One of the others exclaimed, "He's here, Oliver! " And to Bolitho, "Oh, thank God, Sir Richard! "
They made way for him and he sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked at the man who had once been his flag lieutenant until he had succeeded to his father's role and title.
He was still dressed in his shirt, and his skin was wet with sweat. His eyes as they settled on Bolitho seemed to widen with effort, and he gasped, "I-I heard you were safe! A while I-I thought-"
"Easy, Oliver, it will be all right." He shot a glance at the doctor. "What is it?"
Without a word the doctor raised a dressing from Browne's chest. The shirt had been cut open and there was blood everywhere.
Bolitho asked quietly, "Who did it?" He had seen enough wounds left by pistol or musket to recognise this one.
Browne said in a fierce whisper, "No time-no time left." His eyes fluttered. "Closer, please closer! "
Bolitho lowered his face to his. The young flag lieutenant who had walked the deck with him, as Jenour had done, with all hell around them. A fine, decent young man who was dying even as he watched him fighting a hopeless battle.
Browne said, "Somervell. A duel." Each word was a separate agony but he persisted, "Your lady-your lady is a widow now." He clenched his jaw so that his teeth brought blood to his lips. "But he's done for me all the same! "
Bolitho looked desperately at the doctor. "Can't you do something?"
He shook his head. "It is a marvel he has lived this long, Sir Richard."
Browne gripped Bolitho's cuff and whispered, "That damned rogue killed my brother-like this. I have settled the score. Please explain to-" His head lolled on the pillow and he was still.
Bolitho reached out and closed his eyes. He said, "I shall tell Catherine. Rest now, Oliver." He looked away, his eyes smarting worse than before. Browne with an "e." He walked to the doors and said, "Tell me when-" But nobody answered him.
In the room where he had told Catherine about the battle, she was waiting for him. She held out a goblet of brandy and said, "I know. Allday heard it in the kitchen. My husband is dead." She put her hand up to the goblet to press it to his lips. "I feel nothing, but for you… and your dead friend."
Bolitho felt the brandy sting his throat, remembering, putting each picture in place.
Then, while she refilled the goblet, he heard himself say, "Oliver used the phrase, We Happy Few. The few are much fewer, and now poor Oliver has paid the price."
In the kitchen Allday sat with a half-demolished mutton pie and paused to refill his pipe. He said,"'Nother stoup of ale would not go amiss, Ma Robbins." He shook his head and was surprised how much it ached. "Second thought, I'll take some more o' that rum yonder."
The housekeeper watched him sadly, grieving over what had happened, but apprehensive about her own future. Young Oliver, as he had been known in the kitchen, was the last in direct line for the title. There was talk of some distant cousin, but who could tell what might become of her?
She said, "I'm surprised 'ow you can carry on at a time like this, John! "
Allday focused his red-rimmed eyes with difficulty.
"Then I'll tell you, Ma Robbins. It's 'cause I survived! " He gestured vaguely to the room above them. " We've survived! I'll shed a tear with the next bugger, beggin' yer pardon, Ma, but it's us I cares about, see?"
She pushed the stone jug across to him. "Just you mind your manners when the men come to take 'is lordship away. Quality or not, it's against the law, wot they done! "
She reached out to save the rum as Allday's head thudded down on the table. In this gracious house the war had always been at a distance. There had never been any shortages, and only when young Oliver had been away at sea had it meant much to those who served belowstairs.
But in Allday's last burst of despairing anger, the war had been right here on the doorstep.
She heard a door close and knew they were going upstairs, perhaps to sit with the body. Her red features softened. Young Oliver would rest easy with the man he had loved more than his own father so close at hand.
The doctor who had attended both participants in the duel scrutinised his watch repeatedly, and made no secret of his eagerness to leave.
Catherine sat by a low fire, one hand playing with her necklace, her high cheekbones adding to her beauty.
Bolitho said, "So Oliver left a letter. Was he so certain that he was going to die?"
The doctor glanced unhappily at Catherine and murmured, "Viscount Somervell was a renowned duellist, I understand. It would seem a likely conclusion."
Bolitho heard whispers on the staircase, the sounds of doors opening and closing as they prepared Browne for his final journey to his Sussex home.
Catherine said sharply, "This waiting! Is there no end to it?" She reached out and took his offered hand, and held it to her cheek as if they were alone in the room. "Don't worry, Richard. I will not disappoint you."
Bolitho looked at her and wondered at her strength. Together and with the doctor's aid they had discovered the whereabouts of Somervell's seconds, and his body It had already been taken to his spacious house in Grosvenor Square. Was she thinking of that? That she would be required to go there and complete the process of her dead husband's burial? He tightened his hold on her fingers. He would be with her. There was already scandal enough; a little more could do no further harm.
When the news got out there were many who might think he had killed Somervell. He looked away, his eyes bitter. I would that I had.
Word had been sent to Browne's country estate at Horsham. They would be coming for him. Today.
Bolitho said, "I gather that Oliver's older brother died in a similar affair with Somervell. It was in Jamaica." Who could have guessed that someone like the outwardly carefree Browne would set out to find Somervell and settle the debt, in the only way he knew?
A red-eyed servant opened the door. "Beg pardon, but the carriage is 'ere."
More feet and murmured exchanges, and then a powerfully-built man in sombre country clothing entered to announce he was Hector Croker, the estate manager. Three days since they had sent a message by post-horse. In rain-washed lanes and pitch-dark roads, Croker must have driven without any rest at all.
The doctor handed him some papers, his relief even more obvious, like a man ridding himself of something dangerous or evil.
He saw Mrs Robbins waiting with her bags and said kindly, "You'll ride with us, Mrs Robbins. His lordship left word you were to stay in your employment."
Catherine walked to the doorway and gave the housekeeper a hug. "For caring for me as you did."
Mrs Robbins gave an awkward curtsy and hurried down the steps, with barely a glance at the house where she had witnessed so much.
From the lower floor Allday peered up through the small window, and watched in silence as Browne's body was carried down the steps to the carriage by several men in dark clothing. Aloud he said, "An' there's an end to it."
Bolitho followed the men to the carriage and gave some money to their leader. More quick glances, men who were used to this kind of work. Theirs was not to ask questions.
Bolitho felt her slip her hand through his arm and said, "Goodbye, Oliver. Rest in peace."
Rain pattered across their bared heads but they watched until the carriage had turned up towards Piccadilly. In his letter Browne had requested that if the worst should befall him, he was to be buried on the family estate.
Bolitho turned and saw her looking at him. Now she is free to marry me, but I am not. The thought seemed to torment him.
She said softly, "It changes nothing, you know." She smiled, but her dark eyes were sad.
Bolitho replied, "I shall be with you until-"
She nodded. "I know. That is my only concern. What it may do to your reputation."