Shadow of a Lady

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Helen agreed. “But what a man that Nelson is! And he looks so insignificant too.”

  “Looks?” said Lady Hamilton eagerly. “You’ve met him?”

  “Yes, once, long ago, at Toulon. He was just back from visiting you here. I’ve always remembered him. There was something about him . . .”

  “Was there not! But I had no idea you had met him. Tell me, what did he say about us here at Naples?”

  “Not a great deal.” Helen coloured as she remembered.

  “But something?” When it concerned herself, Lady Hamilton was disconcertingly quick.

  “Yes. I’m trying to remember.” Helen felt her face more crimson than ever as she tried to think how to quote Nelson’s praise without reference to the slights that had preceded it.

  Emma Hamilton laughed that robust laugh of hers. “No need to wrap it up in clean linen for me, love,” she said. “We’ve known each other long enough, choose how.” It was the first time she had ever voluntarily referred to that distant encounter at Uppark, and it drew a look of surprise from Charlotte, who knew nothing about it. And, again, Emma Hamilton was quick. “You never told her?” she asked Helen.

  “Of course not.”

  It won her a quick, highly scented hug. “I should have known. Lady Merritt and I met once, years ago,” Lady Hamilton explained now to Charlotte. “In circumstances I do not choose to remember.”

  “And why should you?” said Helen. And then, plunging in, “In a way that’s what Captain Nelson said.”

  “Oh? Explain, love, do. I’m not much good at riddles.”

  “Well—” Helen plunged in. “There’d been a little talk —men’s talk. You know . . .”

  “I do indeed,” said Lady Hamilton.

  “And Captain Nelson suddenly looked about a mile high.” Helen was remembering the scene. “I don’t know how he does it, because he’s not a bit distinguished to look at, but when he speaks, people listen.”

  “Yes,” said Emma Hamilton eagerly. “And what did he say?”

  “He said you were the friend of Queen Maria Carolina, and”—she paused, remembering the scene—“a lady who did honour to her station.”

  “Ah, that’s like him. And silenced them, I’ve no doubt.”

  “Entirely.”

  “There’s a friend,” said Emma Hamilton. “That’s the kind of friend we women need.”

  “Yes indeed,” said Helen. Impossible not to think of Charles Scroope, who had believed the worst of her (if only she knew what that worst was) and had still seen to it that Trenche should be immobilised, unable to slander her again.

  And, “Yes, indeed,” said Charlotte, thinking, they all knew, of Captain Forbes.

  “But when will they come back?” Helen voiced the thoughts of all three.

  “God knows,” said Emma Hamilton.

  The next news they heard of Captain Nelson was bad. In a night attack on the town of Santa Cruz, on Tenerife, he had failed to capture the Spanish treasure ship that might have made his fortune, and had lost his right arm and nearly his life. “He writes that his wife’s son, Josiah Nisbet, saved his life,” Emma Hamilton told Helen and Charlotte. “If you could but see the pitiful scrawl with his left hand.”

  “Is it the end of his career?” asked Helen.

  “Please God, no. Sir William says we have need of officers like him.”

  “I am sure Sir William is right,” said Helen. It comforted her, in the long, anxious watches of the night, to think of Sir William, caring for that unopened, talismanic letter of hers. It was, she thought, the magic spell that kept Ricky and her alive. Or was she unjust to Lord Merritt? Had she imagined it all? Impossible to be sure, and, being unsure, impossible ever to feel entirely safe.

  Rome was in French hands now, and the best of the hoarded treasures of centuries were being sent back to France as tribute, but life in Naples continued merrily, at least on the surface. The lazzaroni, feeling their beloved Church insulted in the person of the aged Pope, who had been summarily packed off to exile in Tuscany, were more devoted than ever to their king, who stood, now, for Church, State, everything. . . .

