by Steven Neil
‘Get someone else if you want the brakes on,’ he tells them.
He has the gift of it on a horse, there’s no doubt. When he wins the St Albans Chase on The Poet, few observers think anyone else could have won on him. The Poet is a difficult horse and a lary jumper, but Jem rides him on a nice long rein and has him relaxed and in a rhythm. That is the quality that sets him apart. There is never any fuss or effort with him. He just knows the right thing to do and gets on with it. Less is more.
There is always a unique look about him. He is a reed of a man and he wears a frock coat as elegantly as any dandy. He spares no expense with his tailor and his boot maker. He can often be found at the end of a day’s racing with a cheroot in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, smiling that crooked smile of his.
‘If you walk like a gentleman, look like a gentleman and talk like a gentleman, then you are a gentleman,’ he says.
It is almost inevitable that Jem’s friend, Tom Olliver, and Harriet’s friend, Lavinia Lampard, find themselves often in each other’s company. A strong bond forms between them and, like their mutual friends, they draw back from the easy relationships to which they are accustomed in favour of a more permanent arrangement. Equally inevitably, they talk about Jem and Harriet and swap stories about their friends’ adventures. There is no doubt that the relationship between Jem and Harriet has been what might be styled “tempestuous” in the popular novels of the day, but Lavinia detects a change.
‘They seem to have settled down, don’t you think?’ she asks.
‘I do,’ says Tom. ‘Jem is used to his freedom. It is in the nature of the jockey’s existence to be away overnight often. There were opportunities. Sometimes he took them. All he wants to do now is get straight home after racing. And Harriet?’
‘She was impetuous. If she thought Jem was misbehaving, she felt she had the right to even things up. She is calmer now – happier. There is a touching tenderness between them.’
***
It is Harriet’s character to be suspicious of their good fortune. She confesses her fears to Jem.
‘I am nervous. Can our run continue?’
‘I thought you had everything organised. Wasn’t this in your plan? Why be nervous?’
‘You are mocking me. I know we are here because we have worked hard for it. But I don’t discount fate. Sometimes chance can cast a shadow.’
‘Then why make plans at all? Do your best. Let fate take care of the result.’
‘That is not enough for me. If I hadn’t made the decisions I have made, I would not be here. I know I can make things happen. So can you. Don’t deny it.’
‘You can make some things happen. The rest is luck. If this wasn’t so, there would be no need to be nervous. You must give me that.’
‘No, not even that. My nervousness is not to do with luck. It is a fear of complacency: that we will ease off when we need to work harder.’
‘All we can do is carry on as we are,’ he says. ‘Work hard. Practise our skills. Hone them. Our future is in the stars. No one knows what is in store.’
***
Prince Louis Napoleon and Jean Mocquard return to London after a trip to Italy. They take up their accustomed residence at Carlton Gardens. There is the usual round of parties, theatre attendances and soirees. Count D’Orsay and Lady Blessington are only too happy to host and accompany their old friends. Louis has a new look about him: his countenance more glowing; his hair more vigorous and shining; his swagger more confident. A man whose time has come, perhaps. Underneath the veneer of a summer holiday, plans are afoot for the inevitable, victorious return to France. Lord Normanby, the home secretary, and Lord Palmerston, the foreign secretary, are fully aware of the scheme, though perhaps not the detail, and are happy, unofficially, of course, to give it their blessing. It is rather hard to imagine, however, that if key members of the British Government know what is going on, there is not comparable intelligence available across the English Channel.
