Unaccustomed to being checked, Prince William managed a stuttering reply. If he blushed, which he should have done, it was not obvious on such a rotund, high-coloured face. “Yes … Yes. I wanted to ask you about the tour of the islands.”
“Which part in particular?”
“Your suggestion that we use your ship. I’d much rather captain my own. Let my father’s subjects see a prince who is not some stuffed affair, but a real man with a job to do.”
That was the last thing Nelson wanted. He knew Schomberg and esteemed him as a very competent sailor, honest though somewhat dour of temperament. Added to what he had experienced of the Prince, the accusations he had made were likely to be more truthful than spiteful. Not that it mattered much; no one, least of all Captain Horatio Nelson, was going to bring charges against a member of the royal family. That would be professional suicide even for an Admiral of the Fleet. But he knew if he agreed to sail in Prince William’s own ship, he might find himself in the same bind as Schomberg, forced to interfere in the running of the frigate, especially in entering and leaving the difficult West Indian harbours. That was where the Prince’s lack of even the rudiments of seamanship would be most exposed.
“I fear you will find the journey exhausting enough, sir, without the need to captain a vessel as well.”
“Nonsense, Nelson,” Prince William replied, angering his host again with his lack of respect. Yet that turned to amusement as he wondered whether the son of His Majesty could be guilty of lèse-majesté. This clearly showed on his face, since his guest enquired with furrowed bow, “Something amuses you, sir?”
“I was anticipating the pleasure you’ll bring to your father’s subjects.”
“Especially in my own ship!”
What followed was pure inspiration. “Even with Lieutenant Schomberg on board?”
“He must be removed, naturally.”
“That, as you know, Prince William, is beyond my power to do. Schomberg was appointed by the First Lord. Only he can remove him.”
In the weeks that followed, Nelson had constantly to remind himself that he was Christian, and that since he had claimed a kind of friendship with the Prince, it was his duty to forgive his royal passenger a great deal. His misfortune was that William of Hanover would have tested the patience of a whole bevy of saints. Inclined to boorishness when sober, he became a positive menace when inebriated, which was frequent.
On deck when Nelson wasn’t present, he interfered in the way the ship was run, which cut down what little time the Captain of the Boreas had to himself. He was exhausting, not least in the endless gaffes he committed socially by seeking to seduce every attractive woman he met. Few were unmarried; all the unattached had fathers; princes did not apologise, so it fell to Nelson to mollify the locals this sprig of Hanover offended. He undertook his duty with a sore head, since his guest was addicted to the tavern and the whore-house. Nelson tried to be abstemious, but that was a hard task in the company of a man determined to prove he had hollow legs, to prove that the Navy could not be bested in the article of consumption by “these damned planters.”
Worse, Nelson’s duty to visiting royalty threatened to keep him away from Nevis. There was a pecking order in the West Indian islands, though to persuade the inhabitants to agree to a listing would have been impossible. Jamaica was the largest British possession, the jewel of the Caribbean, which must be visited first. But what came next was at Nelson’s discretion and, still unpopular over his enforcement of the Navigation Acts, he took advantage of that to push Nevis well up in the itinerary.
John Herbert was thrilled to receive a royal prince in his capacity as president of the council, and by the time they landed Prince William was aware of Nelson’s attachment to his niece, which added a frisson of deeper excitement to the visit. And the way the Prince flattered Fanny held none of the innuendo for which Nelson had been forced to apologise on other islands. For once acting like a gentleman, Prince William absented himself so that Nelson and Fanny could spend some time together. The gardens at Montpelier were big enough to find a secluded spot where they could sit and talk, though not so cut off from view as to offend propriety.
“He seems to think highly of you, your prince.”
“I flatter myself that he thinks me a friend. Indeed he has shown me the content of the letters he sends home to his father, which say so.”
“Who could have a better friend than you, Captain Nelson?”