  A new French ambassador, Citizen Garat, who had actually announced the death sentence to Louis XVI, arrived in Naples that May and raised once more the question of the political prisoners who had been languishing in various fortresses for four years now, many of them without pretence of a trial. In the end most of them were set free that summer, including Luigi de Medici, though this made King Ferdinand so angry that he threatened to have the judges who acquitted him arrested in their turn.

  “He won’t, of course,” said Charlotte.

  “No, but if I were the released prisoners, I would retire to the country and keep quiet.”

  A good many of them did more than that. With the French over the border in Rome, it was easy for a convinced Jacobin to slip across and join them. One tended not to ask their families about the whereabouts of the young men who had been released, any more than one asked about their experiences in those four lost years. To Helen’s relief, the Giordano brothers seemed to have disappeared. Perhaps they were with Medici, who had wisely retired to his country estate at Ottaiano. Wherever they were, they were silent. One of her nightmares had been that Trenche might have talked while in prison, and that the Giordano brothers might be in a position to ruin her. Another, of course, was that Trenche might not stay forever in the hell of the between-decks. If only she and Charles Scroope had not parted on such bad terms, she would have asked him what ship Trenche was on, and what hope there was of his being kept silent. But then there were so many “if onlys” about that last, wretched interview with Scroope. Sometimes she thought she would never forgive him for believing Trenche’s lies about her; sometimes she found herself thinking that it would be only too easy to forgive him anything.

  But of one thing at least she could be certain. Trenche, given the chance, could ruin her good name and her child’s, but nothing he said could affect her fortune. Helping her husband deal with them, she had read every word of the papers connected with her Great-Aunt Helen’s will and knew herself safe, at least on this count. As for the rest, she sometimes thought she hardly cared. Exposure would free her from the misery of life with Lord Merritt, a misery that she sometimes thought only Charlotte’s presence and his frequent absence made tolerable. How would she bear it if Captain Forbes sailed into the bay one day and took Charlotte away?

  Public anxiety combined with private fear that spring. The French were making massive naval and military preparations at Toulon. Worst of all, the thirty-five thousand men who were said to be ready for embarkation were under the command of the formidable Bonaparte. All this was common and terrifying knowledge. What no one knew, and no one could find out, was where the three hundred transports that lay ready in the harbour were to take them.

  Jacobins sang the “Marseillaise” under their breath. The Court trembled. Where more likely than against Naples?

  “They think nothing of peace treaties,” said Emma Hamilton, paying a morning call on Helen and Charlotte. “They’ll tear it up the moment it suits them.”

  “I suppose so.” Helen thought the Neapolitan Court would do just the same.

  “But no need to look so alarmed,” went on Lady Hamilton. “You know that privateer that slipped out of harbour so quietly last week? It bore a message from our Court to the Earl of St. Vincent—Jervis that was—asking his help. Any day now, I expect to see British sails once more, out there in the bay, and then we can snap our fingers at the French.”

  “I do hope so,” said Helen.

  “Of course we can. Did you not hear what Lord St. Vincent said when there was talk of a French invasion of Britain across the Channel?”

  “No. What was that?”

  Emma laughed. “ ‘I do not say that the French cannot come,’ he said. ‘I only say that they cannot come by sea.’ I’ll tell you something else,” she went on. “Something that’s worth everything else.
Captain Nelson is back at sea.”

  “He’s really better?” Helen was amazed at the courage of a man who had lost an eye and his right arm in the service of his country, had suffered, by all reports, hideously from the results of the hurried amputation at sea, and was now prepared to risk his life again.

  “Yes. That good woman Mrs. Nelson has nursed him back to health. He writes of her in the highest terms. Only think of his insisting on sitting beside her at Lady Spencer’s . . . the First Lord’s wife,” she explained unnecessarily. “Only a man like him could get away with such a gesture, but Sir William thinks him capable of anything. If only we were to see him here, how safe, how happy we would be.”

  “How is Sir William?” Helen had thought him looking much older the last time she had seen him.

  “Fagged to death as usual. They all take advantage of him. No one can decide anything without reference to him. Truly, if we do not get our leave of absence soon, I shall be anxious about him.”

