‘Harmony. Captain Nathaniel Carver requesting permission to come aboard.’
Nelson came on deck then, slowly, more weary now than he had been the whole voyage, but able to answer. ‘Permission granted.’
He heard Carver order the fenders over the rail, and waited until the schooner bumped into the side of his ship. The American crew lashed her to the frigate’s side, and by the time it was secure the whole ship’s company had made it to the deck, most to stand slack-jawed, glassy-eyed and confused, observing their recent captives come aboard.
‘Captain Nelson.’
‘Welcome aboard, Mr Carver,’ he said softly. ‘I will not ask the purpose of your visit for fear you’ll tell you want to be taken to Québec.’
‘Never that, sir. But I do have a kindness to repay.’
‘Indeed?’
‘I take it I have the right of it that you have not returned to revictual since we last met?’
Nelson had to drag out his response he was so tired. ‘That is so.’
‘I observed some sickness in your crew two weeks ago, and even in this fading light I can see matters have not improved.’
‘No.’
‘Then I have a gift for you, of some fresh meat, a supply of green vegetables and some fruit. I have been at sea on a whaling ship when this has happened to me, sir, and observed that an injection of fresh victuals works wonders.’ Carver half turned and hailed his own deck. ‘Bear a hand there and get that stuff aboard.’
‘Mr Carver, this is most generous. But I must also say that it is not yet completely dark and what you are doing will not go unobserved.’
‘I know that, sir.’
‘Are you then not in danger of sanction from your own fellow countrymen?’
‘If I am, Captain Nelson, I care not for it. There cannot be a soul in Boston who has not heard of your treatment of me. If they are such as to think that what I do now is any more than just, then I am sorry for them.’
Nelson was shocked. ‘You made public what happened?’
‘More than that, sir, I boasted of it. Rest assured, your country may be damned in Boston but the name of Nelson is not.’
The first batch of cabbages hit the deck, sending out an odour that the crew of Albemarle had not sniffed since the tip of southern Ireland. Pile after pile followed: cauliflower, kale and sweet potatoes, as well as a batch of fresh fruit – apples, lemons and limes. Last aboard were four live sheep, bleating mightily as they were lifted into the air.
‘I cannot thank you enough, sir,’ said Nelson, turning away slightly so that Carver would not see the tear in his eye. ‘Now, as to payment, if you will render me a bill I have in my cabin the means to satisfy it.’
Carver’s voice dropped a whole octave, which, given its standard depth was remarkable. ‘It grieves me, sir, that you seek to insult me.’
‘I do no such thing, sir.’
‘You offer payment, Captain.’
‘I offer you just reward, sir.’
‘It ill becomes you to do such a thing in the face of what is plainly a gift.’
It took Nelson half a minute to digest that, half a minute in which the stony look on Carver’s face made the American’s sincerity obvious.
‘A gift?’ Nelson asked, his shoulders sagging.
‘Indeed it is, and one that stands as less than a small percentage of what my last catch fetched in the Boston fish market.’
‘That is a kind statement, sir,’ Nelson replied softly, ‘but you know I cannot in all conscience accept.’
‘Then we are at a stand, sir, because I cannot agree to any form of payment. Nor will I lift a finger to get what provender has come aboard off your deck and back on to my own.’
‘A gift?’ Nelson repeated the words to give himself time. He also needed to press his fingertips to his eyes to hold back the sharp sensation that affected the corners of his eyes. He was weary from bad food and a long day’s fighting, but he was also deeply affected by Carver’s generosity.
‘None more deserved, sir,’ Carver said, raising his voice. ‘I recall that the sentiment leading to my release was cheered by your crew, not one man dissenting even if it meant a loss of money to him. With such fine fellows in danger from scurvy, a disease which if not attended can kill, I could not stand by.’
