They talked for an hour, with Frears eager to hear from Nelson’s own lips the story of his exploits. The old man showed signs of resurgent pride as the tale unfolded, and as much interest in stories of the stripling Lieutenant Nelson taking Caribbean blockade-runners as in the great fleet actions. The hour grew late, and Frears realised that he had outstayed his welcome. Nelson felt nothing of the sort: he owed so much to this man that Frears could have stayed all night. And why, now that he was making to leave, was he looking so bashful?
‘I hesitate to place before you a request.’ Nelson smiled for him to continue, which Frears did, albeit stuttering now. ‘I have … a grandson … of twelve years of age … near thirteen.’
Nelson held up his hand. ‘Lieutenant Frears, leave me his name and where I can contact him. Be assured that as soon as I have a command I will request my flag captain to take him in.’
‘You are too kind, sir.’
‘No Mr Frears. My kindness, if you call it that, pales beside that which you showed to me.’
Emma woke in the night to the sound of rolling, distant thunder and lay, rubbing her swollen belly, surprised yet again that she was indeed pregnant, still unsure if she should rejoice or despair. What would this child be like? She hoped for a boy because her lover so wanted a son.
In the next bed Cornelia snored, an unladylike trait that Emma had never felt able to tell her about. Her companion slept like the proverbial log and could bring the roof down if she wished. She had thus provided, without knowing it, a shield of respectability throughout the travelling months that had allowed Emma to go to Nelson at night, to enjoy gentle sex and quiet conversation. She had been happy to let him talk, and knew all about his family, how they stood in his affections, their good points and bad. On the subject of his wife he was guarded. If he noticed that Emma was evasive about her distant past, Nelson never commented on it or pushed for revelation. Emma could talk happily and openly about her childhood and her time in Naples, but the period between was to her thin ice, to be skated over with delicacy. Complete openness might diminish his love for her.
When she thought of it, the impending birth did not frighten her. She had gone through it many years before with Little Emma, producing her with such ease that the child’s first cry had surprised her. She worried at the thought of bringing up a child alone. Little Emma had grown up under the care of her great-grandmother, and after a brief few weeks in a Southport boarding house with her mother, the child had, at Charles Greville’s insistence, been sent to a good family to be brought up. The memory brought a pang that Emma had not felt for years, part affection, part guilt, when she recalled how her child had been reared by others.
It was easy in that atmosphere, a dark room, the thunder outside, to feel self-pity, to recall the despair that had animated her then. And it was easy with another child in her womb to sway to the negative and contemplate a repetition of that rejection, to wonder if Nelson, dear, sweet, soft-hearted Nelson, might reject her.
If he did would Sir William continue to support her? Her husband had never mentioned her pregnancy, though he could hardly be unaware of it. Did it make him angry or sad? He had withdrawn from her intimate life with surpassing grace, but he could not keep off his face the occasional flicker of pain, jealousy, or longing. Had she so wounded him that he would cold-shoulder her too?
‘It will not be!’ Emma said aloud.
Cornelia stopped snoring, but she did not wake, she merely moved to get more comfortable. Emma lay, eyes open, as various dramas were acted out in her mind. The one in which she lost Nelson was banished each time it surfaced, replaced with the one in which she had her hero to herself and to hell with the wife.
She had corresponded with Fanny Nelson, exchanging with her news and pleasantries over hundreds of miles of sea. But she had never met her and knew of her only what Nelson had divulged. A picture had emerged of a quiet woman, a bit of a mouse, pious, far from colourful, no friend to the physical and fearful of the taint of scandal.
That they were rivals had been disguised by distance. That would cease soon: they would be face to face, the companion of Nelson’s heart versus the woman who held him in the bonds of matrimony. Emma had a rosy vision then of she and Fanny as friends, confidantes, frequent visitors to each other’s parlours. They would take tea, and Emma, out of sensitivity would keep the child out of sight and never mention it in conversation.
