Bolitho declined. Catherine was downstairs somewhere in this high, silent house, waiting, worrying, hoping for news.
"I have to go. But first, can you tell me…"
Blachford regarded him curiously, but not without affection. "Still impatient? Remember what I told you aboard your Hyperion? How there might have been hope for the eye?"
Bolitho met his gaze. Remember? How could he forget? And this tall, stick-like man with spiky grey hair and the most pointed nose he had ever seen had been there with him, in the thick of it, until he had been forced to give the order to abandon ship.
Sir Piers Blachford was a senior and most respected member of the College of Surgeons. Despite the privations of a man-of-war, he and some of his colleagues had volunteered to spread themselves throughout the squadrons of the fleet to try and discover measures to ease the suffering of those wounded in combat or cruelly
injured in the demanding life of the common seaman. Resented at first as an intruder by some of Hyperion's people, he had won the hearts of nearly all of them before he had left.
A man of boundless energy, he, although being some twenty years Bolitho's senior, had explored the ship from forecastle to hold, and spoken with most of her company, and had, in the ship's final battle, saved the lives of many.
Then, as now, he reminded Bolitho of a heron in the reeds near the house at Falmouth. Waiting patiently to strike.
Bolitho said abruptly, "I could not be spared then."
He thought suddenly of the homecoming just two days ago after leaving the battered Truculent in the hands of the dockyard. Sir Charles Inskip had left for London with barely another word. Shocked by the grim events, or still smarting from Bolitho's bitter words before the battle, he neither knew nor cared.
For long, long minutes he had held Catherine while she had allowed him to find his composure again in his own time. She had knelt at his feet, the firelight shining in her eyes while he had eventually described the short, savage engagement, of Anemone's arrival when all time had run out. Of Poland's despair and death, of those who had fallen because of the folly and treachery of others.
Only once had she touched on Captain Varian and the Zest. She had tightened her grip on his hands as he had answered quietly, "I want him dead."
Eventually she had dragged out of him an admission about the falling block which had struck him a glancing blow on the head.
Even now, in this quiet, remote room above Albemarle Street, he could feel her compassion, her anxiety. While he had been at the Admiralty to complete his report to Admiral the Lord Godschale she had come here to see Blachford, to plead for his help in spite of his constantly full programme of interviews and operations.
Blachford had been joined in his probing examinations by a short, intense doctor by the name of Rudolf Braks. The latter had barely said a word but had assisted in the examination with an almost fanatical dedication. He had a thick guttural voice when he did eventually speak with Blachford, and Bolitho thought he might be
German, or more likely a renegade Dutchman.
One thing was evident; they both knew a great deal about Nelson's eye injury, and Bolitho imagined that, too, was included in the lengthy volumes of their report to the College of Surgeons.
Blachford sat down and thrust out his long, thin legs.
"I will discuss it further with my eminent colleague. It is more in his field than mine. But I shall need to make further tests. You will be in London for a while?"
Bolitho thought suddenly of Falmouth, with winter closing in from the grey waters below the headland. It was like a desperate need. He had expected to be killed, and had accepted it. Perhaps that was why he had managed to hold Truculent's people together when they had nothing left to give.
"I was hoping to go home, Sir Piers."
Blachford gave a brief smile. "A few more days, then. I understand that you have a new flagship to commission?" He did not elaborate on how he knew or why he was interested. But then he never did.
Bolitho thought of Admiral Godschale's sympathy; his anger at what had happened. One cannot do everything oneself.
The admiral had probably already selected a flagofficer to replace him if the French plan to take Truculent had succeeded, or Bolitho had fallen in battle.
Bolitho replied, "A few more. Thank you for your help, and especially your courtesy to Lady Catherine."
Blachford stood up, the heron again. "Had I been made of stone, and some insist that I am, I would have done what I could. I have never met another like her. I had thought that some of the tales of envy might be overplayed, but now I know differently! " He held out his bony hand. "I will send word."
Bolitho left the room and hurried down the gilded circular staircase. A grand house and yet somehow spartan, like the man.
She stood up as a servant opened the doors for him, her dark eyes filled with questions. He pulled her against him and kissed her hair.
"He said nothing bad, dear Kate."
She leaned back in his arms and searched his face. "I nearly lost you. Now I know it. It is all there in your eyes."
Bolitho stared past her at a window. "We are together. The rain has stopped. Shall we send Young Matthew away and walk back? It is not far, and I need to walk with you. It is not the lanes and cliffs of Cornwall, but with you it is always a kind of miracle."
Later, as they lingered together on the wet pavements while the carriages and carts clattered past, she told him of a report she had seen in the Gazette. "There was nothing written about you or Sir Charles Inskip." It sounded like an accusation.
He held his cloak across her as a troop of soldiers trotted past, their hooves throwing up muddy water from the many puddles.
He smiled at her. "My tiger again?" He shook his head. "No, it was a pretence that neither of us was aboard at the time. No longer a secret from our enemies, but it will throw some doubts amongst them. They will not be able to use it against the Danes, to bring more threats against them."
She said softly, "It tells of Poland fighting his ship against all odds until your nephew's arrival." She halted and faced him, her chin lifted. "It was you, wasn't it, Richard? You beat them off, not the captain."
Bolitho shrugged. " Poland was a brave man. He had it in his eyes. I think he knew he was going to die… he probably blamed me for it."
They reached the house just as the rain began again. Bolitho remarked, "Two carriages. I'd hoped we might be alone tonight."
The door was opened even as their feet touched the first step. Bolitho was surprised to see the red-faced housekeeper Mrs Robbins peering down at them. She had been away at Browne's big estate in Sussex, but had been here when Bolitho had rescued Catherine from the Waites prison. A formidable Londoner born and bred who had had some definite ideas about keeping them both apart during their stay in his lordship's house.
Catherine threw the hood back from her head. "It is good to see you again, Mrs Robbins! "
But the housekeeper peered at Bolitho and exclaimed, "I didn't know where you was, sir. Your man Allday was out, yer lieutenant gone 'ome to South'ampton to all accounts-"
It was the first time Bolitho had seen her distressed or so anxious. He took her arm. "Tell me. What has happened?"
She raised her apron and held it to her face. "It's 'is lordship. He's been callin' for you, sir." She looked up the stairs as if to see him. "The doctor's with 'im, so please be quick."
Catherine made to move to the staircase but Bolitho saw the housekeeper shake her head with quiet desperation.
Bolitho said, "No, Kate. It were better you stay and look after Mrs Robbins. Send for a hot drink." He held her gaze with his own. "I'll be down directly."
He found an elderly servant sitting outside the double doors of Browne's rooms. He looked too shocked to move, and for some reason Bolitho thought of Allday.
It was dark in the big room except around the bed. There were three men sitting by it; one, apparently the doctor, was holding Browne's hand, perhaps feeling his pulse.