Nevertheless, the plan goes ahead and on the appointed date in August assorted men in greatcoats, collars turned up, make their way to Gravesend. There is sometimes much in a name associated with an important event. The British still talk about someone “meeting their Waterloo”, recalling Emperor Bonaparte’s ignominious defeat. Gravesend hardly breeds confidence. Inauspiciously and unseasonably, it rains steadily through the night. A deluge becomes a torrent, as the downpour intensifies towards morning. Slowly, the clouds clear and, just before dawn, moonlight emerges and casts reflections in the deep puddles. As dawn breaks, a sliver of red sky bleeds across the horizon. As the early morning lightens, a zephyr wind gets up, filling the sails of the trawlers, putting out to sea. The pleasure steamer, the Edinburgh Castle, hoves into view. The captain, at this point, is still under the impression his vessel has been chartered for a group of tourists on a trip to Hamburg. She grumbles and thumps her way alongside the jetty, where the men assembled there begin boarding. The leaders are a random group of Louis Napoleon’s confidantes, advisors and hangers-on. Notable among them are Dr Conneau, General Montholon, Colonel Parquin and Jean-Gilbert Fialin. Fifty men are recruited in total. They are a motley crew of Italian mercenaries, zealous Bonapartists and other sympathisers.
The ingenious plan is for them to land at Wimereux and make their way to the city of Boulogne and the barracks of the 42nd infantry regiment. Here, Lieutenant Aladenize, a long-time supporter of the cause, has arranged for the commander of the garrison, Captain Col-Puygelier, to be away for a day’s duck shooting. The lieutenant will let the invading group into the barracks, by which time they will be dressed in 40th infantry regiment uniforms and be fully armed. The 42nd infantry regiment will immediately row in with the popular uprising and the garrisons from there to Paris will fall, like a set of dominos. The rest will be history.
All goes well for a while. The captain of the Edinburgh Castle readily accepts the generous additional payment for the rescheduled trip. The crossing is smooth. All the men get ashore without incident. Lieutenant Aladenize meets Louis Napoleon and his “troops” as planned and they make their way to the garrison, where the sentry opens the gates, as instructed by Aladenize. Fundamentally, however, the scheme is flawed and naive in the extreme. French agents track Louis Napoleon all the way from Carlton Gardens to Wimereux and alert Captain Col-Puygelier, who waits inside the garrison. He arrests the conspirators as soon as they walk through the gates and onto the barrack square.
Put on trial for treason, the men involved fear that the King is unlikely to be as generous with his response as he was following the earlier Strasbourg fiasco. They are right. When the Court of Peers announces their verdict, Louis Napoleon is sentenced to perpetual imprisonment at the Château de Ham fortress in northern France. The other ringleaders are sentenced to between five and twenty years. Fialin pleads illness and secures a sentence in a military hospital rather than a prison. Mocquard is the only one to escape completely, having been sent ahead to Paris, to await news of success.
***
Lord Normanby and Lord Palmerston meet to discuss the news.
‘Impetuous, wouldn’t you agree?’ says Normanby.
‘Quite. He seems to have learned nothing from Strasbourg.’
‘Strategy not his strong point?’
‘Indeed. King Louis Philippe is hardly quaking in his buckled shoes. Louis Napoleon may be a Bonaparte, but he has all the hallmarks of a lunatic. A few years cooling his heels in prison will do him no harm at all.’
‘I assume we are reconsidering our position?’
‘For the time being, yes, but France cannot be assessed using logic. She has her own special music – even the French don’t understand it, so we have little prospect. Yet we must take a position. Events so close to home cannot be left to chance.’
‘It does rather upset our plans, though.’
‘
Let’s keep things moving. It does no harm.’
***
The prisoners take time to adjust to life at the Château de Ham prison. The château is a nondescript, rambling set of buildings, with no dominant style or architectural merit. When Louis Napoleon first sees it, he shudders visibly and has to lean on Dr Conneau’s arm for support. It serves a dual purpose as infantry garrison and occasional prison for high-security “guests”. As grim as it looks on the outside, it has a curious charm inside. The courtyard gardens in summer are fragrant with roses and alive with verdant climbers. Local villagers join soldiers and prisoners in maintaining the gardens and vegetable plots. It is said that Major Girardet, the garrison commander, turned down several promotions so that he can stay where he is.