“Fanny,” he replied earnestly, “you know my feelings for you.”
She dropped her head slightly, in a way that he found enchanting. “I blush to recall some of the things you have written.”
“All true, I do assure you. It is my heart that pens my letters.”
“Who can doubt that? I fear my replies must seem dull.”
Just like his reply regarding the Prince, Nelson had to sacrifice truth to the greater goal. Fanny’s letters indeed lacked the depth of passion he had hoped for. In his own daily missives no image of bliss had been excluded: rose bedecked cottages and ebullient children; her on his arm as he accepted the greetings of neighbours that went with his status as a senior naval captain; the fact that he would astound the world with his exploits and that she would find herself betrothed to an admiral and a hero. Even the bliss of conjugality had been gently alluded to, in an attempt to draw her out into admitting that she too craved the physical side of marriage.
Yet for all his passion Nelson admired the sense of proper behaviour that debarred the woman he sought to marry from responding in a like manner. The desire for respectability was strong and what could do more to grant to him that status than a woman of such accomplishments as Fanny, with her French, her music, her embroidery, and her kind, gentle manners?
“Your letters, Fanny, are meat and drink to an aching heart. I own up to my emotional nature, of which you are tolerant. I confess that when we are apart I am afire with curiosity. Where are you? What are you doing? Is some other creature paying court to you in my absence? When you write, and when I receive what you have written, it calms me. I swear it is no secret to my officers and my men, all of whom wish nothing but happiness for you and me and young Josiah. They know that I am a different man after a packet of letters from Nevis. Only the reservation of your uncle stands between me, even us, and bliss.”
“You must forgive him, Captain Nelson. It is not that he does not consider you worthy, it is more his concern for my happiness, for which I cannot do other than respect him.”
But Nelson harboured the suspicion that Herbert thought him not good enough for his niece. As a direct descendant of an earl of Pembroke perhaps he felt the Nelson bloodline less blue. Or was it just parsimony, the knowledge that by giving permission he would have to open his purse to an unrestricted commitment?
“You do wish for us to be married?” he asked, deliberately sounding doubtful.
“With all my heart.”
“Then if you can forgive your uncle, Fanny,” he lied, “so can I.”
Herbert, happy to receive Prince William, was less than enamoured of the abrupt way in which he departed. Nelson heard all the reasons as they weighed, none of which sounded even remotely like the truth, which was that Nevis did not enjoy much in the way of entertainment. The inhabitants were sober and industrious, and because the island was not a port for ocean-going vessels it lacked the kind of palaces of entertainment so beloved by sailors. In short, there were no whores, no riotous establishments, and few women to whom His Highness could pay court.
So, as they continued their tour, touching at the other Caribbean possessions of the King, it was back to letters to Fanny and attempts to pin down her uncle on the matter of a dowry or some future allowance. Herbert’s replies deftly turned that responsibility back on Nelson, reinforcing the feeling that though Herbert had agreed to a match he was not settled as to its entire suitability. Worn down by that and his attendance on his charge, liverish in the extreme from over consumption, Nelson became so melancholy
that others saw his distress.
Even the Prince noticed, and quizzed him on the state of his suit. “You are sure that this lady is the one you wish to wed?”
Nelson was thinking two things: first that it was really none of his business, and second, how like a parent Prince William sounded. He might have been the Reverend Edmund Nelson, except that he was round and red, instead of tall and saturnine.
“Because if you are, Nelson,” the Prince continued, “I may have the means to effect a conclusion to this affair.”
“In what way?”
There was a long pause, and much pacing to and fro designed to convey that Prince William was giving his reply careful thought. “Have you engaged anyone to stand as your best man?”
“I would have hoped for a fellow captain but, failing that, I intended to approach Ralph Millar.”
“In listening to you explain the situation and, if you will forgive me from what I have gleaned in conversation with your officers, it seems to me that you require some lever to force Herbert’s hand.”
