Horse and rider paused, silhouetted at the top of the hill where the narrow road divided into separate lanes.
Adam released the reins and patted the horse's flank.
"Easy, Lukey, easy now."
The horse stamped on the hard-packed ground, shaking its head as if to show disapproval, impatience perhaps, at being held to such a slow, meandering pace.
Adam eased his body in the saddle, surprised that such a short ride along the winding track from Falmouth could make itself felt. Every muscle seemed to throb; the close confines of a frigate had taken their toll.
fie stared at the sprawling house at the far end of the second lane, framed by trees, with the glint of water proving that Carrick Roads and the sea were ever close.
The Old Glebe House, they called it. Once owned and occupied by high churchmen from Truro, it had fallen into disrepair after a fire had broken out in the small chapel adjoining it. Derelict for years, a birthplace for rumours and tales of ghosts and evil spirits which found a ready audience in these parts, it was said to have been used by smugglers, the Brotherhood, when it suited them.
The church authorities had agreed to sell the place, although most local people had considered any prospective buyer either mad or eager for ruin. The eventual owner proved to be neither. Sir Gregory Montagu, one of the country's most distinguished painters, had bought it, repaired and refurbished it, but had left the gutted chapel untouched.
Montagu rarely mixed socially, and was said to spend much of his time in London where his work was always in demand. Eccentric, and reputedly a recluse, he was certainly different, Adam thought. He had heard the story of Montagu as a young, half-starved artist who had scraped a living from selling small paintings in the form of silhouette or profile which could be used as miniatures, gifts from departing sea officers to their loved ones. There were many such artists working around the various naval ports, but Montagu, who had rented a tiny attic on Portsmouth Point, had attracted the eye of an admiral, a man of taste as well as charity. For reasons buried in time, the admiral had sponsored Montagu, and allowed him to accompany his squadron to the Mediterranean where he had paid for professional tuition by a notable painter in Rome.
Nancy's influence, or the great Montagu's curiosity, had brought Adam here. An honour? To take his place with all those other proud portraits, or just to please his aunt, who had done so much for him? He hated the prospect, and had even toyed with the idea of turning back at the first crossroads to the village of Penryn. Years of inbuilt discipline had prevented it.
Adam disliked being late, just as he had little sympathy with those who kept him waiting. In the navy you soon learned that presently meant immediately.
He nudged the horse forward again.
"Come along, Lukey. They may have made other arrangements."
They had not.
Even as the horse clattered across loose cobbles, and the house's tall shadow closed around him like a cool breeze, a stable boy and a dour-faced servant who might easily have been a priest himself appeared at the main entrance.
He climbed down and patted the horse.
"Take care of him, will you? I may not be long."
The servant eyed him sadly. "Sir Gregory is expecting you. It is Captain Bolitho?"
The implication was that Sir Gregory alone would decide how long he would be.
Inside, it seemed very still, and the high, arched windows would not have been out of place in a church. Well-polished furniture, dark and probably, very old, and plain, flagged floors added to the atmosphere of spartan tranquillity.
The servant cast his eyes over Adam's appearance. In the filtered sunlight the dust on the blue coat and gold lace must be very evident.
"I will inform Sir Gregory." The slightest hesitation. "Sir."
Alone again, he recalled Nancy's enthusiasm as she had told him about the appointment with the great man. She had taken his elbow and guided him to the wall where the portrait of Captain James Bolitho caught the reflected sunlight from one of the upper windows, and had turned him so he could catch the precise angle of the light across the painting. Captain James, her father, had lost an arm in India, and when he had returned from sea it had been Montagu who had been called in to paint the empty sleeve over the original work. He had also painted the portrait of Richard Bolitho, in the white-lapelled coat of a post-captain which Adam heard had been Cheney's favourite. It still hung with hers in the main bedroom. Catherine's selfcommissioned portrait was with them. They were at peace there.
"Ah, Captain Bolitho, at last. A great pleasure!"
He did not walk in, nor did he suddenly appear. He was there.
Adam was not sure what he had been expecting. Montagu was not tall or imposing, yet he dominated the place with his presence. Very erect, square-shouldered like a military man, but wrapped up in a paint-smeared smock which looked as if it had not been washed for years. There was dried paint in his hard handshake, and his thick white hair was tied back with a piece of rag like any common seaman.
But his eyes revealed the real Montagu. Alert, restless one second and then fastening on to some feature with the intensity of a hawk.
He said abruptly, "I'll make a few sketches. You can sit and talk while I'm thinking on it. Or you can hold your peace and enjoy some reasonable hock, which might slake your thirst after a hard ride."
Adam brushed some dust from his sleeve to give himself time. A hard ride. To put him at ease? Or was it sarcasm? Montagu would know very well that it was only three miles from Pendennis.
They walked together along a high-ceilinged corridor. There were, Adam observed, no pictures of any sort on display. And all the while he could feel the other man studying him, although he was looking directly ahead.
He said, "I understand that you recently painted the Prince Regent, Sir Gregory?" Nancy had told him. It had not helped.
"Yes, that's true." He gave a quiet laugh. "But another man wearing his garments for most of the time. He was `too busy,' they said." Then he did turn to look at him. "I know you do not wish to be here. Neither, as it happens, do I. But we are both good at our work, and for that reason if nothing else, it will qualify."
There were voices, unreal and echoing, like an empty vault. Montagu said sharply, "My proteges. We shall take another route. A barn of a place, but it suits."
The gaunt servant had reappeared, by magic, it seemed. He had a finger to his lips.
"Sir Gregory, your nephew-"
Montagu said curtly, "We'll slip past them. He must get used to interruptions if he hopes to line his purse!"
He opened another tall door and entered what appeared to be one huge room. It was hung with sheets and there were trestles, a bench of clean brushes, beyond which another figure in a paintdaubed smock stood stockstill, one arm outthrust as if he was painting some invisible canvas.
The room had a glass roof, with rolling shades to contain or deflect the bright sunlight.
Montagu said, "This way."
Adam did not move. Ile could not.
Sitting on the floor directly opposite him, with one leg bent under her, was a girl. She was so still that for a second longer he imagined it was a work of beautiful statuary. Then her eyes moved, seeing him, accepting, dismissing him. Her gaze returned to the motionless, outthrust arm of the painter. She was naked but for some sort of robe which had fallen across her thighs while her arms were pulled above her head, fastened by a chain around her wrists.
Montagu paused. "Do not overwork her, Joseph." He lifted part of a sheet to shield the girl's shoulders, with the casual disinterest of a housekeeper covering an unwanted chair.
They walked past another screen and into an adjoining room. Over his shoulder Montagu said, "Imagination as well as skillsomething you will doubtless appreciate, Captain Bolitho?"
Adam looked back at the closed door. As if it had never happened. But he could still see her, her body poised, motionless in the unwavering light.