Cross of St George (20 page)

She heard her brother, another John, laughing at something as he drew and carried tankards of ale. A one-legged former soldier of the 31st Foot, he lived in a tiny cottage nearby. Without his company and support, she didn't know how she would have managed.

She had had no letter from Allday. Over four months had passed since he had walked through that door to take passage to Canada, with the admiral he served and loved like no other. Lady Catherine would be feeling much the same loneliness, she thought, with her own man on the other side of the ocean, even though she had travelled far and wide herself. Unis smiled. She had never been further than her native Devon before coming to live in Cornwall, and although she had settled in well, she knew that to the local people she would always be a foreigner. She had been attacked on the coast road on her way here, by men who had attempted to rob and assault her. John Allday had saved her that day. She could even talk about it now, but not to many. She touched some flowers on the table. The stillness, the warm, unmoving air was making her restless. If only he was back. She tested the idea. For good and always …

She looked once more at the sleeping child, and then walked out to join her brother.

He said, “Good business today, love. Picking up.” He watched an unwavering candle flame. “There'll be a few ships' masters cursing and swearing if they have to lie becalmed all night in Falmouth Bay. It'll mean they'll have to pay another day's wages!”

She said, “What about the war, John? Out there, I mean.”

He said, “Soon be over, I expect. Once the Iron Duke forces the French to surrender, the Yankees'll lose the stomach for a war on their own.”

“You do think that?” She remembered John Allday's face when he had finally told her about his son, and how he had died in the fight with the Americans. Was it only last year? When he had come home and had taken their child, so tiny in his big hands, and she had told him she would not be able to carry another, would never give him another son.

His reply was still stark in her mind.
She'll do me fine. A son can break your heart.
She had guessed then, but had said nothing until he was ready to tell her.

“Someone's on the road.” He looked toward the window, and was not aware of the sudden fear in her eyes.

She heard the sound of a single horse, and saw the men around the empty grate pause in their conversation to stare at the open door. A horse usually meant authority out this way, so close to Rosemullion Head. The coastguard, or revenue men, or some of the dragoons from Truro, searching for deserters or hunting down footpads.

The horse clattered across the cobbles and they heard someone hurrying to assist the rider. Her brother said, “That's Lady Catherine. I'd know her big mare anywhere.”

He smiled as his sister straightened her apron and her hair, as she always did.

“I'd heard she was back from London. Luke said he saw her.”

She came through the door, her dark hair almost touching the low beam. She seemed startled that there were so many customers, as if she were hardly aware of the time of day.

Some of the men stood up, or shuffled as though they would make the effort, and one or two voices called, “'Evenin' to 'ee, m'lady.”

She held out her hand. “Please sit down. I am sorry …”

Unis reached her, and guided her to the small parlour. “You shouldn't be out alone on this road, m'lady. 'Twill be dark soon. 'Tisn't safe these days.”

Catherine sat and pulled off her gloves. “Tamara knows the way. I am always safe.” She took Unis's hand impulsively. “I needed to come. To be with a friend. And you are that, Unis.”

Unis nodded, shocked by the quiet desperation in her voice. It did not seem possible. The admiral's lady, a woman of courage as well as beauty, accepted even here where scandal, like sin, could be condemned openly every Sunday in church and chapel …

“None stronger, m' lady.”

Catherine stood, and crossed to the cot. “Young Kate,” she said, and reached down to adjust the covering. Unis watched, and was oddly moved.

“Shall I make some tea, or maybe coffee? An' I'll see that someone rides with you when you go back to Falmouth. Five miles can be a long way on your own.”

Catherine barely heard her. She had rested very little since her return from London. There had been no letter waiting from Richard: anything might be happening. She had ridden to the adjoining estate to visit his sister, Nancy, and found Lewis Roxby very ill. Despite the stroke he had suffered, he had taken little heed of his doctors' warnings. Without his hunting and his entertaining, and his hectic life as landowner, magistrate and squire, he could neither see nor accept any future as an invalid. Nancy had known: she had seen it in her eyes. Lewis was not merely ill this time; he was dying.

