"It changes nothing, Sir Richard." He raised his hat to the side-party. "We have both lost too much to cry salvage! "
Then he was gone, and seconds later the boat was pulling strongly from the chains until only the trailing wake could be seen.
"Just as well I came across, Sir Richard."
Bolitho swung round and saw Allday by the quarterdeck ladder. "What made you come?" He already knew.
"I heard things. "Bout Rear-Admiral Herrick going over to the Marathon. Thought you might need me." He was watching him through the darkness. Bolitho could feel it.
Bolitho touched his arm. "Never more, old friend." He almost stumbled, and a scarlet arm reached out as a marine made to help him.
"Thank you." Bolitho sighed. Probably thinks I'm drunk. His eye blurred painfully and he waited for Allday to lead the way. Herrick had not even asked him about his injury, although he knew of it.
If only there were a letter from Catherine. Short or long: merely to see it, to read and re-read it, to imagine her with her hair hanging down over her shoulders in their room that faced the sea. Her expression as she paused and touched her lips with the pen as he had seen her do when working with Ferguson on the accounts. I am your woman.
He said abruptly, "Come aft. We will take a wet, as you term it! "
"The Cap'n won't welcome that, Sir Richard! "
"He is beyond caring, old friend."
Allday grinned with relief, glad he had come. Just in time by the look of it.
They sat at the littered table, where Avery said uncertainly, "Quite a feast, Sir Richard." He seemed nervous, disquieted.
Bolitho reached for one of the bottles.
He said, "Be easy, Mr. Avery. There are no officers here tonight, only men. Friends."
They solemnly raised their glasses.
Avery said, "To friends then! No matter where they are! "
Bolitho clinked his glass against the others. "So be it! "
He drank, recalling Herrick in his black coat. When he wrote to Catherine again he would not mention the fiasco of their meeting. She would have already known, while he had continued to hope.
It was over.
9. Intrigue
Lewis Roxby, squire, landowner and magistrate, nicknamed with some justification the King of Cornwall, stood at the foot of the bell-tower of the Church of King Charles the Martyr, his eyes watering in the chill breeze from Carrick Roads. Beside him the curate of Falmouth 's famous church was droning on about the need for further alteration to the interior so that the new Sunday Schools which he had helped to found could be extended to the opening of a day school. But first more work was needed on the roof, and something had to be done to prevent the spread of rot in the bell-chamber.
Roxby was well aware of the importance of helping the church and the community, or rather to be seen doing it. Richard Hawkin Hitchens was a good enough clergyman, he supposed, and he took a great interest in the education of local children under the church's influence. The actual Rector of Falmouth only rarely visited the place, and his last appearance had in fact been at the memorial service for Sir Richard Bolitho, then believed lost at sea in the Golden Plover.
Roxby remembered the wild excitement when two of Adam's lieutenants had galloped into the square with the news that Bolitho was safe. The unfortunate Rector's words had been lost in the bedlam as people had surged outside to the various inns to celebrate.
He realised that the curate had stopped speaking and was looking at him earnestly.
Roxby cleared his throat. "Well, yes, there is some value in it." He saw the man's bewilderment and knew he had got it wrong. "I shall look into it. It does appear necessary, I suppose."
It seemed to work and the curate beamed at him. Roxby turned on his heel, angry with himself, knowing it would cost him more money. He saw his horse waiting beside the groom's and summoned up happier thoughts, of the next hunt ball he would give.
The groom said, "She be comin', zur."
Roxby watched as Lady Catherine Somervell on her big mare cantered round a corner by The King's Head and moved across the square. It was a tasteless name for an inn when you thought about it, Roxby reflected, considering the fate of King Charles.
He doffed his hat and tried not to stare. She was dressed from head to toe in dark green velvet, with a hood partly drawn over her hair, accenting the beauty of her features.
He made to help her down but she withdrew one booted foot from its stirrup and landed beside him without effort. He kissed her hand and could smell the perfume she wore, even through her thick riding glove.
"It is good of you to come, Lewis."
Even her easy use of his name made him shiver. No wonder his brother-in-law had fallen in love with her.
"I can think of nothing more pleasant, my dear." He took her elbow and guided her around the corner of a grocer's shop. He apologised for his haste and added, The curate has a hungry look. I fear he may think of something more he needs! "
She walked easily beside him and barely hesitated when they left the shelter of the houses and the keen air blew the hood down on to her shoulders. Roxby was already short of breath and made every effort to hide it from her as he did from his beloved wife, Nancy. It never occurred to him that as he drank heavily and consumed far too much rich food, it was not surprising.
Roxby said, "I must warn you, my dear, that what you intend could be an expensive failure."
She looked at him, a faint smile on her mouth. "I know.
And I am grateful for your advice and concern. But I want to help the estate. What use are crops if the prices are controlled by the markets? There are plenty of places where they need every kind of grain, where bad harvests have been commonplace to a point of poverty."
Roxby watched her, still baffled by her involvement. He knew she had recovered a lot of money from the estate of her dead husband, but he would have thought it better if she had spent it on clothes, jewels, property and the like. But he knew she was very determined, and said, "I've found the vessel you wanted. She's the Maria Jose and she lies at Fowey. I have had a friend look her over. He is well used to the prize courts."
"Prize?"
Roxby continued to hurry beside her, pacing himself to her stride. "She was taken by the revenue cutters. A smuggler. You could change the name, if you wanted to."
She shook her head so that some of her dark hair tugged free of her combs and whipped out in the wind. "Richard says it is bad luck to change a vessel's name." She looked at him directly. "I suppose I need not ask what happened to her crew?"
He shrugged. "They'll not be smuggling, m'dear, ever again."
"Are we close to Fowey?"
"Bout thirty miles by the main coach roads. But if the weather breaks…" He paused doubtfully. "I would not let you go unguarded. I'd go with you myself but…"
She smiled. "It would do very little for your reputation, I think."
He flushed. "I would be honoured, Catherine, proud to take you. But I am needed here until the winter sets in. You could break the journey at St. Austell – I have friends there. I will arrange it." His tone implied if you must go.
She looked past him at the cruising white cats' paws around the anchored merchantmen, at the boats under oars pitching and tossing while they went about their business. She could feel the cold even through her cloak. There were leaves floating on the water, and the bare trees were shining and black from the night's rain. And yet it was still only October, for a few more days anyway.
She had discussed the proposed purchase of a vessel with a lawyer who had come all the way from London upon confirmation of her plans. He had been as doubtful as Roxby. Only Ferguson, the one-armed steward, had shown excitement when she had explained it to him.
"A fine, sound boat, Lady Catherine, one able to take passage to Scottish harbours or across to Ireland if need be. They're no strangers to famine. It will make good sense to them, right enough! "