“He will consent to it in time.”
“I am surprised, Nelson, that you did not see fit to approach me.”
“You?”
“Does the thought of a prince of the blood as your guarantor depress you so?”
“I could not have presumed to make such a request.”
“I can see how my position might debar you,” the Prince replied portentously, “but what if I offer my services, man?”
“It’s not an offer any loyal subject of the King could refuse.”
That threw the King’s son, who had clearly been expecting a more fulsome response. He cleared his throat. “Well the offer is there, Nelson. Take it, if you will, and convey to Mr Herbert that my duties do not allow me much time to act in that capacity. That if he wants to see you wed with me alongside he must make some haste.”
When such an offer was put to him Herbert’s response was swift. Fanny Nisbet and Captain Horatio Nelson could be married at the Prince’s convenience. The financial matters, however, were not dealt with, so Nelson was left with the prospect of the nuptials yet no idea if he would have the means to sustain the married estate. But there was no going back. In his hearty manner Prince William had taken to the notion of a wedding so it was not only his intended bride’s feelings he had to consider.
“Come along, sir,” cried Prince William, as they landed on the fateful morning. He had hosted a breakfast for the ship’s officers and young gentlemen, consuming a couple of bottles of claret with his beefsteak, his high colour, as well as his jolly manner, attesting to that. “I find it hard to believe you are shy, Nelson. I know you to be a warrior, sir, and there is a wench up that hill waiting to be conquered.”
Horatio Nelson had never felt less the warrior, never so unsure of his aim, and the sip of wine he had taken at the Prince’s bidding had not been enough to grant him any courage. It was the press of his officers, midshipmen, and friends landing behind him that pushed them forward, and once his feet were moving some of his confidence returned. The carriage ride up the hill to Montpelier, through what seemed to be the entire island population, exhilarated Nelson. They were there for the Prince, of course, not him, though they wished the bridegroom well. But it was pleasant indeed to bask in that kind of attention, to be allowed to return the cheers of the crowd with a wave that signified he was the man of the hour.
Naturally John Herbert was fussing before they arrived, darting about, pushing his plantation slaves into something resembling a line, checking that his daughter especially and the rest of the household were in place to receive royalty for an occasion of such magnitude. The clatter of the iron hoops on the roadway sent him into a near faint, the handkerchief he held wiping copious amounts of sweat off his face and absorbing that which ran from his hands.
Nelson had never known the Prince so regal. He handed the bridegroom ahead of him, ceding pride of place, a signal honour that earned a flutter of applause from those who had followed the carriage up the hill. Nelson addressed those assembled in a state that belied his inner nervousness, only relieved when he came to young Josiah. “It will be a grand day, young Josh,” Nelson said. “And think on this. Standing as parent to you, I can see to it that you join me aboard ship. How does that sound, sir, a career as a sailor in the King’s Navy?”
Prince William Henry, behind him, heard the last sentence, and added, “If your stepfather cannot oblige you, Master Josiah, then rest assured I shall.”
There were cooling drinks and a brief sojourn in a shaded part of the garden for the Nelson party as Herbert saw to the final preparations. Nelson noted that his officers and midshipmen had raided Montpelier’s flower-beds for a variety of exotic buttonholes. Hardy and Andrews had gone further, and festooned themselves so comprehensively with orchids that their captain had to order them to return to a state of respectability. They were drunk, of course, having started on the claret at the Prince’s breakfast and not having stopped till they landed on Nevis, only to resume consumption as soon as they reached this shaded arbour.
Eventually all was ready, a table acting as an altar with a lectern to the side so that the clergyman could read the service. They stood facing a set of high French windows, Nelson and the Prince hemmed in by the crowd, leaving only an avenue to their rear through which the bride and her uncle could enter. The scents of hibiscus, the perfumes of the assembled crowd and the smell of their massed bodies suddenly assailed Nelson. His eyesight and perception seemed very acute, allowing him to see that much of the silk on both men and woman had suffered from being in the Caribbean, a repair here, moth-attacked lace there. Along the base of the veranda a line of ants was at work, carrying off the detritus of the bed of roses that already looked limp, so hot was the air.
