Quilhampton shook his head, angry that even now their Lordships had stopped short of giving Drinkwater the post-rank he deserved. Allowed the title 'captain' only by courtesy, Commander Drinkwater had been made a 'Job Captain', given an acting appointment while the real commander of His Britannic Majesty's Sloop Melusine was absent. It was damned unfair, particularly after the wounding Drinkwater had suffered off Boulogne.

The young master's mate had spent hours reading to the feverish Drinkwater as he lay an invalid. And then, ironically, peace had replaced war by an uneasy truce that few thought would last but which made those who had suffered loss acutely conscious of their sacrifices. The inactivity eroded the difference in rank between the two men and replaced it with friendship. Strangers who encountered Drinkwater convalescing with energetic ascents of Butser Hill in Quilhampton's company, were apt to think them brothers. From the summit of the hill they watched the distant Channel for hours, Drinkwater constantly requesting reports on any sails sighted by Quilhampton through the telescope. And boy-like they dodged the moralising rector on his lugubrious visits.

Gaston Bruilhac had been repatriated after executing delightful portraits of Drinkwater's two children and, Quilhampton recalled, he himself had been instrumental in persuading Elizabeth to sit for hers. He turned to look at the painting. The soft brown eyes and wide mouth stared back at him. It was a good likeness, he thought. The parlour door opened and Elizabeth entered the room. She wore a high-waisted grey dress and it was clear from her breathing and her colour that the news of their departure had caught her unawares.