Breaking the Line (3 page)

For a great deal of the time, Nelson castigated himself for his weakness. Why had he not merely insisted to Sir William that by staying aboard ship he was best placed to get to sea quickly should any opportunity present itself to take on the enemy? Any number of reasons had occurred to him to turn down residence here and avoid what had happened. Yet he was here, allocated draughty but spacious apartments, Tom Allen with him, and his sea chest, the thought of which made him blush.

Emma felt wonderful. Gone was the hankering for Naples, the social round, the three houses and half dozen carriages she had had at her disposal. Even the weather, clear sunny and sharply cold, had conspired to add to her feeling of wellbeing. She felt that ten dozen cares had been lifted from her shoulders. That morning, as the Queen had wept once more for her dead son, Emma had stayed dry-eyed,
not from any lack of grief but from the knowledge that what she had never dared hope for had been gifted her. When she returned to her new home, the man she loved would be there. She knew that her husband, ever the gentleman, had accepted the inevitability of a liaison between her and Nelson. The rules were those she knew well, having seen others observe them over several years. In public, all the proprieties must stand. Sir William was to be deferred to in the manner to which he was accustomed, treated as both her husband and the companion of her heart, praised, flattered even, and always the first person with claim on her time. The world, even if the truth were no secret, would see a happy and devoted couple.

In private it would be different. Night and day, as he had of old, Sir William would use his own apartments. However, he would no longer call upon her in her own rooms without first sending a servant to ensure that a visit would be welcome. Should he be absent from the residence, notification would always be sent ahead of his imminent return. Under no circumstances must he be embarrassed. What he knew and what he saw must remain separate.

It was odd to be sitting here, leading the conversation, guying the man she loved, even when it was obvious that he was uncomfortable. Nelson had not believed her when she had told him of the change in circumstances, and Emma wondered at the innocence of a man who could not see what should have been obvious. He was free to be gallant, indeed to be forward, because the idea that they should be lovers and keep it hidden was impossible. Everyone would know, merely observing the etiquette of never saying openly and publicly that it was so. Everyone was well versed in the rules of such a game – except Nelson.

‘Are you too hot, Lord Nelson?’ asked Sir William. He had noticed the blush, and something prompted by years of experience had told him it was the time for a pointed sally.

Nelson obliged him with a deeper blush.

‘Have a care you are not falling prey to a fever, sir, for if you are, I would advise that you take at once to your bed.’

It was impossible for Nelson to redden any more, but he squirmed. Then Sir William caught Emma’s eye: her expression told him plainly that guying her lover was not to be borne.

‘Whist!’ he exclaimed, after a deep and rumbling cough.

The ritual of saying goodnight, of being escorted by candle-bearing servants to each set
of chambers, was the same as it had been on any other night under Sir William’s roof, but the way Emma came to
Nelson’s apartments, without a hint of subterfuge, gave the lie to that. She had changed from her burgundy dinner dress into a loose dressing-gown over a linen nightdress, worn with a lace cap. She bore in her hand a five-branch candlestick, guttering in the draughts, that must have looked like an alarm beacon in the dimly lit corridors.

She found him in boat cloak and nightgown writing personal letters at a desk, one a short missive to his wife. When Nelson protested she laughed, a loud pealing sound that he loved in daylight but considered inappropriate in an establishment at repose. He knew he should be angry with Emma, but that was a feeling he found hard to apply, especially where she was concerned. And she made going to bed together seem natural, as if they had been doing it all their lives. The proximity of her body and the freedom of her hands and his wiped away his mortification. They made love with less breathless passion than they had earlier that day, and soon, by the light of the only candle Emma had not extinguished, they lay in each other’s arms, talking quietly

‘I cannot imagine myself ever looking Sir William in the eye again.’

‘From what my mother tells me you have not done so for weeks.’

Nelson raised his head enough to look at her. ‘Your mother?’

‘That is what my husband told her.’

‘Then he did know.’

‘He saw me enter your apartments on the night of the banquet. He was outside the door when I locked it.’

‘He told your mother this too?’

‘Yes,’ she murmured into Nelson’s breast. It was a lie. but Emma had no desire to impart to him that her husband had told her himself.

‘God in heaven.’ Nelson groaned. ‘How could he bear it? Had I been him I would have called me out.’

That made Emma laugh, and when gently chastised she was forced to explain that she was amused by the notion of a one-armed man duelling with himself.

