Bedford Square by Anne Perry Page A

Surrey Docks, its magnificent sails white in the sun. There was something sad about it, as if its age were already dying.
    “Oh. But you did know Cornwallis?” Pitt insisted, dragging his mind back.
    “Certainly,” Rawlinson agreed. “Sailed under his command. But being the captain of a ship is not a very sociable position. If you haven’t been at sea you probably haven’t much of an idea of the power a captain has and the necessary isolation that requires.” Unthinkingly, he wiped his hands on the sides of his trousers, unaware of smearing them with traces of blood. “You can’t be a good commander without keeping a certain distance between yourself and the men, even the other officers.” He turned and led the way into a wide gallery through a glass-paned door and down the steps to the grass, the panorama of the river beyond the sloping ground.
    Pitt followed, listening.
    “The whole structure of the crew is built on a very tight hierarchy.” Rawlinson waved his hands as he spoke. “Too much familiarity and men lose that edge of respect for the captain. He has to be more than human to them, close to infallible. If they see his vulnerability, his doubt, ordinary weaknesses or fears, something of the power is lost.” He glanced at Pitt. “Every good captain knows that, and Cornwallis did. I think much of it came naturally to him. He was a quiet man, solitary by choice. He took his position very seriously.”
    “Was he good?”
    Rawlinson smiled, leading the way across the grass in the sun. The breeze from the river smelled of salt. The tide was running sharply. Overhead, gulls circled, crying loudly.
    “Yes,” he answered. “Actually, he was very good.”
    “Why did he come ashore?” Pitt asked. “He’s comparatively young.”
    Rawlinson stopped, his expression guarded, defensive forthe first time. “Forgive me, Mr. Pitt, but why does that concern you?”
    Pitt struggled for the right reply. Surely only some element of the truth would serve Cornwallis now?
    “Someone is endeavoring to hurt him,” he replied, watching Rawlinson’s face. “Damage his reputation. I need to know the truth in order to defend him.”
    “You want to know the worst they could say, with any honesty?”
    “Yes.”
    Rawlinson grunted. “And why should I not suspect that the enemy you speak of is you yourself?”
    “Ask Cornwallis,” Pitt responded.
    “In that case, why don’t you ask him what the worst or the best is of his career?” It was said with wry amusement, no ill will at all. He stood in the sun with his bloodstained arms folded, a smile on his face.
    “Because we don’t always see ourselves as others do, Mr. Rawlinson,” Pitt replied. “Does that need explaining?”
    Rawlinson relaxed. “No, it doesn’t.” He began to walk again, waving his hand in invitation to Pitt to accompany him. “Cornwallis was a brave man,” he answered. “Both physically and morally; perhaps a trifle short in imagination. He had a sense of humor, but it didn’t show very often. He took his pleasures quietly. He liked to read … all manner of things. He was a surprisingly good artist with watercolors. Painted light on water with a sensitivity that astounded me. Showed a completely different side of the man. Made one understand that sometimes genius is not in what you put in but what you leave out. He managed to convey”—he circled his hands in a sweeping motion—“air! Light!” He laughed. “Would never have thought he had such … daring … in him.”
    “Was he ambitious?” Pitt tried to phrase it to earn an honest answer, not one motivated primarily by loyalty.
    Rawlinson considered for a moment before he replied. “In his own way, yes, I think so. But it wasn’t readily observable, not as it was in many men. He did not want to seem excellent so much as actually to be so. The pride in him, the hunger,was not for appearances but for reality.” He looked at Pitt quickly, to see if he understood. “It made him