Time was slipping away, and she had decided nothing. “Very well,” she made her first decision, thinking it a small one. “Let us go up on deck and see what is happening.” Was she, admit it, hoping to meet Charles Scroope? She would never be his mistress, but she thought she would have to let him help her. For Ricky’s sake? Or for the sake of the friendship that had somehow, through yesterday’s scenes, made itself felt between them? That was it. She would never be his mistress, but at least she could be his dear friend. If they had not been interrupted she would have told him so. Now, suddenly, it seemed of the first urgency to do so, before they went ashore. She knew the navy well enough to know how easily they might be swept apart, with only the memory of her angry words between them.
Unbearable. She hurried Ricky into his warmest clothes, and out into the bustle of the companionway. The door of Lord Nelson’s cabin was ajar, and she could see that preparations for departure were going on apace among the royal ladies. But pausing outside the wardroom door she found all quiet, and the sentry on duty there told her that the King had given orders that he was not to be disturbed until morning.
“Come on, Mamma.” Ricky tugged at her hand. “Let’s go up and see.”
“But there will be nothing to see.” She had just heard the ship’s bell and realised that it was much earlier than she had thought. “It will still be dark up there, Ricky. We’ll be horribly in the way.” She had been mad to hope to find Charles Scroope in the confusion of a landing.
“But you said we’d go.” It was a wail. Did he feel that she was failing him once more, as she had done so often?
And her head ached from the heat and smell of the cabin. “Very well, just for a moment. But hold tight to my hand. I don’t want to lose you up there.”
“Don’t worry, Mamma. I’ll look after you.”
The deck was alive with men, their ordered activities uncertainly lit by here a lantern, there a flickering torch. Only on a British ship, Helen thought, could a disembarkation by night, and a royal one at that, be so capably managed. She was taking deep breaths of refreshing, salt-flavoured air when Ricky squeezed her hand. “Look,” he said.
Lord Merritt was at the rail, staring out into darkness. And, fatally, he heard Ricky’s voice. He turned and moved towards them, his ravaged face bent on Ricky. “Well,” he said. “Here’s luck.” Suddenly, while Helen stood aghast, he dived forward and grabbed Ricky. “My sweet son,” he spaced the words out slowly. “Feed the fishes.”
“No!” Helen screamed as he carried the struggling child towards the rail. “No!”
“No,” said another voice. A sailor who had been working nearby had witnessed the scene, and Helen gave a thankful gasp as he moved forward to intercept Lord Merritt. Then she screamed again. “Vengeance is mine,” said Philip Trenche. He took the struggling child from Lord Merritt and put him down on the deck. “Run along, you.” There was a note Helen had never heard before in his voice. “This is no place for boys.”
“I want to stay with Mamma.” Ricky ran over to grab her hand.
“Too bad.” Trenche had Lord Merritt by the collar. “Now,” he said. “I don’t know which of you did it to me, but you will both pay, even if my son goes too. God! How I’ve prayed for this day, down there, below-decks, in hell. And God heard me. Now! This is the first installment.” What had he in his hand? It came down with a thud on Lord Merritt’s head, then he lifted him, swung him as if he were weightless, up and over the rail, to fall with one stifled scream into the darkness.
“Dear God.” Helen clung to Ricky’s hand and watched as this gaunt, white-haired, unmistakable Trenche advanced on her. She looked around wildly for help. Surely someone must have noticed? Why had there been no cry of “Man overboard”? Then, hopelessly, she understood. Above her, in a glow of torchlight, Queen Maria Carolina was taking her leave of Lord Nelson. All eyes were fixed on the royal party.
And Trenche was upon her. “Let go the child’s hand,” he said. “If you want him to survive you.” He smiled at her, horribly, in the dim light. “If only there was time to rape you again.” He lunged at her.
“Ricky!” She pushed him away. “Run!”
“No.” Ricky clung to her, and then, as the mad face loomed close, the air reverberated and the deck shook as a broadside saluted the Queen’s departure. And, surely, nearer, one single shot? Trenche’s face, close to Helen’s, changed, became calm, became almost peaceful, then fell away, as she fell, too, into blackness.
“I couldn’t do anything.” Charles’s voice. She seemed to be lying on the deck, her head in his lap. “Not while you were between him and me. But I saw and heard it all.” The emphasis on the word “heard” spoke volumes. “Ricky pulled you out of the way just in time, God bless him. They’re looking for Lord Merritt. But, Helen, there’s no hope. That was a wicked blow. And I had to think of you first. Trenche was mad; raving. It was Trenche?”
“Oh, yes,” said Helen. “It was Trenche. And, in a way, it’s our fault, Charles, yours and mine.”
“Then we’ll share it,” he said.
“Am I a hero?” Ricky was dancing about on the deck, tired of being overlooked.
“Indeed you are. And your mother’s a heroine.”
“Not an angel?” The world was still swooping and dipping around her.
“Angel enough for me.”
“I was looking for you.” How pleasant it was to lie like this, her head in his lap, leaving everything to him.
“Well.” He pulled her firmly to her feet. “You found me.” And then, his strong arm still holding her, “Oh, God, look!”
On the quarter-deck, Lady Hamilton had appeared beside Lord Nelson to watch the Queen’s departure. Now, as the loaded boats moved away towards the shore, a lantern, swaying with the ship’s movement, revealed the quick gesture with which, in what she thought was darkness, she took and kissed his hand. Then, suddenly aware of the light, she moved away to the rail and struck a familiar attitude. “The Goddess of Victory,” said Charles.
And, “God help them both,” said Helen.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JANE AIKEN HODGE was born in Boston, Massachusetts, and educated at Oxford and Harvard. She is the daughter of Conrad Aiken, the distinguished poet and critic. Her novels include Watch the Wall, My Darling; The Winding Stair; Greek Wedding; Marry in Haste; Savannah Purchase; Strangers in Company, and Shadow of a Lady. In 1972 she published a biography of Jane Austen, Only a Novel, to enthusiastic response on both sides of the Atlantic. Mrs. Hodge is currently at work on a new novel.
Shadow of a Lady Page 31