The Only Victor (19 page)

Roxby made certain there were no servants nearby and patted her buttock as she passed.

“You're not so bad yourself, m'dear!” He saw the flush mount to her cheeks, and the way she tidied her hair. Perhaps she was remembering how they had been before the children, and all the work to increase their wealth and living standards. Maybe like the two people he had seen galloping down the lane as if they hadn't a care in the world.

It did not occur to him that his homely wife might have been thinking back down the years about the young midshipman she had fallen in love with; and had been seeing herself with him.

For two whole weeks life continued for Bolitho and his Catherine in the same unplanned, idyllic fashion. Rides down forgotten lanes, or long walks above the sea, never at a loss for words, each ready to contribute towards their new-found isolation.

It was as if the other world of war and threats of invasion lay out of reach, and only once when they had been standing on the headland above the Helford River had Catherine mentioned it. A frigate had been tacking away from the land, her sails very pale in the bright sunshine, her hull low and sleek like the one which had done for Tyacke's
Miranda.

“When will you be told?” He had put his arm around her shoulders, his eyes distant as he watched the frigate. Was all this just make-believe after all? Any day he might receive new instructions, perhaps a summons to the Admiralty. He was determined that they would spend every possible minute together until . . .

He had replied, “There was a hint from Their Lordships about a new squadron. It seems the most likely. Provided enough ships can be found.”

The frigate had been setting her topgallants, shaking them out to the offshore wind like a creature awakening from a brief rest.

He thought suddenly of his nephew, Adam. That was one piece of good news he had come by at the Admiralty. He had commissioned his new command, a fifth-rate of thirty-eight guns named
Anemone.
What a proud moment it must have been for him. Captain of a frigate, his dream, at the age of twenty-six.
Anemone,
Daughter of the Wind. It seemed very suitable. He had Allday's son with him as coxswain exactly as he had promised, and the ship had been ordered to the North Sea to carry out patrols off the Dutch coast.

He had hoped that the news might pull Allday out of his present gloom. When he had reached Falmouth with Ozzard and Yovell with all the baggage which Bolitho had left in London, he had gone straight to the inn to see the landlord's only daughter.

Yovell had mentioned it to Bolitho in confidence. Not only had the inn passed into new ownership, but the young woman in question had gone away and married a farmer in Redruth.

At the end of the second week Bolitho was reading a copy of the
Gazette
where the recapture of Cape Town was mentioned for the first time. Time and distance had sharpened the memory for him, but the
Gazette
seemed to take it as a matter of course. There was no mention of the fireship at all.

Allday entered the room and said, “There's a young gentleman who wishes to see you, Sir Richard. He is Mr Miles Vincent.”

“Very well. I will receive him now.” Catherine was down at the estate office with Ferguson. Bolitho was still amazed by the way she had sorted out facts and figures, and with Ferguson's ready help had prepared her own ploughing and planting suggestions for the coming year. She had even been making comparisons with local grain sales set against those in the North and as far as Scotland. He had expected that Ferguson might have resented her vigorous ideas for the estate, but like the property itself she seemed to have given him new heart for the future.

He crossed to a window and looked towards the road, now hidden by thick bushes. Eventually they would leave here and face up to the world outside Falmouth. To London, to places where people would turn and stare. Where others might hide their envy behind false smiles.

The door opened and closed and he turned to see Felicity's younger son standing in the dusty sunshine. His dress was simple, a plain blue coat and a frilled white shirt, but he gave the immediate impression of incredible neatness. Except for a certain solemnity for one so young, he might have been like Adam when he had been his age.

“Please sit down.” Bolitho took his hand. “We were sorry to learn of your father's untimely death. It must have been hard on the family.”

“Indeed yes, Sir Richard.” He arranged himself in the chair, his hands folded in his lap.

Bolitho thought, like a youth about to ask his father for his daughter's hand. Shy, but determined nonetheless. You would have known him for a Bolitho anywhere. He was nineteen years old, and had the same grey eyes, and hair almost as dark as his own. Behind this outer shyness was the barely concealed confidence which must be inevitable in any sea officer, no matter how junior.

“I understand that you intend to seek a King's commission. That being so I can foresee no difficulty. Volunteers for the berth of midshipman, even those forced by proud parents, are plentiful enough. Others with experience such as your own are very thin on the ground.” It was meant to relax him, to draw him out. It could not be easy to sit down with a vice-admiral whose exploits at sea and ashore were food for gossip on all levels. Bolitho had no way of knowing what Felicity might have said, so he had expected Miles Vincent to be on edge.

He had not anticipated the youth's reaction. He exclaimed, “I am most confused, Sir Richard! I was acting-lieutenant in the H.E.I.C., fully qualified in matters of seamanship and standing a watch. It was only a matter of time before I was advanced. Did you mean that I would be reduced to holding a warrant as a mere midshipman?”

The shyness was gone; instead, he looked closer to righteous indignation.

Bolitho replied, “Be easy now. You will know, as well if not better than I, that holding a rank in one of John Company's ships is a far cry from the King's service. The pay and conditions are far superior, the ships are not manned by the sweepings of the jails or the press gangs, and they are only called on to fight to defend their own cargoes . . . when I was a captain there was many a time I would have seized a few of their prime seamen for my own.” He paused. “In the King's ships we are expected to do battle with the enemy, no matter what guise or force he comes in. My people do not serve for the money or the profit which any experienced man can make in the Company's vessels, nor do they for the most part fight for their King and country!” He saw Vincent's eyes widen and continued, “That surprises you? Then let me explain. They fight for each other, for their ship, which must be their home until they are released from a harsh and demanding service.”

