Coming home.
Bryan Ferguson shaded his eyes and looked across the stable yard, where a few of the estate workers had gathered to watch Young Matthew giving another riding lesson to his new friend. The boy Napier sat upright on the back of the pony, Jupiter, face determined, and still unable to believe he was here. Barefooted and stripped to the waist, he already wore some bandages to mark his progress, and his falls in the stable yard. Young Matthew had remembered his grandfather's golden rule, that to ride a horse you must first know how to sit properly. No stirrups or saddle, not even reins at this stage. Young Matthew guided the pony with a halter, giving an occasional hint or instruction, letting the boy learn for himself.
Ferguson thought of his wife Grace; there was no friendlier person alive, but as the Bolitho housekeeper she regarded all newcomers with suspicion until proved otherwise. It had taken only one day with Napier, after his first fall, when he had cut his knee on the cobbles.
She had come down to Ferguson in his estate office, unable to contain her tears.
"You should see that poor lad's leg, Bryan! He's lucky he didn't lose it! How could they let boys take such risks, war or no war!" She had relented immediately and had touched his pinnedup sleeve, his own reminder of action at sea. "Forgive me. God's been so good to us."
He turned away now from the sunlight and looked at his oldest friend, John Allday. Captain Adam had been back from sea for three days, and the time seemed to be running out like sand from an hourglass.
This was Allday's first visit, and Ferguson knew he was troubled by it, perhaps even relieved that Adam Bolitho had been away from home for most of the day.
The mug he always kept for his friend was grasped in his big hands like a thimble. His "wet," which they always shared on these occasions, had barely been touched. A had sign.
Allday was saying, "Couldn't get away earlier, Bryan-lot going on at the Old Hyperion. Two new rooms being built-you know how it is."
Yes, Ferguson knew. With the new road and a carriage toll, business at the inn would be improving. He thought of Allday's pretty little wife, Unis, and was glad for him. She had done well for both of them, and for her brother, "the other John," as she called him, who had done more than anyone else to help her when Allday had been at sea. Her brother had only one leg, a legacy of his service in the Thirty-First Foot, when he had been wounded on the bloody field of battle.
"I thought Dan'l Yovell might be here too?" Allday looked around as if he expected to see him.
"Gone to see somebody, John." Keeping away, was the truer reason. Ten days, Captain Adam had said. And even that might be cut if some damned messenger came galloping up to the house with an instant recall to duty.
He heard a great chorus of laughter, then cheering, and looked at the yard again. Napier had nearly lost his seat, but was even now releasing the pony's shaggy mane, upright again, his face all smiles, something he sensed was rare, especially for one so young.
They were all busy, making each day count in its own way. Lady Roxby had apparently persuaded Captain Adam to sit for a portrait, to hang eventually with all the others in the old house. Ferguson closed it from his mind. One he might never see, something all sailors must consider.
He turned to his friend once more. Allday had none of it, the old dog who had lost his master. He did not belong. Unis, their little daughter Kate, the inn, and a life now unshadowed by the prospect of separation and danger… they were a part of something else. Even his trips into Falmouth to watch the ships anchoring and departing were fewer. Nor could he bear to mingle with all the loudmouthed veterans you found in every tavern and ale house. At least the village of Fallowfield, where The Old Hyperion remained the only inn, was usually free of sailors. And with the press-gangs only an evil memory, no King's men ever reached that far.
"Grace'll fetch some food presently." He sat down opposite. The big, heavy hands were unchanged; they could wield a cutlass or create the most delicate of ship models, like the one of the old seventy-four Hyperion which occupied a place of honour in the inn parlour.
A strong man yet, although Ferguson knew better than most how Allday still suffered from the terrible wound in his chest. A Spanish blade, and the story had it that Sir Richard had thrown down his own sword in surrender in order to bargain for Allday's life.
Allday said, "I ain't sure, Bryan. I'll be wanted over at Fallowfield."
Ferguson picked up his own mug and studied the contents. The wrong word or some false sentiment, and his old friend would get up and leave. He knew him that well.
He thought about it often, how unlikely it would sound in the telling. I low he and this big, shambling sailorman had been seized by the press-gang here in Falmouth, or very close to it. And their captain had been Richard Bolitho, and the ship his frigate Phalarope.
After the Battle of the Saintes when he had lost his arm, Ferguson had been nursed back to health by Grace, and had risen to become steward of the estate. Allday had gone one better. He had become Bolitho's coxswain. And his friend, his oak.
Ferguson made up his mind.
"Stay here until the captain gets hack. He wanted to see you before, but the roads were awash and he had to leave for his ship. You should know that, better than anyone."
Allday swirled the rum around in his mug. "What's he like, then? Full of himself now that he's captain of a new frigate, his deeds argued about when the ale flows? Is that it?"
"You know him better than those lamp-swingers, John. People will always compare him with his uncle, but that's stupid and unfair. He's still learning, and would be the first to say so, I'd not wonder! But he's his own man now." He broke off as there were more cheers from the yard. The lesson was over, and Young Matthew was grinning hugely, one arm around the boy's shoulders.
Allday said, "When Sir Richard was his age we'd just taken over the Tempest. Thirty-six guns, an' smart as paint, she was…" His blue eyes were far away. "That was when he took fever. Nearly died, he did." He jerked his shaggy head towards the window. "Used to make me take him up the cliff walk, every single day. Then we'd sit on that old bench up there. Watch the ships. Yarn about the ones we knew."
Ferguson almost held his breath. Like you do now, old friend.
"We had some good times in Tempest. Bad 'uns, too. Mr Herrick was the first lieutenant, I remember. Went by the book, even in them days."
He stood up, and paused as if to get his bearings, and Ferguson knew it was to prepare himself for the pain, should it be lurking to bring him down. He had been lifting a cask of ale over at Fallowfield once, and he had heard him cry out and fall. Had it been anyone else he might have been able to accept it.
Allday said, "That boy down there-"
"Napier, the captain's servant."
"An' he brought him here, with him?"
"He has nowhere else, you see."
"So I heard." Allday frowned. "His mother cut the strings."
Ferguson stared at the stable roof, with its Father Tyme weather vane. How many Bolithos had that seen? And time it gave him, to think, and consider what Allday had said. He must have asked about Captain Adam's servant, and probably Yovell as well, although he could well take care of himself, Bible or not. Allday was feeling his way. Afraid of being outgunned, as he would put it.
He said quietly, "Captain Adam has nobody now, John."
Allday turned and walked heavily to the table. "I seed the roses when I got here. A fine show of 'em this year." He looked at his friend, searching for something. "I used to talk with Lady Catherine about them."
He nodded slowly. "I would like to stay, Bryan. Was it roast duck, you said?"
"Did I?" And smiled. "I'll tell Grace. It'll be the making of her, old friend!"
Allday put down his mug; it was empty.
"Needed that, Bryan." The grin was returning. "An' that's no error!"