Shadow of a Lady

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Oh, Price.” She made it casual. “I think Ricky has been in the dining room long enough, I am afraid he will be a trouble to his father and his guests. Perhaps you would be so good as to fetch him for me?”

  He looked at her for a moment thoughtfully, and she knew, as plainly as if he had told her, that he was aware of the full facts of her case. She made herself meet his small, mean eyes squarely while he thought it over. After all, he would probably be glad of an excuse to join the party, even if only for a few moments. In the silence, the singing voices rose to a crescendo, then broke into a cascade of laughter, Ricky’s voice unnaturally loud among the rest.

  “You can hear—” she said.

  “Yes, my lady. I’ll fetch him.”

  After a few moments devoted to silent relief, she followed Price out to the top of the stairway, arriving in time to see him emerge from the room below, with Ricky over his shoulder. The child’s face was flushed, and he was defiantly singing the extremely improper chorus of the hunting song, kicking Price in the ribs as he did so. Seeing his mother, he struggled harder than ever. “I’m a man. I’ll stay at the party.” His voice sounded strange, and there were wine stains on the lace at his throat.

  “He’s been drinking! How could they?” For a moment she had forgotten who Price was. “A baby!”

  “A vicious one.” A harder kick had got Price where it hurt, and he dropped the child roughly. “Next time, you can do your own errands, my lady.”

  She held the now sobbing child and looked at Price coldly. “There will not be a next time.”

  Brave enough words, but when she had got Ricky to bed and persuaded him to drink a mildly sedative draught concocted by Angelina, she found herself furiously pacing the terrace, listening to the noise from below, and wondering how in the world she could make them good. Somehow, she must. She had not staked, and lost, her own happiness for the child’s sake, to let him be corrupted now by the “father” she had given him. But what in the world could she do?

  Angelina, as so often, provided the answer. Ricky was ailing and fretful the next day, suffering all too obviously from a four-year-old’s version of a hangover. “The child is ill,” said Angelina. “There is fever. You should have the doctor, my lady.”

  Helen, whose hand was feeling Ricky’s steady pulse, was about to protest that there was nothing wrong that twenty-four hours in bed would not cure, when she caught Angelina’s significant eye, which was bent on the maid who had been tidying the room, but had stopped and broken into an anxious wail at the idea that the child was really ill. Ricky, who understood Italian rather better than English, followed suit. “I hurt,” he said.

  “Poverino.” Angelina put a gentle hand on the flushed face. “If I were the doctor, I would recommend country air, I think.”

  It was a cue, and Helen took it gratefully. No need to tell the doctor about yesterday’s party. She was merely the anxious mother of an ailing child, and contrived to slip in the suggestion about country air so naturally that he was sure he had thought of it himself. “The very thing. Send him to the country, my lady, or the sea . . . One of the islands, perhaps. Naples is no place for a child in the summer. In the meantime, a cooling draught, quiet . . . He should be well enough to travel in a week or so.”

  “I shall take him,” said Helen. “I should be glad of some country air myself.” Thanks to the lawyers, she had control of a sufficient annual sum so that the hiring of a house of her own was no longer an impossibility.

  But when she chose a tactful moment to put the proposal to Lord Merritt, he surprised her with a flat negative. “No,” he said. “No, you don’t. Send the brat, if the doctor says so. Awkward little cuss. Gave poor Price a nasty kick the other day. Tell you what. Those nuns Lady Hamilton’s always on about. They might knock some sense into him. Some manners, at least. As for you. You stay here. My wife. British fleet turning up any day. Parties . . . That Nelson . . . Your father. You’re to be here.”

  “If you say so.” Helen’s meekness hid a great surge of relief. Price had lost interest in the child; was perhaps even a little jealous of him. Maybe it was not even necessary to send him away, but better safe than sorry. She would miss Ricky horribly, but since Angelina would go with him, she would know he was well cared for, and away from the unformulated threats that hung over the Palazzo Trevi. At least, she thought wryly, if her husband insisted that she be there to put in an appearance at his side when the fleet sailed into harbour, he could hardly be planning her murder.

