Inshore Squadron Page 17

  “May I ask what that may be?”

  “When I was in Bombay I encountered the only piece of good fortune I can recall. Quite by chance I met with one of the company’s officials, and to our astonishment we discovered that we were related.” She smiled at the recollection. “Very distantly, and very remotely, but it was like finding a willing hand when you are about to drown.”

  Bolitho looked at the carpet, his mind reeling.

  “Rupert Seton.”

  “How on earth could you know that?”

  He replied, “I was in Copenhagen recently. I heard that he had passed through there on his way to England.”

  She watched his expression anxiously. “What is wrong?”

  “I was married to his sister.” His words were dull and without hope. “She was killed in a coaching accident while I was at sea. When I saw you in the coach this morning, your hair, I thought, I imagined . . .” He took several seconds to complete it. “You are so like her.”

  In the long silence he heard a clock ticking, the beat of his own heart, and somewhere far away a dog barking with sudden excitement.

  She said softly, “So I did not imagine all of it. Nor was I delirious. The way you were holding me. I knew somehow that I was going to be all right.”

  The door opened and Browne said, “I beg your pardon, sir. I thought you were alone.”

  The girl said, “Please come in, Lieutenant. This house makes you feel like a fugitive!”

  Browne rubbed his hands in front of the fire. “You look much better after that rest, sir. I have been speaking with Lord Swinburne’s steward. He says that the road will be clear soon after first light. The snow is changing to rain again.”

  When Bolitho said nothing he hurried on, “So with your permission I will take the carriage to London with your despatches.”

  “Very well.” Bolitho looked at the fold in his breeches, hating the wound. “I will wait here for your return.”

  Her gown swished across the floor and she said, “May I share your carriage, Lieutenant? I think they will be alarmed if I am any later in arriving.”

  Browne looked from one to the other, unusually confused. “Well, ma’am, that is to say, well, I will be delighted to be of assistance.”

  She turned and waited as Bolitho got to his feet. “I would have liked to have continued our talk.” She laid one hand on his arm. “But I fear it might have done both of us harm. So I will thank you again for all your kindness, and now I will go to bed in readiness for an early start. It has been a very demanding day, one way and the other.”

  Bolitho stared at her hand as she removed it from his arm. The brief contact was broken. It had never begun.

  Browne stared helplessly as the door closed behind her.

  “I am really sorry, sir!”

  “Sorry? For what?” Bolitho turned towards the fire and said in a calmer tone, “There, you made me break an old rule. I had no cause to use my hurt on you.” He knew Browne was going to speak and added, “You are a good fellow, Browne. At first I hated the idea of having a flag lieutenant, someone to share my confidences. But I have come to know you well, and have grown fond of you.”

  “Thank you for that, sir.” Browne sounded astonished.

  “Say no more of this. I was a fool to myself and an embarassment to the lady. I have been a sailor too long to change now. My place is on the sea, Browne, and when I am no further use then I were better under it!”

  Browne moved silently from the room and shut the door. If only Pascoe or Herrick were here, he thought. Even Allday was powerless to break past the chain of command of Swinburne’s household. And Bolitho needed somebody.

  Browne thought of the despatches, of the other nagging doubts he had nursed since Bolitho’s appointment to the Inshore Squadron. He would be as fast as he could. He glanced back at the closed door, recalling Bolitho’s words. Grown fond of you. In Browne’s world nobody ever said things like that and it had deeply affected him.

  He saw a footman gliding towards a stairway, a silver tray beneath one arm. He beckoned him over and said, “Would you take a drink to my admiral?”

  The footman regarded him bleakly. Like a frog. “French brandy, sir?”

  “No, not that. My admiral has been at war with the French for seven years and before that also.” He saw that his words were finding no response in the froglike face and added, “Some cool wine from the countryside. He seems to like it.”

  As the footman moved away Browne saw Lord Swinburne coming down the great stairway.

  Swinburne asked, “All well, Oliver?”

  “I have a favour to ask, m’lord.”