Fanny would accept the inevitable, as Sir William had done, and would become reconciled to the liaison. Like Sir William, she would lend a shield to the two lovers so that all the proprieties would be observed. With this idyllic dream in her mind, Emma went back to sleep.
Having read late into the night, Sir William was trying to avoid gnawing on his indebtedness. He wanted to sleep, but knew that age had sapped his capacity to do so, and every time he put aside the book and lay in the semi-darkness he contemplated a less than untroubled future. The loss of HMS Colossus had been a disaster: ten thousand pounds of his finest possessions now lay at the bottom of the sea off the Scilly Isles.
Those vases, statues and ancient coins had been headed for the auction rooms of London and the proceeds would have allowed him to set up house in the style to which he was accustomed. When they had been despatched that had included Emma too, but now he was no longer sure that she was his responsibility. He allowed himself a flash of irritation as he contemplated the fact that she was with child, and just as clearly she felt it was none of his concern. She had not seen fit to confide in him or ask for his opinion.
Did Emma think she could hide such a thing from someone as worldly as he? And what a complication should the truth emerge, for there was not a soul in London society who would assume that after so many years together, and at his advanced age, that he was the father. The thunder rolled outside his window and seemed an appropriate sign to Sir William that trouble was brewing. But thinking of Emma and Nelson only brought him back to the knowledge that he was now dependent on Emma’s lover, which was a damned uncomfortable position to be in.
All Sir William’s money was gone, his income from his estates pledged to creditors for some time ahead. It had been spent on his ambassadorial office, on renting villas, throwing balls, entertaining royalty, buying them gifts and feasting his numerous guests. In his valise was a bill to the government requesting that he be reimbursed for monies expended on his office as well as his domestic losses from the looting of the Palazzo Sessa, plus his application for a pension as a retiring ambassador. Both, given the sterling service he had performed in Naples, should be certain, but Sir William knew too much about the ways of Treasury clerks to feel secure. He doubted that they would withhold the money altogether, but haste was anathema to such people.
On the journey from Italy he had had to leave Nelson to pick up those bills not met by whoever was their host, and that looked set to continue in London. The prospect of retirement, which had seemed so alluring in the south of Italy, looked less so now that he was at home. Would malicious tongues say that he had sold his wife to the Hero of the Nile to keep a roof over his head?
Troubled by those and other thoughts, Sir William tossed and turned in his bed. He did get to sleep as dawn broke, only to be awoken by what sounded like an invading army.
The clatter of hoofs woke Nelson from another turmoil-filled dream that promised happiness one minute and disaster the next. The wine he had shared with Frears tasted stale in his mouth and the excessive bed coverings had made him sweat profusely. He opened the curtain to see the first hint of dawn. The sky was overcast, but there was light enough to see the serried ranks of cavalrymen dismounted and attending to the horses’ harness.
Within minutes the door opened and Tom Allen entered, bearing a pitcher of hot water to wash and shave him and to inform him that the men outside were the local Yeomanry. They had, it seemed, been up half the night polishing their brasses because they were determined to escort him wherever he went this day, right to the edge of Norfolk county.
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br /> ‘Then please ask the owner of the Wrestler’s to provide them with breakfast on my account, and hay for their mounts.’
‘Ain’t the Wrestler’s no more, your honour.’ Tom was so full of pride he was nearly bursting. He pulled Nelson’s nightgown over his head and proceeded to flannel him briskly. ‘Ain’t just the local horse soldiers who’ve been busy, either, so has the local limner. I was consulted about the image he painted, and I can swear to a true likeness. The sign outside this establishment now has a fair study of your own face and the Wrestler’s Arms is now to be known as the Nelson.’
‘Reckon there’ll be one from now on wherever we go,’ Tom added.
