The Only Victor (31 page)

She pushed the stone jug across to him. “Just you mind your manners when the men come to take 'is lordship away. Quality or not, it's against the law, wot they done!”

She reached out to save the rum as Allday's head thudded down on the table. In this gracious house the war had always been at a distance. There had never been any shortages, and only when young Oliver had been away at sea had it meant much to those who served belowstairs.

But in Allday's last burst of despairing anger, the war had been right here on the doorstep.

She heard a door close and knew they were going upstairs, perhaps to sit with the body. Her red features softened. Young Oliver would rest easy with the man he had loved more than his own father so close at hand.

The doctor who had attended both participants in the duel scrutinised his watch repeatedly, and made no secret of his eagerness to leave.

Catherine sat by a low fire, one hand playing with her necklace, her high cheekbones adding to her beauty.

Bolitho said, “So Oliver left a letter. Was he so certain that he was going to die?”

The doctor glanced unhappily at Catherine and murmured, “Viscount Somervell was a renowned duellist, I understand. It would seem a likely conclusion.”

Bolitho heard whispers on the staircase, the sounds of doors opening and closing as they prepared Browne for his final journey to his Sussex home.

Catherine said sharply, “This waiting! Is there no end to it?” She reached out and took his offered hand, and held it to her cheek as if they were alone in the room. “Don't worry, Richard. I will not disappoint you.”

Bolitho looked at her and wondered at her strength. Together and with the doctor's aid they had discovered the whereabouts of Somervell's seconds, and his body. It had already been taken to his spacious house in Grosvenor Square. Was she thinking of that? That she would be required to go there and complete the process of her dead husband's burial? He tightened his hold on her fingers. He would be with her. There was already scandal enough; a little more could do no further harm.

When the news got out there were many who might think he had killed Somervell. He looked away, his eyes bitter.
I would that I had.

Word had been sent to Browne's country estate at Horsham. They would be coming for him.
Today.

Bolitho said, “I gather that Oliver's older brother died in a similar affair with Somervell. It was in Jamaica.” Who could have guessed that someone like the outwardly carefree Browne would set out to find Somervell and settle the debt, in the only way he knew?

A red-eyed servant opened the door. “Beg pardon, but the carriage is 'ere.”

More feet and murmured exchanges, and then a powerfully-built man in sombre country clothing entered to announce he was Hector Croker, the estate manager. Three days since they had sent a message by post-horse. In rain-washed lanes and pitch-dark roads, Croker must have driven without any rest at all.

The doctor handed him some papers, his relief even more obvious, like a man ridding himself of something dangerous or evil.

He saw Mrs Robbins waiting with her bags and said kindly, “You'll ride with us, Mrs Robbins. His lordship left word you were to stay in your employment.”

Catherine walked to the doorway and gave the housekeeper a hug. “For caring for me as you did.”

Mrs Robbins gave an awkward curtsy and hurried down the steps, with barely a glance at the house where she had witnessed so much.

From the lower floor Allday peered up through the small window, and watched in silence as Browne's body was carried down the steps to the carriage by several men in dark clothing. Aloud he said, “An' there's an end to it.”

Bolitho followed the men to the carriage and gave some money to their leader. More quick glances, men who were used to this kind of work. Theirs was not to ask questions.

Bolitho felt her slip her hand through his arm and said, “Goodbye, Oliver. Rest in peace.”

Rain pattered across their bared heads but they watched until the carriage had turned up towards Piccadilly. In his letter Browne had requested that if the worst should befall him, he was to be buried on the family estate.

Bolitho turned and saw her looking at him.
Now she is free to marry me, but I am not.
The thought seemed to torment him.

She said softly, “It changes nothing, you know.” She smiled, but her dark eyes were sad.

Bolitho replied, “I shall be with you until—”

She nodded. “I know. That is my only concern. What it may do to your reputation.”

Bolitho saw Yovell waiting inside the door. “What is it?”

“Shall I pack our things, Sir Richard?”

He saw her look up at the staircase. Remembering how this place had been their haven in London. Now they must leave it.

Then she said, “I shall deal with it, Daniel. You assist Sir Richard.” Her eyes were quite calm. “You will have letters, I expect. To Val, and perhaps Rear-Admiral Herrick?”

Bolitho thought he saw a message in her eyes but wasn't sure.

“Yes, Val would wish to know.” He thought how busy Keen would be, preparing to commission the newly completed
Black Prince.
It was a nightmare for any captain of a large man-of-war, let alone one which was to wear a vice-admiral's flag at the fore. Shortage of trained hands and seasoned warrant officers, obtaining raw recruits by any manner or means, always more difficult in a naval port like Chatham where the press gang would be betrayed by anyone from tailor to beggar. Arguing with the victualling yards and making sure that the ship's purser was not doing deals to procure rotten stores, so that purser and supplier could pocket the difference between them. Making a forest of oak into a fighting ship.

Bolitho smiled grimly. And yet Keen had found the opportunity to visit Catherine until he himself could reach London and report on the battle.

He would also send word to Adam, although his
Anemone
had barely had time to anchor after escorting the leaking
Truculent
to the security of the dockyard. Adam, too, had once been Bolitho's flag lieutenant. More than most, he would appreciate how closely the appointment joined the man to his admiral.

He heard Allday's heavy tread on the kitchen stair. Except for him, of course.

Catherine said thoughtfully, “He had no relatives to speak of, and most of them live abroad.”

