership." He glanced around at the noisy crowd. "Lord Godschale would have approved, don't you think?"
"What has become of him?" He sensed that Hamett-Parker was trying to goad him.
"He should be well on his way to Bombay by now." The admiral appeared indifferent, but his voice was sharper. "A most important position with the Honourable East India Company. Extremely lucrative, I would surmise."
Bolitho could not imagine Godschale willingly exchanging the pleasures of London for the intense heat and fevers of India. Hamett-Parker remarked, "I believe it was not unexpected. An indiscretion can often be overlooked. A political scandal cannot." He gazed at him coldly. "As I said, one must lead by example! "
"Is Captain Keen to be here tonight, Sir James?"
Hamett-Parker offered a faint smile. "No. He is not long married, and I can spare him a while."
"I had hoped that he would be promoted directly to flag rank."
"Were you?"
Bolitho prayed that someone would come and interrupt this verbal fencing match. "No, I was not. I was commodore first." Hamett-Parker would know that better than anyone. He contained his anger and added, "I have known Captain Keen for a long time. He was a midshipman under my command. He is a fine officer and a decent man."
"And comes from a powerful and influential family, yes? I respect your concern, of course, but you must accept that Captain Keen must be more than a fine officer to hoist his flag as rear-admiral. But we shall see. He will have every chance to prove himself, that I promise you."
A footman came towards them, a single goblet in the centre of his tray. The admiral took it and said, "Refreshing at times like these."
Bolitho noticed that he was drinking lime juice. Perhaps so that he could watch the antics of his subordinates and equals as the hock and madeira flowed freely.
Hamett-Parker frowned but instantly contained it as Sir Paul Sillitoe, elegantly dressed in dark grey silk and wearing a slender court sword at his hip, strode across the floor.
"My apologies for my late arrival, Sir James." Several guests nearby were making a pretence of not listening. They were not to be disappointed. "I have been with the prime minister we saw His Majesty together. The King will not be coming here after all."
Hamett-Parker regarded him balefully. "What ails him now?"
Sillitoe smiled at Bolitho for the first time, then said, "We have just received word, Sir James, from Talavera. General Wellesley has won a great victory over Marshal Soult. The war on the Peninsula is all but won."
There was a stunned silence, then as the word spread across the room and into other parts of the house a great burst of wild cheering made the chandeliers quiver like pieces of ice.
Hamett-Parker nodded. "Earlier than expected." He sounded completely unmoved.
Sillitoe took a glass of wine and smiled again. "A perfect way to celebrate your appointment, Sir James. Congratulations! " He looked at Bolitho. "A great moment for you also, sir. Without you and your seamen no soldier could have set foot on enemy soil! "
Hamett-Parker said, "We shall sup very shortly, while some of them can still stand. Pass the word! "
As the admiral turned away to play the host, however ungraciously, Sillitoe said lightly, "You are alone tonight, Sir Richard?" His hooded eyes gave nothing away.
"I came only because Lady Catherine insisted."
He nodded impassively. "Very wise. There are times when discretion is worth more than a squadron."
Bolitho was suddenly tired of it. "I'll not wait. I shall make my excuses."
Sillitoe shrugged. "We shall meet again very soon. There is work for both of us now that Arthur Wellesley has dished up his old enemy."