  “Huh. That doesn’t surprise me. Just like yer father.” He chuckled. “Well?”

  “Would it be possible for my admiral to have his coxswain with him?”

  “His coxswain? Here?” His robin’s eyes sparkled. “Of course, he has not brought a man with him. I will speak with my steward. Has he asked for his coxswain?”

  Browne shook his head. “No, m’lord. It is just a feeling I have.”

  His lordship shuffled away, shaking his head. “Quite mad, just like yer father!”

  Later, as the same footman was about to enter the room with his tray, Allday touched his arm and said abruptly, “Here, matey, I’ll take it.”

  The footman glared at Allday, and then saw his expression and the size of his fists.

  Allday balanced the tray in one hand and opened the door. There may be a squall and a few damn and blasts, he thought. After that . . . we shall see.

  Bolitho fidgeted impatiently while Allday painstakingly adjusted his neckcloth and collar and wondered how he was going to get through the evening. It was Christmas Day, a day of many comings and goings at the big house. Farmers and neighbours, tradesmen with last-minute additions for the dinner which Swinburne’s kitchen must have been preparing for weeks.

  He could hear the lively music of violins from below and toyed with the idea of saying he was too tired to join Swinburne and his guests. But the lie would be churlish and unforgivable after the way he had been cared for and treated.

  It was snowing outside, but without much substance, so that the carriageway and the roofs of the outbuildings glistened in a dozen colours from the lanterns which had been hung to guide the new arrivals to the entrance.

  Bolitho had moved to the room from the floor below, but even the change of view did little to settle his thoughts. He wished now he had gone to London in the carriage and damn the consequences for his wound.

  Allday stood back and said, “Good, sir. You look your old self again.”

  Bolitho noticed how Allday kept his voice level, his gaze shuttered off in case he did or said something to provoke him.

  Bolitho felt ashamed. He must have given Allday a difficult time.

  He said, “I wish you could take my place at table.” He glanced at Allday’s reflection in the mirror. “You deserve it, and far more.”

  Allday met his gaze in the mirror and grinned, the strain slipping from his face as he replied, “With all those fine ladies, sir? God bless you, I’d be in real trouble, an’ that’s no error!”

  Somewhere a gong boomed importantly. Allday took Bolitho’s best coat and held it out for him. “I’ve got a pretty little wench to press it for you, sir.”

  Bolitho slipped his arms into the sleeves. “No doubt you will repay her for the kindness?”

  Allday followed him to the door and stood aside for him. “No doubt, sir.”

  Bolitho paused. “I owe you an apology, Allday. I seem to be trampling on everyone who is trying to help me these days.” He turned, listening to the voices and music surging up the great stairway like an invisible throng.

  Allday said quietly, “Best be about it, sir. You’ll not escape by backing your tops’ls!”

  Bolitho nodded and made his way slowly down the stairs, feeling vaguely unsure of himself without hat or sword.

  He barely recognized the hall as the same place. It was packed wi
th brightly coloured gowns, half-bared bosoms, the red coats of the military, and such a mixed array of people he wondered where they all came from.

  A footman saw him coming and called, “Rear-Admiral Richard Bolitho.”

  A few heads turned towards him, but most of the guests had not even heard the announcement above the din.

  Swinburne bounced from the crowd. “Ah, Bolitho, good fellow!” He steered him through the less important fringe of the gathering and muttered, “Want you to meet me friends. Most of ’em have never set eyes on a fightin’ man before.” He lowered his voice as they passed a scarlet-faced major who looked old enough to have been in two previous wars and added, “Him, for instance. Supposed to be recruitin’ for the Colours. God, the country lads take one look at him and run off to join the French, I shouldn’t wonder!”

  A glass appeared in his hand, while a footman hovered nearby with a tray of replenishments, and within seconds Bolitho found himself hemmed in a corner by smiling, curious faces.

  Questions came from every angle, and perhaps for the first time Bolitho sensed the unease and anxiety which even the Christmas cheer could not disperse.