In the explanations that followed Emma’s mother assumed a greater role than she had held in reality. Forced to the truth, Emma would admit that most of what she knew of that night had come to her, so to speak, from the horse’s mouth. But she was reluctant to tell of that difficult conversation she had had in the lower decks of HMS
Vanguard,
and the sight of her husband, whom she considered an upright, brave man, in despair with a brace of pistols in his hand.

The feelings she had for Sir William Hamilton were deep, based on delight in his company and appreciation of his manifest kindnesses. He had made her a lady in spirit as well as in name and it was not
only convention that obliged her to protect his character and reputation. It was a deep regard for the man who, while he had been her lover, had also been in many respects the father she had never had.

‘I cannot fathom your fears, Nelson. It is, if not commonplace, then so frequent as to deny comment. You have had it pointed out to you by me, if not by other people, Count so-and-so is the lover of X, and the Duke of Blah is deeply attached to Madame whoever.’

Looking into Emma’s face as she leaned over him, he could not bring himself to say that what might pass for mundane in Naples would not in many other places he had been; that the society of the Neapolitans was lax in a way that few others were.

‘And do not play the hypocrite, my dear. Do not tell me, Nelson, that you have no knowledge of dalliance.’

‘You have lost me.’

‘Genoa? A certain opera singer.’

‘You know about that?’

‘Would it surprise you to discover that your officers are no more discreet than any other men?’

Nelson had a vision of that awkward interview with his stepson. ‘Was it Josiah who told you?’

‘No,’ Emma insisted, then added in a slightly wounded tone. ‘Your stepson has barely said a word to me since he came back to Naples. I cannot think what I have done to offend him.’

‘Then who did?’

The information had been given to her, in all innocence though tinged with drink, by Alexander Ball before he left to take station off Malta. He insisted that his commanding officer needed to relax, that he was wound too tight for his own good.

‘Surely you would not wish me to tell you,’ Emma said. ‘Be satisfied that it was told to me out of affection not malice, and by a fellow officer who reckoned that a bit more of the same would do you good.’

Emma had one thigh over his groin, and the gentle motion of her flesh was having a profound effect. It was with a husky voice that Nelson agreed his indiscreet officer had been right.

When he awoke, Emma was gone, habit ensuring that he was the first guest in the Villa Bastioni to be up and about. Tom Allen found him, as Emma had, in candlelight at his desk, writing. He had opened and reread the letter to Fanny, first having read her missive from home in which she related, among news of family and friends, that he was the most famous man in England and that his name was on everyone’s
lips. She had been showered with visits and invitations from the great and the good, all eager to touch his glory by association, and had even been to court where the King had been very kind.

It was the last part of her letter that alarmed him: Fanny had stated her intention of exercising the right of an admiral’s wife to be at her husband’s side on foreign service. The misery of being apart was too much to bear, the thought that he might do something that would take him into the arms of a loving God without her being able to gaze once more on his countenance. She was making plans to travel to the Mediterranean to join him, and had added a request that he might procure, for them, suitable accommodation.

The reply he had written before Emma came to his room had warned Fanny off such a move. He had reminded her that he was a serving officer at the mercy of a commander and government that might send him in all directions, that she might arrive only to find him ordered home. He did not want Fanny out here, fussing and worrying.

But he rewrote his letter with more insistence, instructing her – damn near ordering her – to stay put, and to look for a house in England suitable to their rank and station. Whatever doubts he had harboured about their union over many years were laid to rest: he had found what he knew to be true love.

Fanny was his wife, and as such she had to be accorded all respect. She would have his name, his title, and a reflection of his glory. When he was back in England he would live with her as her husband in whatever accommodation she found. But his heart was elsewhere, and far from feeling unhappy about this, Nelson realised he was entirely at ease with it.

Tom Allen approached the task of shaving his master with some trepidation, since he knew what had happened the day before and last night. But as he looked down into the smiling face, he relaxed, and began to burble away in his customary manner about matters inconsequential.

2

It was a less sanguine admiral who prepared to meet the eyes of the rest of the household over breakfast. Emma had been so indiscreet in her nocturnal meanderings that Nelson was sure that only a blind, deaf fool could have been unaware of what had happened. As if the fates were against him the first person he encountered was Emma’s mother, in her usual housekeeper’s garb, a huge new bunch of keys at her waist to replace those she had left in Naples. The thought of what she knew, which was everything, made him feel queasy.

