For My Country's Freedom Read online

  She had said, “There is Nancy to think of, Lewis. Try, for her sake.”

  She crossed the room now to the tall cheval mirror, the one decorated with carved thistles, a gift from Captain James Bolitho to his Scottish bride. In spite of the cold air which even an early fire in the grate could not dispel, Catherine opened her gown and let it fall over her arms. Again the searching stare, like despair, like fear. She cupped her fine breasts in her hands and pressed them together as he had done so often.

  Will he still love me like that? Will he believe me beautiful?

  But when, when, when?

  The news from North America had been vague and sparse. Reports had criticised the inability of the smaller English frigates to maintain their usual superiority over the new American vessels, which were more powerful and skilfully handled, but that war was a long way from England. The news-sheets were more preoccupied with Wellington’s continued success against the French, and the prospect of an overwhelming victory within months.

  Catherine dressed herself slowly and with care. It was strange not to have Sophie helping her, starting each day with her uncaring chatter. She would have to find another maid. Perhaps in London, someone in whom she might see herself again.

  She opened a drawer and saw Richard’s gift lying there. She took it out and carried it to the window. The freezing air took her breath away but she ignored it and opened the velvet box. His last present to her, the fan set with diamonds. When it hung between her breasts she felt both proud and defiant. Together they had defied society, but had won the heart of a nation.

  She kissed the pendant and fought against the tears. I must hold on. It is just another day. In their simple way the people on the estate, some of them crippled sailors from Richard’s own ships, seemed to turn to her, trusting her to look after them with so many of the menfolk at sea or forming squares on Wellington’s fields of battle.

  She glanced down at the yard. Two horses being groomed, a carter delivering cider for the estate workers, not that there was much to do in this bitter weather.

  And beyond, the naked trees, ragged spectres on the headland. Beyond them, the sea would soon show itself as something solid, like water penned in a great dam.

  How will he see me when he first comes through those doors? She offered a wistful smile. More likely he will be worried about how I shall receive him. He dreaded getting older; even his wounded eye was like a cruel taunt, a sign of the years between them. She sighed and left the room. The dark portraits were all here, watching her pass; the Bolitho faces. She paused on the staircase.

  And what of Adam? Would he ever recover?

  She saw Bryan Ferguson, the steward, about to leave the house: he had probably been discussing the day’s arrangements with his wife Grace, the housekeeper. A man so full of energy and enthusiasm, despite his single arm. He grinned at her and touched his forehead. “You caught me out, my lady! I was not expecting you this early.”

  “Is it early?”

  Ferguson watched her. So beautiful even with her rough riding-cloak over her arm. Sad too. The other face that few people ever saw.

  She said, “I’m ready if you are, Bryan. I have no feeling for breakfast.”

  He said, “Don’t you let my Grace hear that, my lady—she’ll take it badly!”

  They walked out into the grey light and turned towards the office where Ferguson kept his estate accounts and records.

  She saw his eyes fall to the breast of her gown and the glittering pendant she had hung there almost without realising it.

  She said, “I know you think me foolish to wear it. I might lose it somewhere. It’s only . . .” She turned suddenly, her face terribly pale. “What was that?”

  Ferguson wished his wife was here. She would know what to do.

  He listened as a hollow bang echoed across the headland, and imagined that he felt the ground shake.

  He stared as Young Matthew came hurrying from the stable yard. “Did you hear?” He saw Lady Catherine and touched his hat. “Beg pardon, m’lady, I didn’t know you was here too!”

  Another bang. The echo going on and on until lost inland.

  She asked, “A ship in distress?” Her mouth was quite dry and her heart was throbbing with an almost physical pain.

  Ferguson took her arm. “Best you come inside where it’s warm.” He shook his head. “That’s no ship, my lady, that’s the St Mawes battery.” He tried to control his racing thoughts, hearing nothing but the regular boom of cannon fire.

  Young Matthew looked around as other figures emerged into the crisp morning. There was a sudden silence, and she heard herself ask, “What does it mean, Bryan? Please tell me.”

  Grace Ferguson had arrived at last, her plump arms outstretched as Ferguson said hoarsely, “Seventeen shots, my lady, an admiral’s salute. That’s what that is!”

