She glanced at him now, on the seat opposite, frowning slightly as he leafed through yet another sheaf of papers. His mind was ever agile, ever restless. Like their last visit to Sir Wilfred Lafargue at Lincoln’s Inn. He was a lawyer of repute, but when he and Sillitoe were together they were more like conspirators than legal adviser and client.
She thought of the letter she had received from Captain James Tyacke, a concise, unemotional account of why marriage to the woman he had once loved had proved impossible. It had saddened her, but she had understood his reasons, and the sensitivity he would never reveal. A man who had been utterly withdrawn, almost shy, when he had been forced to leave the only world he understood; she was proud to call him her friend, as he had been Richard’s. Perhaps for him the sea was the only solution, but it was not, and never could be, an escape.
She realised that Sillitoe was looking at her, as he often did, when he believed she did not know.
“I have to go to Spain.” Calmly said, as was his habit, but not the same. This was a mood she had not seen or sensed before.
“You said that it was possible.”
He smiled. “And I asked you if you would come with me.”
“And I told you that there has been enough damage done already because of me. And you know that is true.”
She averted her eyes to look at a passing vehicle, but saw only her reflection in the dusty glass.
Sillitoe’s sphere of influence encompassed both politics and trade, although he was no longer Inspector-General. The Prince Regent, who was notorious for his infidelities, had feared whatever stain a liaison between his adviser and confidante and the admiral’s whore might cast on his reputation as the future monarch. She felt the old, familiar bitterness. The men in power with their mistresses and their homosexual lovers were forgiven if their affairs were kept separate from rank and authority, and were not conducted where they might offend the royal eye.
She had rarely seen Sillitoe reveal anger. A week ago, a cruel cartoon had appeared in the Globe. It had depicted her standing nude and looking at ships below in a harbour. The caption had been, Who will be next?
She had seen his anger then. There had been apologies. Someone had been dismissed. But it was there all the same. Hate, envy, malice.
Perhaps even the Prince’s courtiers had had a hand in it.
She recalled Lafargue’s advice on Belinda, Lady Bolitho. Never underrate the wrath of an unloved woman.
Sillitoe said, “You need security, Catherine. And protection. I can offer you both. My feelings remain unchanged.” He glanced round, frowning as a gap appeared in the buildings and the river was revealed. Masts and loose, flapping sails. Arriving and departing; sailors from every corner of the world. She wondered briefly if the coachman, who seemed to know London like the back of his own hand, had been ordered to avoid ships and sailors also.
She looked at him again. His face was tense, his mind obviously exploring something which troubled him.
He said, “You could stay at my house. You would not be molested by anything or anybody, my staff would see to that.” As he had said when someone had carved the word whore on the door of her Chelsea house.
He said abruptly, “There is always danger. I see it often enough.”
“And what would people say?”
He did not answer her directly, but the hooded eyes seemed calmer.
“If you come to Spain, you may be yourself again. I go first to Vigo, where I must see some people, and then on to Madrid.” He laid the papers aside and leaned forward. “You like Spain, you speak the language. It would be a great help to me.” He reached out and took her hand. “I should be a very proud man.”
She gently withdrew the hand, and said, “You are a difficult man to refuse. But I must confront whatever future remains for me.”
She heard the coachman making his usual clucking sounds to the horses, a habit she had noticed whenever they were approaching the Chiswick house. The journey had passed, and now she must do something, say something; he had done so much to help, to support her in the aftermath of Richard’s death.
There was another vehicle in the drive. So he had known she would refuse; the carriage was waiting to take her to Chelsea, a lonely place now without her companion Melwyn, whom she had sent back to St Austell temporarily to help her mother with work for a forthcoming county wedding.
They would surely notice the change in the girl. She had become confident, almost worldly. As I once was at that age.
She was aware now of Sillitoe’s expression; ever alert, he seemed suddenly apprehensive, before he regained his habitual self-assurance. She followed his eyes and felt the chill on her spine. The carriage door bore the fouled anchors of Admiralty, and there was a sea officer standing beside it, speaking with Sillitoe’s secretary.
So many times. Messages, orders, letters from Richard. But always the dread.
“What is it?”
He waited for a servant to run up and open the door for her. Afterwards, she thought it had been to give himself time.
He said, “I shall not keep you. The Admiralty still needs me, it would appear.” But his eyes spoke differently.
Marlow accompanied her into the house and guided her to the library, where she had always waited for Sillitoe.
“Is something wrong?”
The secretary murmured, “I fear so, m’ lady,” and withdrew, closing the tall doors.
She heard voices, the sound of hooves; the visitor had departed without partaking of hospitality. Sillitoe drank little, but always remembered those to whom the gesture was welcome.
He came into the library and stood looking at her without speaking, then, without turning his head, he called, “Some cognac.”
Then he crossed the room and took her hand, gently, without emotion.
“The Admiralty has just received news on the telegraph from Portsmouth. There has been a fight between one of our frigates and two pirates.”
Without being told, she knew it was Unrivalled, and that there was something more.
Sillitoe said, “Lieutenant George Avery, my nephew and Sir Richard’s aide, was killed.” He remained silent for a moment, then said, “Captain Adam Bolitho was injured, but not badly so.”
She stared past him, at the trees, the misty sky. The river. The war was over. Napoleon was a prisoner, and probably even now being conveyed to some other place of internment. And yet, although it was over, it was not yet over; the war was here, in this quiet library.
Sillitoe said, “George Avery was your friend also.” And then, with sudden bitterness, “I never found the time to know him.” He gazed at the window. “I see him now, leaving to rejoin Sir Richard when I wanted him to stay with me. I do believe that he felt sorry for me.” He waved his hand, and the gesture seemed uncharacteristically loose and vague. “All this-and his loyalty came first.”
The door opened and Guthrie placed a tray and the cognac on a table, glancing at Catherine. She shook her head, and the door closed again.
Sillitoe took the glass, and sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs.
“He was coming home, damn it. It was what we both needed. What we both fought! ”
She looked around, feeling the silence, as if the great house were holding its breath.
Adam was safe. There would be a letter from him as soon as it was possible. In the meantime, he was at sea, in the one element he knew and trusted. Like James Tyacke.
She walked past the chair, her mind suddenly quite clear, with that familiar sensation of detachment.
She put her hand on his shoulder and waited for him to turn his head, to look at the hand, and then at her.
As she had been, defenceless.
She said softly, “My Spanish is not so perfect, Paul.” She saw the light returning to his eyes, and did not flinch as he took both her hands and kissed them. “Perhaps… we can both find ourselves again.”
He stood, and then held her fully against his body, for the first time.