On arrival, Dr Henri Conneau and General Montholon are assigned adjacent rooms to Louis Napoleon and a further room houses Louis’s valet, Charles Thelin. Thelin is not charged following the failed Boulogne coup, but he is accommodated anyway. There is also a sitting room, fitted out with tables, chairs, lamps and clock, with a library, albeit very small, and a dining room. Coffee and croissants are served at half past eight in the morning, lunch at midday and dinner at six o’clock in the evening. The prison chef ensures that the men receive a strict diet of meat, chicken and green vegetables, with only very occasional variation and while there is always a soup or consommé to commence dinner and a cheese course and a choice of desserts to follow, Conneau thinks some of the cheeses are not always in the best condition. Burgundy or Bordeaux wine is provided, although Montholon is rather critical of the vintages.
During daylight hours, time is taken in the gardens if the weather is fine or in the sitting room, reading and debating. Evenings are spent in a game of contract whist or piquet. Mass is only allowed once a fortnight. Louis Napoleon finds the regime quite intolerable and writes a letter of complaint to the King. Major Girardet forgets, unaccountably, to send it on.
Seven
The Proposition
London, England
1841
London has a gloom over it and it has been like this for some weeks. It is late May, but the flowers in St James’s Park are slow to bloom and there is a grey pallor on the lake. In Whitehall Place, carriages come and go, dropping off and collecting a steady stream of visitors. A man in a filthy greatcoat and a battered bowler hat scurries between the horses’ hooves and does his best to scoop up the tide of horse droppings and urine in a wide shovel, before depositing the foul mixture onto a low cart. A woman walks by with her nose pushed into a handkerchief, her head pulled to one side. Later in the afternoon, the sky brightens and some thin shafts of sunlight slant between the tall buildings, fastening themselves to the stark stone walls, but a biting wind prevails. Poverty and wealth go hand-in-hand in this part of the city and the local ruffians follow the well-heeled gentlemen and their ladies at a discreet distance, looking for an easy opportunity to fall their way. Two peelers take a turn about the street, keeping an uneasy order in place, their hobnailed boots crunching gravel on the metalled pathway and echoing in the alleyways.
In Nicholas Sly’s wood-panelled office, two people sit across from each other at a large, plain desk. There is a fire laid in the fire grate, but it has not been lit. The room is chilled. There has been a brief exchange of words. Sly looks at Harriet Howard over his half-moon glasses. He is a big man, thick-set and heavy-jowled. He is dressed all in black. His stomach protrudes and the thin, stockinged legs sticking out from his frock coat give him the appearance of a plump black cockerel.
‘You’re asking me to be a courtesan,’ she says.
‘I am asking you to be a patriot,’ he says.
‘You’re asking me to spy for a secret government service?’
‘Oh, Miss Howard, don’t be so melodramatic. Her Majesty’s Government does not have a secret service and it does not employ spies. We are asking you to place yourself in our care and to be available to entertain the company of certain distinguished gentlemen when we require it. Otherwise, you are free to proceed as you wish… but with certain restrictions, of course.’
‘And what would these restrictions be?’
‘So you are accepting our proposition and we are now discussing the arrangements. Is that correct, Harriet?’
‘No, sir, I am not. You’ve apprehended me without warning and brought me here against my wishes. My answer is no. I would be grateful if you would allow me to leave. And you may not call me Harriet.’
‘Ah, Miss Howard,’ he says. He lets out a long sigh.
Minutes pass. He looks at her more closely. She is young, slim and elegantly dressed. He is struck by her red hair, which hangs in ringlets and frames a pale face, with piercing brown eyes and high cheekbones. He notices that her features are not augmented with the powder and rouge that are the order of the day. He considers that she is not quite what he expected.
‘I rather hoped all this would be unnecessary,’ he says. ‘It is most irregular that you need persuasion.’
‘I have nothing further to say.’