  “I am so sorry.” Helen privately thought Emma should be anxious already. She was selfishly, and ashamed of it, anxious herself. What would happen to that precious letter of hers if Sir William were to die?

  But this was starting at shadows. Presumably it would be returned to her unopened, and, in the meanwhile, she comforted herself with the thought that her husband seemed to have settled down, as she had, to their unhappy situation. He spent most of his time away from home, but when he did come back, treated her with an offhand courtesy that she found perfectly tolerable. From time to time, when convention demanded it, they made a public appearance together, either at Court or at the opera, or, very rarely, at a party.

  As for Ricky, Angelina had learned to keep him out of the way when his “father” was at home, and it was merely bad luck that brought Lord Merritt back unexpectedly one warm morning of early summer when Helen had taken Ricky driving with her.

  “Good God!” Encountering them in the hall, Lord Merritt put up the glass he had taken to using, to gaze down at the elegant little figure in dark blue silk and lace raffles. “Can’t be the brat?”

  “Make your bow to your father, Ricky,” said Helen, hoping that the child at least would have forgotten that previous encounter.

  “Graceful too,” said Lord Merritt. “Does you credit.” He thought it over. “Does us credit.”

  Helen’s heart leapt. But there was more to come. “Time he learned to ride,” said Lord Merritt thoughtfully. “Well see to that, Price and I. Father’s job; teach his son to ride.” He turned carelessly over his shoulder to Price, who was a step behind him as usual. “Remind me, Price. Pony for the boy.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Price’s voice had changed a little, and so had his appearance. In private, Helen was sure, they behaved, now, entirely as equals. She preferred not to think about just how they behaved, and the fact that Price was clever enough to keep up the pretence at servility even in front of her frightened her more than anything. The idea of her child in their company gave her the horrors, but what could she do? In the world’s eyes, he was Lord Merritt’s child too.

  Chapter 16

  LUCKILY, an invitation to hunt with the King drove all thoughts of Ricky out of Lord Merritt’s mind, at least for the time being. Helen saw him and Price ride away with a sigh of relief, but knew that this was merely a reprieve. It was strange that there was only one person she could consult about this new problem, but, she told herself, she was lucky to have even one. She found a moment alone with Angelina, and told her the story of the encounter, baldly, as it had happened.

  “So,” said Angelina. “He fancies the little one. And the man? Price?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He hates you,” said Angelina. “If he can harm the child, he will. You do not think, signora, that you should go home to England?”

  “How can I?”

  “You did not know? The British fleet is back in the Mediterranean. Take your chance, signora, when it offers, and go. You are not safe here; neither you nor the child. In the meantime, I, Angelina, will see that not a hair of his head is touched . . . And I mean touched, signora.” They exchanged long looks. “A child is like a peach,” Angelina went on. “Touch it, and it bruises. We will not have our Ricky bruised.”

  “Please God,” said Helen. She did not ask how Angelina knew that the British fleet was back, but had learned that she was always right about this kind of thing. It had been a lucky day when she took that apparently dying old woman into her coach. “I’m selfish, Angelina,” she said now. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, but I sometimes think I am keeping you from your own family. From Maria and her children?”

  “Pah!” said Angelina. “That Maria! She’s afraid of me, signora, and turns the little ones against me. Your Ricky is more my grandchild than her cretins.” She used an untranslatable dialect word. “Besides, signora, you need me; she does not. She has Angelo.”

  “You’re right,” said Helen. “I do need you, Angelina. I thank God for you.”

  She was not at all surprised to go to the opera next day and find the whole house buzzing with the news of the British return to the Mediterranean. “I told you so.” Lady Hamilton was in the fullest glow of beauty tonight, those remarkable eyes and the fair skin set off by one of the flowing white dresses Sir William liked her to wear. Helen thought him wise. Lady Hamilton loved to eat and drink, as she loved to laugh, and both had left their mark on face and figure. Helen liked her for the laughter lines in her face, but there was no pretending that Romney’s sylph had not broadened considerably during the years of good living. The exquisite line of chin and throat he had loved to paint were a thing of the past. It was no wonder that she wrote home to her friend and one-time lover, Charles Greville, demanding the straw hats that could be so becomingly tied under the chin.

