The Only Victor (33 page)

“You know these parts, Young Matthew?”

He grinned again, but with a certain wistfulness as the memory clouded his eyes. “Aye, m'lady. I was here 'bout fourteen years back—I were just a boy then, working for my grandfather who was head coachman for the Bolitho family.”

Yovell said, “Before my time with Sir Richard, I think.”

“What were you doing in Kent?”

“The master was sent here to hunt down smugglers. I was with him an' helped a bit. Then he sent me back to Falmouth 'cause he said it were too dangerous, like.”

Catherine withdrew her head. “Drive on, then.” She sat back in the seat as the carriage rolled forward through a succession of muddy ruts. Another part of Bolitho's life she could not share. Allday had made some mention of it. How Bolitho had still been recovering from the terrible fever he had caught in the Great South Sea, but had desperately tried to obtain a ship,
any
ship. War with France had still been just a threat, but England had allowed the fleet to rot, her sailors thrown on the beach. There were few ships, and only Bolitho's persistence, his daily visits to the Admiralty, had found him employment at the Nore. Recruiting, but also hunting smugglers, to stamp out their vicious trade, a far cry from the romantic tales which abounded about their exploits.

But when the blade fell on the King of France's neck everything had changed. Allday had put it in his simple way. “So they gave us the old
Hyperion.
It were a bit of a shock for the Cap'n, as he was then, him being a frigate man. But that old ship changed our lives, m'lady. He found you, and I found out I had a grownup son.” He had nodded, his clear eyes faraway. “Aye, we sailed through some blood and tears together.”

She had pressed him to add, “That was why he fought
Truculent
like he did. Cap'n Poland could never 'a' done it, not in a thousand years.” He had shaken his head like an old dog. “There'll not be another like
Hyperion,
I'm thinkin'. Not for us anyways.”

She watched the River Medway in the distance. All the way from Chatham it had barely been out of sight, twisting and turning, a wide stretch of water, sometimes silver, sometimes the colour of lead, as the sky and weather dictated. She had found herself shivering when she had caught sight of some prison hulks moored out in the stream. Mastless and forlorn, and somehow frightening. Full of prisoners-of-war. She had another stark memory of the Waites prison, the degradation and filth. Surely it would be better to die?

Bolitho would be on board his new flagship. After that they would be together again—but for how long? She swore that she would make every moment a precious one.

For a few moments she forgot why she had made this journey, and the fact that Rear-Admiral Herrick's wife might not even allow her in the house. She was back in the small chapel in South Audley Street, then in the adjoining St George's Burial Ground, at any other time just a short walk from the Somervell house.

Nobody had spoken to her except the vicar, and he had been a total stranger. A few faceless people had been in the chapel, but by the graveside there had been only her Richard. There had been several carriages, but the occupants had not alighted, content apparently to watch and pass judgment. One figure had hurried away from a wall as she had made to leave. His steward, no doubt, who for whatever true reason had always been with him.

The carriage responded to Matthew's brake, and slowed again while it turned off the road and along a well-laid driveway.

Catherine could feel her heart pumping against her ribs and was surprised at her sudden nervousness. She had come uninvited and without sending word of her intention. To do so would have invited a snub. But she accepted that it was important to Bolitho that she should try to get to know the wife of his old friend. She knew that Herrick would never change towards her and it saddened her, although she had managed to hide it from the one she loved more than life itself.

Yovell groaned; he had obviously suffered from the joltings of the journey. “A goodly house.” He said it with approval. “A big step.”

Catherine did not know what Yovell meant but guessed it might be because Herrick had come from humble, even poor beginnings locally, and his marriage to his beloved Dulcie had brought him the comfort and encouragement denied him in his struggle for eventual recognition in the navy. She felt a momentary bitterness as Yovell handed her down from the carriage. Bolitho had given his friend much more than encouragement. This should have been the time to repay him with the loyalty and friendship he needed. Instead . . . She shook her head and said, “Stay with Young Matthew, will you please, Daniel.” She bit her lip. “I do not expect to be long.”

Matthew touched his hat. “I'll take the horses to the yard for some water.” He and Yovell exchanged glances as she mounted the stone steps and lifted a large brass knocker in the shape of a dolphin. The door opened instantly, and she vanished into the interior.

When the carriage reached the stable-yard Yovell, who had climbed up beside the coachman, emitted a grunt of anxiety. Two stable hands were washing down another carriage.

“It's Lady Bolitho's.” Matthew gave it a professional scrutiny. “No mistakin' that 'un!”

Yovell nodded. “Too late now. I'd better go round—Sir Richard'll never forgive me.”

Young Matthew climbed down and said, “Leave 'er be. You can't 'andle two mares at once.” He gave his cheeky smile. “My money's on our Lady Catherine!”

Yovell stared at him. “You damned rogue!” But he stood fast all the same.

After the creak of wheels and leather and the occasional slashing rain across the windows, the house felt oppressively still. Like a tomb. Catherine looked at the small servant who had opened the door. “Is your mistress at home?”

The girl stammered, “She is, Ma'am. She be in bed.” She peered anxiously at some double doors which led off the hallway. “They moved 'er downstairs. She got a visitor.”

Catherine smiled. The girl was too open to be a liar. “Would you please announce me? Catherine Somervell—Lady Somervell.”

She walked into an anteroom and through its misted windows watched two men working in the gardens, in spite of the rain.

But it was getting heavier, and they paused beneath the windows to wait its passing. It was still a few moments longer before she realised they were speaking Spanish.