  Or could he? Was this to be positively her last appearance? And the child already out of sight and therefore easily out of mind? It was a thought to chill the blood, and made the parting with Angelina even worse than she had feared. But Angelina was bracing. “Never fear, signora. The child and I can be back with you in a few hours if you want us.” She shrugged. “All this talk of the French coming. I suppose they might, and if they do, you will want Ricky at home.”

  “I shall indeed.” Among her other anxieties, Helen had actually forgotten this one. But then, with Captain Nelson in the Mediterranean, it seemed to her most unlikely that the French fleet would even manage to stir out of Toulon.

  She was to be proved wrong. A few days after Angelina and Ricky left, the weather changed. All one Sunday night, the Bay of Naples was lashed to a fury by a northwesterly gale, and Helen, lying in bed and listening to the howling of the wind and the roaring of the waves in that usually crystal bay, found herself whispering the prayer for all those in danger at sea. Where were Nelson and his captains tonight? At sea somewhere, in a Mediterranean ringed with their enemies?

  Charlotte, heavy-eyed over breakfast, admitted to the same fears. “And the wind still blows. Please God they are safe.” She had had no letter from Captain Forbes for some time, but rumour said he was with Nelson’s squadron.

  Rumour was very active that May and early June. Sir William looked hag-ridden with fatigue, and the Jacobins, as always in moments of crisis, appeared in public and made a point of visiting the French minister, Garat.

  And the first news that came was so bad that Helen thought for a while that she would try to keep it from Charlotte. Useless, of course. Everyone in town was talking of it. Nelson’s flagship, the Vanguard, had been dismasted in the storm, and his squadron scattered. And as if this was not bad enough, the French had sailed from Toulon the night before the storm, and no one knew where they were.

  “They’ve got that Bonaparte, with thirteen ships of the line; four hundred transports.” Lord Merritt was frightened into lucidity. “Coming here, most like. Might have known that Nelson of yours was all smoke and no fire.”

  Naples flamed with rumour. There had been mutinies that spring in the British fleet at home, and the gloomiest voices were those that said it had infected the Mediterranean Fleet. Others merely insisted that even if Nelson’s flagship was still afloat his squadron was scattered and he was bound to sail back to Lisbon to refit. Even optimists had to admit that under the terms of the treaty with France, Naples was officially neutral and therefore could admit only three or four belligerent ships to any port at the same time.

  “Much good three ships would do against Bonaparte’s armada,” said Charlotte gloomily. “Prince Augustus has gone, and most of the other British tourists. Helen, do you not think you could persuade Lord Merritt . . .”

  “I’m afraid not.” Helen had tried. She had wanted to send for Ricky and take passage on the first neutral ship that offered, but Lord Merritt had been adamant, and, oddly, she found herself respecting him for it.

  “Rats,” he had said. “Running like rats. I’m a dog. I don’t run. And nor will you.” He anticipated her next remark. “Send for the brat if you wish. No harm in that. Safe here as anywhere.”

  Or as unsafe. If the French came, there would be panic, riots, fighting in the streets. An ideal opportunity for the quiet murder of a woman and child. “I think Ricky is best where he is,” said Helen quietly. “At least for the time being.”

&n
bsp; “Your affair.” He shrugged it off.

  A few days later came good news for a change. Captain Bowen brought the sloop Transfer into the bay to report that by quite extraordinary efforts Nelson and Captain Ball of the Alexander had saved the Vanguard. Despite the hostility on shore, the Vanguard had been rerigged at the island of St. Pietro south of Corsica, and Nelson’s squadron was now reassembling off Toulon, ready to pursue the French and come to the rescue of Naples if this should prove necessary.

  “But still no one knows where the French are headed,” said Charlotte. She had had a letter at last, brought by Captain Bowen, and knew that Forbes and his Cormorant were indeed with Nelson. “Captain Forbes says something about frigates that I do not entirely understand.” She sounded anxious.

  “Very likely he does not intend you to. I would not speak of it, if I were you. Do you notice how careful Sir William is?”

  “Yes. And how tired he looks.”