The cavalry provided an escort to the church, packed to the rafters for the Thanksgiving service. Nelson stood in full dress uniform and glittering stars with Emma and Sir William to one side and Cornelia Knight to the other, singing hymns of praise to his country and his king. He listened as the vicar lauded him from the pulpit, not forgetting to add that all victories were the work of God, and that the Hero of the Nile should be humble before Him. But he was also Englishman enough to add that the Supreme Being, with his all-seeing eye, was well aware of the just cause of Britannia, which was why he had cast the heretical French into the deep waters of Aboukir Bay.
By the time they emerged the carriages were waiting – Mary Cadogan had supervised the packing and bill paying so that they could leave Yarmouth immediately. Cavalry to each side, they left the town, to the renewed cheers of the populace, under a lowering sky with a gusting wind that threatened foul weather but could do nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of those who lined the route.
Every stop to change horses was a repeat in miniature of Yarmouth, the crowd, the cheers, folk desperate to touch him as if to transfer to themselves a sliver of his glory. They skirted Lowestoffe to avoid another civic reception and spent the night in a small country inn, free of their cavalry escort, well away from any crowd. The next day the party was off at dawn, the heavy-built coach rolling at a steady pace along the well-laid turnpike roads. These were travelled free, since no toll-keeper, aware of the identity of the main passenger in the pair of coaches, could bring himself to levy the fee.
There were still crowds, because the news had gone ahead of them that the Hero of the Nile was home and making for London, so just as on the day before, every change of horses occasioned a small amount of ceremony. There were toasts, food, open-faced men, women and children who would swear years later that this was the high point of their life. They were greeted by beaming innkeepers eager to tell Lord Nelson that his name would now grace their establishment, as well as the odd notable person who had come from their large house and insisted that their station gave them the right to a private conversation. That they all had a young relative eager to go to sea was only to be expected and by the time the two coaches parted company Nelson’s pockets were stuffed with requests for a place.
It had remained heavily overcast all day, and several times it had teemed with the kind of rain which reminded Sir William of why he had so loved Naples. By the time they turned off to make for Roundwood House, the sky was streaked with lightning, and the coach now bucked along rutted, muddy tracks.
‘At least we will be spared another set of speeches,’ said Nelson, a remark that was greeted by a grateful murmur. Even Cornelia Knight seemed tired and subdued, no doubt eager for a decent room, hot water and food. ‘I don’t know the layout of the house, but I doubt it is spacious, though I trust my wife will manage to make us comfortable.’
Nelson felt as jittery as he had before they found the French fleet at the Nile, jumping at each crack of thunder, each bright flash of lightning, for the storm was now right over their heads. The sudden right-hand turn on to crunching gravel told him he was home, before he realised he could not call it that. It was just a rented place he had never seen. He tried very hard to convince himself that with his father in residence no crisis could occur. If Fanny was concerned about his behaviour she would say nothing before the Reverend Edmund Nelson for fear of upsetting him. It did no good to Nelson’s state of mind to remember that his father might be privy to certain matters, and he shuddered at the thought of facing his stern parent in a mood of disapproval.
There was no welcoming party at the porch, no light in the doorway or from the small paned windows. Indeed, with the red brick of the house soaked dark with rain, the place looked forlorn. Tom Allen had jumped down, water streaming off his oilskins, to pull at the bell, but it was minutes before anyone appeared. Seconds later Tom was at the open door of the coach.
‘Lady Nelson ain’t here, your honour, and hasn’t been for weeks past. There’s now’t but a housekeeper.’
‘Fetch her,’ snapped Nelson. For once he was angry enough to put out someone instead of himself.
With a shawl as a cowl over her head the housekeeper, a middle-aged kind-looking soul appeared at the coach door. As soon as he saw her shiver he relented, and insisted she shelter inside so he could question her.
‘Lady Nelson never took to the place in my way of thinking, milord, forever saying it reminded her too much of the Reverend Edmund’s Norfolk home. The old man, your father, seemed happy enough, even after her ladyship departed, but he got a mite sick of no company and went off to join her in London. Post still comes here for both, of course, and I have been sending it on to Portman Square.’
Nelson spat, ‘Portman Square?’ The housekeeper recoiled.
