Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

The door opened again, and this time it was Matthew, the coachman. Like Allday, he had protested against remaining in Falmouth and entrusting Bolitho and Catherine to a common mail coach.

Ferguson was glad of the interruption. “What’s amiss, Matthew?”

Matthew grinned.

“Just heard the coach horn. Sounded it, like that other time when he was coming home!”

Ferguson said briskly, “Drive down and fetch them from the square,” but Matthew had already gone. He had been the first to know, just as he had been the first to recognize the St Mawes salute when Bolitho had returned to Falmouth a little over a month ago.

He paused to kiss his wife on the cheek.

“What was that for?”

Ferguson glanced at Allday. They were coming home. He smiled. “For making up the fires for them.” But he could not repress it. “For so many things, Grace.” He reached for his coat. “You can stop for a meal, John?”

But Allday was preparing to leave. “They’ll not want a crowd when they gets here.” He was suddenly serious. “But when he wants me, I’ll be ready. That’s it an’ all about it.”

The door closed, and they looked at one another.

She said, “Taking it badly.”

Ferguson thought of the smell of jasmine. “So will she.”

The smart carriage with the Bolitho crest on the door clattered away across the stable yard, the wheels striking sparks from the cobbles. For several days Matthew had been anticipating this, backing the horses into position at the time when the coach from Truro could be expected to arrive outside the King’s Head in Falmouth. Ferguson paused by the door. “Fetch some of that wine they favour, Grace.”

She watched him, remembering, as if it were yesterday, when they had snatched him away in the King’s ship. Bolitho’s ship. And the crippled man who had returned to her. She had never put it into words before. The man I love.

She smiled. “ Champagne. I don’t know what they see in it!”

Now that it’s all nearly over. He might have told her what Allday had said, but she had gone, and he was glad that it would remain a secret between them.

Then he walked out into the cold, damp air and could smell the sea. Coming home. It was suddenly important that there should be no fuss: Allday had understood, even though he was bursting to know what was going to happen. It must be as if they had only been from Falmouth for a single day.

He looked over at the end stall and saw the big mare Tamara throwing her head up and down, the white flash on her forehead very clear in the dull light.

There could be no more doubt. Ferguson walked over and rubbed her muzzle.

“She’s back, my lass. And none too soon.”

Half an hour later the carriage rattled into the drive. The hero and his mistress who had scandalized the country, defying both hypocrisy and convention, were home.

Lieutenant George Avery regarded himself critically in the tailor’s mirror, as he might examine a stranger. He knew very little of London, and on previous visits he had usually been on some mission to the Admiralty. The tailor’s establishment was in Jermyn

Street, a bustling place of shops and elegant houses, and the air, which seemed unclean after the sea, was alive with the din of carriages and hooves.

He must have walked for miles, something he always enjoyed after the restrictions of a crowded man-of-war. He smiled at his reflection; he was quite tired, unaccustomed to so much exercise.

It was strange to have money to spend, something new to him. This was prize-money, earned over ten years ago when he had been second-in-command of the schooner Jolie, herself a French prize. He had all but forgotten about it; it had seemed unimportant in the light of his subsequent misfortunes. He had been wounded when Jolie was overwhelmed by a French corvette, then held as a prisoner of war in France; he had been exchanged during the brief Peace of Amiens only to face a court martial, and to receive a reprimand for losing his ship, even though he had been too badly injured to prevent others from hauling down her colours. At Adam Bolitho’s court martial he had relived every moment of his own disgrace.

He thought of the house in Chelsea, where he was still staying, and wondered if Bolitho and Catherine had reached Cornwall yet. It was difficult to accept, let alone take for granted, that they had left him to use the house as he chose. But he would have to go to Falmouth soon himself, to be with the others when Sir Richard received his final instructions. His little crew, as he called them. Avery thought it was dangerously close to being a family.

Arthur Crowe, the tailor, peered up to him. “Is everything satisfactory, sir? I shall have the other garments sent to you immediately they are ready.” Polite, almost humble. Rather different from their first meeting. Crowe had seemed about to offer some critical comment on Avery’s uniform, which had been made by the Falmouth tailor, Joshua Miller. Just another impoverished luff, at thirty-five, old for his rank, and therefore probably under a cloud of some sort, doomed to remain a lieutenant until dismissal or death settled the matter. Avery had silenced the unspoken criticism by a casual mention of his admiral’s name, and the fact that the Millers had been making uniforms for the Bolithos for generations.

He nodded. “Very satisfactory.” His gaze shifted to the bright epaulette on his right shoulder. It would take some getting used to. A solitary epaulette on the right shoulder had formerly been the mark of rank for a captain, not posted, but a captain for all that. Their Lordships, apparently at the insistence of the Prince Regent, had changed it. The solitary epaulette now signified the rank of lieutenant, at least until some new fashion was approved.

The room darkened, and he imagined that the sky was clouding over again. But it was a carriage, which had stopped in the street directly opposite the window: a very elegant vehicle in deep blue, with some sort of crest on the panels. A footman had climbed down and was lowering the step. It had not been lost on the tailor: he was hurrying to his door and opening it, admitting the bitter air from the street.

Curious, Avery thought, that in all the shops he had seen there appeared to be no shortages, as if war with France and the new hostilities with America were on another planet.

He watched absently as a woman emerged from the carriage.

She wore a heavy, high-waisted coat almost the same colour as the paintwork, and her face was partly hidden by the deep brim of her bonnet as she looked down for the edge of the pavement.

Arthur Crowe bowed stiffly, his tape measure hanging around his neck like a badge of office.

“What a pleasure to see you again, my lady, on this fine brisk morning!”

Avery smiled privately. Crowe obviously made a point of knowing those who mattered, and those who did not.

He thought of Catherine Somervell, wondering if she had persuaded Bolitho to patronize this prosperous street.

Then he swung away, his mind reeling, the new epaulette, the shop, everything fading like fragments of a dream.

The door closed, and he barely dared to turn round.

Crowe said, “If you are certain I can provide nothing more, Mr Avery?”

Avery faced the door. The tailor was alone. Crowe asked, “Is something wrong, sir?”

“That lady.” He made himself look, but even the carriage had gone. Another fragment. “I thought I knew her.”

Crowe watched his assistant parcelling up the new boat-cloak Avery had purchased. “Her husband was a good customer. We were sorry to lose him, although not always an easy man to satisfy.” He seemed to realize that it was not the answer Avery had wanted. “Lady Mildmay. The wife, or should I say, the widow, of Vice-Admiral Sir Robert Mildmay.”