Catherine had sat with him, holding his hand while he had lain propped up in his bed, his head high enough for him to see the trees, and his stone folly, which was almost completed. His face had been grey, his grip without strength. But from time to time he had turned his head to look at her, as if to reassure her that the old Lewis Roxby was still there.

She had told him about London, but had not mentioned the unexpected settlement with which Luis's estate had endowed her. Nor had she told him about her visit to Richard's town house. The lawyer, Lafargue, had sent word to Belinda of her intended arrival, but her visiting card had been returned at the door, torn in two halves. But Belinda knew now that the house where she lavishly entertained, and lived in a style to which she had been unaccustomed before her marriage, was the property of the woman she hated. It would change nothing between them, but it might prevent her asking for more money. She would never admit to her circle of friends that she was living in a house owned by the one she had openly called a prostitute.

She heard herself say, “Something a little stronger, Unis. Some brandy, if you have any.”

Unis hurried to a cupboard. Was it possible, that there was no one else she could turn to now that Sir Richard was away? Perhaps Bryan Ferguson and his wife at the big grey house were too close, painful reminders of those others who were absent: Bolitho's “little crew,” as she had heard John call them.

Catherine took the glass, wondering where the brandy had come from. Truro, or run ashore along this rocky and treacherous coast by freetraders in the dark of the moon?

Beyond the door, the conversation and laughter had resumed. It was something to relate to their wives when they finally reached their own homes.

Unis said gently, “When … I mean … if Sir Lewis gives up the fight … what will become of all that he's worked for? Just the son of a local farmer, they tells me, and now look at him. A friend of the Prince himself, owner of all that land—will his son not take over?”

Now look at him.
A grey, tired face. Every breath an effort.

“I believe that his son is making a name for himself in the City of London. Lewis wanted it. He was so proud of him, and of his daughter. There will be many changes, no matter what happens.”

She sat for some time in silence, thinking of the visit to the Admiralty, which had been her final task in London. Bethune had greeted her warmly, professing surprise at her arrival, and had offered to take her to a reception somewhere, and introduce her to some of his particular friends. She had declined. Even as she had sat in that familiar office, watching him, listening to him, she had sensed his genuine interest in her, the undeniable charm which might lead him into serious trouble if he became careless or over-confident in his affairs. He had been unable to give her any information about the war in North America, although she had suspected that he knew more than he was saying. On her last night in Chelsea she had lain awake on the bed, almost naked in the bright moonlight across the Thames, and had considered what might have happened if she had pleaded with Bethune to use all his influence, and his obvious affection and admiration for Richard, to enable him to be brought back to England. She had had little doubt what the price would have been. She had felt the sudden tears scalding her eyes. Could she have gone through with it? Given herself to another, whom instinct told her would have been kindness itself? She knew she could not have done it. There were no secrets between herself and Richard, so how could she have pretended with the man she loved?

To think that she could even consider such a bargain disgusted her. They called her a whore. Perhaps they were right.

Nor had she been able to tell Lewis what had happened after she had left Belinda's house. In the square, she had seen the child walking with her governess. If the place had been crowded with a hundred children, she would still have known it was Elizabeth, Richard's daughter. The same chestnut hair as her mother, the poise and confidence, so assured for one so young. She was eleven years old, and yet a woman.

“May I speak with you?” She had immediately sensed the governess's hostility, but she had been totally unprepared when Elizabeth had turned to look up at her. That had been the greatest shock of all. Her eyes were Richard's.

She had said calmly, “I am sorry. I do not know you, ma'am.” She had turned away, and walked on ahead of her companion.

What could I have expected? Hoped for?
But all she could think of was the child's eyes. Her contempt.

She stood up, listening. “I must leave. My horse …”

Unis saw her brother in the doorway. “What is it, John?”

But he was looking at the beautiful woman, her long riding habit torn in places where she had ridden carelessly, too close to the hedgerows.

“The church. The bell's tolling.” Then, as though making a decision, “I can't allow you to ride at this hour, m' lady.”

She appeared not to hear him. “I must go. I promised Nancy.” She walked to the open window, and listened. The bell. An end of something. The beginning of what?

