He thrust open the door and a woman in a plain black gown, whom he guessed was the governess, scrambled to her feet.

Bolitho nodded to her, then looked at the child who lay fully dressed on the bed, partly covered by a shawl.

The governess said quietly, "She is sleeping now." But her eyes were on Belinda, not him.

Elizabeth was six years old, or would be in three months' time. She had been born when Bolitho had been in San Felipe with his little 64-gun flagship, Achates. Keen had been his flag captain in Achates, too, and in that battle Allday had received the terrible sword-thrust in the chest which had almost killed him. Allday rarely complained about it, but it sometimes left him breathless, frozen motionless with its recurring agony.

Belinda said, "She had a fall."

The child seemed to stir at her voice and Bolitho was reminded of the last time he had seen her. Not a child at all: a miniature person, all frills and silks like the lady she would one day become.

He had often compared it with his own childhood. Games amongst the upended fishing boats at Falmouth, with his brother Hugh and his sisters and the local children. A proper life, without the restrictions of a governess or the remote figure of her mother, who apparently only saw her once a day.

He asked sharply, "What kind of fall?"

Belinda shrugged. "From her pony. Her tutor was watching her closely, but I'm afraid she was showing off. She twisted her back."

Bolitho realised that the child's eyes were suddenly wide open, staring at him.

As he leaned over to touch her hand she tried to turn away from him, reaching for the governess.

Belinda said quietly, "To you, she is a stranger."

Bolitho said, "We are all strangers here." He had seen the pain on the child's face. "Have you called a doctor-a good one, I mean?"