Alexander Kent - Heart of Oak

"Can you forgive me for keeping you waiting? Time is always at a premium when we most cherish it."

A big man with bushy white eyebrows, who took their arms in his and turned them toward a door by the chapel, as if, Adam thought, they had been friends for years.

"So let us not waste it, shall we? We will sit a while, and we can consider our options, eh?"

He guided them into a small, spartan room, not unlike the cell at the Admiralty.

The senior curate was bluff, outspoken and forthright.

Nancy had warned him that he might be surprised.

This church had had the same rector for over twenty years, but to her knowledge he had never once visited Falmouth. A good and reliable curate was, however, always on hand.

He was saying, "I have read your letter, Captain Bolitho, and Lady Roxby has kept me fully informed of the circumstances and your proposed marriage. A very good woman, never too busy to offer her assistance for the benefit of our parish."

He leaned back in the chair, his fingers interlaced across his stomach. Outwardly unconcerned, but Adam sensed that he missed very little.

"The last commission was cut short. I am awaiting orders…"

One hand lifted slightly. "Your recent exploits are well known. Many would suggest you might expect, even demand some release from duty. We are at peace now. But we must never allow ourselves to become complacent or unwary again."

The massive eyebrows wrinkled. "We in the Church must also stand to our guns, as it were, and be ready. "He stared up at the arched ceiling and intoned, "God and the Navy we adore When danger threatens, but not before." "And chuckled. "I don't recall who said that, but it is still, sadly, true."

He looked intently at Lowenna, and then at Adam.

"I cannot promise an early wedding, but I will do what I can.

This church is always open if you need help or comfort. I shall send word when we are able to confirm a date. "He gestured to some small, velvet-covered books. "We will join in prayer before you go."

The bell was ringing somewhere overhead, and there were whispering voices outside the door, and echoes from the body of the church.

The curate held out his hand.

"A pleasure, Captain. I would have spoken to you before, at Sir Richard's memorial service, but my time was not my own."

The handshake, like the smile, was genuine. How had he managed to remember, and mark him out? So long ago, and among so many people. He watched the big hands take Lowenna's.

"I hope we shall meet again very soon. Love is not always the most patient of messengers. "He nodded. "I knew Sir Gregory Montagu quite well. "Adam saw her tense, her chin lifting slightly, as if she were suddenly on guard. "Sometimes our views and concepts were at odds, but he was a man among men. Sorely missed."

Adam heard her murmur something and wanted to interrupt, but when he saw her face he knew there was no need. She said quietly, "He saved my life. Now I know why."

They stood outside the little chapel and looked along the nave. Nothing had changed; only the sunlight had shifted.

They began to walk slowly down the aisle, toward the entrance, where Francis was waiting.

There would be people coming to the house this evening, some strangers, curious or with minds already biased. She gripped his arm. Her eyes were no longer in shadow, and she was smiling with a radiance he had not seen before.

She reached up to touch his face.

"Take me home, Adam. "Three figures walked past, stepping aside to avoid them. They could have been invisible. "Time is an obstacle. It is not an enemy."

Francis had the carriage door open and watched them coming down the steps. It was going to be a long day, but he would tell his wife all about it when he got home, if she was still awake.

He was aware of some passers-by who had stopped to stare or smile. She looked so much the radiant bride.

Together.

Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick walked slowly across the familiar entrance hall, and then hesitated as if to reassure himself. Somehow it was different from the picture he had fixed in his mind. A fire was burning brightly and to one side he saw a half-opened door. The library, shelved books rising from floor to ceiling. And beyond that, the curving staircase. The portraits.

He turned. "I'm sorry, my dear. What did you say?"

He remembered the servant who had ushered him through the front door. A round, open face: a local girl with a poise that marked her as one of Grace Ferguson's assistants.

"Lady Roxby is not here, sir. "She seemed to know the time, although he saw no clock. "She'm due back directly. If you would care to sit a while, I can fetch you something."

Herrick jammed his hat beneath his arm and saw her eyes rest on his pinned-up sleeve. It never failed; so why did he still resent it? "A drink, perhaps? "She shifted from one foot to the other.

"A dish of tea, maybe?"

He ventured, "Some ginger beer? The last time I was here…"

Her smile widened immediately. "You be easy, sir. I recollect when you last came. "She gestured toward another room, facing the sea. "You'll be snug in there."

"Thank you, Jenna, that would suit very well. I'm sorry to intrude without warning. "But she had already gone, pleased to be doing something, and that he had recalled her name.

Something else he had learned over the years. It is sometimes all they have.

He looked toward the portraits, remembering who had taught him that.

He walked to the other room and halted by the door. Like an intruder. He should have sent word, or been here last night, when other guests had been invited. Maybe he should leave now, go back to The Spaniards where he had left his baggage after the journey from St. Austell. Less than half the distance from Plymouth, but it had felt longer. He thought suddenly of the conference he had been asked to attend.

Asked? There had been no choice. But it had been an opportunity to keep abreast of naval affairs, perhaps the last he would get.

He had found himself at a big house on an estate near St.

Blazey. They were all senior officers, or had been; most of them seemed to be retired. They had met to discuss the merits of reallocating work from naval dockyards to local, civilian contractors. With their lordships "blessing, it might become a matter for Parliament. Might.

Suppose Nancy had already forgotten or withdrawn her offer concerning the management of the estates. She had made light of it. Like running a ship. You will soon get the feel of things. Like Ferguson, who had taken to it instinctively, and the portly Yovell. Ashore or afloat, he always seemed able to rise to every challenge.

He retraced his steps across the hall and stood staring at the newest portrait. Adam, illegitimate son of Hugh Bolitho and Kerenza Pascoe. Roll back the years and it might have been Richard. Something in the expression, but not the dark eyes.

How was Adam facing up to his own future? Two ships taken from him, Unrivalled and now Athena. How could any serving captain accept it? He glanced up the stairs. He knew this house well, had been a guest here in the past. Its silence was heavy with memory.

Adam's place was at sea. Until… He recalled the men who had sat at the conference table with him. Complacent, even condescending. Impossible to compare with others he had known, and had fought beside, regardless of the odds, or the rights or wrongs of the cause.

"Here you are, sir. "She was back, with a tankard balanced on a tray.

Ginger beer. What would they have had to say about that in the kitchen? He would have to sit and think it all over again. There was nobody else now to consider.

Her memory was never far away. His Dulcie… In his mind he often saw them together. He sighed a little, and his hand moved as if to brush some dust from his uniform, except that he was no longer wearing the King's coat. Dulcie had died of fever when he had been at sea; she had been nursing prisoners of war. He picked up the tankard and gazed at it. Always the link. Adam had been the one who had carried the word of Dulcie's death to him, just as he himself had carried the news to Richard that his first wife had been killed with their unborn child.