Cross of St George Read online

  Spicer said, “Here and here, my lady.”

  She signed her name quickly, recalling the small, untidy lawyer’s office in Truro, which had handled the Bolitho affairs for generations. Chairs filled with files and dog-eared documents, far too dusty to ever have been used. Not surprisingly, it had been the portly Yovell who had guided her there when she had told him what she had heard from Seville. From Spain, where she had left childhood behind.

  Untidy, yes, but she had been received there as if she had always belonged. As John Allday would have described it, one of the family.

  Lafargue said, “We are accustomed to such transactions, my lady. A head so beautiful should never be troubled by affairs of business.”

  She looked up at him, and smiled. “Thank you, Sir Wilfred. I value your skills as a lawyer. Flattery I can have at any time from a Billingsgate porter!”

  She stood, and waited while Lafargue took her hand, and after a small hesitation held it to his lips.

  “It has been an honour, my lady.”

  She nodded to the two clerks, and saw the smile on the impassive features of the one named Spicer. It was a day he would remember, for whatever reasons of his own.

  Lafargue made a last attempt. “I noticed that you arrived in Lord Sillitoe’s carriage, my lady …” He almost flinched as the dark eyes turned toward him.

  “How observant of you, Sir Wilfred.”

  He walked beside her to the double doors. “An influential man.”

  She regarded herself in a tall mirror in passing. Her next visit was to the Admiralty, and she wondered if Bethune would eventually tell her about the attack on York and the mutiny.

  “With respect, my lady, I think that even Lord Sillitoe would regard you as a challenge.”

  She faced the lawyer again, her heart suddenly heavy. Wanting not to be alone: wanting Bolitho, needing him.

  “I have found that a challenge can so easily become an obstacle, Sir Wilfred. One which may need to be removed. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Back at his favourite window, Sir Wilfred Lafargue saw the liveried coachman hurry to open the carriage door for her. One of Sillitoe’s hard men, he thought, more like a prize-fighter than a servant. He saw her pause to watch a clutter of sparrows drinking from a horse-trough’s overflow. Distance hid her expression, but he knew she did not see or care for the passers-by who glanced at her.

  He tried to arrange his impressions rationally, as he might marshal facts and arguments in a law suit, or with an opposing brief. But all he could find was envy.

  The Old Hyperion inn at Fallowfield was crowded on this warm June evening, mostly with workers from the surrounding farms, enjoying the companionship of their friends after a long day in the fields. Some sat outside at the scrubbed trestle tables, and the air was so still that the smoke from their long pipes hung in an unmoving canopy. Even the banks of tall foxgloves barely quivered, and beyond the darkening trees the Helford River gleamed in the fading light like polished pewter.

  Inside the inn every door and window stood open, but the older customers, as was their habit year round, gathered by the great fireplace, although it was empty but for a tub of flowers.

  Unis Allday glanced from her parlour door and was satisfied with what she saw. Familiar faces, thatchers from Fallowfield, and the carpenter and his mate who were still working on the local church, where she and John Allday had been married. She repressed a sigh, and turned to the cot where their child, little Kate, lay sleeping. She touched the cot: another reminder of the big, shambling sailor who was so far away. He had even made the cot with his own hands.

  She heard her brother, another John, laughing at something as he drew and carried tankards of ale. A one-legged former soldier of the 31st Foot, he lived in a tiny cottage nearby. Without his company and support, she didn’t know how she would have managed.

  She had had no letter from Allday. Over four months had passed since he had walked through that door to take passage to Canada, with the admiral he served and loved like no other. Lady Catherine would be feeling much the same loneliness, she thought, with her own man on the other side of the ocean, even though she had travelled far and wide herself. Unis smiled. She had never been further than her native Devon before coming to live in Cornwall, and although she had settled in well, she knew that to the local people she would always be a foreigner. She had been attacked on the coast road on her way here, by men who had attempted to rob and assault her. John Allday had saved her that day. She could even talk about it now, but not to many. She touched some flowers on the table. The stillness, the warm, unmoving air was making her restless. If only he was back. She tested the idea. For good and always …

  She looked once more at the sleeping child, and then walked out to join her brother.

