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cleansing as they had laughed together, and waded around the rocks to the safety of another beach.
    There had been evenings, too, of formality, with Lewis Roxby’s household doing its best to provide lavish banquets and entertainment that would ensure that his nickname, The King of Cornwall, remained unchallenged. Moments of tranquillity, memories shared and reawakened while they had ridden around the estate and surrounding villages. Old faces and some newcomers had greeted them with a warmth Bolitho had never experienced. He was more used to the surprise he saw whenever they were both walking together. It was probably inconceivable that the returned vice-admiral, Falmouth’s most famous son, should choose to toil along the lanes and hillsides like any bumpkin. But he knew from long experience that after the confines of a King’s ship, the monotonous food and the strain of command, any officer who failed to exercise his mind and body when he could was a fool.
    Allday’s announcement had caught them by surprise. Bolitho had exclaimed, “It is the best thing I have heard for a long, long time, old friend!”
    Catherine had kissed him on the cheek, but had been bemused by Allday’s sudden uncertainty. “I am a troubled man,” he had proclaimed more than once, as if the pleasure shown by everyone else had dispelled his earlier confidence.
    As they lay in their bed, listening to the distant boom of the sea through the open windows, she had said quietly, “You know what disturbs him, do you not, Richard?”
    She had leaned over him, her long hair silvered in the filtered moonlight, and he had held her closer, his hand pressing her naked spine, still damp from their eagerness for each other.
    He had nodded. “He fears that I shall leave him on the beach. Oh, how I would miss him, Kate! My oak. But how much pleasure it would give me to know he was safe at long last, able to enjoy his new life with this lady I have yet to meet.”
    She had touched his lips with her fingers. “He will do it all in his own way, Richard, in his own time.”
    Then she changed the mood, the touch of reality which had intruded to remind them both of that other world that was always waiting.
    She had kissed him slowly. “Suppose I took his place? I have worn a seaman’s garb before. Who would notice your new coxswain?”
    Ferguson, smoking a last pipe in the balmy night air, had heard her familiar laughter. He had been glad for them; sad, too, that it could not last.
    There had been news from Valentine Keen at his Hampshire home. Zenoria had given him a son, to be named Perran Augustus. From the tone of the letter Keen was obviously ecstatic with pride and delight. A son: a future admiral in his eyes already.
    Bolitho had been curious about the choice of Perran, a very old Cornish name. Zenoria must have insisted upon it, perhaps to assert herself against Keen’s rather overwhelming family.
    Catherine had said simply, “It was her father’s name.”
    Her mood had not lightened and Bolitho had imagined that it was because of the poisoned past. Zenoria’s father had been hanged for a crime committed when fighting for farm workers’ rights, and Zenoria’s own involvement had indirectly caused her to be transported. Keen had rescued her, and had cleared her name. Bolitho still wondered if it was truly love or gratitude which had given them a son.
    â€œWhat is it, Kate?” He had held her to him, and she spoke softly.
    â€œI would give everything to bear you a child, our very own. Not one to don the King’s coat as soon as he is able, like so many of the names I see in the church where your family is honoured. And not one to be spoiled beyond his or her own good!” He had felt the tension in her body as she had added bitterly, “But I cannot, and mostly I am content. To have and hold your love, to cherish every moment together no matter how short they