Bolitho noticed that she never spoke of Somervell by name. “He had friends at Court, I believe.”

She seemed to become aware of the concern in his voice and looked up. “Yes, so he did. But even the King was angered by his behaviour—his quick temper and his craving for the tables. He took all that I owned.” She touched his face with sudden tenderness. “Another of Fate's little whims, is it not? For now, what there is left will come to me.”

That afternoon Jenour arrived quite breathless after changing six horses on the ride from Southampton. When asked why and how he had heard the news, Jenour explained, “Southampton is a great seaport, Sir Richard. News flies on the wind there, although the circumstances were not known.” He added simply, “My place is here with you. I know how you valued Lord Browne's friendship, and he yours.”

Catherine had gone to visit a lawyer with Yovell as her escort. She had declined Bolitho's offer to accompany her and had said, “It is better I do it without you. You might be hurt . . . I could not bear that, dearest of men.”

He said now, “You are just in time, Stephen. We shall quit this place today.”

Jenour dropped his eyes. “It will be painful, will it not, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho touched his sleeve. “So old a head on so young a pair of shoulders!”

Somehow Jenour had guessed his innermost feeling, even though he was young and inexperienced. Catherine was free now, and soon, it seemed, she would be independent again. Might Falmouth and his constant absences at sea seem a poor replacement for the life she had once known, and might want again?

Life was like the ocean, he thought; sunshine one moment, a raging storm the next.

He found that he was touching his eye, and felt his heart sink lower. What might she think of him if the worst happened?

“Is there something you wish me to do, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho had forgotten Jenour was there. “We shall be going to Kent shortly, to the new flagship.” He let his mind dwell on the prospect. He knew that once he would have been on board immediately, no matter what anybody said or thought. But to be so near to death, and to lose another friend, put caution where recklessness had once ruled.

“And there is something else,” he said.

Jenour said, “I know, Sir Richard. The court-martial.”

“Aye, Stephen. War is no place for personal greed and selfish ambition, though God knows you might not be blamed for thinking otherwise. Captain Varian betrayed his trust, just as he did those who depended on him in their greatest need.”

Jenour watched his grave profile, the way he occasionally touched his eye. As if he had something in it.

The door opened and Bolitho swung round, ready to greet her. But it was a messenger boy, one of the servants watching him suspiciously from the hall.

“I have brought word from Doctor Rudolf Braks, Sir Richard.” He screwed up his face as if to help memorise his message. “You may visit him on the morrow at ten o'clock.”

Jenour looked away but was very aware that Bolitho showed no resentment at the curt message. It sounded more like a summons. Jenour had thought Bolitho would be at the Admiralty at about that time.
Braks.
A foreign-sounding name, one he was almost certain he had heard his father mention; but why?

Bolitho gave the boy a coin and thanked him, his voice distant. Then he heard the carriage returning and said abruptly, “No word of that to Lady Catherine, Stephen. She has enough to face up to as it is.”

“Yes, I see, Sir Richard.”

“Damn it, you don't, my lad!” Then he turned away and when she entered the room, he was smiling.

She gave her hand to Jenour and then embraced Bolitho.

He asked quietly, “Was it bad?”

She shrugged, that one small gesture which always touched him like a sensitive nerve.

“Enough. But 'tis done for the present. A report will go to the magistrates.” She looked at him steadily. “But both men are dead. No one can be charged for what happened.”

Jenour discreetly left them alone and she said, “I know what you are thinking, Richard. You are so wrong. If I did not love you so much I would be angry that you could harbour such ideas. You took care of me when I had nothing . . . now we shall take care of each other.” She gazed at the fire and said, “We shall leave now. Quit this haven where we shared our love, and the world was a million miles away.”

They looked at the window and the rain which ran down the panes.

“Very apt.” She was speaking to the room. “There is no more light here.”

The day ended more quickly than either of them had believed possible. There were many comings and goings, friends of the deceased and those who were merely curious, as their stares betrayed.

The same doctor was in attendance, and when he asked if Catherine wished to see where the body of her husband was laid out she shook her head.

“I have been wrong many times, but never, I hope, a hypocrite.”

There was only one really unpleasant incident.

The last visitor was introduced as a Colonel Collyear of the King's Household guard. A tall, arrogant soldier with a cruel mouth.

“We meet again, Lady Somervell. I find it grotesque to offer my condolences, but duty requires me to pay my respects to your late husband.”

He saw Bolitho for the first time and said in the same affected drawl, “At first, I thought perhaps it might have been you, sir. Had it been—”

Bolitho said calmly, “You will always find me ready enough, and that is a promise. So if you continue to demean an honourable uniform in the presence of a lady, I may forget the solemnity of the occasion.”

Catherine said, “I would have put it less politely. Please go.”

The man backed away, his spurs and accoutrements jingling as he attempted a dignified retreat.

Bolitho thought suddenly of
Hyperion
's first lieutenant, Parris, whose mangled body had gone down with the ship after he had shot himself, rather than face the surgeon's saw.

Catherine had recognised him for what he was; and yet Bolitho had not. Only while Parris lay pinned beneath an upended cannon, when he had confessed his passion for Somervell, had he understood. In this very room she had just recognised another in the arrogant colonel.

Jenour hovered by one of the beautiful pillared doorways. “They are all gone, m'lady.”

Catherine looked at herself in a great gilded mirror. “I see this woman, and yet I feel another.” She seemed to hear what Jenour had said. “Then we shall make ourselves as comfortable as we can. Is his steward still in the house?”