Alexander Kent: BEYOND THE REEF

Now they were all gone, he thought grimly. Apart from young Adam, to whom Bolitho had given the family name: there would be no more of them. It made him uneasy to imagine the old grey house empty, with none of its sons to come home from the sea.

It was something he shared with Bolitho, and a preoccupation he worried about in private. That one day the enemy's steel or a blast from the cannon's jaws would separate them. Like the master and his faithful dog, each fearful that the other would be left alone.

Upstairs conversation was returning to the dining-room. Bolitho barely noticed as they stopped outside an ornate gilded door.

Belinda faced him coldly. "As Elizabeth's father, I thought you should know. Had you been at sea I might have acted differently. But I knew you would be with… her."

"You were right." He returned the cold, steady stare. "Had my lady caught the fever from poor Dulcie Herrick I think I would have ended my life." He saw the shot go home. "But not before I had done for you!"

He thrust open the door and a woman in a plain black gown, whom he guessed was the governess, scrambled to her feet.

Bolitho nodded to her, then looked at the child who lay fully dressed on the bed, partly covered by a shawl.

The governess said quietly, "She is sleeping now." But her eyes were on Belinda, not him.

Elizabeth was six years old, or would be in three months' time. She had been born when Bolitho had been in San Felipe with his little 64-gun flagship, Achates. Keen had been his flag captain in Achates, too, and in that battle Allday had received the terrible sword-thrust in the chest which had almost killed him. Allday rarely complained about it, but it sometimes left him breathless, frozen motionless with its recurring agony.

Belinda said, "She had a fall."

The child seemed to stir at her voice and Bolitho was reminded of the last time he had seen her. Not a child at all: a miniature person, all frills and silks like the lady she would one day become.

He had often compared it with his own childhood. Games amongst the upended fishing boats at Falmouth, with his brother Hugh and his sisters and the local children. A proper life, without the restrictions of a governess or the remote figure of her mother, who apparently only saw her once a day.

He asked sharply, "What kind of fall?"

Belinda shrugged. "From her pony. Her tutor was watching her closely, but I'm afraid she was showing off. She twisted her back."

Bolitho realised that the child's eyes were suddenly wide open, staring at him.

As he leaned over to touch her hand she tried to turn away from him, reaching for the governess.

Belinda said quietly, "To you, she is a stranger."

Bolitho said, "We are all strangers here." He had seen the pain on the child's face. "Have you called a doctor-a good one, I mean?"

"Yes." It sounded like of course.

"How soon after it happened?" He sensed that the governess was staring from one to the other, like an inexperienced second at a duel.

"I was away at the time. I cannot be expected to do everything."

"I see."

"How can you?" She did not conceal the anger and contempt in her voice. "You care nothing for the scandal you have caused with that woman-how could you hope to understand?"

"I will arrange a visit from a well-appointed surgeon." Belinda's tone left him quite cold. This was the woman who had left Dulcie Herrick to die after pretending friendship to her, who had used Herrick's revulsion at Catherine's liaison with her husband, and who had discredited Catherine and eventually deserted her in that same fever-ridden house. He tried not to think of his old friend Herrick. He, too, would die or live in dishonour if the court martial went against him.

He said, "Just once, think of somebody else before yourself."

He moved to the open door and realised he had not once called her by her first name.

He was in time to see somebody peering curiously out of the dining-room.

"I think your friends are waiting for you."

She followed him to the head of the stairs. "One day your famous luck will run out, Richard! I would I could be there to see it!"

Bolitho reached the hallway as Allday lurched up from his porter's chair.

"Let us go back to Chelsea, Allday. I will send a letter in Matthew's care to Sir Piers Blachford at the College of Surgeons. I think that would be best." He paused by the carriage and glanced at the street brazier, the dark figures still hunched around it. "Even the air seems cleaner out here."

Allday climbed in with him, and said nothing. More squalls ahead. He had seen all the signs.

He had seen the look Belinda had given him on the stairs. She would do anything to get Bolitho back. She would be just as glad to see him dead. He smiled inwardly. She'd have to spike me first, an' that's no error!

Admiral the Lord Godschale poured two goblets of brandy and watched Bolitho, who was standing by one of the windows staring down at the street. It irritated the admiral increasingly that he should always feel envy for this man who never seemed to grow any older. Apart from the loose lock over the deep scar on his forehead which had become suddenly almost white, Bolitho's hair was as dark as ever, his body straight and lean, unlike Godschale's own. It was strange, for they had served as young frigate captains together in the American war: they had even been posted on the same date. Now Godschale's once-handsome features had grown heavy like his body, his cheeks florid with the tell-tale patterns of good living. Here at the Admiralty, in his spacious suite of offices, his power reached out to every ship great and small, on every station in His Britannic Majesty's navy. He gave a wry smile. It was doubtful if the King knew the names of any of them, although Godschale himself would be the very last to say so.

"You look tired, Sir Richard." He saw Bolitho dragging his mind back into the room.

"A little." He took the proffered glass after the admiral had warmed it over the crackling fire. It was well before noon, but he felt he needed it.

"I heard you were out late last night. I had hoped…"

Bolitho's grey eyes flashed. "May I ask who told you I was at my wife's house?"

Godschale frowned. "When I heard of it I cherished the thought that you might be returning to her." He felt his confidence ebbing under Bolitho's angry stare. "But no matter. It was your sister, Mrs Vincent. She wrote to me recently about her son Miles. You dismissed him from your patronage, I believe, while he was a midshipman in Black Prince… a bit hard on the lad, surely? Especially as he had just lost his father."

Bolitho swallowed the brandy and waited for it to calm him.

"It was a kindness as a matter of fact, my lord." He saw Godschale's eyebrows rise doubtfully and added, "He was totally unsuited. Had I not done so I would have ordered my flag captain to court-martial him for cowardice in the face of the enemy. For one who enjoys spreading scandal, my sister appears to have overlooked the true reason!"

"Well!" Godschale was at a rare loss for words. Envy. The word lingered in his mind. He considered it again. He was all-powerful, wealthy, and beyond the risk of losing life or limb like the captains he controlled. He had a dull wife, but was able to find comfort in the arms of others. He thought of the lovely Lady Somervell. God, no wonder I am still envious of this impossible man.

Godschale pressed on grimly. "But you were there?"

Bolitho shrugged. "My daughter is unwell." Why am I telling him? He is not interested.

Like the mention of the midshipman. It was merely another probe. He knew Godschale well enough by reputation, both past and present, to understand he would hang or flog anyone who put his own comfort in jeopardy, just as he had never shown the slightest concern for the men who month after month rode out storm and calm alike, with the real possibility of an agonising death at the end of it.