The Only Victor (22 page)

When he turned the press gang had vanished, and for a second longer he imagined it was another part of the torment, the stab of guilt which left him no peace. Then he looked down at his hand and opened the fingers while his body began to shake uncontrollably. There were the coins the gunner's mate had given him.
“I don't want your pity.”
The coins jangled across the cobbles as he flung them into the lengthening shadows.
“Leave me alone!”

He heard someone call out, saw a curtain move in the house next to the one which had once been his. But nobody came.

He sighed and turned his back on the place, and the shop with his stolen name on the front.

Somewhere in the warren of alleys he heard a sudden scuffle, someone bellow with pain, then silence. The press gang had found at least one victim who would awake with a bloody head aboard the Thames guardship.

Ozzard thrust his hands into his coat pockets and began the long walk back to that other part of London.

His small figure was soon lost in the shadows, while behind him, the house was as before. Waiting.

Just a few miles upstream from Wapping where Ozzard had made his despairing pilgrimage, Bolitho bent over to offer his hand to Catherine, and assist her from the wherry in which they had crossed the Thames. It was early darkness, the cloudless sky pinpointed with countless stars: a perfect evening to begin what Catherine had promised to be “a night of enchantment.”

Bolitho put some money into the wherryman's hand, with a little extra so that he would be here to carry them back across the swirling black river. The man had a cheeky grin, and had not taken his eyes off Catherine while he had pulled his smart little craft lustily over the choppy water.

Bolitho did not blame him. She had been standing in Lord Browne's hallway beneath a glittering chandelier when he had come down the staircase. In a gown of shot silk, very like the one she had worn that night in Antigua when he had met her again for the first time after so long. Catherine loved green, and her gown seemed to change from it to black as she had turned towards him. It was low-cut to reveal her throat and the full promise of her breasts. Her hair was piled high, and he had seen that she was wearing the same filigree earrings which had been his first-ever gift to her. The ones she had somehow managed to sew into her clothing when she had been forced into the Waites prison.

The wherryman flashed him a broad grin. “I'll be 'ere, Admiral—nah you go off an' enjoy yerselves!”

Bolitho watched the little boat speed back across the river to seek out another fare.

“I don't understand.” He looked down at his plain blue coat, bought in Falmouth from old Joshua Miller. He and his father had been making uniforms for the Bolitho family and other Falmouth sea-officers longer than anyone could recall. “How did he know?”

She flicked open her new fan and watched him above it, her eyes shining in the glow of many lanterns. “More people know about us than I thought!” She tossed her head. “What do you think, Richard? My little surprise—to take your mind off weight-ier matters?”

Bolitho had heard of the London pleasure gardens but had never visited any. This one at Vauxhall was the most famous of all. It certainly looked enchanted. Lantern-lit groves, wild rose hedges, and the sound of birds who enjoyed the merriment and music as much as the visitors.

Bolitho paid the entrance fee of half a crown each and allowed Catherine to guide him into the Grand Walk, a place for promenade, lined with exactly matching elms, and past little gravel walks with secret grottoes and quiet cascades and fountains.

She tightened her grip on his arm and said, “I knew you'd like it.
My
London.” She gestured with the fan towards the many supper booths where splendidly dressed women and their escorts listened to the various orchestras, sipping champagne, cider or claret as the fancy took them.

She said, “Many of the musicians are from the finest orchestras. They work here to keep their pockets filled, their bellies too, until the season returns.”

Bolitho removed his hat and carried it. The place was packed with people, the air heavy with perfume to mingle with the flowers and the distant smell of the river.

Catherine had been wearing a broad Spanish-style shawl, for it was known to be cold along the river at night. Now she let it drop to her arms, her throat and breasts shining in lanternlight or changing into provocative depths and shadows as they walked along a path.

It was like an endless panorama, where comic songs and bawdy ballads shared the same status as the work of great composers and lively dancing. There were plenty of uniforms too. Mostly red with the blue facings of the Royal regiments, and some sea-captains from the many ships moored below London Bridge, and the twisting route which would carry them back to the sea once more.

They paused where two paths crossed, so that it was possible to hear the music of Handel from one angle, while from the opposite direction they could listen to someone singing “Lass of Richmond Hill.” And neither seemed to detract from the other, Bolitho thought. Or perhaps it really was enchanted . . .

On the extreme of the brightly lit gardens was “The Dark Walk.” Catherine led him into the deep shadows where other couples stood and embraced, or merely held one another in silence.

Then she turned and lifted her face to him, pale in the darkness. “And
no,
dearest of men, I never walked here with another.”

“I would not have blamed you, Kate. Or the man who would lose his heart to you as I did.”

She said, “Kiss me. Hold me.”

Bolitho felt her arch towards him; sensed the power of their love which hurled all caution and reserve aside.

He heard her gasp as he kissed her neck and then her shoulder, and pulled her closer without even a glance as a pair of strolling lovers passed by.

He said into her skin, “I
want
you, Kate.”

She pretended to push him away, but he knew her excitement matched his own.

She touched his mouth with the fan as he released her and said, “But first we eat. I have arranged for a booth. It will be a private place.” She gave her infectious laugh, something which at times in the past Bolitho had thought never to hear again. “As private as anything
can
be in Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens!”

