Heart of Oak Read Online Free PDF

knife.
    She composed herself, running her fingers through her long hair to free it from beneath the thick shawl, which she did not recall taking from the chair.
    The house was quiet. Still, as if it were listening. She pulled the shawl closer and felt her heart under her hand. Still beating too fast. The end of a nightmare:
the
nightmare. But why now? The long struggle was over. With the care and persistence of her guardian, she had won, although she shuddered now at the memory of pain and brutal violation, her pleas and screams only inciting worse attacks. Sometimes she seemed to hear her father’s voice, sobbing and imploring them to stop, as if he were the victim.
    She walked toward the window, her feet soundless, calming her mind as she had taught herself to do. Nothing could soil this day. Adam was arriving in Falmouth.
Today.
It was not a dream, or some cherished hoard of memories, it was real. Now.
    She untied a cord and dragged open the heavy draperies. It was still dark, with only a hint of grey to distinguish the land from the sky. Not even a star, nor had there been when she had crossed to this window during the night.
Or did I dream that, too?
    What was Nancy doing, she wondered. She had been born here, in the old Bolitho house, the daughter of another naval captain. She gripped the cord until it hurt her fingers.
Like Adam.
Nancy, always busy with the affairs of her own estate, and much of the time with this one. She had two grown children and two grandchildren, who lived somewhere in London. Her husband, the formidable Lewis Roxby, was dead, but she seemed unbreakable. A gentle woman, but firm when necessary, she was nearly sixty years old, and always surprised that she could still turn a man’s head when she passed.
    Lowenna found a handle and carefully forced open the window. There was no wind, but the air took her breath away and touched her hair like frost. As if she were naked.
    She closed it, but not before she had heard a voice below the wall around the drive from the stables. They were up and about, preparing for the arrival of the Bolitho carriage. How did they know? The roads in February could be treacherous, even though Young Matthew, as they still called the senior coachman, was said to know them better than any one.
    Adam would be collected from an inn on the outskirts of Truro. She shivered again. Perhaps not far from the Old Glebe House, where she had posed for Sir Gregory Montagu and found her courage and her pride again. And where life had changed, when Adam had been directed through Montagu’s big, untidy studio. It had been fate: good fortune or destiny, who could tell? And how much of those two years since their meeting had they shared? Weeks, or only days? Now was not the time to reckon them.
    She found the lantern near the door and opened its shutter. It was not much of a light; somebody would deal with it later. Like everything else in this house.
    When would she stop being merely a visitor here and become a part of it? Like the midshipman who had once been Adam’s servant. He was here now, and this was his only home. Or did he still regard it as a refuge?
Like me.
    Most of the time this house was empty but for those who cared for it, and the ghosts of vanished Bolithos whose portraits lined the landing and hung in the fine old study. And the latest portrait of Adam, who was adamantly not a ghost, gazing from the canvas throughout the months of his long absence, wearing the yellow rose on his uniform coat.
My rose…
Montagu had asked for her advice: the portrait had not been quite right, not to his satisfaction. They had discussed it, and together they had found what was lacking: that elusive smile. Now it
was
Adam.
    She glanced at the window again. Brighter? Yes. She allowed herself to smile. Not a dream. He was coming home.
And I am not afraid.
    If only Montagu had lived to see and share her hopes and happiness, but he had never recovered from the terrible injuries suffered in the