Cross of St George by Alexander Kent

having visited them in Falmouth.
    Whenever he considered their situation his mind seemed to flinch from it. Adam and Keen. The two of them together, flag captain and admiral. Like me and James Tyacke. But so different. Two men who had loved the same woman, and Keen knew nothing about it. To share a secret was to share the guilt, Bolitho thought.
    That same night at the inn, while they had lain exhausted by their love, Catherine had told him something else. She had taken Keen to Zennor, to the churchyard where Zenoria was buried. It was a good thirty miles from Falmouth, and they had stayed with friends of Roxby’s in Redruth overnight.
    She had said, “Had we stayed anywhere else there would have been talk, more cruel gossip. I couldn’t risk that—there are still too many who wish us ill.”
    Then she had told him that while Keen had been alone at the grave she had spoken with the verger. He was also the gardener, and, with his brother, the local carpenter, and had confided that he made all the coffins for the village and surrounding farms.
    She said, “I thought I would ask him to see that fresh flowers were put on her grave throughout the year.”
    Bolitho had held her in the firelight, feeling her sadness at the memory, and what had gone before.
    Then she had said, “He would take no payment, Richard. He told me that ‘a young sea captain’ had already arranged it with him. After that, I went into the church, and I could see Adam’s face as I saw it that day, when Val and Zenoria were married.”
    What strange and perverse fate had brought Adam and Keen together? It could restore, or just as easily destroy them.
    Yovell was polishing his small gold-rimmed spectacles. “When will Mr Avery be joining us, Sir Richard?”
    Bolitho eyed him thoughtfully. A man of many parts: it was rumoured that Yovell had been a schoolmaster at one time. He could well believe it. It was hard to imagine him as he had been in the boat after Golden Plover had gone down, his hands, unused to seamen’s work, torn and bleeding on the oars, his face burned raw by the sun. But he could remember not a single word of complaint. A scholar, a man who enjoyed his Bible as another might relish a game of dice: even his casual question about the flag lieutenant held genuine interest. Perhaps they were two of a kind, both enigmatic in their fashion. George Avery was a quiet, often withdrawn man; even Sillitoe appeared not to know much about his nephew. Or care, possibly. Sillitoe’s sister had been Avery’s mother: of Sillitoe’s brother, who had so inspired Avery that he had seemed to look upon him as a father whenever they had met, Bolitho knew nothing. Sillitoe’s brother had been a naval officer, and very likely had sponsored Avery for his first appointment as midshipman. Avery’s own father, and austere upbringing in a religious family, had never dampened his eagerness to follow the sea. Sillitoe’s brother, in the Ganges, had fallen at the Battle of Copenhagen, like so many on that bloody day.
    There was little to do in London for a lieutenant without connections, he thought, although Catherine had hinted that there had once been a woman in Avery’s life.
    Only a woman could scar him so deeply.
    She was probably right.
    He said, “Mr Avery will be coming down in a week or so. Or whenever he likes.” Or perhaps Avery would leave it until the last minute. Maybe he could not bear to see others who did not hide their love from one another, when he himself had no one.
    He listened to the muffled thud of hooves. “Her ladyship is home early.”
    Yovell was at the window, and shook his head. “No, Sir Richard, it’s a messenger.” He did not turn. “Despatches, no doubt.”
    Bolitho stood, trying to prepare himself as his secretary went out to deal with it. So soon. So soon. A month more, and already they were warning him of his departure. It