For My Country's Freedom Page 22

  The torches were lit, and the lights and the river reminded her sharply of the pleasure gardens where she had taken him.

  To her surprise she recognised Valentine Keen’s father, who had been ushered in without any announcement and presented to Sillitoe. She heard Sillitoe say silkily, “I am so grateful you changed your arrangements.” Neither of them smiled.

  Sillitoe glanced up at an overly ornate clock and left his place by the doors.

  Then he saw them and came to join them, taking a glass as he passed a footman.

  “I have done my part as host, Lady Catherine. Now let me bask in the light which you seem to create wherever you go.” He barely glanced at Keen. “Your father is here, sir. He craves a word. I think it may be useful if you oblige him.”

  Keen made his excuses and left to look for his father. He had said nothing of his relationship with the rest of his family, but he appeared angry at the interruption.

  “Was that true, Sir Paul?”

  He looked directly at her. “Of course. But I do see a rift between father and son, which is a pity. Over the girl from Zennor, no doubt.”

  “No doubt.” She refused to be drawn.

  “Why, Sir Paul!” It was Vice-Admiral Bethune, with his wife. “May we both offer our congratulations?” But his eyes moved too often to Catherine.

  Bethune’s wife said, “A pity Sir Richard cannot be so rewarded for all that he has done for England.”

  Sillitoe was, for once, caught off guard.

  “I am not certain what . . .”

  She said rudely, “A peerage such as yours, Sir Paul. After all, Lord Nelson was so honoured!”

  Bethune said angrily, “You have no right!”

  Catherine took another glass of champagne and found a few seconds to thank the footman. She was inwardly burning with anger, but her voice was quite calm.

  “If Sir Richard and I were parted, madam, he would still not return to his wife, but then I am certain you know that already.”

  Bethune almost dragged his wife away, and Catherine heard him muttering, “Do you desire to ruin me?”

  Sillitoe said, “I should have prevented it. I know something of that woman’s spite.”

  Catherine smiled but her heart was still beating furiously. No wonder Bethune had eyes for other women. He surely deserved better.

  Sillitoe said abruptly, “Let me show you something of the house.”

  She said, “Very well, but not for too long. It would be dis-courteous to my escort.”

  He smiled. “You seem to have a habit of provoking sea officers, my dear.”

  They walked along a colonnade and up a staircase, which was bare of any paintings except one, of a man in dark clothing, a sword with an outdated basket hilt at his hip. Despite the neat Spanish-style beard and the clothing, it could have been her companion.

  He was watching her profile, the smooth curve of her breasts, her breathing shown only by the diamond pendant.

  “My father.”

  She looked at it more closely. It was strange that she knew nothing about this man but his present power, and his confident use of that power. It was as though a door or a locked chest had been opened for the first time.

  “What was he like?”

  “I barely knew him. My mother was in poor health and he insisted we were in the West Indies as little as possible. I yearned to be with him. Instead I was sent to school, where constant bullying taught me that it was sometimes necessary to hit back.”

  She turned her head to change the light on the portrait. Even the same hooded, compelling stare.

  The West Indies. He had mentioned his estates in Jamaica and elsewhere. He was obviously very wealthy, but still lacked satisfaction.

  She said, “Was he a man of business, or a courtier like his son?”

  He took her arm and guided her to a wide balcony, which overlooked the terrace with its flickering torches and the river beyond.

  He gave a harsh laugh. “He was a slaver. A Black Ivory captain. The best!”

  She heard her gown hissing against the balustrade, the din of voices from the terrace. It looked so far away.

  “You are not disagreeable to that, Lady Catherine?”

  “They were different days.” She thought suddenly of Tyacke, coming to their rescue in his brig Larne. “There will always be slaves, no matter what people promise and pretend.”

  He nodded. “A wise head as well as a beautiful one.”

  They reached the end of the balcony and she said, “I think we must go back.”

