For My Country's Freedom Page 6

  ‘When did this arrive?’

  ‘I thought I would leave it until later. A footman delivered it after you had gone this morning.’

  Bolitho picked it up and stared at it. ‘Will they never give up? Can they not understand that we belong to each other? Are they so hypocritical that they really expect me to go to Belinda?’ He ripped it open with a knife. ‘I shall see them in damnation first!’

  She watched his change of expression. At a loss, astonished as if he were a small boy again.

  ‘It is from the Prince Regent, Kate. An invitation to dine…’

  She said, ‘Then you must go, Richard. Your position demands that you…’

  He leaned over her and pulled down the back of her gown and kissed her bare shoulder.

  He said quietly, ‘We are invited, Kate.’ He held out the heavily embossed card and she read aloud, ‘Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho, KB, and Catherine, Lady Somervell.’ She exclaimed, ‘It must be a mistake. Carlton House indeed… They have even given you the wrong rank.’

  He said, almost shyly, ‘I forgot to tell you, darling Kate. I have been promoted.’

  In the kitchen Sophie, her maid, and the cook both stared at the wall as Catherine shouted, ‘You forgot!’ She flung her arms around him. ‘Bless you, darling – no wonder they all love you! You forgot!’ Her fine dark eyes flashed. ‘But all my clothes are in Falmouth. There is no time for…’ She gripped his hand with both of hers. ‘Except for the green silk. You remember.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Antigua. Oh yes, I remember.’

  She could not look at him. ‘Take me upstairs. I have to remind you. How it is. How it will always be. Together.’

  In the kitchen they heard Catherine’s familiar laughter. Then there was silence.

  The cook glanced at the hob and shook one of the pots.

  ‘They’ll be supping late, in my opinion.’ She looked at Sophie. ‘Disgraceful, annit?’ Then she smiled. ‘Bless ’em!’

  * * *

  4

  Royal Command

  * * *

  For most of the journey from Chelsea, along the Thames and towards Parliament, Bolitho and Catherine spoke little, each reflecting on the immediate future.

  Sillitoe had sent a brief note by hand to Chelsea, intimating that the invitation to Carlton House was not a mere matter of vanity or curiosity. Bolitho guessed that he had been told to ensure that they both attended.

  This was also the day when Bolitho had visited a consulting physician recommended by the great man himself, Sir Piers Blachford of the College of Surgeons. Catherine had stayed in the carriage, unwilling to wait at Chelsea until the examination was finished.

  It had been very thorough, and Bolitho’s eye still smarted from the probing and the stinging ointment.

  When he had returned to the carriage she had known, despite his smile and his cheery wave to Young Matthew, that it had been in vain.

  Even now as she gripped his hand beneath her cloak she could sense his distress, wondering perhaps if he could ever come to terms with it. It seemed that nothing could be done unless some new technique were developed. The doctor had spoken of damage to the retina and had warned that further probing could destroy the eye altogether.

  He had used the terminology of his profession in an almost matter-of-fact fashion, the language of his world. It had probably meant very little to Richard except for the verdict. His eye would only get worse, but it might be a considerable time before the disability became obvious to anybody else.

  Then, this evening, there had been that precious moment when she had descended the stairs in her green silk gown, and he had watched her all the way. So many memories: their hands touching briefly when Bolitho had all but fallen on the step in that house above English Harbour.

  Her hair was piled on her head, brailed up, as Allday had once described it, to reveal the gold filigree earrings Bolitho had given her, the ones she had managed to hide in her stained clothing when her husband and Belinda Bolitho had connived to have her wrongly imprisoned for debt, with deportation an almost certain outcome.

  Around her neck she wore his latest present, which he had commissioned for her as a surprise when he had returned home from the sea. It was a diamond pendant fashioned in the shape of an open fan, like the one he had brought her from Madeira.

  She had watched his eyes, had felt them like warmth from the sun. The pendant rested provocatively in the shadow between her breasts. He had said quietly, ‘You will be the most beautiful lady tonight.’ It had touched her deeply. A lady in title only, but to Richard she knew it meant far more.