  The remark about frigates was explained soon enough. Not everyone had been as discreet as Captain Forbes, and all Naples soon knew that Nelson’s frigates, separated from him by the storm, had missed him at the rendezvous he had appointed, and, fatally, sailed back to Gibraltar, thus depriving him of his vital reconnaissance force. “So he must rely on us for information.” Lady Hamilton was in her element, hurrying to and fro between Sir William and the Queen. Everyone knew that the Viceroy of Sardinia had refused to allow the dismasted Vanguard the least assistance. Everyone wondered what Naples would do in a similar situation. Each ship that entered the harbour might bring news, either of the French position or of the British. Waking, every morning, Helen hurried to her window, wondering if she would see the sails of a fleet on the horizon, and, if so, which it would be.

  She sent, for Ricky. Impossible to leave him several hours’ journey away when affairs might come to a crisis at any moment. He arrived looking well and fat and behaving as badly as possible. The good nuns had spoiled him beyond permission, according to Angelina, who had found it impossible to counteract this by any discipline of her own. “Frankly, signora, I was glad when your message came. He could be ruined just as easily by the doting of those good ladies as by anything else.”

  Helen wondered if she was right. Her husband had greeted the news of the child’s return with a casualness that struck her as somehow false. “Your affair. Brat seems worse behaved than ever. Keep him out of the way.”

  What were they planning, he and Price? Or, rather, what was Price planning? Lord Merritt was hardly capable of contriving a scheme that would hold together. Left to himself, she was sure, he would let things go on very much as they did. It was not in his nature to do anything but grumble and let things slide. But Price was another matter. She was increasingly aware of something quiet and ruthless in him, behind the mask of the perfect servant that he wore so easily. And what a hold he would have over his master if he could contrive to implicate him in the deaths of his wife and child.

  Extraordinary to be sitting in her charming drawing room, embroidering a chair seat, chatting casually and thinking thoughts like those. She looked across at Charlotte. Should she tell her? No. Impossible, and dangerous. Charlotte was as good as gold, but would be incapable of keeping a secret of this magnitude. Besides, she might so easily not believe her. After all, sometimes she thought herself that she was letting her imagination run away with her.

  At least Charlotte’s presence was a kind of protection. Impossible to imagine a convincing “accident” that would involve all three of them, and Charlotte had the weight of the Standishes behind her, and something of her mother’s obstinacy. Price must realise, if Lord Merritt did not, that if Charlotte were to suspect anything out of the way, she would not let go until she had been satisfied.

  But that would not be much consolation, Helen thought wryly, choosing a scarlet silk, if she and Ricky were dead. Odd to think that their safety depended to such an extent on Sir William, Charlotte, and Angelina. . . . “I wish poor Sir William didn’t look so fagged,” she said now.

  “Do you wonder? He’s with General Acton every day, and still there has been no pronouncement as to how the British fleet would be received, if it were to appear.”

  “Well, that’s not surprising,” said Helen. “You must know the Neapolitans well enough by now to realise that they will hedge their bets till the last possible moment. If the French sail into the bay first, I think we will see the most dishonourable of capitulations.”

  “And what will happen to us?”

  “Oh, I expect as civilians we will merely be sent home on a neutral ship. The French are not quite barbarians. They do not make war on women and children.” She hoped she was right, and did not mention her private dread that the lazzaroni, who loathed the French as much as they loved their king, might rise in revolt against such a dishonourable peace. In the chaos that ensued, anything might happen.

  The following Sunday, there was to be a service of intercession at the Cathedral, and Lord Merritt surprised Helen by insisting that she and Ricky accompany him. “And Miss Standish, if she likes.”

  Was this another step in Price’s plan, or was she starting at shadows? She was never to find out, for that Sunday morning brought news at last of Nelson. Helen woke to the sight of English colours on the Mutine in the bay, and the news that Captain Troubridge was already closeted with Sir William and General Acton. He had left Nelson and his squadron just out of sight, off the island of Ischia, and come, on Nelson’s orders, to find out just what the Neapolitans meant to do.

  “He’ll be lucky,” said Helen.