  “Certainly.” He seemed to be grappling with something. “I must say, Lady Catherine, that you are quite lovely. I can take care of you—you would want for nothing. There would be no more scandal, no harm done to you by simpering fools like Bethune’s wife. Believe me, I would see to that!”

  She stared at him. “Can you see me as your mistress, what it would do to the one and only man I love?”

  He gripped her arms. “As a wife, Lady Catherine. That is what I am asking you. As a wife.”

  She released herself gently and slipped her arm through his.

  “I am sorry, Sir Paul. I thought . . .”

  “I can imagine.” He pressed her arm against his side. “Let me hope?”

  “You overwhelm me.” She glanced at his face, but saw only the man in the portrait. “Once I came to you for aid. I shall not forget. But do not hurt me or Richard if I decline.”

  “Ah, your escort is approaching!”

  She turned, but Sillitoe seemed quite composed. It was as though she had imagined all of it.

  When he had withdrawn, Keen asked suspiciously, “What happened? I was concerned for you.”

  She saw heads turning, mouths whispering behind fans on this humid summer’s night. She thought of Sillitoe’s words, his cool pride for his father.

  “He showed me some of the house. And you?”

  “My father had some wild plan for me to leave the navy. He has just signed a deed of contract with the East India Company. Expansion, progress, you know the kind of language he uses.”

  Catherine watched him with sudden concern. He had been drinking rather heavily and had lost some of the confidence she had seen in Chelsea.

  Keen said, “He doesn’t understand. The navy is my life. My only life, now. The war will not last for ever, but until it ends I shall stand in the line of battle as I have been entrusted to do!”

  His voice was louder than he had intended. She said gently, “You speak very much like Richard.”

  He rubbed his eyes as if they were hurting him. “Richard, oh Richard! How I do envy you!”

  Sillitoe appeared as if by magic. “You are leaving, Lady Catherine?” His glance flickered to Keen. “Are you quite safe?”

  She offered her hand and watched him kiss it. Like an onlooker.

  “Safe, Sir Paul?” She touched the diamond pendant on her breast. “I am always that!”

  She knew he was still watching them as Matthew brought the carriage smartly around the drive to the steps.

  An eventful evening, and a disturbing one. She would write to Richard about it. No secrets. There never would be between them.

  Keen leaned against her and she guessed he was falling asleep. The ride from Portsmouth, London and then his father trying to force his plans on him again. Did he have no remorse, no sense of shame that Zenoria had been allowed to throw herself away while in the care of the family?

  She watched the trees flitting past in the moonlight and wondered where Indomitable lay, what Richard was doing.

  She felt Keen’s face on her shoulder. Drowsy but not asleep. She could smell something stronger than champagne; his father’s idea, no doubt.

  She pressed her head back against the cushions and tried to hold her breath as she felt his lips on her skin, gentle and yet more insistent as he murmured, “Oh, Catherine!” He pressed his lips on the curve of her breast and kissed her again, his breath hot, desperate.

  Catherine clenched her fists and s
tared into the shadows. His fingers were on her gown, she could feel it moving, her breast rising out of it, to his mouth.

  Then his hand fell across her legs, and with great care she moved him back on to his seat.

  She rapped on the roof and when Matthew answered she called, “We shall take the admiral to his father’s house.”

  “You all right, m’lady?”

  She smiled but her heart made it a lie, and readjusted the gown.

  “I am always safe, Matthew.”

  She waited for her breathing to steady. It had been a near thing. The thought shocked and disturbed her.

  Was that what loss and loneliness could do?

  When they reached the Keen town residence in a quiet, leafy square she watched a footman hurrying down the steps to meet the carriage. Was he always there, night and day, just in case someone arrived?

  The idea made her want to laugh. She touched Keen’s shoulder and waited for him to recover himself. She knew that if she allowed it, there were more likely to be tears, which she would be unable to stop.

  Keen said, “Shall you come in and meet my father?”