  They all stared at one another with disbelief until Young Matthew exclaimed, “Well, the port admiral from Plymouth wouldn’t warrant that!” He grinned hugely. “He’s come home, m’lady! He’s here!”

  Grace Ferguson said, “You’re not riding down there in your state, m’lady!”

  Her husband said, “Matthew, the carriage . . .”

  Catherine walked slowly down to the low wall where her roses would bloom again in the spring.

  Coming home. It was not possible. But it was.

  I must not let him see me like this. She could feel the tears on her cheeks and lips, like salt from the sea.

  She said, “Let us go down, Bryan. I want to watch him come in.”

  The horses were stamping and shaking their harness as they were backed into the shafts of the handsome light carriage with the Bolitho crest on the door.

  I am here, dearest of men. No more will you come home to an empty house.

  The tiny village of Fallowfield on the Helford River was quiet and still, protected from the freezing south-westerly by the hillside and the trees, although the wind had sent even the hardiest fisherman scurrying for harbour.

  The little inn with its proud sign, the Old Hyperion, was as always like a haven, used mostly by farm-workers and passing merchants.

  In the open doorway, Unis Allday’s one-legged brother John stood unmoving in the cold. Years of marching and fighting with his regiment had hardened him against it, and he was more interested in how many customers they would fetch in this day than in the weather.

  He had heard Allday’s child, Kate, chuckling from the kitchen. A happy little soul, at the moment anyway.

  Unis came into the parlour and regarded him thoughtfully. “I’ll fetch you some ale. Tapped it this morning. Just to your taste.” She wiped her scrubbed hands with a towel. “Quiet, ain’t it? Hope we gets more folk in here later on.”

  A horse clattered along the narrow road. John saw the glint of buttons, the familiar hat pulled down against the breeze off the sea. One of the Coastguard.

  He touched his hat, smiled at the two figures in the doorway and called, “Did you hear the excitement over yonder at Falmouth? Won’t do your trade no good though—there’s a King’s ship in Carrick Roads so the press are bound to be abroad tonight!” He cantered away, unmoved by the misfortunes of others.

  Unis ran out after him, in her apron, something she would never normally do.

  “What ship, Ned?”

  He twisted round in the saddle. “Frigate! The Zest! ”

  The one-legged ex-soldier put his arm round her shoulders and guided her back into the parlour.

  “I know what you were thinking, Unis love, but . . .”

  She pulled herself away and stood motionless in the centre of the room, her fingers clasped as if she were in prayer.

  “John, remember that letter we had? Zest? She be one of Sir Richard’s ships!”

  She stared around. “Must change the bed. John, you fetch some of the new bread, tell Annie to keep an eye on young Kate!”

  He protested, but to no avail.

  She stared past him. “Through that door, my ma
n is going to come this day! As God is my witness, I just knows it!” There were tears too, but she was more excited than anxious.

  They had two customers, carpenters working on the little church where Unis and John Allday had been wed.

  It would be dark early. He watched his sister worriedly. Follow the drum, wear the King’s coat, they said. But nobody ever told you about this part of it.

  Unis walked into the parlour, her eyes very bright.

  “He’s coming, John. Like I said. Like he promised.”

  Then he heard it for the first time, faint but familiar above the soft moan of wind around the eaves. The steady clip-clop of Bryan Ferguson’s pony and trap.

  She said quietly, “Don’t go, John. You’re part of it.”

  There were muffled voices and she whispered, “Dear God, let it be him!”

  The door opened slowly, perhaps even nervously.

  And then she was in his powerful grip, her face nuzzling his fine blue jacket with the Bolitho buttons on it. “Oh, dear John, it’s been so long! I’ve missed you so!”

  Her brother, watching, offered, “No need to look surprised, John. We just heard that the Zest was in port!”

  Allday stared around, barely able to believe he was here.

  “Yes. We was aboard her. Young Captain Adam’s in command.” He held her gently as if she might break. “I’ve thought so often of this minute.” He thought, too, of the big grey house where he had left Sir Richard with his lady. He must have written to her about his son. That had been almost the worst part.

  She had looked at him very calmly and had said, “He has not really gone, you know. Think of that sometimes.”

  And now he was here. He stiffened as the girl Unis had hired to help her came in, with a baby in her arms. He knew by instinct that it was his daughter, although it could have been anyone’s. He would not tell Unis about his lost son. Not yet. This was their moment alone.

