For My Country's Freedom Read online

  “I was told that you enjoy champagne, my lady. I think we have something to celebrate. Don’t you agree?”

  She waited. Bethune was probably imagining other reasons for her concern.

  He said, “He was badly wounded, but our informants have told us that, thanks to the American commodore, he was well cared for.” He hesitated for the first time. “We are still uncertain as to the extent of his injury.”

  Catherine took the tall glass and felt its coolness through her glove. Word for word, Richard’s letter was engraved on her memory: Adam’s arrival at English Harbour, and his anguish at the news of Zenoria’s death.

  It was like some playlet, in which they all had lines to speak. Richard and his dead brother; Adam and Zenoria; and yet to come, Valentine Keen.

  Bethune held his glass to the window. “We have not been told officially what the Americans intend. Captain Bolitho, in the normal course of events, would be exchanged with one of our prisoners. However, as a frigate captain of some stature, with many prizes and successes to his credit, they might decide to keep him, if only in a mood of self-congratulation.”

  “Or perhaps to goad his uncle into some reckless action?”

  “Has he written to that effect, my lady?”

  “You know him, do you not? You should not need to ask me.”

  He smiled and refilled her glass. “True.”

  Then he said, “I hope you will do me the honour of allowing me to escort you to a reception.” He hurried on, as if he already knew that she would refuse. “Sir Paul Sillitoe, whom I believe you know, wishes to celebrate his new title. He goes to the House of Lords shortly. He will be a powerful adversary there, by God.”

  Is a powerful adversary, she thought. “I cannot be certain, Sir Graham.” She smiled faintly. “Would not your reputation be a trifle smudged by me?”

  He looked away, and for only an instant she saw the freckled midshipman.

  It was quickly past. “I would relish your company, Lady Somervell.”

  She said, “The rain is finished, and here comes the sun. I worship it, despite what it once tried to do to us.”

  He nodded gravely. “The Golden Plover, yes, I understand. May I enquire as to your plans for the remainder of the day?”

  She faced him, unmoved by the hint in his tone.

  “I shall interview a new personal maid, Sir Graham. But first, I must go to St James’s.”

  “The palace, my lady?”

  She held out her gloved hand and felt him lingering over it. Then she laughed. “No, the wine shop, of course!”

  Long after a servant had accompanied her downstairs, Bethune stood staring after her.

  His secretary entered and placed some papers on the desk.

  He said, “There is bad news, Sir Graham.” He waited patiently for his lord and master to notice him.

  Bethune asked, “Did you see her, man?” He seemed to realise what his secretary had said. “What news?”

  “Not confirmed, Sir Graham, but we have received a despatch concerning our frigate Guerrière of 38 guns, which was overwhelmed and captured by the U.S.S. Constitution after a fight lasting only two hours.”

  Bethune stood up again and walked to his window. “You are a melancholy fellow, Saunders. You make it sound both trivial and disgraceful in the same breath. Only two hours, you say? I have endured just such a trivial amount of time!” He swung away from the window. “Believe me, it is like hell. ”

  “As you say, Sir Graham.”

  He dismissed the unctuous insincerity, recalling instead Bolitho’s voice in this very building, and the disbelief, even amusement in the room when the role of the fixed line of battle had been criticised. They might think differently now. A frigate was already reported missing in the Caribbean. With Anemone destroyed and now Guerrière beaten and captured so easily, some might remember Bolitho’s words.

  He looked out of the window again, but her carriage had gone.

  Then he smiled, picked up Catherine’s half-empty glass and put his lips where hers had been.

  Aloud he said, “We shall see!”

  By the time Catherine reached Chelsea the sky had cleared, and the houses along the Thames embankment were basking in brilliant sunshine once more. Young Matthew lowered the step and offered his hand to assist her, his eyes everywhere like a watchful terrier.

  “I’ll put the wine in the house once I’ve taken care of the horses, m’lady.”