Not letting show the wetness in his eyes became progressively harder, and Nelson would not give way at once, continuing to insist on payment. But Carver, who accepted that a drink of wine was in order, was adamant, and wore down a man who was willing to be overborne. Even when the food was below, and the smell of its preparation drifted out through the cook’s chimney, he continued feebly to offer payment.
‘I have done what I came to do, sir,’ Carver said finally, drawing himself up to his full height and towering over Nelson. ‘But before I depart I would like to opine that this stupid conflict will one day be over. I will also predict that two groups of proud and independent souls, bred from the same stock, cannot long be enemies, and that I look forward to the day, not too far in the distance, when our mutual esteem will resurface.’
‘Allow me with all my heart to share the sentiment, sir,’ said Nelson, holding out his hand.
CHAPTER 32
There was little pleasure back at the Steps, no warmth or family affection to speak of. Grandma Kidd, though still active, was near bent double now with age while her grandpa had lost the ability even to recall his own name, and his eyes were vacant and confused when she first faced him on her return. Uncle Willy, grey now, still occupied his place by the fire, never having laboured one day to provide wood to sustain it.
Emma now styled herself Mrs Hart. No one in the family commented on this, even though they knew there was no husband. Appearances, for shame’s sake had to be maintained: she could hardly come home so obviously with child and admit to no legal father.
Harry had proved impermeable to any sense of either responsibility or charity, quite certain that, despite any evidence to the contrary, the child was the offspring of another man. Not that she had seen him; her first note, sent from a nearby post-house, had brought a reply in which he had forbidden her to call on him in person. Several more missives had been exchanged, each one less polite than the last, until he had finally written insisting that the connection be broken. Greville wrote too, responding to Emma’s reports on her progress, advising and commiserating from the sidelines.
It was he who had provided her with the funds to take the coach to Cheshire, as well as the means to keep her and pay for the attentions of the midwife. Once she had arrived, his letters, carefully addressed to Mrs Emma Hart, grew longer, as he laid out conditions for her return to London. Emma was wise enough now to know that Greville was motivated by something other than kindness. She had known from their first assignation that he had always hoped to elbow Harry aside in favour of his own suit. Yet, despite the certainty in her heart that he had a deep affection for her, she was confused: clearly he wanted her to be his mistress, providing that the long list of conditions which filled his letters were met, but the negotiations were so dispassionate.
There was no mention in writing of anything deeper than a respectful affinity, no hint of a magnetism that drew him towards her, the kind of mood that would make a man occasionally act foolishly. It was as if he was drawing up a business contract, demanding she respond in full to any points he raised. In her more emotional moments Emma, used to open affection, damned him and resolved to have nothing more to do with him. Yet a swelling belly always stopped her penning her frustrations, the knowledge that her options and those of the child she was carrying were few. And despite her misgivings, she was extremely fond of him and grateful for his offer. She convinced herself he must love her, otherwise he would hardly go to so much trouble.
Greville would pay to have the child looked after: first by a wet-nurse, then by a decent family to care for the upbringing. Schooling would be a charge upon his purse as long as he and Emma had a connection, almost as if he was t
he legal father. Once the child was born she must return to London and occupy a house he would provide. A woman of a sober disposition would be employed to do the chores, while she would be obligated to remember to whom she owed her good fortune, and to behave appropriately.
Greville wanted none of the riotous behaviour in which she had indulged at Uppark. He was a man taken seriously by his contemporaries, which did not debar him from keeping a mistress; it did necessitate, though, that he acquire the services of a woman who gave no cause for scandal. Where Harry merely disliked being the subject of risible gossip, Greville, desirous of making his way in the world, could not countenance talk of any nature. The other manifestation that stopped Emma responding with a passionate refusal was the arrival of her mother.
As usual, little explanation was provided for the maternal presence. Vague mention was made of a housekeeping job that was in temporary limbo because her employer was travelling. But that person had no name, no address, and was the cause of no description, leading Emma to suspect that Mary Cadogan, which she insisted she be called in her family home, had returned because she had heard of her daughter’s condition. She accepted without demur that Emma had changed her own status, and became outside the Steps party to the fiction that a Mr Hart was awaiting eagerly the news of the birth of his child.