She heard the doors swing open across the hall and when she turned she saw Belinda, framed in the light from other windows on the far side of the room.

She had never laid eyes on her before, and yet she knew instantly who she was. She had something of the looks in the portrait Catherine had had restored to its place at Falmouth, the hair, the shape of the face—but nothing more.

“I did not know you were here, otherwise—”

Belinda replied sharply, “
Otherwise
you would have stayed in your proper place! I don't know how you have the brazen audacity to come.” Her eyes moved slowly over Catherine from head to toe, lingering on the dull black silk of her mourning gown.

“I am surprised you have the impudence to—”

Catherine heard someone call out in a small voice and said, “Frankly, your reactions, disgust or otherwise, don't matter a jot to me.” She could feel the anger rising like fire. “This is not your house, and I shall see whom I intended, if she will allow it!”

Belinda stared at her as if she had struck her. “Don't you
dare
take that tone with me—”

“Dare? You talk of daring after what you tried to do to me when you connived with my husband? I wear these clothes because it shows respect, but it is for Richard's dead friend, not my damned husband!” She strode to the door. “I notice that you have no difficulty in dressing in the latest, and finest fashion!”

Belinda fell back, her eyes never leaving Catherine's face. “I shall never . . .”

“Give him up? Is that what you were about to say?” Catherine looked at her coldly. “He is not yours to give. I suspect he never was.”

The voice called again and Catherine walked past her without another word. Belinda was exactly what she had expected. It made her angrier and sad at the same time.
A woman like that with
—She stopped short of a large bed, and gazed at the woman who was propped there on several pillows and cushions. Herrick's wife studied her much as Belinda had done; but there was no hostility.

Belinda said, “I shall be back shortly, Dulcie my dear. I need some air.”

Catherine heard the doors close. “I beg forgiveness for this intrusion.” It no longer seemed to matter, and she could feel her body go cold despite the great fire in the room.

Dulcie placed one hand on the bed and said softly, “Sit here where I can see you the better. Alas, my dear Thomas has sailed just recently to join his squadron. I miss him so much.” The hand moved towards Catherine and after the slightest hesitation took hers in it. It was hot and dry. She murmured, “Yes. You
are
very beautiful, Lady Somervell . . . I can see why he loves you.”

Catherine squeezed her hand. “That is a kind thing to say. Please call me Catherine.”

“I was sorry to hear about your late husband's death. Is it still raining?”

Catherine felt something like fear, usually a stranger to her.

Dulcie was rambling, even as she clung to her hand.

She asked carefully, “Have you seen a doctor recently?”

Dulcie said distantly. “So much sadness. We couldn't have any children, you know.”

“Nor can I,” she said gently. She tried again. “How long have you been unwell?”

Dulcie smiled for the first time. It made her look incredibly frail.

“You are like Thomas. Always fussing and asking questions. He thinks I work too hard—he does not understand how empty it can be when he is at sea. I could not be idle, you see.”

Catherine felt terribly alone with her secret. “Those men working in the gardens. Who are they?”

For a moment she thought Dulcie had not heard, as she whispered, “Belinda is such a
good
person. They have a little girl.”

Catherine glanced away.
They.
“The men were speaking Spanish . . .”

She had not heard the door re-open, and Belinda's voice was like a knife. “Of course, you were also married to a Spaniard at one time, were you not? So
many
husbands.”

Catherine ignored the sneer in her voice and turned back to the bed as Dulcie said wearily, “They are prisoners. But they are allowed here on trust. They are very good gardeners.” Her eyes flickered. “I am so tired.”

Catherine released her hand and stood up. “I will take my leave.” She backed away from the bed, oblivious of Belinda's bitter stare, her hatred for her.

“I would like to talk again with you, dear Dulcie.” She turned away, unable to lie.

Outside the room she faced Belinda. “She is very ill.”

“And you are concerned, is that it? You came prepared to
win her over
—to prove that you are the only one who really cares!”

“Don't be a fool! Has she seen a doctor?”

Belinda smiled. Arrogantly, she thought. “But of course. A good local man who has known Dulcie and Rear-Admiral Herrick for years.”

Catherine heard the carriage moving to the front of the house again. Yovell was a good judge.

“I must leave. I'll send for a competent doctor from London.”

Belinda said violently, “How can you speak like this? I can see for myself what you are, but don't you know what you are doing to my husband's career and reputation?” She was spitting out each word, unable to hide her spite. “He has fought duels over you before, or didn't you know? One day he will pay for it!”

Catherine looked away, and did not see the flash of triumph in Belinda's eyes. She was remembering the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, where Bolitho had tossed a contemptuous challenge to the drunken soldier who had fondled her arm as if she was a common whore. And only days ago when he had sent the effeminate Colonel Collyear packing after a similar challenge.

But when she raised her eyes again she saw Belinda's features had gone pale, her sudden confidence evaporated.

Catherine said evenly, “I know that you have no true pride in Richard. You are not fit to carry his name. And let me assure you that had we two been men I would willingly call you out. Your ignorance is far more offensive than your smugness!”

She walked towards the door. “Dulcie has a fever. I heard the gardeners speaking of it outside.” Her eyes flashed dangerously. “Yes, being married to a Spaniard does have its advantages!”

Belinda said, “You are trying to frighten me.” But there was no defiance now.

“There is an outbreak on the hulks—it sounds like jail fever. You should have been told. How long has she been like that?”