  He took the child carefully. “She’s a mite small.”

  Unis said softly, “The doctor says it’s unlikely I’ll carry another, John. I know a son might have pleased you better.”

  He pressed the child against his body and tried not to relive the scene on that dreadful September morning. Friends and enemies alike, helping and consoling each other when the fighting had stopped and the flag had come down through the smoke.

  He replied quietly, “She’s our Kate. She’ll do me fine.” He hesitated. “A son can break your heart.”

  Unis glanced at her brother but he shook his head. It would keep.

  She asked, “Have you brought somebody with you, John Allday? Left him outside in the cold? What will people think?”

  The door opened and Lieutenant George Avery ducked under the low beams.

  “A room for a few days, Mrs Allday? I’d be obliged.” He looked around, remembering when they had left here. “I thought it fairer to leave Sir Richard to enjoy his homecoming.” He was smiling, but she noticed that it did not reach his tawny eyes.

  It was a strange feeling. Because of the letters he had written for her man, she seemed to know him well.

  Avery was saying, “Long walks, good food, a chance to think before the next time . . .”

  Satisfied, Allday said, “So you’re staying with the little crew after all?”

  Avery said, “Was there ever any choice?” He looked around the parlour again, slowly allowing himself to accept the peace and welcome of the place. The child, almost lost in Allday’s arms. He would never forget that morning either. Allday carrying his dead son so tenderly across the littered, bloodied deck where so many had fallen; Allday quite alone for those last moments before he lowered his son into the sea alongside and watched him drift away.

  Unis exclaimed, “Drinks for everybody! Now, Mr Avery, what would please you best?”

  Like a reply they heard Ferguson’s trap clatter away. He had been waiting, just in case.

  Richard Bolitho sat by the great fire and held his hands towards the blazing logs.

  “When I saw the carriage, Kate . . .” He held out one hand and touched her as she came to him with goblets of brandy. “I could scarcely believe it.”

  She nestled down beside him. “A toast to my admiral! An admiral of England!”

  He stroked her hair, her neck where he had seen the pendant. How could she have known? Really known?

  So many memories, to share with her when they walked again. Tyacke’s moving farewell when Indomitable had entered Halifax with her two American prizes, where repairs, some urgent, would be necessary. Bolitho had clasped his hand for the last time when his flag had been shifted to Zest.

  Tyacke had said, “When you need me, Sir Richard, just say the word.”

  Together they had looked at the battered prizes, already swarming with men, and Bolitho had said, “It might be over soon. Once and for all.”

  Tyacke had smiled. “Then I shall return to Africa. I liked it there.”

  The long voyage home, soon to be summoned to the Admiralty. He could even find an ironic amusement in that. Again.

  And Adam’s grave pleasure when the guns had thundered out in salute to his new command, and to the man whose flag flew proudly from the mainmast truck.

  The formality had been as unexpected as it was moving, after all that had happened. The guns had said it all. Their welcome home to Falmouth’s most famous son.

  Bolitho looked up at her as she said, “Bring your drink. I have something to show you.”

  Hand in hand they climbed the staircase, past each watching portrait and then to their room.

  It was already very dark outside, and Bolitho heard an early fox barking harshly.

  She had told him about Roxby. He would ride over and see him, but not yet.

  Catherine had covered the portrait with a silk shawl. She smiled, but her eyes hinted at uncertainty.

  “Ready?”

  It was not as he had expected, or was it? Not in one of her fine shot-silk gowns or riding-habit. She was bare-footed, her hair loose to the wind, wearing the same sailor’s shirt and breeches she had worn aboard the Golden Plover when it had been smashed on the reef and they had suffered the privations of an open boat until, in all the limitless miles of sea, James Tyacke had found them.

  She was watching him anxiously. “It is the real me. When we were so close, when we needed each other as never before.”

  He took her in his arms and faced her towards the cheval-glass.

  “I shall never forget, Kate.” He felt her tremble as she watched his hands in the glass, caressing her, undressing her like a stranger, all else forgotten.

  She whispered, “I love you so . . .” The rest was lost as he came to her.

  Out in the darkness on the crumbling cliff path, a sleeping gull was suddenly awakened.

  But on the wind, it could have been mistaken for a girl’s last cry.