Relentless Pursuit (23 page)

They were all busy, making each day count in its own way. Lady Roxby had apparently persuaded Captain Adam to sit for a portrait, to hang eventually with all the others in the old house. Ferguson closed it from his mind. One he might never see, something all sailors must consider.

He turned to his friend once more. Allday had none of it, the old dog who had lost his master. He did not belong. Unis, their little daughter Kate, the inn, and a life now unshadowed by the prospect of separation and danger . . . they were a part of something else. Even his trips into Falmouth to watch the ships anchoring and departing were fewer. Nor could he bear to mingle with all the loud-mouthed veterans you found in every tavern and ale house. At least the village of Fallowfield, where The Old Hyperion remained the only inn, was usually free of sailors. And with the press-gangs only an evil memory, no King's men ever reached that far.

“Grace'll fetch some food presently.” He sat down opposite. The big, heavy hands were unchanged; they could wield a cutlass or create the most delicate of ship models, like the one of the old seventy-four
Hyperion
which occupied a place of honour in the inn parlour.

A strong man yet, although Ferguson knew better than most how Allday still suffered from the terrible wound in his chest. A Spanish blade, and the story had it that Sir Richard had thrown down his own sword in surrender in order to bargain for Allday's life.

Allday said, “I ain't sure, Bryan. I'll be wanted over at Fallowfield.”

Ferguson picked up his own mug and studied the contents. The wrong word or some false sentiment, and his old friend would get up and leave. He knew him that well.

He thought about it often, how unlikely it would sound in the telling. How he and this big, shambling sailorman had been seized by the press-gang here in Falmouth, or very close to it. And their captain had been Richard Bolitho, and the ship his frigate
Phalarope.

After the Battle of the Saintes when he had lost his arm, Ferguson had been nursed back to health by Grace, and had risen to become steward of the estate. Allday had gone one better. He had become Bolitho's coxswain. And his friend, his oak.

Ferguson made up his mind.

“Stay here until the captain gets back. He wanted to see you before, but the roads were awash and he had to leave for his ship. You should know that, better than anyone.”

Allday swirled the rum around in his mug. “What's he like, then? Full of himself now that he's captain of a new frigate, his deeds argued about when the ale flows? Is that it?”

“You know him better than those lamp-swingers, John. People will always compare him with his uncle, but that's stupid and unfair. He's still learning, and would be the first to say so, I'd not wonder! But he's his own man now.” He broke off as there were more cheers from the yard. The lesson was over, and Young Matthew was grinning hugely, one arm around the boy's shoulders.

Allday said, “When Sir Richard was his age we'd just taken over the
Tempest.
Thirty-six guns, an' smart as paint, she was . . .” His blue eyes were far away. “That was when he took fever. Nearly died, he did.” He jerked his shaggy head towards the window. “Used to make me take him up the cliff walk, every single day. Then we'd sit on that old bench up there. Watch the ships. Yarn about the ones we knew.”

Ferguson almost held his breath.
Like you do now, old friend.

“We had some good times in
Tempest.
Bad 'uns, too. Mr Herrick was the first lieutenant, I remember. Went by the book, even in them days.”

He stood up, and paused as if to get his bearings, and Ferguson knew it was to prepare himself for the pain, should it be lurking to bring him down. He had been lifting a cask of ale over at Fallowfield once, and he had heard him cry out and fall. Had it been anyone else he might have been able to accept it.

Allday said, “That boy down there—”

“Napier, the captain's servant.”

“An' he brought him
here,
with him?”

“He has nowhere else, you see.”

“So I heard.” Allday frowned. “His mother cut the strings.”

Ferguson stared at the stable roof, with its Father Tyme weather vane. How many Bolithos had that seen? And time it gave him, to think, and consider what Allday had said. He must have asked about Captain Adam's servant, and probably Yovell as well, although
he
could well take care of himself, Bible or not. Allday was feeling his way. Afraid of being outgunned, as he would put it.

He said quietly, “Captain Adam has nobody now, John.”

Allday turned and walked heavily to the table. “I seed the roses when I got here. A fine show of 'em this year.” He looked at his friend, searching for something. “I used to talk with Lady Catherine about them.”

He nodded slowly. “I would like to stay, Bryan. Was it roast duck, you said?”

“Did I?” And smiled. “I'll tell Grace. It'll be the making of her, old friend!”

Allday put down his mug; it was empty.

“Needed that, Bryan.” The grin was returning. “An' that's no error!”

Horse and rider paused, silhouetted at the top of the hill where the narrow road divided into separate lanes.

Adam released the reins and patted the horse's flank.

“Easy, Lukey,
easy
now.”

The horse stamped on the hard-packed ground, shaking its head as if to show disapproval, impatience perhaps, at being held to such a slow, meandering pace.

Adam eased his body in the saddle, surprised that such a short ride along the winding track from Falmouth could make itself felt. Every muscle seemed to throb; the close confines of a frigate had taken their toll.

He stared at the sprawling house at the far end of the second lane, framed by trees, with the glint of water proving that Car-rick Roads and the sea were ever close.

The Old Glebe House, they called it. Once owned and occupied by high churchmen from Truro, it had fallen into disrepair after a fire had broken out in the small chapel adjoining it. Derelict for years, a birthplace for rumours and tales of ghosts and evil spirits which found a ready audience in these parts, it was said to have been used by smugglers, the Brotherhood, when it suited them.

The church authorities had agreed to sell the place, although most local people had considered any prospective buyer either mad or eager for ruin. The eventual owner proved to be neither. Sir Gregory Montagu, one of the country's most distinguished painters, had bought it, repaired and refurbished it, but had left the gutted chapel untouched.

