The Only Victor Read Free Page B

orders. She had stared at him across the room they shared which overlooked the sea, that constant reminder, and had exclaimed, “Don’t you see what they are doing to us, Richard?”
    In her anger she was beautiful in a different way, her long dark hair in disorder across her white gown, her eyes blazing with hurt and disbelief. “It is Lord Nelson’s funeral in a few days time.” She had stepped back from him as he had made to calm her. “No, listen to me, Richard! We shall have less than two weeks together, and much of that time spent on the road. You are worth a hundred of any of them, though I know you would never say it . . . Damn their eyes! You lost your old ship, you have given everything, but they are so afraid that you will refuse to attend the funeral unless you can take me with you, when they are expecting Belinda!”
    Then she had broken and had let him hold her, his cheek in her hair like the time they had watched the first dawn together in Falmouth.
    Bolitho had stroked her shoulders and had replied gently, “I would never allow anyone to insult you.”
    She had not seemed to hear. “That surgeon who sailed with you—Sir Piers Blachford? He could help you, surely?” She had pulled his face to hers and kissed his eyes with sudden tenderness. “Dearest of men, you must take care.”
    Now she was in Falmouth. Despite all the offered protection and love, a stranger nonetheless.
    She had accompanied him to Portsmouth on that cold blustery forenoon; so much to say still unsaid. Together they had waited by the old sally-port, each aware that these same worn stairs had been Nelson’s last contact with England. In the background, the carriage with the Bolitho crest on its doors waited with Matthew the coachman holding the horses’ heads. The carriage was streaked with mud, as if to mark the time that they had spent together in its secret privacy.
    Not always so secret. Passing through Guildford on the way to London, some idlers had raised a cheer. “God bless you, Our Dick! Don’t you mind they buggers in Lonnon, beggin’ yer pardon, Ma’am!”
    She had watched his reflection in the carriage window and had said quietly, “See! I am not the only one!”
    As the frigate’s gig had pulled strongly towards the sally-port she had clasped her arms around his neck, her face wet with rain and drifting spray.
    â€œI love thee, dearest of men.” She had kissed him hard, unable to release him until the boat had hooked on with a noisy clatter. Then, and only then, had she turned from him, pausing just briefly to add, “Tell Allday I said to take good care of you.”
    The rest was lost as if darkness had suddenly descended.
    There was a sharp tap at the screen door.
    Captain Poland stepped into the cabin, his cocked hat jammed beneath one arm.
    Bolitho saw his eyes flit around the shadows, as if he expected to see his quarters completely changed or gutted.
    Bolitho sat down again, his hands on the edge of the bench seat. Truculent was a fine ship, he thought. He pictured his nephew, Adam, and wondered if he had yet accepted the greatest gift, the command of his own frigate. His ship was probably commissioned by now, even at sea like this one. He would do well.
    He asked, “News, Captain?”
    Poland looked at him squarely. “Land in sight, Sir Richard. The Master, Mr Hull, thinks it is a perfect completion.”
    Always the caution. Bolitho had noticed it before when he had asked Poland to sup with him a few times during the voyage.
    â€œAnd what do you think, sir?”
    Poland swallowed hard. “I believe it to be true, Sir Richard.” He added as an afterthought, “The wind has dropped—it will take most of the day to stand close to the mainland. Even Table Mountain is only plainly visible from the fore-topmast.”
    Bolitho reached for his coat, but decided against it. “I shall come up. You