Her own lack of openness was no bar to a demand to know every detail of Emma’s recent past. Never able to stand against her, Emma had produced the letters for her to peruse. ‘Read them for me, child, so that I can form an opinion on this fellow.’
‘You said you knew him.’
‘Knew of him, Emma, a mere slip when he first came to Mrs Kelly’s, as like to take his pleasures on another’s bill than dip into his own pouch. I daresay I exchanged the odd word with him, and shared a song or two after supper, but as to knowing him, that I cannot claim.’
It took some time to read the dozen or so of Greville’s letters, each one interrupted by Emma’s reprise of what she had sent in reply. Mary Cadogan sat silently, eyes half closed, nodding, saying nothing, imagining, toying with and discarding various possibilities, until her daughter had finished, sure in the end that she had arrived at a conclusion that would offer them both advantage.
‘Safe to say he is not a wild man, which at least I did discern on earlier acquaintance. But such caution I have rarely heard of. Yet what he offers is not to be lightly dismissed. A home, raising and education for the child, the job as a housekeeper, which your mother could fill as best as the next.’
‘You?’
‘Why not? You need someone to care for you, girl.’ She saw Emma about to object and cut her off sharply, voice hard and eyes angry. ‘Your condition swears testimony to that better than any words I could conjure.’
Emma dropped her eyes, sat down and let her shoulders slump, the epitome of shame in her pose. Her mother knew her well enough to wonder if the emotion was real, or a contrivance. Annoyed already, the thought that she was being guyed made Mary Cadogan seethe. She had done everything possible to keep Emma from this, only to be thwarted at every turn. Time to tell her daughter a few home truths.
‘The fellow, it is clear, fears your wild inclinations, and to tell you plain, Emma, so do I. Twice, good positions have gone because of it. How many times did I try to warn you of the fate that awaits girls too willing? But do you listen? No! Mrs Kelly’s was bad enough, but to allow yourself to be taken up by a drunken, horse-mad rake, with not a word said or witnessed as to how he was to treat you, was more than folly. And what’s the result? You end up with child on the wing of another man’s charity.’
‘Don’t call it that!’ Emma cried, looking up, green eyes full of pain.
‘Penniless, I say,’ Mary Cadogan insisted, ‘when you can bet Kathleen Kelly made a coin or two out of the exchange. I don’t suppose it occurred to you to call on her and ask for a share of Uppark Harry’s payment, did it?’
Emma looked shocked. ‘I didn’t know there was one.’
‘Which damns you even more as a fool.’
Mary Cadogan saw her daughter’s shoulders shake and her anger evaporated. She also felt the sting of tears in her eyes, part sympathy, part self-pity. Too many times in her life she had been party to such an exchange, too foolish to see herself as a victim. She couldn’t crow at Emma, given the number of her own mistakes. She had come back to the Steps with the express purpose of sorting out her daughter’s life once and for all; Emma couldn’t be trusted to look after herself. What was proposed from this Greville had its drawbacks but, given Emma’s situation, it offered the best way to gain a reasonably secure future. She went over to stand by Emma, a light hand touching her shoulder.
‘I am as much of a fool as you, girl. Have I not fallen for the promises of men to end up a housekeeper? When I was your age I dreamt of luxury for all, of a free hearth and no toil for my Ma and Pa. Uncle Willy would sit beside a blazing fire by invitation, and such would be the connection that your aunts, instead of being damned to the spinster estate, would have been sought after by men of parts. It fell away, Emma, as dreams do when you find how cold the world really is.’