Montagu rarely mixed socially, and was said to spend much of his time in London where his work was always in demand. Eccentric, and reputedly a recluse, he was certainly different, Adam thought. He had heard the story of Montagu as a young, half-starved artist who had scraped a living from selling small paintings in the form of silhouette or profile which could be used as miniatures, gifts from departing sea officers to their loved ones. There were many such artists working around the various naval ports, but Montagu, who had rented a tiny attic on Portsmouth Point, had attracted the eye of an admiral, a man of taste as well as charity. For reasons buried in time, the admiral had sponsored Montagu, and allowed him to accompany his squadron to the Mediterranean where he had paid for professional tuition by a notable painter in Rome.

Nancy's influence, or the great Montagu's curiosity, had brought Adam here. An honour? To take his place with all those other proud portraits, or just to please his aunt, who had done so much for him? He hated the prospect, and had even toyed with the idea of turning back at the first crossroads to the village of Penryn. Years of inbuilt discipline had prevented it.

Adam disliked being late, just as he had little sympathy with those who kept him waiting. In the navy you soon learned that
presently
meant
immediately.

He nudged the horse forward again.

“Come along, Lukey. They may have made other arrangements.”

They had not.

Even as the horse clattered across loose cobbles, and the house's tall shadow closed around him like a cool breeze, a stable boy and a dour-faced servant who might easily have been a priest himself appeared at the main entrance.

He climbed down and patted the horse.

“Take care of him, will you? I may not be long.”

The servant eyed him sadly. “Sir Gregory is expecting you. It
is
Captain Bolitho?”

The implication was that Sir Gregory alone would decide how long he would be.

Inside, it seemed very still, and the high, arched windows would not have been out of place in a church. Well-polished furniture, dark and probably very old, and plain, flagged floors added to the atmosphere of spartan tranquillity.

The servant cast his eyes over Adam's appearance. In the filtered sunlight the dust on the blue coat and gold lace must be very evident.

“I will inform Sir Gregory.” The slightest hesitation. “Sir.”

Alone again, he recalled Nancy's enthusiasm as she had told him about the appointment with the great man. She had taken his elbow and guided him to the wall where the portrait of Captain James Bolitho caught the reflected sunlight from one of the upper windows, and had turned him so he could catch the precise angle of the light across the painting. Captain James, her father, had lost an arm in India, and when he had returned from sea it had been Montagu who had been called in to paint the empty sleeve over the original work. He had also painted the portrait of Richard Bolitho, in the white-lapelled coat of a post-captain which Adam heard had been Cheney's favourite. It still hung with hers in the main bedroom. Catherine's self-commissioned portrait was with them. They were at peace there.

“Ah, Captain Bolitho, at last. A great pleasure!”

He did not walk in, nor did he suddenly appear. He was
there.

Adam was not sure what he had been expecting. Montagu was not tall or imposing, yet he dominated the place with his presence. Very erect, square-shouldered like a military man, but wrapped up in a paint-smeared smock which looked as if it had not been washed for years. There was dried paint in his hard handshake, and his thick white hair was tied back with a piece of rag like any common seaman.

But his eyes revealed the real Montagu. Alert, restless one second and then fastening on to some feature with the intensity of a hawk.

He said abruptly, “I'll make a few sketches. You can sit and talk while I'm thinking on it. Or you can hold your peace and enjoy some reasonable hock, which might slake your thirst after a hard ride.”

Adam brushed some dust from his sleeve to give himself time.
A hard ride.
To put him at ease? Or was it sarcasm? Montagu would know very well that it was only three miles from Pendennis.

They walked together along a high-ceilinged corridor. There were, Adam observed, no pictures of any sort on display. And all the while he could feel the other man studying him, although he was looking directly ahead.

He said, “I understand that you recently painted the Prince Regent, Sir Gregory?” Nancy had told him. It had not helped.

“Yes, that's true.” He gave a quiet laugh. “But another man wearing his garments for most of the time. He was ‘too busy,' they said.” Then he did turn to look at him. “I know you do not wish to be here. Neither, as it happens, do I. But we are both good at our work, and for that reason if nothing else, it will qualify.”

There were voices, unreal and echoing, like an empty vault. Montagu said sharply, “My protégés. We shall take another route. A barn of a place, but it suits.”

The gaunt servant had reappeared, by magic, it seemed. He had a finger to his lips.

“Sir Gregory, your nephew—”

Montagu said curtly, “We'll slip past them. He must get used to interruptions if he hopes to line his purse!”

He opened another tall door and entered what appeared to be one huge room. It was hung with sheets and there were trestles, a bench of clean brushes, beyond which another figure in a paint-daubed smock stood stockstill, one arm out-thrust as if he was painting some invisible canvas.

The room had a glass roof, with rolling shades to contain or deflect the bright sunlight.

Montagu said, “This way.”

Adam did not move. He could not.

Sitting on the floor directly opposite him, with one leg bent under her, was a girl. She was so still that for a second longer he imagined it was a work of beautiful statuary. Then her eyes moved, seeing him, accepting, dismissing him. Her gaze returned to the motionless, out-thrust arm of the painter. She was naked but for some sort of robe which had fallen across her thighs while her arms were pulled above her head, fastened by a chain around her wrists.

Montagu paused. “Do not overwork her, Joseph.” He lifted part of a sheet to shield the girl's shoulders, with the casual disinterest of a housekeeper covering an unwanted chair.