  He said, “Good business today, love. Picking up.” He watched an unwavering candle flame. “There’ll be a few ships’ masters cursing and swearing if they have to lie becalmed all night in Falmouth Bay. It’ll mean they’ll have to pay another day’s wages!”

  She said, “What about the war, John? Out there, I mean.”

  He said, “Soon be over, I expect. Once the Iron Duke forces the French to surrender, the Yankees’ll lose the stomach for a war on their own.”

  “You do think that?” She remembered John Allday’s face when he had finally told her about his son, and how he had died in the fight with the Americans. Was it only last year? When he had come home and had taken their child, so tiny in his big hands, and she had told him she would not be able to carry another, would never give him another son.

  His reply was still stark in her mind. She’ll do me fine. A son can break your heart. She had guessed then, but had said nothing until he was ready to tell her.

  “Someone’s on the road.” He looked toward the window, and was not aware of the sudden fear in her eyes.

  She heard the sound of a single horse, and saw the men around the empty grate pause in their conversation to stare at the open door. A horse usually meant authority out this way, so close to Rosemullion Head. The coastguard, or revenue men, or some of the dragoons from Truro, searching for deserters or hunting down footpads.

  The horse clattered across the cobbles and they heard someone hurrying to assist the rider. Her brother said, “That’s Lady Catherine. I’d know her big mare anywhere.”

  He smiled as his sister straightened her apron and her hair, as she always did.

  “I’d heard she was back from London. Luke said he saw her.”

  She came through the door, her dark hair almost touching the low beam. She seemed startled that there were so many customers, as if she were hardly aware of the time of day.

  Some of the men stood up, or shuffled as though they would make the effort, and one or two voices called, “’Evenin’ to ’ee, m’lady.”

  She held out her hand. “Please sit down. I am sorry …”

  Unis reached her, and guided her to the small parlour. “You shouldn’t be out alone on this road, m’lady. ’Twill be dark soon. ’Tisn’t safe these days.”

  Catherine sat and pulled off her gloves. “Tamara knows the way. I am always safe.” She took Unis’s hand impulsively. “I needed to come. To be with a friend. And you are that, Unis.”

  Unis nodded, shocked by the quiet desperation in her voice. It did not seem possible. The admiral’s lady, a woman of courage as well as beauty, accepted even here where scandal, like sin, could be condemned openly every Sunday in church and chapel …

  “None stronger, m’ lady.”

  Catherine stood, and crossed to the cot. “Young Kate,” she said, and reached down to adjust the covering. Unis watched, and was oddly moved.

  “Shall I make some tea, or maybe coffee? An’ I’ll see that someone rides with you when you go back to Falmouth. Five miles can be a long way on your own.”

  Catherine barely heard her. She had rested very little since her return from London. There had been no letter waiting from Richard: anything might be happening. She
had ridden to the adjoining estate to visit his sister, Nancy, and found Lewis Roxby very ill. Despite the stroke he had suffered, he had taken little heed of his doctors’ warnings. Without his hunting and his entertaining, and his hectic life as landowner, magistrate and squire, he could neither see nor accept any future as an invalid. Nancy had known: she had seen it in her eyes. Lewis was not merely ill this time; he was dying.

  Catherine had sat with him, holding his hand while he had lain propped up in his bed, his head high enough for him to see the trees, and his stone folly, which was almost completed. His face had been grey, his grip without strength. But from time to time he had turned his head to look at her, as if to reassure her that the old Lewis Roxby was still there.

