Alexander Kent - Heart of Oak

Or did he still regard it as a refuge? Like me.

Most of the time this house was empty but for those who cared for it, and the ghosts of vanished Bolithos whose portraits lined the landing and hung in the fine old study. And the latest portrait of Adam, who was adamantly not a ghost, gazing from the canvas throughout the months of his long absence, wearing the yellow rose on his uniform coat. My rose… Montagu had asked for her advice: the portrait had not been quite right, not to his satisfaction. They had discussed it, and together they had found what was lacking: that elusive smile.

Now it was Adam.

She glanced at the window again. Brighter? Yes. She allowed herself to smile. Not a dream. He was coming home. And I am not afraid.

If only Montagu had lived to see and share her hopes and happiness, but he had never recovered from the terrible injuries suffered in the fire which had destroyed the Old Glebe House.

The Last Cavalier, Adam had called him. Always alert, dedicated, and passionate. Ageless, with his neat, rakish beard; even the paint-daubed smock he usually wore could never conceal his courtly charm. It was so easy to imagine a rapier replacing the brush.

She had been his ward, and he had saved her life. After I tried to end it.

She thought of the last time she had been with Adam, at the old boatyard where Montagu had often gone when he wanted to work on a painting undisturbed. They had been alone, and became the lovers in fact that they had been in name. was not afraid.

She could hear Montagu's voice, almost the last words he had spoken to her before the doctors had turned her away.

Destiny, my girl. Fate.

How many times had she clung to those dying words.

She heard some one whispering outside the door, the clink of glass or metal. It was time.

"Thank you, Gregory. So much. "She could see him clearly, turning from a new canvas, a quizzical smile above the jaunty beard. The Last Cavalier.

Nancy, Lady Roxby, waited until the doors had closed behind her and held out her arms, her eyes shining with pleasure and emotion.

"It is so good to see you, Adam! "She hugged him, imagining the smell of the sea on his clothing, her face cold against his.

"You must be tired out!"

Adam released her and looked at the girl, still standing in the arched entrance, surprised and a little unnerved by the warmth of the welcome.

It had been mid-morning when the carriage, with Young Matthew on the box, had swung around the curved drive and pulled up beneath the leafless trees. "Grand to have you home again, Captain Bolitho! "His cold-reddened face had split into a grin, and other figures had appeared as if to a signal. Some Adam knew only by sight. Others had always been part of his life, like old Jeb Trinnick, who had been in charge of the Bolitho stables as long as any one in the family could recall.

And there were faces he did not recognize, and some far older than when he had last seen them.

In this mood it had been overwhelming, although he should have been prepared for it. A Bolitho was back from the sea.

Smiles, shouts of greeting, others running to calm the horses. And Nancy leading the way, smiling, close to tears as he had known she would be. And then he saw Lowenna at the foot of the steps.

Less than a year: only a dog watch, the deepwater Jacks would say, but not to those who were always left behind.

He had held her, his hands on her waist, how long he did not know. As if they had been quite alone. She had turned her head very slightly and he had felt her shiver, or brace herself as she said, "I've waited.

He bent to kiss her cheek, but she had turned her face suddenly, and he had kissed her mouth. Like that other time… Let them think what they like.

And now they were here. Some one was whistling; the carriage was moving away from the entrance. He heard a dog barking somewhere and a girl laughing, cut off sharply as if admonished by one of her superiors.

Lowenna unfastened the cloak from her shoulders. It was the same old boat cloak, cleaned and patched a few times. All those vigils along the headland or a beach somewhere, watching for the first sign of a ship. The ship.

He said, "There's so much…"

She reached out and touched his lips. "Hold me. "She let her arms fall. "Just hold me."

Nancy watched them and then turned away, her heel catching on her own cloak, which she had thrown in the direction of a chair. "I must do a few things. I've arranged your room."

She picked it up. Neither of them had heard her. She was moved, and disturbed also, that she could still feel envy and loneliness.

When she glanced back, Adam's arms were around Lowenna without apparent pressure or insistence. One of the girl's hands clenched slightly into a fist, and she knew that he was stroking her hair.

There was a tang of woodsmoke in the cold air: fresh fires being lit. Nancy rubbed her eyes. She was not going to cry, not today.

The old house would be alive again.

Luke Jago stood back from the chair and wiped the scissor blades on a cloth.

"There, smart as paint. Good enough for an admiral. "He grinned. "One on "alf pay, anyways!"

David Napier glanced across at the old desk, where the chair he had been occupying usually stood. It had been replaced by a larger version, more accommodating to Daniel Yoveil's portly shape. Even the desk seemed to have changed, with all the familiar ledgers and accounts but some leather-bound files as well, and a neat pile of dockets weighted with a large conch shell.

Even now, if a floorboard creaked or a door banged open, Napier still expected to see Bryan Ferguson, the one-armed steward of the estate.

Jago was dusting hairs from his sleeve.

"Better get yer shirt on. I seen a lad breakin "ice at the pump just now."

Napier smiled. It was something to say, to help him in his own hard fashion. Jago could read your thoughts, if you let him.

It was stifling in the estate office, and the stove was roaring like a furnace. Even the cat, which was usually close by, had apparently found it unendurable.

He regarded himself in the spotted mirror that hung over a bookcase. His skin was still brown from the Caribbean sun. He balanced, tentatively, on the wounded leg, and tried to take his weight evenly on both, as the surgeon had insisted.

"Thank you. It looks fine."

"A good seaman can turn "is wits to anythin', given the chance."

Napier could hear the surgeon again. It could have been much worse. That was probably what they had told Ferguson when they had taken off his arm at The Saintes.

It was sometimes impossible to remember the order of things. Audacity reeling under the bombardment of the great guns invisible on the shore. The captain cut down, and the deck exploding around them as the heated shot turned the lower hull into hell. Men dying, others still standing to their guns, until they had no escape but the sea.

He heard some one call out, and the clatter of wheels. Yovell had gone down to speak with one of the local carters. He seemed able to deal with everything: an admiral, a captain, and now a Cornish estate. He felt his hair again. Good enough for an admiral. And so it was. He was happy to be back with Jago after his brief service in the frigate: Jago, who hated officers.

Jago, who had insisted on taking him out to join…

Jago was at the window. "Lot of new faces since we paid off Unrivalled. The Cap'n'll be thinkin "as much, I reckon. "He turned. "Th "big day today, eh? Th "Cap'n an' his lady will be on their way to see the GЦ "He had been about to say "God bosun'. "Preacher, round about now."

Napier pulled on his shirt, and saw the coat with its white collar patches lying across a chest. Twelve days since he had arrived here, with the wound reopened and the former cavalryman bandaging it in the carriage. It could have been so much worse.