John had returned. “One of the keepers is here, m' lady. He'll ride with you.” He hesitated, and looked at his sister as if appealing to her. “Please. Sir Richard would insist, if he were here.”

She held out her hands to them.
“I know.”

Some envied her, others hated her, and one at least feared her after her visit to the lawyer. She must not give way now.
But without him I am nothing, have nothing.

She said, “I needed to be with friends, you see.
Needed
to be.”

Tamara was already outside the door, eager to leave.

Sir Lewis Roxby, Knight of the Hanoverian Guelphic Order and friend of the Prince Regent, was dead. She remembered his many bluff kindnesses, and particularly the day when, together, they had found Zenoria Keen's body.

The King of Cornwall. So would he always remain.

R
ICHARD
B
OLITHO
and Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen stood side by side and stared out across the crowded anchorage of Halifax harbour.

The sun was strong, the air warmer than for a long time, and after the restricted confines of a frigate, even one as large as
Indomitable,
Bolitho was very conscious of the land, and the peculiar feeling that he did not belong here. The house was the headquarters of the general officer commanding the garrisons and defence of Nova Scotia, and below the wooden verandah soldiers were marching back and forth, drilling in platoons, front ranks kneeling to take aim at an imaginary enemy while the second ranks prepared to march through them and repeat the process: manoeuvres the army had perfected over the years, which had eventually turned the tables on Napoleon.

But Bolitho was looking at the anchored frigate directly opposite. Even without a telescope, he could see the damage and the piles of broken timber and rigging on her decks. She still flew the Stars and Stripes, but the White Ensign was hoisted above it as a symbol of victory. She was the USS
Chesapeake,
which had been brought to action by His Britannic Majesty's ship
Shannon
. The fight had been brief but decisive, and both captains had been wounded, the American mortally.

Keen said, “A welcome victory.
Shannon
towed her prize into Halifax on the sixth. Couldn't have happened at a better time, with all our other setbacks.”

Bolitho had already heard something of the engagement.
Shannon
's captain, Philip Bowes Vere Broke, was both experienced and successful, and had been cruising up and down outside Boston, where
Chesapeake
lay at anchor. It was rumoured that he had been grieving over the loss of so many of his contemporaries to the superior American frigates. He had sent a challenge into Boston in the best tradition of chivalry, requesting that Captain Lawrence of the
Chesapeake
should come out and “try the fortunes of their respective flags.” If Broke had had one advantage over his American adversary, it was his dedication to and insistence upon gunnery and teamwork. He had even invented and fitted sights to all his main armament. It had won the day, but nobody had shown more distress than Broke himself when Lawrence had succumbed to his wounds.

Now, lying just beyond her like a guilty shadow, was the smaller frigate
Reaper
. A guard-boat was moored alongside, and her upper deck was marked with tiny scarlet figures where Royal Marine sentries kept watch over the imprisoned mutineers.

Keen glanced at him, seeing the strain on his profile as he lifted his face to the sun.

“It is good to be of one company again.”

Bolitho smiled. “Only for the moment, Val. We shall have to be on the move again shortly.” He shaded his eyes to look across at
Indomitable,
where Tyacke was taking on fresh water and supplies while final repairs were carried out. It was Tyacke's reason, or rather his excuse, for not accompanying him to this meeting.

He heard Avery talking quietly with Keen's flag lieutenant, the Honourable Lawford de Courcey. They would have little or nothing in common, he thought, and he had gathered that Adam did not care much for him, either. It was just as well. There was no room for complacency here, even amongst friends. They needed an edge, a purpose, like the old sword at his side.

There had been letters awaiting his return to Halifax, both from Catherine: he could feel them now in his coat. He would read them as soon as he could, then again later, and more slowly. But there was always the first anxiety, like a fear, that she would have changed towards him. She would be lonely beyond measure.

He turned away from the sun as he heard de Courcey greeting someone, and then another voice, a woman's.

Keen touched his arm. “I should like you to meet Miss Gilia St Clair. I sent you word of her presence aboard
Reaper
.”

So easily said, but Bolitho had already gone through Keen's carefully worded report on
Reaper
's surrender, and the discharge of her guns into empty sea. He felt that Keen and Adam had disagreed about something at the time. It might reveal itself later.

