Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

He watched her, thinking of when he had held her. Kissed her. The only delusions had been his own.

“I think it would be unwise, my lady. There is enough gossip and slander in this town. I’ll not trouble you again.”

She was inside the carriage but had lowered the window, while the footman waited, wooden-faced, to climb up beside the coachman.

For a moment she rested her hand on his, and he found himself surprised by her apparent agitation.

“Do come.” She slipped a small card into his hand. Then she glanced quickly at the footman and whispered, “What you said to me just now. Were you really?”

He did not smile. “I would have died for you.”

She was still staring back at him as the dark blue carriage pulled away.

He jammed on his hat and said aloud, “Hell’s teeth, I still would!”

But the anger eluded him, and he added softly, “Susanna.”

Yovell, Bolitho’s portly secretary, waited patiently near the library desk, his ample buttocks turned toward the fire. Sharing Bolitho’s life at sea as he did, Yovell knew, more than any one, the full extent of the planning and detail through which the admiral had to sift before eventually translating this paper war into written orders for his captains.

Like Bolitho’s other loyal, if difficult, servant Ozzard, Yovell had a small cottage on the estate, even as Allday had lived there when home from the sea. Yovell gave a small, amused smile. That was, until Allday had suddenly become a respectable married man. Through one of the windows he saw a cat waiting expectantly for somebody to open the door. That was Allday to a letter, he thought, on the wrong side of every door. When he was at sea he worried about his wife and the inn at Fallowfield, and now there was the baby to add to his responsibilities. And when he was home, he fretted about being left on the beach when Bolitho returned to his flagship. Yovell had no such domestic problems. When he wanted to give up his present work he knew Bolitho would release him, just as he knew that many people thought him quite mad to risk his life in a man-of-war.

He watched Bolitho leafing through the pile of papers, which he had been examining for most of the morning. He had only returned from London a week ago and had been occupied with Admiralty business for much of the time. Catherine Somervell had waved to him as she had left the house to call on Lewis Roxby, their near neighbour and “the King of Cornwall,” as he was dubbed behind his back. Roxby was married to Bolitho’s sister Nancy, and Yovell thought it a good thing that Catherine had family of sorts to visit while they were all away at sea.

He admired her greatly, although he knew that many men called her a whore. When the transport Golden Plover had been wrecked off the coast of Africa, Bolitho’s woman had been with them, and had not only survived the hardships of their voyage in an open boat, but had somehow held them all together, given them heart and hope when they had no reason to expect that they would live. It had made his own suffering seem almost incidental.

Bolitho looked up at him, his face remarkably calm and rested.

Two weeks on the road from London, changing coaches and horses, being diverted by floods and fallen trees: their account of it had sounded like a nightmare.

Bolitho said, “If you would arrange for copies of these, I should like them despatched to Their Lordships as soon as possible.” He stretched his arms, and thought of the letter which had been awaiting his return. From Belinda, even though there was a lawyer’s hand at the helm. She needed more money, a sizeable increase in her allowance, for herself and their daughter Elizabeth. He rubbed the damaged eye. It had not troubled him very much since his return; perhaps the grey stillness of a Cornish winter was kinder than blazing sun and the sea’s mirrored reflections.

Elizabeth. She would be eleven years old in a few months’ time. A child he did not know, nor would he ever know her. Belinda would make certain of that. He sometimes wondered what her friends in high society would think of the elegant Lady Bolitho if they knew she had connived with Catherine’s husband to have her falsely charged and transported like a common thief. Catherine never spoke of it now, but she could never forget it. And like himself, she would never forgive.

Every day since their return they had tried to enjoy to the full, knowing that time did not favour them. The roads and lanes were firmer after days of a steady south-easterly, and they had ridden for miles around the estate and had visited Roxby, who remained in poor health after suffering a stroke. Poor humour, too: Roxby adored his style of living, hunting and drinking, and entertaining lavishly at his house on the adjoining estate, balancing the pleasures of a gentleman with his obligations as farmer and magistrate. He was even on intimate terms with the Prince Regent, and perhaps had been given his knighthood on the strength of that acquaintance. The advice of his doctors to rest and take things more quietly was like a sentence of death.

He thought of the long journey home on those appalling roads.

Catherine had even managed to create happiness then, despite her discomfort. At one point they had been turned back by flooding, and set down at a small, shabby inn which had clearly shocked their fellow passengers, two well-dressed churchmen and their wives who were on their way to meet their bishop.

One of the women had said angrily, “No lady should be expected to remain in such a dreadful place!” To Bolitho she had added, “What does your wife have to say about it, I should like to know?”

Catherine had answered, “We are not married, ma’am.” She had held his arm more tightly. “This officer is running away with me!”

They had not seen their fellow passengers again. Either they had waited for another coach, or had slipped away in the night.

The room had been damp and slightly musty from lack of use, but the landlord, a jovial dwarf of a man, had soon got a fire going, and the supper he had presented would have satisfied even the greediest midshipman.

And with the rain on the window, and the fire’s dancing shadows around them, they had sunk into the feather bed and made love with such abandon that they might well have been eloping.

There had been a short letter from Adam, saying only that he was leaving with Valentine Keen for Halifax, and asking their forgiveness for not having visited them in Falmouth.

Whenever he considered their situation his mind seemed to flinch from it. Adam and Keen. The two of them together, flag captain and admiral. Like me and James Tyacke. But so different. Two men who had loved the same woman, and Keen knew nothing about it. To share a secret was to share the guilt, Bolitho thought.

That same night at the inn, while they had lain exhausted by their love, Catherine had told him something else. She had taken

Keen to Zennor, to the churchyard where Zenoria was buried. It was a good thirty miles from Falmouth, and they had stayed with friends of Roxby’s in Redruth overnight.

She had said, “Had we stayed anywhere else there would have been talk, more cruel gossip. I couldn’t risk that-there are still too many who wish us ill.”

Then she had told him that while Keen had been alone at the grave she had spoken with the verger. He was also the gardener, and, with his brother, the local carpenter, and had confided that he made all the coffins for the village and surrounding farms.

She said, “I thought I would ask him to see that fresh flowers were put on her grave throughout the year.”

Bolitho had held her in the firelight, feeling her sadness at the memory, and what had gone before.

Then she had said, “He would take no payment, Richard. He told me that ‘a young sea captain’ had already arranged it with him. After that, I went into the church, and I could see Adam’s face as I saw it that day, when Val and Zenoria were married.”