  She had told him about London, but had not mentioned the unexpected settlement with which Luis’s estate had endowed her. Nor had she told him about her visit to Richard’s town house. The lawyer, Lafargue, had sent word to Belinda of her intended arrival, but her visiting card had been returned at the door, torn in two halves. But Belinda knew now that the house where she lavishly entertained, and lived in a style to which she had been unaccustomed before her marriage, was the property of the woman she hated. It would change nothing between them, but it might prevent her asking for more money. She would never admit to her circle of friends that she was living in a house owned by the one she had openly called a prostitute.

  She heard herself say, “Something a little stronger, Unis. Some brandy, if you have any.”

  Unis hurried to a cupboard. Was it possible, that there was no one else she could turn to now that Sir Richard was away? Perhaps Bryan Ferguson and his wife at the big grey house were too close, painful reminders of those others who were absent: Bolitho’s “little crew,” as she had heard John call them.

  Catherine took the glass, wondering where the brandy had come from. Truro, or run ashore along this rocky and treacherous coast by freetraders in the dark of the moon?

  Beyond the door, the conversation and laughter had resumed. It was something to relate to their wives when they finally reached their own homes.

  Unis said gently, “When … I mean … if Sir Lewis gives up the fight … what will become of all that he’s worked for? Just the son of a local farmer, they tells me, and now look at him. A friend of the Prince himself, owner of all that land—will his son not take over?”

  Now look at him. A grey, tired face. Every breath an effort.

  “I believe that his son is making a name for himself in the City of London. Lewis wanted it. He was so proud of him, and of his daughter. There will be many changes, no matter what happens.”

  She sat for some time in silence, thinking of the visit to the Admiralty, which had been her final task in London. Bethune had greeted her warmly, professing surprise at her arrival, and had offered to take her to a reception somewhere, and introduce her to some of his particular friends. She had declined. Even as she had sat in that familiar office, watching him, listening to him, she had sensed his genuine interest in her, the undeniable charm which might lead him into serious trouble if he became careless or over-confident in his affairs. He had been unable to give her any information about the war in North America, although she had suspected that he knew more than he was saying. On her last night in Chelsea she had lain awake on the bed, almost naked in the bright moonlight across the Thames, and had considered what might have happened if she had pleaded with Bethune to use all his influence, and his obvious affection and admiration for Richard, to enable him to be brought back to England. She had had little doubt what the price would have been. She had felt the sudden tears scalding her eyes. Could she have gone through with it? Given herself to another, whom instinct told her would have been kindness itself? She knew she could not have done it. There were no secrets between herself and Richard, so how could she have pretended with the man she loved?

  To think that she could even consider such a bargain disgusted her. They called her a whore. Perhaps they were right.

  Nor had she been able to tell Lewis what had happened after she had left Belinda’s house. In the square, she had seen the child walking with her governess. If the place had been crowded with a hundred children, she would still have known it was Elizabeth, Richard’s daughter. The same chestnut hair as her mother, the poise and confidence, so assured for one so young. She was eleven years old, and yet a woman.

  “May I speak with you?” She had immediately sensed the governess’s hostility, but she had been totally unprepared when Elizabeth had turned to look up at her. That had been the greatest shock of all. Her eyes were Richard’s.

  She had said calmly, “I am sorry. I do not know you, ma’am.” She had turned away, and walked on ahead of her companion.

  What could I have expected? Hoped for? But all she could think of was the child’s eyes. Her contempt.

  She stood up, listening. “I must leave. My horse …”

  Unis saw her brother in the doorway. “What is it, John?”

  But he was looking at the beautiful woman, her long riding habit torn in places where she had ridden carelessly, too close to the hedgerows.

  “The church. The bell’s tolling.” Then, as though making a decision, “I can’t allow you to ride at this hour, m’ lady.”

  She appeared not to hear him. “I must go. I promised Nancy.” She walked to the open window, and listened. The bell. An end of something. The beginning of what?