  “Yes.” Charlotte was deep in a letter that had been sent up by hand from the Mutine. She looked up, colour flooding her face. “Helen! He wants me to go back with Troubridge and marry him.”

  “Oh, my God.” She could not help it. Then, with a great effort, she changed her tone. “And you, dear, what do you think?”

  “It’s not what I think,” said Charlotte. “It’s what I feel. And, Helen, he thinks it would be safer for me. Oh, could you not come too? You and Ricky?”

  “Hardly.” Helen’s tone was dryer than she liked. It was all too evident that Charlotte’s mind had made itself up on the instant. “I doubt if Captain Forbes would exactly welcome us, and my father, you know, is still with St. Vincent and the main fleet.”

  “Oh, dear.” Charlotte’s face fell. “I do so hate the idea of leaving you in danger, when you have been so good to me.”

  “Never mind.” Now Helen was glad that she had given Charlotte no hint of the other, private danger that frightened her so much more than the public one. “If Captain Nelson finds the French, you will be in danger yourself. There is plenty for all of us, I rather think. But Charlotte, dear, if you really mean to go back with Captain Troubridge, there is not a moment to be lost. We must start getting your things together.”

  “Yes.” Charlotte was on her feet at once. “John says Troubridge won’t wait for me for a second. Oh, Helen . . .”

  Helen kissed her warmly. “No time for second thoughts, love. You know you made up your mind the instant you read the letter. Do you go and start Rose packing, and I will write a quick note to Lady Hamilton, explaining the circumstances.”

  “Oh, thank you. Yes, that would be best. She will help . . .”

  “Of course she will. You remember how good she was to that Miss Wynne. She might even delay Captain Troubridge an instant or so for you, at a pinch.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t have that.” Charlotte looked frightened.

  “No, it would never do, would it, as a beginning. Off with you, love, and get started.” She pulled paper and inkstand towards her, then paused at a new thought. “I expect the fleet will be in faster touch with England than we are,” she said. “Would you like me to write any other letters for you?”

  “To my mother?” said Charlotte. “Thank you, Helen, but you’re forgetting. I’ll be with the fleet. I ll write her when I’m married.” And then, hand to mouth: “Did you hear me?”

&nb
sp; “Yes, not a stammer to it. Your husband will be proud of you, love. If you ever get to him.” It sent Charlotte away, laughing and excited, and left Helen the task of writing her quick note to Lady Hamilton.

  It brought as quick a response. The messenger brought back a scrawl in Emma Hamilton’s semiliterate hand. She congratulated Miss Standish with all her heart . . . Captain Troubridge was still in conference, and she would send a messenger as soon as it showed signs of breaking up. “I think he is safe here for some time longer. I am afraid, entre nous, that it may mean things are not going entirely as we would wish.” And then, a touching postscript. “Say nothing of this. But I know you will not. Now you are losing Miss Standish, you and I must be better friends than ever.”

  For the first time that day, Helen felt tears standing in her eyes. She had refused to let herself face just how much she was going to miss Charlotte, and even Rose, but Emma Hamilton, with her sure gift for other people’s feelings, had thought of this. Another postscript had one of her practical suggestions. “If Miss Standish is ready before you hear from me, bring her and her things here to me. It will save Captain Troubridge some valuable time.” And then, “Forgive this scrawl. I must write a note to our dear, dear Nelson.”

  An hour later, Charlotte was ready. She and Helen reached the Palazzo Sessa just in time to find the long conference broken up. Captain Troubridge greeted Charlotte kindly, if abstractedly. Helen, looking from his face to those of Sir William and Lady Hamilton, thought that it could not be good news that he was taking back to Nelson. But whatever it was, he was impatient to be off with it. Lady Hamilton had been seated at her writing desk when Helen and Charlotte arrived, scribbling a note. Now she sealed it, with an enclosure, and handed it to Troubridge. “For Captain Nelson,” she said, “if you will be so good.”

  “Thank you.” This was apparently what he had been waiting for. He turned to Charlotte. “You have sent your baggage direct to the harbour? Good. Then let us go.”