As Fanny appeared he was more conscious of the trickle of sweat down the centre of his back than of her appearance, and he had to force himself to concentrate. She was veiled, in a dress of old-fashioned cut that he knew to be an heirloom, the garment in which the late Mrs Herbert had married the uncle who was giving Fanny away. Somehow the veil, which he had expected, annoyed him. He wanted to look at his bride throughout the ceremony. Prey to commonplace doubts himself, he wanted to see if she was likewise, wanted to witness her overcome them as he did.
Beside him, he picked up the faint lemon smell he recalled from their early meetings. It was strong and clean. Fanny wouldn’t sweat, she was too good and refined. His doubts were replaced by the heart-warming image of presenting his bride to his king, he having astounded all of England with a great victory, Fanny already well known as a hostess whose good opinion society considered essential.
“We are gathered here today, in the sight of God …”
Nelson was aware that he had dreamed throughout the whole ceremony: visions of battles, cannon blazing, sails and masts torn asunder; of the return of the hero, cheers from the rigging of every ship anchored at Spithead. Or of a glorious death, with Fanny and Josiah black clad and weeping before his memorial in Westminster Abbey, placed next to that of James Wolfe. At times he was bleeding on shattered quarterdecks, at others advising a roomful of gold-braided admirals, all of whom nodded with sagacious agreement at his tactical and strategic proposals.
“Captain Nelson.”
The ring seemed to make its own way to Fanny’s finger, and as the clergyman pronounced them man and wife she lifted her veil to reveal damp eyes but dry cheeks, one of which he kissed, before bestowing another on her lips, and one for good measure on the back of each hand. In his ears, as though from far away, he heard the locals clap and his officers and midshipmen cheer.
Chapter Nine
1790
IT WAS EMMA’S HABIT to recall every date of significance in her life: her birthday; her first employment; the date on which Samuel Linley had died having held her hand throughout the hours in which he wasted away. There was the night she met Uppark Harry, the day she first gave way to the importunities of Charles Greville. The a
nniversary of her arrival in Naples, on a sunlit April day, was a time for reflection, a time to put together the advantages and drawbacks of her life. Four years on, she relived the moment of stepping into these apartments for the first time, thinking how much she and her circumstances had changed since then.
Slowly her longing for Greville had evolved into something near hatred. The letters they had exchanged grew ever more bitter, sometimes descending into bathos as Emma threatened to kill herself, to return to London and take to the streets, selling herself for a pittance, expiring in the gutter, which would tarnish him with shame for ever. When that failed to move him, she even threatened to marry his uncle and bear a child, though Greville saw through that. Even Emma had to acknowledge that he was Sir William Hamilton, with dukes and the like coming out through his ears when it came to relations. Quite apart from that he was the King’s Ambassador.
“I sometimes wonder if I’m happy,” she said to her mother.
“What brought that on?”
“Thinking of Greville, and of the changes in my life since we came here.”
Mary Cadogan was sorting dresses and costumes for the forthcoming performance of Emma’s Attitudes, the occasion to be celebrated on the date of her arrival in Naples, a day Sir William Hamilton insisted had been one of the most significant in his life. Not that the Chevalier needed much excuse: he would throw a dozen such balls in a year, inviting several hundred people, more if the calendar of social obligation permitted it. He loved to entertain.
“What looks bleak turns out to be for the best,” said Mary.
Her daughter was applying powder to her face, prior to making up her eyes, lips and rouging her cheeks. “I wish I had a gold sovereign for every time you’ve given me that answer. I swear you’d say it on a sinking ship.”
“Said often don’t make it wrong. If this ain’t clover I can’t tell what is.”
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