  She stopped by the steps and looked at him. “You hate London, don’t you, Matthew?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Not used to it, m’lady—that’s all, I suppose.”

  She smiled. “Only until next week. Then we shall go home to Falmouth.”

  Matthew watched her open the front door and sighed. She was doing too much, taking too much on herself. Just like him.

  Catherine pushed open the door and stopped dead in the entrance hall. There was a gold-laced hat on the hall table. Like Richard’s.

  The new girl, Lucy, came bustling from beneath the stairs, wiping her mouth with her hand, flustered by her mistress’s unexpected return.

  “Sorry, m’lady—I should have been here, ready like.”

  Catherine barely heard her. “Who is here?” It could not be. He would have let her know somehow. If only . . .

  Lucy glanced at the hat, unaware of its significance. “He said you wouldn’t mind, m’lady. He said he would leave his card if you didn’t come, otherwise he’d wait in the garden.”

  She asked, “Who?”

  Lucy was a decent girl; she had been recommended by Nancy. But another Sophie she was not. Good in the house and as a personal maid, but slow and sometimes maddening in her inability to think for herself.

  Catherine brushed past her and walked blindly down the passage to the garden door.

  Valentine Keen was standing by the wall in profile to her, only his hand moving as he stroked the neighbour’s cat. Unfamiliar in his rear-admiral’s uniform, his fair hair bleached almost white from the African sun.

  Only when he heard her footstep on the terrace did he turn, and she saw the change in him: deep shadows beneath his eyes, the harsh lines around his mouth which even a smile failed to erase.

  She said, “Dear Val, I’m so glad you waited. I had no idea.” She clasped him in her arms. “How long have you been back?”

  He held her tightly, with affection or desperation; it could have been either.

  “A few days ago. I came to Portsmouth. I was told you were in London. I thought, I must see her.”

  The words seemed to jerk out of him, but she did not interrupt. Who could have told him she was in London?

  Arm in arm, they walked around the small garden with the sounds of London beyond the wall.

  She said, “You should be careful of that cat. He uses his claws when you play with him.”

  Keen looked at her searchingly. “Your letter was such a help to me. I wish it had not fallen on your shoulders.” He swallowed hard. “She was buried in Zennor. How so? You must not mind my asking. I still cannot accept it.”

  She said gently, “There was no proof of suicide, Val. It may have been an accident. The church could not begrudge her a grave in her own parish churchyard.”

  “I see.”

  Catherine thought of the reluctant curate. The bishop had been signalling his disapproval because it was rumoured that the girl had taken her own life.

  “The magistrate was very definite. Her death resulted from misadventure. It is small comfort, I know, but she rests in peace.”

  Roxby had been the magistrate, otherwise . . .

  “And you were there. I should have known you would be.”

  She waited, knowing what was coming next.

  He asked, “Were some of my family at Zennor when she was buried?”

  “There were flowers. Do not feel bitter about it. There was grief enough, I expect.”

  He did not reply. He was going over it again and again. Trying to understand the reasons, tryin
g to assemble the truth, even if he could never accept it.

  He said, “I loved her so. Even she never knew how much.”

  “I think she did, Val.”

  “I must go there and see the grave. As soon as I have dealt with things here.” He looked at her, his face drawn, as though grief had made him ill. “Will you come with me, Catherine? To that church where we were married?”

  “Of course. There is no stone yet. That is for you to decide.” She held his arm, not daring to look at him. “Of course I will come.”

  After a time he said, “You went to the Admiralty. Was there any news of Adam?”

  “He is alive and a prisoner of war; it was all they knew. We can only hope.”

  She told him what Bethune had said and Keen murmured, “I expect they know more than they care to make public.” Then he turned and looked at her. “There is to be a reception for Sir Paul Sillitoe. I was told of it today.”

  She forced a smile. “I know. I was invited to attend.” She thought of Bethune’s eyes when he had mentioned it. Perhaps she had imagined what she saw there, but she had never known a man she could trust completely. Except one.