His shoe caught on something as he turned, and he saw Avery's vague outline move towards him. Troubled; but protective of him, as always.

It was so dark after the brilliant sunlight and the dazzling reflections from the harbour that the room could have been curtained off.

Keen was saying, “I wish to present Sir Richard Bolitho. He commands our squadron.”

It was not to impress: it was genuine pride. Val, as he had always been, before Zenoria's death, before Zenoria. Perhaps Catherine was correct in her belief that he would easily recover from his loss.

The woman was younger than he had expected, in her late twenties, he thought. He had an impression of a pleasant, oval face and light brown hair; the eyes were level and serious.

Bolitho took her hand. It was very firm; he could easily imagine her with her father aboard the stricken
Reaper,
watching
Valkyrie
running out her powerful broadside.

She said, “I am sorry to intrude, but my father is here. I had hoped I could discover …”

Keen said, “He is with the general. I'm sure it is quite all right for you to stay.” He gave his youthful grin. “I will take full responsibility!”

She said, “I wanted to know about York. My father was going there to assist with the completion of a ship.”

Bolitho listened in silence. Her father's plans were not the source of her concern.

Keen said, “I expect you will be returning to England sooner rather than later, Miss St Clair?”

She shook her head. “I would like to remain here, with my father.”

The door opened, and an urbane lieutenant almost bowed himself into the room.

“The General's apologies, Sir Richard. The delay was unintentional.” He seemed to see the girl for the first time. “I am not certain …”

Bolitho said, “She is with us.”

The adjoining room was large and crammed with heavy furniture, a soldier's room, with two vast paintings of battles on the walls. Bolitho did not recognize the uniforms. A different war, a forgotten army.

The general seized his hand. “Delighted, Sir Richard. Knew your father. Fine man. In India. He'd be damned proud of you!” He spoke in short, loud bursts, like mountain artillery, Bolitho thought.

Other faces. David St Clair: good handshake, firm and hard. And there was another soldier present, tall, very assured, with the unemotional bearing of a professional.

He bowed slightly. “Captain Charles Pierton, of the Eighth Regiment of Foot.” He paused, and said with a certain pride, “The King's Regiment.”

Bolitho saw the girl's hands gripped together in her lap. Waiting with a curious defiance which succeeded only in making her appear suddenly vulnerable.

David St Clair said quickly, “Are you feeling well, my dear?”

She did not answer him. “May I ask you something, Captain Pierton?”

Pierton glanced quizzically at the general, who gave a brief nod. “Of course, Miss St Clair.”

“You were at York when the Americans attacked. My father and I would have been there too, had circumstances not dictated otherwise.”

Her father leaned forward in his chair. “The 30-gun ship
Sir Isaac Brock
was burned on the slipway before the Americans could take her. I would have been too late in any case.”

Bolitho knew that she did not even hear him.

“Do you know Captain Anthony Loring, of your regiment, sir?”

The soldier looked back at her steadily. “Yes, of course. He commanded the second company.” He turned to Bolitho and the other naval officers. “Ours was the only professional force at York. We had the militia and the York Volunteers, and a company of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment.” He glanced at the girl again. “And about one hundred Mississauga and Chippewa Indians.”

Bolitho noted how easily the names rolled off his tongue: he was a seasoned campaigner, although this vast, untamed country was a far cry from Spain or France. But the others would know all these facts. It was merely an explanation for the girl's benefit, as if he thought it was owed to her.

He continued in the same grave, precise manner. “The defences at Fort York were poor. My commanding officer believed that eventually the navy would be able to send more vessels to the lakes, to hold off the Americans until larger men-of-war were constructed. There were some seventeen hundred American soldiers that day, almost all of them regulars and well-trained. We had to gain time, to evacuate the fort and finally to burn the
Sir Isaac Brock.
”

She stood, and walked to the window. “Please continue.”

Pierton said quietly, “Captain Loring took his men to the lower shore where the Americans were landing. He gallantly led a bayonet charge and dispersed them. For a time. He was wounded, and died shortly afterwards. I am sorry. A good number of our men fell that day.”