With some difficulty she crouched down and lifted Emma’s chin, looking into the tear-filled eyes. ‘I have one more dream that still has life, and that is to see you better placed than I. Your Charles Greville is no flash catch, I’ll grant you. But a man who goes to such lengths to make his contract is more like to keep it than your baronet.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause your gaiety-loving Harry cares not a jot what people say of him. He expects to garner admiration, not to be cursed for his treatment of you. Daresay he’ll be wont to boast about it in years to come. But Greville, he is opposite in tone. He’s a man who wants to be seen as fair. I do not say that whatever connection you agree will be lifelong, that might be casting a bit high. What I do say is this: he has an affection for you. And should the connection be broken, it is like to be on terms that will not leave you in the gutter. That is something to think on. Now can I get up from this bending? My knees are not the springs they once were.’
Emma had to help her to stand upright, and saw the pain in her mother’s face as her legs straightened. The lines had thickened round the now baggy eyes too, and her nose had broadened from its previous elegant shape to render her somehow common. There were few areas of likeness between them, the receding chin being the most prominent, but Emma could see her future in that weary face, and it was not one that entranced her.
‘Old bones, Emma. You never think they’ll come. But here I am, not yet reached my fortieth year, and I can scarce bring myself to get in and out of a church pew. Am I to end up like your Grandma, I wonder, bent so you can sup your dinner off my back?’
It was no great flaring insight that Emma had then, just the cold, slow realisation that as well as the baby she was carrying, she was now responsible for the future comfort of her mother and all those who would stay behind in the Steps. Only she could ensure a supply of money that, though it would not provide luxury, would keep them off poor relief.
‘But you must ask yourself one more thing, child. It is easy for me to say what you should do, but as you’re the one who has to do it, it falls to you to decide whether it is a burden that can be borne. You might find life with your cold fish too chill for comfort.’
Emma brightened then, in a way her mother knew well – she had never known anyone who could go from deep despair to elation so quickly. It was a fault, but a hard one to resist. ‘You’re judging Charles by his letters, Ma. Let me tell you, he is not like that in the flesh.’
Mary Cadogan sniffed loudly and held up a restraining hand. ‘Spare me the flesh Emma. I’ve had a surfeit of male flesh.’
But Emma was not to be overborne. Her face alight again, she said, ‘Mr Greville is sweet and kind. He teaches me things, never treating my ignorance as stupidity. I will grant you that my baronet was more of a force of nature, but none can fault Greville for the attentions he pays me.’
<
br /> The maternal eyes narrowed, as Mary Cadogan looked closely at her child, particularly taken by the light of passion in her large green eyes. ‘Do I detect an affection in you as well, Emma?’
The reply came without hesitation. ‘Yes, Ma, you do. And when you meet him, and see him in his own circumstances, instead of those imposed by the written word, you will come to esteem him as much as I do.’
‘Mrs Cadogan,’ said Charles Greville, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance.’
The curtsy, given the state of her knees, was not as deep as she would have liked, but the smile on Mary’s Cadogan’s face was full of gratitude. It was brought on by the realisation that if Greville remembered that they had met in different circumstances, he was determined to preserve, like her, the fiction that it had never happened.
‘You do me honour, sir, in agreeing to my taking service with you.’
The gruff cough behind her forced her to move, to allow the coachman and his boy to carry the chest in through the narrow doorway. With a practised eye, Emma’s mother used the moment to assess their benefactor, all of the details she needed being in plain view in this simple house.
Not grand but comfortable, set back from the road with a small garden, a new structure of a mere three storeys, it was part of a ribbon of expansion on the road to Edgware village, houses built not for proper gentlemen but for men of business of the superior sort. The ambience reeked of discretion, sobriety and frugality. Mary Cadogan knew, before Greville told her, that the allowance for household necessities, food, heat and light, would not allow for either peculation or excess.
She would have two of the attic rooms to herself, one for use as a private sitting room. The two maids would share the third, the cook and the skivvy bedding down in the room next to the kitchen. There was a bedroom, dressing room and parlour for Emma, as well as a spare that would act as a study and bedroom should Greville wish to work or sleep alone. He would employ no valet, since he would rarely spend the entire night under this roof.
On a Making Tide Page 40