The time passed with an impossible speed while they sat in their little flower-bedecked booth, toying with their salads and roasted chicken, enjoying the wine and the music, but most of all each other.

She said, “You are staring at me.” She dropped her eyes and took his hand in hers across the table. “You make me feel so wanton—I should be ashamed.”

“You've a beautiful neck. It seems wrong to hide it, and yet . . .”

She watched him wondering.

“I will buy something for it. Just to adorn what is already so lovely.”

She smiled. “Only in your eyes.” Then she squeezed his hand until it hurt. “I am so in love with you, Richard. You just don't know.” She touched her eyes with a handkerchief. “There, see what you've done!” When she looked at him again they were very bright. “Let us go and find our lecherous wherryman. I have such need of you I can scarcely wait!”

They walked back along the path towards the gates. Catherine pulled her long shawl over her bare shoulders and shivered. “I never want the summer to end.”

Bolitho smiled, passion and excitement making him light-headed, as if he had had too much wine.

“Wait here in the shelter. I will make certain that the waterman you described so well is alongside.”

She called after him as he turned by the gates. “Richard. I
do
like your hair like that. You look so . . .
dashing.
”

She watched him pass into the shadows and drew the shawl more tightly around her; then she turned as a voice said, “All alone, my dear? That's very remiss of somebody!”

She observed him calmly. An army captain; not very old, with a lopsided grin which told of some heavy drinking.

She said, “Be off with you. I am not alone, and even if I were—”

“Now let's not be hasty, m'dear.” He stepped closer and she saw him stagger. Then he reached out and seized the shawl. “Such beauty should never be hidden!”

“Take your hand off my lady.” Bolitho had not even raised his voice.

Catherine said shortly, “He is full to the gills!”

The captain stared at Bolitho and gave a mock bow. “I did not realise; and in any case she looked like the sort of woman who might favour a poor soldier.”

Bolitho was still very calm. “I would call you out, sir—”

The captain grinned stupidly. “And then I would willingly accept your seconds!”

Bolitho opened his plain blue coat. “You did not let me finish. I would call you out
if
you were a gentleman and not a drunken lout. So we will settle it here.” The old sword simply seemed to materialise in his hand. “And now!”

Another soldier lurched through some bushes and gaped at the small, tense scene. He was tipsy, but not too drunk to recognise the danger.

“Come away, you damned fool!” To Bolitho he exclaimed, “On his behalf, Sir Richard, I crave your pardon. He is not normally like this.”

Bolitho looked at the captain, his eyes hard. “So I would hope, if only for the sake of England's safety!”

He slid the sword into its scabbard and deliberately turned his back on the pair. “The boat is ready and waiting, my lady.”

She took his proffered arm and felt it shaking.

“I have never seen you like that before.”

“I am sorry to behave like some hot-headed midshipman.”

She protested, “You were wonderful.” She held up the small reticule which hung from her wrist, and added, “But if he
had
tried to hurt you he would have got a ball in the buttocks to quieten him down. My little carriage pistol is quite big enough for that.”

Bolitho shook his head. “You are full of surprises!”

By the time the wherry was halfway across the river, weaving expertly through packs of similar craft, he was calm again.

Then he said, “It really was a night of enchantment, Kate. I shall
never
forget it.”

Catherine glanced at the staring waterman and then allowed the shawl to drop from her shoulders as she leaned against Bolitho and whispered, “It is not yet over, as you will soon discover.”

The waterman left his wherry to assist them out on to the pier. In his trade he carried them all. Men with other men's wives, sailors and their doxies, young bucks on the hunt for excitement or a brawl which would end blade to blade. But his two fares this evening were like none he had ever carried, and for some strange reason he knew he would always remember them. He thought of the way she had teased him with her shawl and gave a rueful grin. It had been well worth it.

He called after them, “Any time, Sir Richard! Just ask for Bobby—they all knows me on the London River.”

The carriage which had been put at their disposal was standing in line with many others, the coachmen nodding while they waited for their masters who were still over at Vauxhall.

Bolitho saw Ozzard's gilt buttons glinting in the carriage lamps. It was like a silent warning, and he felt Catherine's grip tighten on his wrist.

“Is something wrong, Ozzard? There was no need for you to wait with the carriage.”

Ozzard said, “There was a messenger from the Admiralty, Sir Richard. I told him I didn't know where you were.” His tone suggested he would not have told him anyway. “He left word for you to present yourself to Lord Godschale at your earliest convenience tomorrow.”

Somewhere in another world a church clock began to chime.

Catherine said in a small voice,
“Today.”

As they reached the house in Arlington Street, Bolitho said, “It cannot be so urgent. I have no flagship yet, and in any case—”

She turned on the stairway and tossed her shawl impetuously over the curving banister rail.

“And
in any case,
my gallant admiral, there is still the night!”

He found her waiting for him beside one of the windows from which, in daylight, you could see the park. She looked at him, her face almost impassive as she said, “Take me, use me any way you will, but always love me.”

Down in the deserted kitchen Allday sat at the scrubbed table and carefully filled a new clay pipe. It had cost him a fortune in London but he doubted if it would last any longer.

He had heard the carriage return and had seen Ozzard going quietly to his bed. Something was troubling him sorely; pulling him apart. He would try and find out what it was.

He lit the pipe and watched the smoke rising in the still air. Then he pulled a tankard of rum towards him and tried not to think of them upstairs.