Keen said, “I think you might be more comfortable in another room, Miss St Clair.”

Bolitho saw her shake her head, heedless of her hair, which had fallen loosely across her shoulder.

She asked, “Did he speak of me, Captain Pierton?”

Pierton looked at the general, and hesitated. “We were hard pressed, Miss St Clair.”

She persisted.
“Ever?”

Pierton replied, “He was a very private person. A different company, you understand.”

She left the window and crossed over to him, then she put her hand on his arm. “That was a kind thing to say. I should not have asked.” She gripped the scarlet sleeve, unaware of everyone else. “I am so glad that you are safe.”

The general coughed noisily. “Sending him to England on the first packet. God knows if they'll learn anything from what happened.”

The door closed quietly. She had gone.

Captain Pierton exclaimed, “
Damn!”
He looked at the general. “My apologies, sir, but I forgot to give her something. Perhaps it would be better to send it with his other effects to Ridge … our regimental agent in Charing Cross.”

Bolitho watched as he took a miniature painting from his tunic and laid it on the table. Charing Cross: like the casual mention of the Indians fighting with the army, it seemed so alien here. Another world.

Keen said, “May I?”

He held the miniature to the sunlight and studied it. “A good likeness. Very good.”

A small tragedy of war, Bolitho thought. She had sent or given him the miniature, even though the unknown Loring had decided not to encourage a more intimate relationship. She must have been hoping to see him again when her father visited York, perhaps fearing what she might discover. Now it was too late. Her father probably knew more than he would ever disclose.

Keen said, “Well, sir, I think it should be returned to her. If it were me …” He did not go on.

Thinking of Zenoria? Sharing the same sense of loss?

The general frowned. “Perhaps you're right.” He glanced at the clock. “Time to stop now, gentlemen. I have a very acceptable claret, and I believe we should sample it. After that …”

Bolitho stood near the window, studying the captured American,
Chesapeake,
and the
Reaper
beyond.

He asked, “And what of York, Captain Pierton? Is it secure?”

“Unfortunately, no, Sir Richard. My regiment withdrew in good order to Kingston, which is now doubly important if we are to withstand another attack. If the Americans had gone for Kingston in the first place …”

“Well?”

The general answered for him. “We would have lost Upper Canada.”

Two servants had appeared with trays of glasses. Keen murmured, “I shall not be a moment, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho turned as Avery joined him by the window. “We shall not wait longer than necessary.” He was concerned at the expression in the tawny eyes: they were deeply introspective, and yet, in some strange way, at peace. “What is it? Another secret, George?”

Avery faced him, making up his mind. Perhaps he had been struggling with it all the way from the ship to this place of stamping boots and shouted orders.

He said, “I received a letter, sir. A letter.”

Bolitho twisted round and grasped his wrist. “A letter? Do you mean …”

Avery smiled, rather shyly, and his face was that of a much younger man.

“Yes, sir. From a lady.”

Outside, in the sun-dappled passageway, Keen sat beside the girl on one of the heavy leather couches.

He watched her as she turned the miniature over in her hands, recalling the calm acceptance in her face when he had given it to her. Resignation? Or something far deeper?

“It was good of you. I did not know …”

He saw her mouth quiver, and said, “While I command here at Halifax, if there is anything I can do to serve you, anything you require …”

She looked up into his face. “I will be with my father, at the Massie residence. They are … old friends.” She lowered her eyes. “Of a sort.” She looked at the miniature again. “I was younger then.”

Keen said, “It is …” He faltered. “You are very brave, and very beautiful.” He tried to smile, to break the tension within himself. “Please do not be offended. That is the very last thing I intend.”

She was watching him, her eyes steady once more. “You must have thought me a fool, an innocent in a world I know not. The sort of thing to bring a few laughs in the mess when you are all together as men.” She thrust out her hand, impetuous, but sharing his uncertainty. “Keep this, if you like. It is of no further use to me.” But the careless mood would not remain. She watched him take the miniature, his lashes pale against his sunburned skin as he gazed down at it. “And … take care. I shall think of you.”