Cross of St George Read Online Free PDF

that orders will be presented within the week.” He glanced meaningfully at Bolitho. “After that, Rear-Admiral Keen can take passage in the first available frigate, no matter who he selects as flag captain.”
    Sillitoe walked to a window. “Halifax. A cheerless place at this time of the year, I’m told. Arrangements can be made for you to follow, Sir Richard.” He did not turn from the window. “Perhaps the end of next month—will that suit?”
    Bolitho knew that Sillitoe never made idle remarks. Was he considering Catherine at last? How she would come to terms with it. Cruel; unfair; too demanding. He could almost hear her saying it. Separation and loneliness. Less than two months, then, allowing for the uncomfortable journey to Cornwall. They must not waste a minute. Together.
    He replied, “You will find me ready, my lord.”
    Sillitoe took a glass from the servant. “Good.” His hooded eyes gave nothing away. “Excellent.” He could have been describing the wine. “A sentiment, Sir Richard. To your Happy Few!” So he even knew about that.
    Bolitho scarcely noticed. In his mind, he saw only her, the dark eyes defiant, but protective.
    Don ’ t leave me.

2 FOR THE L OVE OF A LADY
    B RYAN F ERGUSON , the one-armed steward of the Bolitho estate, opened his tobacco jar and paused before filling his pipe. He had once believed that even the simplest task would be beyond him forever: fastening a button, shaving, eating a meal, let alone filling a pipe.
    If he stopped to consider it, he was a contented man, grateful even, despite his disability. He was steward to Sir Richard Bolitho and had this, his own house near the stables. One of the smaller rooms at the rear of the house was used as his estate office, not that there was much to do at this time of the year. But the rain had stopped, and they had been spared the snow that one of the post-boys had mentioned.
    He glanced around the kitchen, the very centre of things in the world he shared with Grace, his wife, who was the Bolitho housekeeper. On every hand were signs of her skills, preserves, all carefully labelled and sealed with wax, dried fruit, and at the other end of the room hanging flitches of smoked bacon. The smell could still make his mouth water. But it was no use. His mind was distracted from these gentle pleasures. He was too anxious on behalf of his closest and oldest friend, John Allday.
    He looked now at the tankard of rum on the scrubbed table. Untouched.
    He said, “Come along, John, have your wet. It’s just what you need on a cold January day.”
    Allday remained by the window, his troubled thoughts like a yoke on his broad shoulders.
    He said at length, “I should have gone to London with him. Where I belong, see?”
    So that was it. “My God, John, you’ve not been home a dogwatch and you’re fretting about Sir Richard going to London without you! You’ve got Unis now, a baby girl too, and the snuggest little inn this side of the Helford River. You should be enjoying it.”
    Allday turned and looked at him. “I knows it, Bryan. Course I do.”
    Ferguson tamped home the tobacco, deeply troubled. It was even worse with Allday than the last time. He looked over at his friend, seeing the harsh lines at the corners of his mouth, caused, he thought, by the pain in his chest where a Spanish sword had struck him down. The thick, shaggy hair was patched with grey. But his eyes were as clear as ever.
    Ferguson waited for him to sit down and put his big hands around the particular pewter tankard they kept for him. Strong, scarred hands; the ignorant might think them awkward and clumsy. But Ferguson had seen them working with razor-edged knives and tools to fashion some of the most intricate ship models he had ever known. The same hands had held his child, Kate, with the gentleness of a nursemaid.
    Allday asked, “When do you reckon they’ll be