He sits forward at his desk and rests his chin on his hands, which he has clasped together, as if in prayer. She looks towards the window and sits upright. There is a slight pout at her lips.
‘I want you to think about this carefully,’ he begins again. ‘We have taken an interest in you for some time now. We know a great deal about your situation. You have received an excellent education, you are an accomplished horsewoman, you speak French tolerably well and I am told that men of a certain type find you attractive. The Duke of Grafton and Lord Normanby speak very highly of you. I rather hoped that you would wish to use your talents in the service of Queen and country. It is an honour to be asked.’
‘I will not be at anyone’s beck and call. I will not be bullied.’
‘You will have a great deal of freedom – rather more than might be imagined. We can arrange somewhere superior to live. There will be a dress allowance. You will be able to attend all the balls one could wish for. Lady Blessington will look after you and introduce you properly into London society. It is a wonderful opportunity for a young lady in your position.’
‘You know nothing about my “position” as you call it. I have a career as an actress. I am making my own way in life. I wish to make my own choices.’
‘An actress, Miss Howard. Are we talking in euphemisms now?’
‘Do not patronise me, sir. I have made my reputation through hard work.’
‘Oh, my word. Reputation, is it? Hard work? I have no doubt your efforts are appreciated.’
‘My answer has not changed.’
‘You drive a hard bargain, Miss Howard. Time was when a young lady like you would be happy to join us. I always find it quite distasteful to talk about money, but you are rather forcing my hand on the matter. You will receive a generous personal allowance on top of the arrangements I have already explained. I cannot name a figure, but it will not be unacceptable, I believe.’
‘I am not interested. I have nothing more to say.’
‘Come, come. It is not as if I am asking you to do something you have not done before. We are simply improving the terms, so to speak.’
‘Do not press me. You have my answer.’
‘You are beginning to test my patience. We can, perhaps, see our way to the provision of a personal maid if that would help, but really we are reaching the end of our negotiation on the matter.’
Nicholas Sly’s brow creases. He is accustomed to acceptance. He wonders where the young woman, little more than a girl, is finding the confidence to cross him like this.
‘I am going to give you one more chance. There is nothing more on the table. If you resist our offer, you will not find us so convivial the next time.’
The light at the windows fades and a servant arrives with a taper to ignite the oil lamps. Sly holds up his hand, palm ou
twards, and the servant backs away through the doorway. He snaps a match into a sulphurous flame and lights one candle on the desk in front of him. He watches the candle sputter and smoke, as the tallow begins to burn off. He waits.
‘I will not bow to threats,’ she says.
‘You and I are going to meet again and I will not be so conciliatory. You are a very foolish young lady. I see that you do not have the wit to understand what is being offered. I am very disappointed.’
‘Perhaps I am not what you are looking for.’
‘Do not test me. This is not a game you are playing. There are consequences.’
‘Then I shall live with them.’
She tosses her head and flicks her hair to the side. She can see that the man in front of her is rattled and she senses she has the upper hand. She looks him straight in the eyes.
‘I am finding this tiresome. Please call your man and have him arrange a cab for me. I have other appointments.’
‘You do not dictate terms to me. You come here with your airs and graces, and you tell me what you will and will not have. Well, I tell you, you have picked a fight that will end badly. Despite your privileges, as we see you now, you are little more than a gutter harlot.’
She rises, walks the two paces between them and slaps his face with all her strength. He stands, then staggers back, one side of his face reddened, but he recovers quickly. He moves around the desk and pushes her backwards into her chair. He grabs one of her arms and forces it behind her. With his other hand, he grasps her face between his thumb and forefinger and jerks her head back. He forces his knee between her legs and leans into her, pinning her into the chair with his weight. He brings his face close to hers. He is salivating as he speaks.
‘I could do anything with you. Anything. Do you understand that?’ he shouts. ‘No one would lift a finger to help and no one would believe you.’
Her body is rigid and she cannot breathe. He steps away from her.