The youth stammered, “You—make it very clear, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho smiled to himself. The nervous suitor was back again.

He said, “So if you are still of the same mind I will certainly sponsor your request to a captain who requires young gentlemen. I feel certain that one like yourself, with the qualities you have mentioned, will be promoted to lieutenant in a matter of months, perhaps less. The Fleet
needs
officers as never before. But if they cannot lead or encourage the people they are intended to command, I for one have no time for them.”

“If I may say, Sir Richard, your own gallant examples are much talked of.”

He sprang to his feet as Catherine walked in through a garden door.

She stared from Bolitho to the stiff-backed figure in blue and commented, “You must be Miles.” She tossed a wide-brimmed straw hat onto a chest and kissed Bolitho lightly on the cheek. “It is such a lovely day, Richard, we must walk along the cliff this evening.” She shot him a questioning glance as the youth sprang forward to hold a chair for her. “Thank you, young sir.”

Vincent was gazing at the portraits, which marked each section of the staircase like silent onlookers.

“All great sailors, Sir Richard. I would wish nothing more than to be like them.” He glanced at Catherine, his features expressionless. “To add honour to the name of Bolitho!”

With the same precise care he made his excuses and left the house and Bolitho remarked, “A pretty speech anyway.” He looked at her and then knelt beside her chair.

“What is it, dearest Kate? Tell me.”

She touched his face with sudden tenderness. “That young man. His face, those eyes . . . he is so much a part of your family background. Like all the other mysteries I cannot share.”

Bolitho took her hand and tried to make light of it. “His manners are faultless, but they train them well in the H.E.I.C., so that their young officers may flirt with the ladies of quality and lovesick maidens who take passage to distant parts!” It was not working. “I want to share everything with you, dearest Kate, and share
you
with nobody.”

Catherine placed her palm on his face and smiled. “You always
know,
Richard. It is like a bond stronger even than marriage, because it is of our making and choice.” Her dark eyes searched his face feature by feature. “I will be all that you want me to be. Lover, companion, friend—” She laughed and threw back her head. “Or the lady for whom young officers carry chairs. What did you make of him?”

“What has Felicity made of him, would be a fairer question!” He took her arm. “Come—the cliff walk. I never tire of it. You can tell me about your plans for the estate as we go.”

Allday closed the door as they walked out into the garden and down towards the small gate.

He tried not to think about the girl at the inn. What had he expected? How could he have hoped to marry her and still serve Bolitho at sea? The questions were still unanswered when he found Ozzard making his way to the kitchen, where he sometimes helped Mrs Ferguson with her duties.

“Did you see the lad who came about joining the service?”

Ozzard frowned. “He's a dark one, I shouldn't wonder. Why did he quit the East India Company—that's what I'd like to know before
I
gave him any authority!”

Allday sighed. It had been good to see Bolitho and his lady walking together, but it only added to his own sense of being unwanted, with nothing useful to do until the next orders came. Even that prospect gave him no satisfaction.

He said half to himself, “If only she'd waited.”

Ozzard turned on him with unexpected fury. “
Wait?
They never bloody well wait, any of 'em, and the sooner you get that through your skull the better—
matey!
”

Allday stared after him with astonishment. Usually there was none milder. So he wasn't the only one with troubles after all.

It was, many proclaimed, one of the best summers anyone could remember. The crops, like the lambing, had done well, and even the coastal fishermen were not heard to complain. But for the absence of young men around the farms and in the streets of Falmouth, they might have been at peace.

The news of the war was sparse and, apart from some reports of French men-of-war being sighted near Biscay, and then only in small numbers, it was as if the whole enemy fleet had been swallowed up. Bolitho sometimes thought of the French frigate which had been sheltering at Good Hope, or the coded letters they had found aboard the slaver
Albacora.
Was it part of an overall plan, or were these ship movements and occasional attempts to breach the tightly-stretched English blockade merely at the whim of their local commanders?

He had spoken infrequently of his thoughts to Catherine because she was preparing herself in her own way for the inevitable. When it came on the last day of August she said quietly, “It is a part of your life which I cannot share; no woman can. But whatever it is, Richard, wherever duty takes you,
I shall be with you.
”

They had been riding along the cliffs and unlike other times they had said very little, had been content with each other's nearness. They had found the little cove again, where they had made love so passionately and had cast all inhibitions to the sea-breezes. This time they had dismounted but remained on the cliff, holding the horses' heads, then touching hands in silence. It was as if they had both known. As Catherine had sensed the nearness of his ship when it had sailed on to Portsmouth.

When they had entered the stable-yard Bolitho had seen Allday waiting by the door.

Allday looked first at Catherine, then at him. “Th' courier's been an' gone, Sir Richard.”

Perhaps he too had been expecting it. He might even have been willing it to come. To be at sea again, serving the one who meant more to him than any other living soul. Doing what he had given his life to.

Now, with the late afternoon sunshine casting almost horizontal beams across the big room, the house seemed strangely silent as Bolitho slit open the heavy, red-sealed envelope with the Admiralty fouled anchor in its corner.

She stood with her back to him, her straw hat dangling from her hand, watching the garden, trying to remain calm perhaps, with the taste of the salt air on her lips. Like dried tears.