  A few people pointed at the crest on the carriage door, but here in the heart of London fame was commonplace and too often ephemeral.

  Bolitho seemed to read her thoughts. ‘I will be glad to go home, Kate.’ Their hands embraced beneath the cloak, like lovers themselves. ‘I do not know why we are here.’ He turned and looked her full in the face. ‘But I shall enjoy showing you off. I always do. Is that so childish?’

  She stroked his hand. ‘I would have you no other way, and I am proud to be at your side.’

  Even if Sillitoe was wrong, and the invitation had come only out of curiosity, the love of scandal by those who had no cause to fear it, she would show only dignity.

  The sky over London was unusually clear but the windows of Carlton House were ablaze with lights, as smartly liveried linkmen and boys ran to open doors and lower carriage steps. Above the bustle of horses and staring spectators they heard the sound of music, violins and a harpsichord. Bolitho felt her hand on his arm and heard her whisper, ‘Like Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. I shall take you there again.’

  He nodded. He was pleased she still remembered that night when she had shown him a part of her London.

  Bewigged footmen whisked away their cloaks and Bolitho’s cocked hat. He watched them being carried into an ante-room and marked it carefully in case a hasty retreat should become necessary. Aware of his uncertainty, she smiled at him, her eyes flashing in the glitter of a thousand candles.

  Most men in his position would be revelling in it, she thought. Here was a real hero, loved, feared, respected and envied. But she knew him so well. Could sense his wariness, his determination to protect her from any who might try to harm her.

  They were ushered into a great room with a painted ceiling of water nymphs and fantastical sea-horses. The orchestra was here, although Catherine suspected there was a second playing elsewhere in this extravagant building. It appeared to have been newly decorated, and perhaps was a reflection of the Prince Regent’s tastes or personality. Described behind his back as a gambler, drinker and debauchee, and to his face by his father as ‘king of the damned’, his blatant affair with Mrs Fitzherbert and countless mistresses who had followed her clearly demonstrated the contempt in which he held both his father and society.

  There were several women present. Some were plain and seemingly ill at ease, with nothing to say, their husbands on the other hand loud-mouthed and sweating badly as the room became more crowded. There were other women less overawed by their surroundings, some vivacious, and wearing gowns cut so low it was a marvel they stayed in position. It was almost a relief to see Sir Paul Sillitoe, who was pointing them out to a footman while he himself came to greet them.

  ‘Congratulations, Sir Richard! You are turning many heads this evening!’ But his eyes were on Catherine as he raised her hand to his lips. ‘Each time we see you, Lady Catherine, it is like a first meeting. You look enchanting.’

  She smiled. ‘You are all flattery, sir.’

  Sillitoe became business-like. ‘It is a small gathering by Prinny’s standards. The main banquet room is partitioned off. We must accept it as an intimate affair. The Prince Regent’s dislike for the prime minister has worsened, I am given to believe. He will not be missed.’

  Bolitho took a tall, beautifully shaped goblet from a tray and saw the footman’s eyes dart between them. Did Sillitoe obtain all his intelligence from men lik
e this? The extent of his knowledge was uncanny, the power that that knowledge would represent almost dangerous.

  Sillitoe was saying, ‘About forty of us, I understand.’

  Bolitho glanced at Catherine. Sillitoe would know exactly how many, and the worth and perhaps the secrets of each and every one of them.

  He had returned his attention to Catherine now, his hooded eyes giving nothing away. ‘There will be many wines at table…’

  She touched the diamond fan at her breast. ‘I take heed of your warning, Sir Paul. Our host gains entertainment and amusement from his guests if they imbibe too freely, is that it?’

  Sillitoe bowed. ‘You are perceptive as always, Lady Catherine. I knew I had no need to mention it.’