  But her enthusiasm was as infectious as ever. “It’s the best of news,” she told Helen. “Lord St. Vincent is in over-all command, and our friend Captain Nelson has an independent squadron under him. No one knows where he is bound, of course, but one could, perhaps, hazard a guess.”

  “Naturally one will not,” said Sir William. He was looking exhausted, Helen thought. It was good to know that he had applied for leave of absence. She only hoped that it would be granted to him in time. Impossible not to wonder what Lady Hamilton thought of their projected return to England, where, Helen suspected, she might not find her path so rose-bestrewn as it was in Naples. The English colony was small and gossip-ridden enough so that it was impossible not to hear the unkind things that were said behind her back by ladies who were glad of the Ambassadress’s countenance at Court here in Naples but might all too easily turn her a cold shoulder in London. Here, Goethe might praise her attitudes, Angelica Kauffmann paint her picture, and the Duchess of Devonshire call on her. But, back in England, what chance had she of presentation at the Court of prim Queen Charlotte, and without that, what chance in society? But perhaps, Helen thought, her very real services to her country might outweigh her past history. Certainly they ought to. She had acted devotedly as secretary to Sir William when he was ill, and had almost certainly prolonged his life by her nursing. Was not this more important than a far-off, unlucky past?

  A cold prickle of fear touched Helen’s spine. Suppose Trenche was on one of the British ships that had returned at last to the Mediterranean? If he had hated her before, now he must be almost mad with it. She tried in vain to persuade her husband that if Sir William and Lady Hamilton did get their leave of absence and return to England it would be an admirable opportunity for them to go too. Lord Merritt was very happy where he was, and might, she was afraid, be happier still if freed from Sir William’s restraining presence. He had always been a little in awe of the elegant, elderly ambassador, and this had conditioned his behaviour in Naples.

  She knew well enough from servants’ talk, repeated by Angelina, that when he and Price were off at the hunting box at Caserta, they behaved more like equals than like master and man. “In
fact,” Angelina summed up a fear of Helen’s, “they say that sometimes Price is more like the master. What will you do, signora, if milord insists on taking the little one hunting with him?”

  “I shall refuse to let him go.” Helen hoped she sounded more certain than she felt. “It’s ridiculous; he’s only a baby. He won’t be four till September. He’d be a great trouble to them.”

  “Yes. We must convince milord of that.”

  It seemed good advice, so when Lord Merritt, entertaining a few of his hunting friends at the Palazzo Trevi, sent for the child to come down and join them, Helen decided to allow it. After all, it was a kind of public acknowledgement of the child, and surely there was safety in numbers.

  She herself kept away on these occasions, by tacit agreement with her husband, but this time she found it difficult to keep very far away. She could hear the laughter and talk from the upper terrace where she was sitting, and could occasionally make out Ricky’s shrill voice among the deeper ones of the men. They were singing one of the hunting songs she had learned to know so well. Not much harm in that. Most of the words and their implications would go straight over Ricky’s head. But she did not like the sound of his treble voice, joining in, stumbling over the strange words and raising a shout of laughter. Now they were trying to make him sing it alone. She got to her feet and took a restless turn along the terrace. She must intervene, but how? To go herself would precipitate the kind of scene she particularly wished to avoid. Lord Merritt hated Angelina. Impossible to send her. The child’s voice, quavering to a halt amid a shout of laughter, decided her. She rang her bell and sent for Price.

  “Yes, my lady?” Price did not let himself show any surprise at his unprecedented summons. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering how he felt about these occasions when Lord Merritt entertained his social equals, and Price had to behave like the servant he was.