  Sometimes during his service Bolitho had felt irritation, even contempt for such outwardly privileged people. At sea, men died every day from one cause or another, while on land the military fared little better. In spite of her enemies and difficulties, Britain’s trade and influence abroad was growing, but it took the whole navy and endless outposts and garrisons of redcoats to maintain it.

  Hearing their questions, feeling their uncertainty as they tried to form a picture of the country’s defences or the weaknesses which might allow a French invasion, Bolitho was closer to understanding the war’s other face than he could recall.

  Lady Swinburne swept through the crowd and said, “Time to dine.” She offered her arm to Bolitho. “We will lead.”

  As they passed through the beaming faces and curtseying ladies she remarked, “An ordeal for you, I expect. But you are among friends. They want to understand, to know their fate by looking at you. This may be a temporary refuge for you, but it is escape for them.”

  They reached the long, glittering table when there was a small disturbance in the outer hall.

  Bolitho heard Swinburne barking at one of his footmen. “Arthur! Lay another place for the lieutenant!” Browne had returned.

  While the guests moved slowly to their allotted places at the heavily laden table, Browne managed to cross the room and say, “The despatches are delivered, sir. Sir George Beauchamp is most eager to see you when you are able to travel.” He lowered his voice, aware that several people were craning their necks to listen, still surprised at his unexpected entrance. Like a scene from a play. The dishevelled young officer riding from the lines to report to his general. The French are out. The cavalry are coming. “Things are warming up in the Baltic as you feared, sir.”

  There was a great rustle of gowns and scraping of chairs as the guests sank down to admire the mountains of food which all but hid one line of heads from those opposite them.

  Bolitho turned to find himself looking directly into the eyes of a young, attractive woman. Her gown was cut so low that he wondered how it was staying in position, and even so it left little to the imagination.

  She met his eyes boldly. “You are staring, sir!” She smiled, her tongue running along her lower lip as she asked, “Do you like what you see?”

  A heavy-jowled face thrust round her bare shoulder and said thickly, “Watch this one, m’dear fellow. A wildcat, an’ worse!”

  She did not even flinch but kept her gaze on Bolitho. “My husband. A lout.”

  Bolitho was almost grateful when the meal eventually began. And what a feast it was. It would have fed every midshipman in the squadron for a week and still left enough to pass around.

  The courses were presented by a well-trained line of footmen, and the plates and bowls removed with equal precision. Bolitho was amazed to see that most were wiped clean, whereas he was already feeling uncomfortably full.

  There were various kinds of fish. One Bolitho recognized as turbot, and another, although almost swamped in a rich sauce, he thought was baked whiting.

  On and on, each course larger and more lavishly decorated than the one before.

  A massive baron of beef, roasted on a slow fire, baked ham and boiled turkey, all washed down by Lord Swinburne’s rich selection of wines.

  Bolitho felt the girl’s knee against his, and when he moved slightly she pressed harder, the sensation insistent and sensuous. But when he looked at her she was eating busily, her hands reaching out for various portions with the trained performance of a musician.

  He saw Browne watching him from the other end of the table. He appeared to be clearing his dishes with the best of them. His life in London had been an obvious advantage.

  The girl beside him said, “Are you on a secret mission?”

  Her eyes looked less steady now and had the far-away stare of someone who had gone beyond caution.

  He smiled. “No. I have been resting for a few days.”

  “Ah yes.”

  One hand disappeared beneath the table and he felt her fingers moving caressingly up his thigh.

  “You were wounded. I heard it somewhere.”

  Bolitho saw the footman on the opposite side of the table. His face was expressionless but his eyes spoke volumes.

  “Easy, ma’am, d’you wish your husband to call me out?”

  She threw back her head and laughed. “Him? He will be dead drunk before the ladies retire, unconscious soon afterwards!” Her tone changed, pleading but direct. “That is why I am seated here beside you. Our host thinks me to be a bitch. To him I am just a necessary animal, to be used, or mated.”