  Keen said, “Then let us go together, Catherine. Nobody could say anything about it, and under the circumstances . . .” He did not continue.

  As if someone else had answered, she heard herself say, “My dear, I would be honoured.” Richard would understand; and he would know that he might need friends like Sillitoe where their power carried real weight.

  Keen said suddenly, “How is Richard?”

  “He worries. About me and about Adam, about his men and his duty.” She smiled. “I would not change him, even if I could.”

  The light had dimmed. “More rain, I think. We had better go inside.”

  The housekeeper was waiting ominously by the stairs, and Lucy could be heard sobbing somewhere.

  The housekeeper glanced incuriously at Catherine’s hand on the rear-admiral’s sleeve. She said, “Just broke two more cups, m’lady! God, that girl will put me in the poorhouse!” She softened slightly. “I’ll fetch some tea.”

  They sat by the window and watched the leaves shiver to the first heavy drops of rain. The cat had disappeared.

  Catherine said, “There was talk of your removal to a house in Plymouth?”

  He shrugged. “No longer. The flag-officer there is expected to have a wife by his side.” With sudden bitterness he added, “It will be another sea appointment for me. It cannot be soon enough for my liking!”

  “Have you seen your father yet?”

  He shook his head. “When I leave you, I shall go. I am sure he will be ‘working late in the City!’”

  She wanted to hold him, like a child, or like Richard, ease his grief, heal his despair. There was no one else.

  He said, “I should have known, don’t you see? I had so many plans for her, the boy too. I never once asked her what she wanted. She was like you, Catherine, a living, precious creature. She might have been lost in my world. She never told me. I never asked her.”

  The housekeeper came in with the tea and departed without a glance or a word.

  Keen was saying, “If I had only been with her!” He looked at her sharply. “She did take her own life, is that not true? Please, I must know the truth.”

  “She was not herself, Val.”

  He stared down at his hands. “I knew it. I should have seen the dangers all along.”

  She asked quietly, “Do you remember Cheney, the girl Richard married and lost?”

  He hesitated. “Yes. I remember her.”

  “Even though we are denied marriage and the acceptance of society—even though marriage may have scarred us—even though such things are impossible, we found one another again, Richard and I. Might not good fortune take your hand too, Val, and give you happiness once more?”

  He got to his feet and released her hand.

  “I must leave now, Catherine. I feel better for speaking with you . . . stronger, in some way.” He did not look at her. “If there was ever such a good fortune, and things I have seen of late make me doubt it, then I could hope for no more admirable a woman than one like you.”

  She walked with him to the door, knowing very well what he had really meant. He was not just attractive and amusing company, in other circumstances; it went much deeper. It would not be difficult to love a man like him.

  “I shall ask Matthew to take you.”

  He picked up his hat and looked at it, ruefully, she thought.

  He said, “Thank you, but my carriage is waiting in the mews.”

  She smiled. “You did not wish to set the tongues awagging by leaving it at my door?”

  On the steps he took her hand and kissed it gently. Few passers-by took any notice of them; nor could they or he, she thought, ever guess at her true emotions.

  As he turned the corner Catherine stared across the river, remembering those other times. The Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens; laughter through the trees and the dancing lanterns; kisses in the shadows.

  She touched her throat. Dearest of men, come back to me. Soon, soon.

  The tray of tea still lay untouched on the table. Sir Paul Sillitoe held out his arms so that Guthrie, his valet, could help him into his fine silk coat. As he did so, he glanced at his reflection in the windows. Guthrie brushed his shoulders and nodded with approval. “Very nice, Sir Paul.”

  Sillitoe listened to the sound of music from the wide terrace where the reception would be held. The whole place seemed to be full of flowers; his housekeeper had not spared the purse for this occasion. It was all sheer extravagance. He smiled at his reflection. But he felt elated, light-headed even, an alien sensation for one so habitually controlled.

