Alexander Kent - In the King`s Name

Troubridge looked curiously around the big panelled room, at dark portraits and paintings of ships, men-of-war in action. He said, “I’ve seen some of his work. Fine pictures.”

She turned and stood with her back to the fire, smiling. “You are full of surprises, Francis. He was a friend of my guardian’s … or claims he was!”

She bent down to pick up a piece of cloth before using it to cover another painting, which stood against the bookcase that lined one wall. He had already seen it: the perfect body, her long hair across one shoulder. And the harp.

She was saying, “He painted Lady Hamilton. Poor Emma. She never lived to see it.”

She looked up and into his eyes, her chin lifted. Like that moment in the church. Pride or defiance? “He wants me to sit for him.”

“Are you pleased?”

“Honoured.” She touched his arm. “I want to hear about you , Francis. Your new ship, everything.” And then she looked away, just as suddenly. “I didn’t want it to be like this. I was told about this morning.”

“Lady Roxby?”

She did not answer. “I had told Young Matthew to stop at The Spaniards to collect some cheese. They make their own, and I remembered how you enjoyed it when you were last here.” She faced him again, and he could see her breathing. “It was some filth about me, wasn’t it?” She reached out and touched his lips, that intoxicating gesture. “I know. Elizabeth saw it before I did. She said he was ‘always watching.’”

She shuddered.

He said quietly, “I would have killed him.”

She gazed at him, her expression exactly as it had been captured in the painting. She repeated slowly, “Lovely to see you, Francis …” and drew in her breath as he put his arms around her. “Don’t. I’m not made of stone!”

But she could feel his hands on her back, her spine, and knew the gown had slipped from her left shoulder; she tensed as he kissed it.

Like a fantasy or a fever. Not the heat from the fire, but their own.

She heard herself say, “Stop,” and then in the next breath, “Kiss me.” She was pressed against him, their mouths making words impossible, their tongues sealing their embrace. He was kissing her shoulder again, and she had felt his hand against her skin. Her breast.

They stood quite still, their bodies a solitary shadow against the books. Somewhere a bell was ringing, and there was a sound of hooves. She buried her face against his shoulder. A single horse. But she could not move.

Now a man’s voice she did not recognise, and a woman’s: young Jenna.

She stood back and covered her bare shoulder. Her gown was dishevelled, and the ribbon sash unfastened.

He said, “Let me …”

But she could not look at him. She opened the door and saw Jenna standing with a man in uniform, his boots and spurs caked with mud.

“Who is it, Jenna?” How could she sound so calm?

The girl bobbed her head. “Courier-for the commander, ma’am.”

Troubridge walked past her, seeing the courier’s eyes flick over his uniform before he handed him a sealed envelope. He did not know the handwriting: the seal was enough.

He said quietly, “I must return to the ship.” He did not even say my ship .

Nancy was here now, glancing from one to the other. She had seen Lowenna’s gown; he hoped she could not imagine the rest.

Troubridge said, “A change of plan. My passengers are arriving a day earlier after all!”

Nancy said easily to the courier, “Something hot to drink before you go?”

“Why, thankee, m’ lady!” He clumped away.

Lowenna said, “I’ll tell Young Matthew. If I sent you with any one else, he’d never forgive me.”

It was over. And she thought she could hear Harry Flinders laughing.

CAPTAIN ADAM BOLITHO climbed from the companion and paused to prepare his eyes for the glare. The morning watch was only an hour old but the sun, reflected from the sea, was almost blinding after the chartroom. But for the angle, it could have been noon.

A glance aloft to the masthead pendant, no longer limp or curling above the canvas but streaming its full length, pointing the way ahead. The topsails, too, were responding again, not full or straining like other times, but answering well to wind and rudder. Will it last?

For four days the wind had been their enemy. Veering and backing, or falling away altogether, a mockery rather than a challenge. Hardly a watch passed without all hands being called as Onward changed tack. Even during the night, when even an experienced sailor is never at his best.

Adam stared along the length of the ship and felt the wind, slight as it was, pressing the shirt against his back. Like the air, his skin was already warm and clammy. As Jago had remarked over his razor, “Best to keep dressed down while you can, Cap’n.”

Most of the men working on or above deck were stripped to the waist, some badly burned by sun and wind, and despite the early hour there were several of them loitering on the gangways, peering ahead, or pointing at the vast span of land that reached out on either bow as far as the eye could see. At first only a long unwavering shadow, unmoving, beyond reach, but now, after two days of doubt and uncertainty, it was reality. Measureless. Not merely land, but a continent.

Adam glanced at the sails again, and thought he saw one of the topmen pointing at something, grinning or swearing, he could not tell. But he felt it. Shared it. At moments like this, we are one company .

He knew that Vincent was standing with his arms folded, observing the men around the wheel and compass box. It was his watch, although he and his captain had met a few times when every one had been mustered for another alteration of course. Like strangers in the night. This was different. As first lieutenant, Vincent would be on his feet and dealing with everything from mooring the ship to any ceremonial required.

Vincent turned now as someone gave a quiet cheer, but seemed to visibly relax as men moved aside to let another find a place at the nettings. It was the young assistant cook, Lord, with one of the surgeon’s crew hovering at his side. The bandages gleamed in the hot sunlight, and Adam could sense his surprise, even confusion, as the way was cleared for him. There were grins and jokes, too. Lord looked steadily at the land, unable to respond. Perhaps the emotion was too much. It was his first day on deck since the stabbing.

It gave Vincent time to cross the quarterdeck and touch his hat to Adam. “Holding steady, sir. West nor’ west. We’ll anchor in the forenoon if this holds.” He glanced at the thin plume of greasy smoke from the galley funnel. “Good thing we piped all hands an hour early!”

Adam smiled. “They’ve done well.” He saw some of the first to be called appearing on deck, yawning and looking curiously at the land as they began to stack their rolled hammocks in the nettings, a bosun’s mate making sure that there were no errors to spoil the array. He added quietly, “And so have you, Mark.”

Vincent walked to the compass box and back, and said only, “D’ you know the admiral at Freetown, sir?”

Adam saw a fish leap in the ship’s shadow, not a shark this time. He was still thinking of the stricken schooner Moonstone . Maybe Vincent was, too.

“Rear-Admiral Langley? Only by name, I’m afraid. There have been several changes since I was last here, to all accounts.”

Vincent nodded slowly. “They’ll all be hungry for news. Wanting to know what’s happening at home.”

Adam looked toward the spreading panorama of green and felt the sun on his neck, like a hot breath. And this was early. News from home .