  “No. It is late.” She could sense Matthew listening and added, “I leave for Falmouth shortly.”

  He took her arm and peered at her in the darkness. “I wronged you, dear Catherine! I was beside myself.”

  She put her finger on his lips. “I am not a piece of stone, Val.”

  He shook his head. “You’ll never trust me again. I must have been a fool.”

  She said, “I will take you to Zennor. So I must trust you.”

  He kissed her on the mouth and she could feel herself tensing, until just as gently he moved away.

  Matthew flicked the reins and watched the house slide away into darkness. What would they say in Falmouth if they could see him driving to all these fine houses and places they’d never even heard of?

  He thought of the young officer he had just delivered, and relaxed slightly before pushing a heavy cudgel back under his cushion.

  Admiral or not, if he had laid a finger on her ladyship he’d not have woken up for a week!

  Then, whistling softly between his teeth, he turned the horses’ heads once more towards the river.

  14 CHANGE OF ALLEGIANCE

  ON THE morning of September 3rd , 1812 , the shadows began to recede, and for the first time in the three months since he had been cut down on Anemone ’s quarterdeck, Captain Adam Bolitho realised he would live.

  The weeks and months had been as vague and as terrifying as a hundred nightmares. People who were only phantoms or perhaps only figments of his imagination seemed to come and go; sharp stabs of agony when he had to bite his lip to prevent himself from crying out; fingers and probes in the depth of his wound like fire, which even drugs could not placate.

  In his reeling mind he had tried to keep some sort of record, from the moment he had been carried aboard the big enemy frigate to the ship’s eventual arrival at the Delaware River and his journey by coach to Philadelphia.

  Apart from Unity ’s French doctor he had recalled no visitor but for the massive shadow of Commodore Nathan Beer.

  And one other. Just before he had been lowered down by tackle into a cutter alongside, he had found his first lieutenant, Richard Hudson, waiting to say goodbye before he was landed with the other prisoners.

  “I wish you well, sir. May God speed your recovery . . .” he had faltered and had then murmured “. . . and your release.”

  It had been like listening to two strangers, Adam thought. As if he had already died of his wound but was still clinging to the world, unable to accept his nonexistence.

  He had heard himself, his voice harsh as he gritted his teeth to hold the pain under control, “I—ordered—you—to—fight—the ship!”

  Hudson had replied hoarsely, “Our ship was finished, sir.”

  Adam had felt his strength returning, and his voice was surprisingly steady. “ My ship! Anemone was never yours! You struck the colours; you surrendered the ship!”

  An orderly had murmured something and an armed seaman had touched Hudson’s arm to lead him away.

  Adam had fallen back on the stretcher, drained by the outburst, his chest heaving from all the blood he had lost, and the total despair which had replaced it.

  Hudson had called, “If we ever meet again . . .”

  It had been as far as he had got. Adam had stared unblinking at the sky.

  “As God is my witness, I’ll kill you if we do, damn your eyes!”

  With his strength almost gone, he was still able to realise that the Americans were careful to offer him the best possible treatment. He had overheard a couple of army surgeons discussing his plight when he had rested for two weeks at a military hospital.

  “He’s got courage, I’ll say that for him. Not many could survive in his condition. He must have powerful friends in Heaven.”

  Another coach and on to Boston, where he had been taken immediately to a quiet house on the outskirts, guarded by soldiers, but to all appearances a private residence.

  Twice a day, a doctor named Derriman visited him to inspect the wound and change the dressings. At first he had said almost nothing, but now after all these weeks a kind of restrained respect, one for the other, had come about. A personal servant had also appeared to break the monotony and emptiness of Adam’s life, a Bristol man who had been taken prisoner in that other war, and who had decided to remain in American service on a full seaman’s pay and allowances.

  His name was Arthur Chimmo and he walked with a heavy limp, having had his foot crushed when a nine-pounder had been overturned on top of him. On this particular day he was unusually excited. “I’ve got to shave you nice an’ early, Cap’n. Somebody important’s comin’ to see you!”

