they would be parted, and her letters and his memories would have to sustain him.
"If you wish it, Kate. I am as greedy as you are persuasive."
They returned to the old house, and Bolitho was surprised to see his secretary Yovell working on some books in the library.
She frowned at him. "I'll not have you overtaxing yourself, Mr. Yovell! " Then she laughed. "I shall go up." Her gaze lingered on Bolitho as he watched her mount the stairs. "There will be no regrets, Richard."
Bolitho was not certain what she meant. To Yovell he said, "How did you get along with Mr. Avery?"
Yovell breathed on his little gold-rimmed spectacles and polished them vigorously with his handkerchief.
"A man of many parts, Sir Richard. Understands Latin too. He will suit."
There could be no higher praise from him.
Bolitho went upstairs, past each watching portrait with its background of some forgotten battle or campaign. The house was still hot from the day: there might even be thunder in the air.
He went into the room and saw her standing by a window, which was opened wide. It was airless and even the candles shone unmoving, the shadows around the room quite still.
As he put his arms around her she turned towards the tall cheval glass, which was surrounded by hundreds of carved thistles. It had belonged to Bolitho's Scottish mother, a gift from Captain James. She watched his face as he looked at her reflection in the mirror. She wore the favourite robe with its fine gold cord, her body clearly etched against his own shadow.
"Remember, no regrets. Do with me as you will. Use me, take me, for I am yours and always have been, although we did not know it."
He saw her body move against him as he played with the cord about her throat. It was like watching her being taken by someone else, a stranger.
"Slowly." Her eyes were watching the mirror, her mouth moist as he pulled the cord and began to lower the gown until her breasts were revealed, his hand dark around them until she was suddenly completely naked, her hair falling across her bare shoulders as if to protect her.
He took her to the bed and lay with her, touching her, kissing her breasts, her body, her legs, until delay was unbearable.
Only a moment more while he threw off his clothes, and she pretended to hold him away, then she murmured, "But I surrender…" The rest was stifled as he came down and entered her, holding her wrists, taking her like the stranger in the mirror.
There was thunder, lightning too. But in the room there was only peace.
6. The "Valkyrie'
The long stretch of water named The Hamoaze which separated Plymouth. Dockyard from the neighbouring county of Cornwall shone. like burnished pewter in the forenoon sunlight. The last day of August, and yet there was already a chill in the air, a hint of misty rain across the Devon countryside.
The waterway was alive with shipping of every kind and size, from two lordly ships-of-the-line tugging at their cables in a brisk off-shore breeze to collier brigs, deep in the water with their cargoes for the towns on the River Tamar and the dockyard itself. A ma sting vessel towing a great tangle of spars was following them, using the tide to make a safe passage from the Sound through the narrow strait that guarded the final approach.
To any ignorant land man one man-of-war was much the same as another, size being the only comparison, but in any true sailor the frigate anchored closest to the dockyard would rouse an immediate interest. From her tapering jib-boom to her finely-raked counter with her name, Valkyrie, below the stern cabin windows, she was obviously much larger than any other ship classed as a fifth-rate, and but for her long main gun-deck she might have passed for a ship-of-the-line.
Men moved quietly about her gangways and high above the decks on rigging and yards. A last full inspection: who could tell for how long? She was a new ship, built at the famous Bucklers Yard to an advanced design, and she had been with the fleet for less than two months. The strain on officers and seamen alike had been considerable.
Extra officers and experienced hands had been poached from other vessels in Plymouth with the aid of the port admiral, who was better aware than most of Valkyrie's importance. Properly used, she could out-fight any other man-of-war below the line of battle, and had been so designed that she could be used as a squadron commander of almost any number of vessels.
Right aft in the great cabin, Captain Aaron Trevenen was considering this very possibility as he glanced into the adjoining quarters, which were already prepared for Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho's use for as long as the situation dictated.
The quarters were spacious by any standard, he thought, for Valkyrie boasted a beam of just over forty feet with headroom, aft at least, to make every movement comfortable. Trevenen had spent almost all of his life at sea in frigates or similar vessels. This would probably be the last, he thought. A fine ship, and as a senior post-captain he had every chance of promotion to flag rank when Valkyrie had completed her commission. It had not been a definite promise, but Trevenen had been in the navy long enough to recognise the unwritten parts of his orders.
He was thickset rather than heavily-built, with a strong jaw and crows' feet to mark the years of standing watch under all conditions. His hair was a gingery chestnut colour, cut short, but not short enough to conceal the streaks of grey. He was forty but looked much older. He stood now, hands clasped behind him as if he could penetrate the full length of his command. Valkyrie was a true reward, when properly handled, for any captain. One hundred and eighty tons displacement, she could still respond like a four-in-hand. The sailing master had been astonished when the ship had logged over eighteen knots, despite her size and her forty-two guns and carronades.
Trevenen closed the door as if to shut the coming vice-admiral from his thoughts. He could not allow him to intrude. It was too dangerous. He heard the marine sentry tap his musket on the deck outside the screen door and prepared himself for his visitor.
It was Lieutenant Urquhart, his senior, an alert, quietly spoken man who had already been a first lieutenant in another frigate. Trevenen knew that, like some of the others, Urquhart had not yet got his captain's measure on so short an acquaintance.
Nor would he, he thought. He almost smiled. Almost.
He heard the tap at the door and said, "Come! "
Urquhart glanced round the day cabin as he strode aft, his cocked hat pressed under one arm. It was as if he expected to discover some identity here, a clue to the man who next to God would hold the lives of two hundred and twenty souls in his hands.
Trevenen did not miss it. "You are early, Mr. Urquhart. Is something amiss?"
The lieutenant said, "It is the surgeon, sir. He wishes to have an interview with you." He flushed as Trevenen's eyes came to rest on him. They were dark and deepset, yet managed to dominate even his strong features. Urquhart added awkwardly, "About the punishment, sir."
"I see. Tell him I do not wish to discuss it. I want it over and done with before the admiral comes aboard." He turned to the great stern windows as a yawl, tilting deeply as she tacked, passed dangerously close to the frigate's counter, then he snapped his fingers even as the first lieutenant turned to leave. "No! Belay that, Mr. Urquhart! I shall see him! "
Urquhart closed the screen door and found that his hand was snaking. In his previous ship the captain had called him by his first name when it was an informal occasion. If Trevenen ever did it to him, he would likely die of shock.
He found the surgeon waiting by the wardroom, his battered hat gripped in both hands. An untidy man, with sprouting grey hair and a face ruined by an excess of drinking. But they said he was a good surgeon; it was to be hoped they would not discover otherwise.