  Bolitho saw faces turning away when he caught them staring. Well, let them stare, damn them. He could easily imagine some of these men making fools of themselves, and ladies becoming the perhaps not unwilling prey of others. He had seen it happen in army establishments often enough. Was that what they thought now, watching Catherine, seeing her defiance of convention as a threat to their own manhood, or a challenge to it?

  He thought of her in those last days in the sun-blistered longboat, keeping his hopes alive when to everyone else rescue had seemed impossible, and the prospect of death their only escape. Even now, as she turned to glance around the room, the faint scars of sunburn on her bare shoulders were still visible after all the months since Golden Plover had smashed on to the reef. Suddenly he wanted to take her in his arms, to keep holding her until the terrible pictures in his mind were no more.

  Instead, he asked, ‘When I am away…’ He saw her stiffen, and knew Sillitoe was trying not to listen. ‘I would wish for nothing dearer than a portrait of you.’

  She tilted her chin and he saw a pulse beating in her throat. ‘I would be happy to oblige you, Richard.’ She reached out and gripped his hand. It was as if the room were completely empty. ‘Your thoughts are always of me, never for yourself…’

  She turned away as the doors were flung open and an equerry called importantly, ‘Pray be upstanding for His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, Regent of all England!’

  Bolitho studied him intently as he entered the colourful gathering. For one so heavy he walked with a light step; he even seemed to glide, and Bolitho was reminded suddenly of a ship-of-the-line, losing the wind even as she floated smoothly to her anchorage.

  He was not quite certain what he had expected: something perhaps between Gillray’s cruel cartoons and the paintings he had seen at the Admiralty. He was about six years younger than Bolitho but his excesses had worn badly. A devotee of fashion, he was elegantly dressed, his hair swept forward in the very latest style, while his lips remained pursed in a little amused smile.

  As he moved slowly down the room women curtsied deeply while their partners bowed, flushed with pleasure if they were noticed.

  But the Prince, ‘Prinny’ as Sillitoe had outrageously called him, looked straight at Bolitho and then, more deliberately, at Catherine. ‘So you are my new admiral.’ He bowed his head to Catherine who had subsided into a curtsy. ‘Please rise, Lady Catherine.’ His eyes rested on the glittering pendant and what lay beneath. ‘This is an honour. You will sit with me.’ He offered his hand to Bolitho. ‘You have a good tailor, sir. Do I know him?’

  Bolitho kept his face impassive. A courier to Falmouth and a letter of instructions to the tailor there, old Joshua Miller, who had worked on the new uniform without pause. The others would be ready when he hoisted his flag above Indomitable.

  He replied, ‘He works in Falmouth, Your Royal Highness.’

  The Prince smiled. ‘Then indeed I shall not know him.’ His eyes moved to the diamond fan again. ‘It must bore you, my lady, living in the country when Sir Richard is away, hmm?’

  ‘I keep too busy to become bored, sir.’

  He gently patted her wrist. ‘One so beautiful should never be busy!’

  They led the way into the adjoining room. Bolitho had heard that when it had been fully extended for a more lavish banquet recently, the table had been over two hundred feet long, with an artificial stream running from a silver fountain at its head.

  They were not to be disappointed at this more humble gathering, it appeared. A veritable army of footmen and servants lined the walls, and music drifted gently through the far doors.

  Bolitho took his place without enthusiasm. He had recognised the expression in the Prince Regent’s eyes, the lewd confidence of one used to getting his own way. As a footman pulled out a chair for Catherine she glanced over the table at him, her eyes very level and compelling. Remember me, they seemed to say, reassuring him. The woman in the boat. The one who loves you and no other.

  The Prince sat back in a tall chair at the head of the table. It was more like a throne, Bolitho thought, with an ornately carved back featuring the plumes of his own coat of arms and the royal crown and cipher, G.R. It seemed that he already imagined himself as King.

  Catherine sat on his right hand, Bolitho on his left. As far as the Prince of Wales was concerned, his other guests could think what they chose.

  He raised one hand and instantly, like a well-trained platoon of Royal Marines demonstrating a complicated drill, the footmen and servants moved into action.