  Adam waited while Chimmo took his arm and gently swayed him upright on the edge of the bed.

  Then slowly and carefully he took the weight on his feet, his muscles bunched against the pain.

  It was still there, but when he considered how it had been, the improvement was like a miracle.

  Chimmo stood away and watched him while he seated himself in the big chair by the room’s only window. Stables hid the road—and everything else for that matter. He had tried to picture it in his mind: Boston Bay, Cape Cod. It might as well be the moon.

  Chimmo produced his old-style bowl and razor. He had obviously been chosen because he was as English as Adam, but had been ordered not to discuss matters concerning the outside world. The doctor had told him of a battle between an American frigate, Constitution, and the British Guerrière: the latter had suffered the same fate as Anemone, except that she had been captured and was probably already flying the American flag. At least Anemone had been saved from that disgrace. Without knowing how, he was certain that his coxswain Starr had seen to that.

  Another piece of news had been the assassination of the British prime minister, Spencer Perceval, in the lobby of the House of Commons. Chimmo had been quite outraged by it, as if his heart still lay firmly in England.

  To Adam it had meant very little. Nothing did any more, without his ship, and with only the memory of Zenoria. They would know about Anemone by now in England, and in his blackest moments of despair he imagined them all: Catherine, calming the servants at Falmouth, if only to hide her own concern for him; his uncle; John Allday; the formidable Tyacke. He wrestled with another constant thought: Valentine Keen. What might he do? How much did he suspect, if anything?

  “There we are, Cap’n.” Chimmo beamed and balanced himself on his wooden stump. “You looks fair an’ brave again!”

  He glanced without interest at his reflection. A clean shirt and pressed neckcloth, and a plain blue coat unmarked by rank or other decoration. The face of a man who had come through hell. He knew that he would have died but for the special care he had been given.

  It might have ended suddenly weeks ago, when somebody’s carelessness had almost cost him his life.

  He had been standing b
y the window, moving his arm back and forth to prevent additional stiffness to his right side and the wound itself. It had been evening, and he had known that the sentries were changing, just as he had known it was their custom to linger near the cook’s door for a cup of something. He had often thought that he knew their routine as well as they did themselves.

  But he had seen a horse near the stables. Fully equipped and saddled; there was even a sword hanging in its scabbard. It had been absurdly easy. Down some narrow stairs and above what had smelled like a food store. The horse had stared at him with little interest. It had been like a blurred dream. He recalled the tremendous strength he had needed to pull himself up and on to the unfamiliar saddle.

  The rest was like mist. Voices yelling, boots hammering across the cobbles while he had slithered helplessly to the ground in an ever-widening pool of blood from his re-opened wound.

  Dr Derriman had exclaimed angrily, “You’re a damned fool! They have orders to fire on those stupid enough to try and escape! You would have saved them the trouble! Where the hell did you hope to reach, in God’s name?”

  He had answered quietly, “The sea, doctor. Just the sea.” Then he had fainted.

  The door opened and a lieutenant snapped, “Is he ready, Chimmo?”

  Adam said, “I am ready!”

  The lieutenant regarded him coldly. “I am glad I do not serve in your navy, sir!”

  Adam nodded to Chimmo and retorted, “I doubt we would have you, sir!”

  He picked up the stick he had been given and followed the lieutenant along the corridor. He glanced briefly at the small door where his attempted escape had ended within minutes. But suppose . . . ?

  Chimmo opened a door and said loudly, “Cap’n Adam Bolitho, sir!”

  It was a bare but strangely beautiful room, with tall windows that looked out on to gardens which must once have been equally appealing. They were now uncared-for and overgrown, the previous owners replaced by the military.

  A pale-faced man in dark clothing sat at a desk, fingers pressed together, his eyes deepset and unmoving.

  He said, “I am Captain Joseph Brice. Be seated.”