Cross of St George Read Free Page A

a lieutenant coughed politely, and murmured, “The port admiral wishes to see you, sir.”
    â€œCan’t it wait?”
    The lieutenant licked his lips. “I was told that it was important, sir. To you.”
    Adam turned to say goodbye, but they had gone, as quietly and patiently as they had waited.
    He felt his cheek. Her tears, or were they his own?
    Then he followed the lieutenant, past people who smiled and reached out to touch his arm as he passed. He saw none of them.
    He heard nothing but his own anger. I ordered you to fight the ship. It was something he would never forget.
    Lady Catherine Somervell walked softly toward the window, her bare feet soundless as she glanced back at the bed. She listened to his breathing. Quiet now: he was asleep, after the restlessness he had tried to conceal from her.
    She realized that the night was quite still, and there was a hint of moonlight for the first time. She groped for a heavy silk shawl but paused again as he stirred on the bed, one arm resting on the sheet where she had been lying.
    She looked out at the ragged clouds, moving more slowly, allowing the moon to touch the street, which shone still from the night’s downpour. Across the road, which was all that separated this row of houses from the Thames, she could just discern the restless water. Like black glass in the moonlight. Even the river seemed quiet, but this was London: within hours this same road would be busy with traders on their way to market, and people setting up their stalls, rain or no rain.
    She shivered, despite the thick shawl, and wondered what daylight would bring.
    Little more than a month had passed since Richard Bolitho had returned home, and the guns of St Mawes battery had thundered out their salute to Falmouth’s most famous son. An admiral of England, a hero and an inspiration to the men who followed his flag.
    She wanted to go to him now. Not to the public figure, but to the man, her man, whom she loved more than life itself.
    This time she could not help him. His nephew had been ordered to face a court martial, the direct consequence of losing Anemone to the enemy. Richard had told her that the verdict would vindicate Adam, but she knew him so well that he could not conceal his anxiety and his doubt. His business at the Admiralty had prevented him from being at Portsmouth where the court was convened; she also knew that Adam had insisted upon facing the court alone, and unaided. He knew too well how Bolitho hated favouritism, and the manipulative use of outside influence. She smiled sadly. They were so alike, more like brothers than anything else.
    Vice-Admiral Graham Bethune had assured Richard that he would inform him immediately he heard anything: the fast telegraph from Portsmouth to London could bring a despatch to the Admiralty in less than half an hour. The court had been convened yesterday morning, and as yet there had been no word. Nothing.
    Had they been in Falmouth she might have distracted him, involved him in the estate’s affairs, in which she had taken such an interest during his long absences at sea. But their presence had been required in London. The war with the United States, which had erupted last year, was believed to be at a turning point, and Bolitho had been summoned to the Admiralty to settle doubts, or perhaps inspire confidence. She felt the old bitterness. Was there nobody else they could send? Her man had done enough, and had too often paid the price.
    She must confront it: they would soon be parted again. If only they could get back to Cornwall … It might take all of a week, with the roads in their present state. She thought of their room at the old grey house below Pendennis Castle, the windows that faced the sea. The rides, and the walks they enjoyed so much … She shivered again, but not from cold. What ghosts would wait for them when they took that particular walk, where the despairing Zenoria had flung herself to her