  As was customary, Bolitho had expected Grace to be spoken; in fact he had seen a severe-looking bishop at the opposite end of the table in the act of getting to his feet. The Prince gave no sign that he had seen him, but Bolitho guessed that, like Sillitoe, His Royal Highness missed very little. Soon the table was groaning with the weight of huge platters, some of gold, some of silver. The number of staff in the kitchens must be equally large, Bolitho thought. Spring soup, then slices of salmon and caper sauce were served with fried fillet of sole. Each dish would have satisfied even the hungriest midshipman, but when he glanced along the table Bolitho saw little hesitation as silver flashed in the candlelight, and hands moved and plunged as if his fellow guests had not eaten for days.

  The Prince remarked as more glasses were filled, ‘This is a lighter wine, Lady Catherine, not much to my taste. I prefer something with a little more body.’

  She met his gaze and said, ‘From Madeira, I believe.’ She had not reacted to the emphasis he had placed on the last word; in fact, it was even rather amusing. He was no different from other men after all. She looked across at Bolitho and raised her glass. ‘To our new admiral, sir!’

  A few sitting close by followed suit, but most were more concerned with emptying their plates in anticipation of the next offering.

  The Prince said, ‘Indeed, yes. I was impressed with your choice of words at the Admiralty, Sir Richard, although your choice of a flagship surprised me until I perceived the logic of it. The vital need for speed and gunnery to act as one… there are still many who will not believe it. Merchants and so forth, who can see only an increase in trade and thicker linings to their purses if we slacken our pressure on the enemy. This war must be pursued. I insist on it!’ He gave Catherine a wry smile. ‘Forgive this talk, Lady Catherine. Doubtless you have heard enough on the subject.’

  ‘Where Sir Richard is concerned, I am always ready to learn more, sir.’

  He wagged one finger at her. ‘His will be an enormous responsibility.’

  She replied calmly, ‘Cannot that be said of every captain who sails alone, and with only his own skills and courage to sustain him?’

  He nodded, surprised perhaps by her directness. ‘Ah yes, but an admiral’s responsibility is total!’

  Bolitho leaned back as white-gloved hands darted around him and plates vanished as if by magic. It gave him time to consider the Prince’s remarks. He had heard that he was eager to increase pressure on the French, finish it once and for all. No wonder the prime minister was absent; Spencer Perceval leaned towards appeasement, if only to avoid war with the United States.

  But the Regent’s powers were severely limited for another twelve months, and no drastic actions migh
t be commenced that could have far-reaching effects to which, after this period, the King might object if recovered from his madness.

  He looked up and found Catherine watching him, thinking no doubt of the dangers inherent in this new appointment. They needed an admiral who would act without hesitation, who would not drag his feet and wait for conflicting instructions from London. That was the official position. They both knew the reality. He had often told her about the loneliness of command when sailing out of company without higher authority. If you were successful, others would take the credit. If you failed, the blame was yours alone.

  He raised his glass to her.

  The Prince was running his eyes over the next course, a highly decorative array of roast rack of lamb, larded capon and braised turkey, ham, tongue and several kinds of vegetables. And, of course, more wine. He said, ‘I should have seated you at the other end of the table, Sir Richard. You and this lady are akin to conspirators!’

  But he laughed, and Bolitho noted that several guests were nodding and laughing too, although they could not possibly have heard a word. It was just as well that the soldiers and sailors in the field or on the ocean who often paid for their service with their lives could not see those who took them so much for granted. ‘I am told that you will sail first to Antigua?’ He gestured to a footman, who served him a second portion of capon. It gave Bolitho time to look at her, and recognise the shadow of pain at the Prince’s abrupt disclosure. I should have told her when I knew.

  He answered, ‘I shall assemble my squadron there, and I hope to gain some local knowledge as well.’

  The Prince dabbed his chin and said casually, ‘I knew your late husband, Lady Catherine. An eager man at the tables.’ He gazed at her. ‘Reckless, to a point of danger.’