  John had returned. “One of the keepers is here, m’ lady. He’ll ride with you.” He hesitated, and looked at his sister as if appealing to her. “Please. Sir Richard would insist, if he were here.”

  She held out her hands to them. “I know.”

  Some envied her, others hated her, and one at least feared her after her visit to the lawyer. She must not give way now. But without him I am nothing, have nothing.

  She said, “I needed to be with friends, you see. Needed to be.”

  Tamara was already outside the door, eager to leave.

  Sir Lewis Roxby, Knight of the Hanoverian Guelphic Order and friend of the Prince Regent, was dead. She remembered his many bluff kindnesses, and particularly the day when, together, they had found Zenoria Keen’s body.

  The King of Cornwall. So would he always remain.

  11 A WARNING

  RICHARD BOLITHO and Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen stood side by side and stared out across the crowded anchorage of Halifax harbour.

  The sun was strong, the air warmer than for a long time, and after the restricted confines of a frigate, even one as large as Indomitable, Bolitho was very conscious of the land, and the peculiar feeling that he did not belong here. The house was the headquarters of the general officer commanding the garrisons and defence of Nova Scotia, and below the wooden verandah soldiers were marching back and forth, drilling in platoons, front ranks kneeling to take aim at an imaginary enemy while the second ranks prepared to march through them and repeat the process: manoeuvres the army had perfected over the years, which had eventually turned the tables on Napoleon.

  But Bolitho was looking at the anchored frigate directly opposite. Even without a telescope, he could see the damage and the piles of broken timber and rigging on her decks. She still flew the Stars and Stripes, but the White Ensign was hoisted above it as a symbol of victory. She was the USS Chesapeake, which had been brought to action by His Britannic Majesty’s ship Shannon. The fight had been brief but decisive, and both captains had been wounded, the American mortally.

  Keen said, “A welcome victory. Shannon towed her prize into Halifax on the sixth. Couldn’t have happened at a better time, with all our other setbacks.”

  Bolitho had already heard something of the engagement. Shannon’s captain, Philip Bowes Vere Broke, was both experienced and successful, and had been cruising up and down outside Boston, where Chesapeake lay at anchor. It was rumoured that he had been grieving over the loss of so many of his contemporaries to the superior American frigates. He had sent a challenge into Boston in the best tradit
ion of chivalry, requesting that Captain Lawrence of the Chesapeake should come out and “try the fortunes of their respective flags.” If Broke had had one advantage over his American adversary, it was his dedication to and insistence upon gunnery and teamwork. He had even invented and fitted sights to all his main armament. It had won the day, but nobody had shown more distress than Broke himself when Lawrence had succumbed to his wounds.

  Now, lying just beyond her like a guilty shadow, was the smaller frigate Reaper. A guard-boat was moored alongside, and her upper deck was marked with tiny scarlet figures where Royal Marine sentries kept watch over the imprisoned mutineers.

  Keen glanced at him, seeing the strain on his profile as he lifted his face to the sun.

  “It is good to be of one company again.”

  Bolitho smiled. “Only for the moment, Val. We shall have to be on the move again shortly.” He shaded his eyes to look across at Indomitable, where Tyacke was taking on fresh water and supplies while final repairs were carried out. It was Tyacke’s reason, or rather his excuse, for not accompanying him to this meeting.

  He heard Avery talking quietly with Keen’s flag lieutenant, the Honourable Lawford de Courcey. They would have little or nothing in common, he thought, and he had gathered that Adam did not care much for him, either. It was just as well. There was no room for complacency here, even amongst friends. They needed an edge, a purpose, like the old sword at his side.

  There had been letters awaiting his return to Halifax, both from Catherine: he could feel them now in his coat. He would read them as soon as he could, then again later, and more slowly. But there was always the first anxiety, like a fear, that she would have changed towards him. She would be lonely beyond measure.

  He turned away from the sun as he heard de Courcey greeting someone, and then another voice, a woman’s.