  He could hear carriages already clattering into his large driveway: friends, enemies, people with favours to ask once he had consolidated his position in the Lords.

  Power, not popularity, was the key to most challenges, he thought.

  He watched the opposite bank of the Thames, the great curve of Chiswick Reach still holding the late sunshine. There would be torches on the terrace, champagne and endless dishes for the guests to sample. More expense. This time he could not take it seriously.

  Why had she decided to come? To congratulate him? It was unlikely. For a favour, then, or on some personal mission or intrigue, like the secret she had shared with him even before Bolitho knew it, when she had asked for his help on the death of her hated father in that stinking slum in Whitechapel. Quaker’s Passage, that was the name. How could she ever have lived there as a child?

  But she was coming. And with Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen, another friend of Bolitho’s. Or was he? With his young wife dead—and Sillitoe’s agents had insisted that she had taken her own life—might he not look to the lovely Catherine for comfort?

  If he held out such hopes, she would soon dissuade him, Sillitoe thought. And if he persisted, his next appointment might well take him back to Africa and beyond.

  He patted his stomach. Flat and hard. Unlike so many men he knew, he took care to use his energy in play as well as work. He enjoyed riding and walking; for the latter he usually had his secretary Marlow trotting beside him while he outlined the letters and despatches for the day. It saved time.

  Swordsmanship was another of his interests, and he was rarely beaten in mock duels at the academy where he exercised.

  And if the need commanded him, he would go to a particular house where he was known to the proprietor and her girls, and where his peccadilloes would be respected.

  When he received his title he would have achieved everything he had planned, and would still retain his influence over the Prince Regent when he was eventually crowned King.

  A complete life, then? He thought of Catherine Somervell again. Perhaps it still could be.

  His valet saw him frown and asked, “Is something amiss, Sir Paul?”

  “I shall go down, Guthrie. It would be churlish not to be present from the beginning.”

&nb
sp; As his guests were announced Sillitoe smiled, and said much the same to each one. Not precisely a welcome, but an acknowledgement that they came out of respect. Or fear. The thought gave him immense satisfaction.

  His eyes moved restlessly to the great arched entrance, then to the bewigged footmen sweating in their heavy coats as they bustled with trays of glasses, while others stood at the long tables of food, bowing over their charges like priests at an altar loaded with offerings.

  Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune and his frail-looking wife. Two or three generals and their ladies, politicians and merchants from the City. Rear-Admiral Keen’s father had at first been unable to accept the invitation, pleading a previous engagement. Sillitoe had seen to that.

  The footman tapped his staff on the marble floor.

  “The Viscountess Somervell!” A pause. “And Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen!”

  The noise of conversation faded away like surf dying on a beach as Sillitoe took her hand, and kissed it.

  “It was so gracious of you to come, Lady Catherine.”

  She smiled. “How could I not?”

  Sillitoe offered his hand to Keen. “It is good to have you back at home, sir. Tragic news, of course. My sincere condolences.”

  To Catherine he said, “I will see you again very shortly.” His eyes lingered on the diamond fan at her breast. “You do me too much honour.”

  Catherine and her escort walked out on to the terrace as the conversation buzzed into life once more.

  Keen said, “I am never certain of that man.”

  “You are not the first, Val.” She took a goblet from a tray. “Or the last. It is as well to be wary of him.”

  She had not expected to be participating in any social activities during what had been intended as a brief visit to London, and had brought only one suitable evening gown, a particular favourite of Richard’s. It was of kingfisher-blue satin, so that her piled hair seemed to reflect in it as if she stood above moving water.

  But it was cut very low, and she knew that the sunburns she had suffered in the shipwreck were still visible after nearly four years. So long, she thought, how could the time have passed so quickly? She would not allow herself to dwell on the precious hours and days she had spent with Richard since then, because they could never be relived, could never be had back again.