  “And now . . . ” Swinburne was on his feet, a full goblet in his hand. “Before the ladies retire I will give you the loyal toast!”

  Chairs scraped back again and footmen darted in to shield silk gowns from fallen scraps of food and upturned glasses.

  Bolitho was caught off guard, being used to remaining seated as was the naval custom.

  “To His Britannic Majesty, King George!”

  How solemn they all suddenly appeared, Bolitho thought. Then the mood passed again and the ladies made their departure. Bolitho’s companion paused and patted his arm with her fan.

  “Later.”

  She had been right about one thing, Bolitho thought. Her husband was lying with his head on his arms, his hair daubed with a mixture of trifle and Dutch flummery.

  Long pipes were brought and the port was passed slowly around the table. The air was soon heavy with tobacco smoke which, mingled with that from the log fire, made the eyes smart and sting.

  Bolitho pretended to drowse like the others, to let the conversation wash around him. It was mostly talk of farming and shortage, of prices and poor labour. It was their war, the one which was alien to Bolitho as a gundeck would be to them.

  He tried to think of his coming visit to the Admiralty. How long would Herrick take to complete repairs? What were the French doing? The Danes, the Russians?

  But he kept seeing her face between him and his conclusions. The way she had looked at him before she had gone to her bed. Had gone to escape from his ridiculous fantasies.

  She was probably already settled in some fine London house, her mind too full with beginning her new life to remember him for long.

  Browne dropped into the empty chair beside him.

  “That was a fine dinner, sir.”

  “Tell me about London. How did the journey go?”

  “Quite well, sir. The nearer we got to London the better the road became. We stopped several times, of course, and we were fortunate with our choice of inns.”

  The “we” and the “our” made Bolitho helplessly jealous.

  Browne was saying, “Sir George was his usual crusty self, sir. I think Admiral Damerum had been with him. Something Sir George said made me wonder.”

  “What
did he say?”

  “Nothing much.” Browne fidgeted under his stare. “But the talk in the Admiralty is that the Tsar of Russia has continued to harass our merchantmen in the Baltic. I believe those which you cut out from the French frigate will be the last until this affair is settled.”

  Bolitho nodded. “I hoped for the best, but in my heart I suspected it would end like this. Denmark will have no choice. Neither shall we.”

  Browne reached out and grasped an abandoned goblet of brandy. He hesitated and then downed it with a fierce gulp, his eyes misting over as the fire surged through him.

  Then he said stiffly, “May I speak out, sir?”

  “I have always told you . . .” He stopped, seeing the lieutenant’s uncertainty. “Whatever it is. Tell me.”

  “I have never had much to do with sea-going officers, sir. My father insisted I should don the King’s coat and used his influence to arrange the appointment.” Browne smiled sadly. “I have always carried the uniform but have never earned it. My life became that of a courier, a messenger-boy, a privileged onlooker, or whatever my admiral demanded of me. Only since I have been serving you, and I mean this, sir, have I found any real pride in myself.” He gave a wry grin. “But for the matter of a certain lady, I doubt if I would ever have left Sir George’s service!”

  He had been using his words and the brandy as a barricade. When he spoke again it was like someone entirely different.

  “I was troubled about your appointment, sir, and more so at the way Admiral Damerum quit the inshore station without giving you all the intelligence he must have gathered from his patrols.” He stared at Bolitho as if expecting to be silenced for abusing their new friendship. “Your late brother, sir.” He licked his lips. “I—I am not sure I can continue.”

  Bolitho looked at the floor. So it was back again, not buried after all. Nor would it be.

  He said quietly, “My brother was a renegade, a traitor if you like.” He saw his words hit home. “He was a terrible gambler, and always had a nasty temper, even as a boy. He fought a duel with a brother officer aboard his ship and the man died. My brother fled to America and eventually rose to command a privateer during the Revolution. He was killed after the war by a runaway horse in Boston.” That final part was a lie, but he had become so used to it, it no longer mattered. He looked at Browne calmly. “Is that what you were going to say?”