‘That be where Lady Nelson has taken a house.’
Nelson had to bite his tongue, although he wanted to curse Fanny. He could not say in the presence of Emma and Sir William that he had expressly asked her, when renting a London house, to avoid the Portman Square area, since that was where Charles Greville had engaged in some speculative building. The last thing he wanted was to find himself renting a house built by Emma’s ex-lover. But to say so would let Emma know that he was in possession of such information, and he had been careful in talking with her to avoid alluding to knowledge of her past. Added to that it would wound Sir William, who was still fond of his nephew, despite the manner in which he had behaved.
‘I could make up beds if you so require, milord, though I have not the food for a meal in the larder.’
‘No. Bring me the address and we will be on our way, but I would take it as a kindness if you could direct the coachman to a decent inn.’
‘You would oblige me by taking what post has come, milord, for the address has been appended to that already.’
‘Of course.’ Nelson fished for a coin and slipped it to the housekeeper. ‘And I thank you for your care of the place.’
The package was delivered to him, letters that included his own sent from Yarmouth, re-addressed to 64 Upper Seymour Street, Portman Square, London. Nelson wondered if by disobeying him on two counts, to wait for him at Roundwood, and by taking a house in Portman Square, his wife was in some way sending him a coded message.
‘We shall send a messenger ahead from Colchester, to London,’ he said suddenly. ‘To find us all a hotel.’
He looked away from Emma and her husband, leaving them to speculate. It was understandable that they should stay in a hotel, but for him, with a wife and a rented house in which to take residence, it looked very like he intended nailing his colours to the mast.
8
Fanny Nelson was apprised of her husband’s arrival in England by a polite note from Mrs Nepean, wife to the secretary of the First Lord. This lady was a firm friend, who probably knew more about what was going on in the naval world than anyone, since all correspondence, both outgoing and incoming, was seen by her husband. But she was the soul of discretion.
In the four months that her husband had been travelling from Naples Fanny had received any number of disturbing letters, some from the points on his journey, given that the party seemed to be in no hurry to get home, others from Naples. To add to these she heard from other correspondents, passing on snippets of gossip and heavy hints that matters we
re not as they should be, all well wrapped up in disclaimers of any true knowledge of the state of affairs.
In the privacy of her own boudoir Fanny fetched them, dating from before the battle of the Nile and read them again. The change wrought by the aftermath of that event was plain to see. When she compared letters preceding her husband’s return to Naples with those that followed she perceived two things. The first was his change in tone, which lacked the fulsome affectionate touches of his earlier correspondence. The second was his praise for Lady Hamilton. That had been in his letters before, and Fanny had known that her husband admired the woman. But the way he lauded her in the later epistles grated mightily: she was the queen of sagacity as well as beauty, as much a hero of his victory as Nelson himself. He even praised Lady Hamilton for the way she had knocked the rough edges off Fanny’s own son, Josiah, making her so angry she had underscored several passages and put many an exclamation mark in the margin. The cruellest letter of all had been the one in which he had abruptly informed her to stay at home: that her presence in the Mediterranean would not aid him in the execution of his duties.
Had his infatuation with Lady Hamilton gone beyond admiration to something else? That was the one thing to which those numerous well-disposed people had hesitated to allude directly. There was much hinting at intimacy without any proof and Fanny was not going to condemn her husband on hearsay. There was little doubt that Emma Hamilton was a loose creature, capable of seducing an innocent, but had it come to that? If it had what was the cause? The actions of a temptress eager to add the name of Nelson to her conquests, or the infatuation her husband had failed to disguise in his most recent letters?
Fanny Nelson was prey to moods, one night unable to bear the thoughts that assailed her so that she went to sleep sobbing, on others so incensed that murder was not out of the question. Over the months of living with this quandary she had plotted a course by which she thought she could proceed. She had no intention of giving up her husband, but if she must win him back, she knew that to do so would require her to remind him of why they had married in the first place.
Breaking the Line Page 10