‘Good morning to you Lord Nelson,’ Mary Cadogan said, with unusual gusto. ‘I trust you had a good night?’ Nelson saw the twinkle in her eye. ‘I can assure you that Sir William slept the sleep of the just,’ she added.

When he smiled, so did she, although he was unaware that Mary Cadogan’s motives were more calculating than his. It was in Nelson’s nature to be friendly with people. Emma’s mother, in the light of recent events, reckoned she should be a mite more pleasant to Lord Nelson. She was still concerned about his suitability and Emma’s security.

‘I’m glad to hear my host enjoyed a peaceful night,’ Nelson responded, thinking that with those words he had entered fully into the intrigue.

Mary Cadogan chuckled, salaciously, which bounced off the walls of the long passageway that led to the main reception rooms. ‘When a man reaches his advanced years, for all he’s a sprightly cove, a good night’s rest is something to savour.’

Nelson managed an embarrassed laugh, then took refuge in the safest
of topics. ‘At least the weather has eased.’

‘Thank Christ,’ Mary Cadogan replied, blissfully unaware of the
blasphemy. That wind had my chaps red raw. Never did I think I’d need to put goose fat on my lotties in these climes.’ She shook her ample breasts, leaving Nelson in no doubt as to what she meant. He laughed inwardly: a sense of vulgarity must run in the family. Emma sometimes shocked him with her open way of referring to her body and his. But he loved it too.

Sir William stood up from the breakfast table to greet him with a wide smile, and the knot of anxiety in Nelson’s breast loosened. ‘The weather has turned, my dear fellow,’ he cried, linking an arm and leading Nelson to an open window. ‘And my bones no longer ache.’

Together they stood by the window, gazing out on a calm sea, which, if it wasn’t the blue of a summer’s day was very different from the dull grey, choppy mass of the previous weeks.

‘That damned
tramontana
cast me low, Nelson. I feared to raise my head of a morning only to hear more bad news from the King’s ministers. But the southerly wind is with us, and the heat of the North African plains will warm our blood. Perhaps it will stir something in these supine Neapolitan breasts as well, so that we can begin to put right all that has passed to mortify us this last month.’

It was easy to see that Sir William was being deliberately hearty, since such behaviour was not a normal component of his urbane and cultured nature. Was he trying to tell Nelson, in his own way, of his acceptance of the situation? If he was, then Nelson was prepared to take it at face value. Within a minute they were sitting at the table, talking like the two friends they had always been.

‘Oh! The news is mixed,’ said Sir William, when Nelson enquired of the latest despatches from the mainland. ‘Cardinal Ruffo and his band of ruffians have enjoyed some success, and that will lift the mood of the court. But Commodore Caracciolo’s behaviour will erase that.’

To Nelson’s lifted eyebrow, Sir William continued, ‘He asked permission of the King to return to Naples to protect his estates from the French. He landed, met Cardinal Ruffo, declined an invitation to join his army and went north. We have had word, as yet unconfirmed, that he has gone over to the Republican cause.’

Nelson recalled the morose countenance of the Commodore both on arrival in Sicily and on the various occasions he had seen him at the Colli Palace: squat, square of face, swarthy with piercing eyes. As he gazed upon his king and queen there had been no love in his face. Now, to Nelson’s way of thinking, Caracciolo had seemed a man who felt himself betrayed, and was conjuring up reasons to justify an act that others would see as treason.

‘It is to be hoped that the rumour is untrue,’ added Sir William, ‘for if Caracciolo has defected it bodes ill for the reconquest of the King’s dominions. It is on men like him that the royal couple must rely.’

‘I would not place too much weight on the likes of Commodore Caracciolo, Sir William,’ Nelson replied, with some asperity. ‘You are in danger, if you do, of sharing the high opinion he has of himself.’

Others joined them for breakfast, Sir William repeating to each new arrival what the change of weather had done for him. He was looking forward to another day’s hunting, and pronounced himself certain that court mourning should be suspended for the deleterious effect it was having on morale. He abjured everyone to be a philosopher and accept whatever fate threw their way, oblivious to the fact that the admonishment flew in the face of his own recent behaviour.

Perhaps it was the change in the weather, but Nelson, too, felt different, and as he boarded his flagship his step was lighter. However, there was the usual mass of correspondence to deal with, and money matters to sort out with John Tyson. A fleet could not run on air and Nelson needed money, a great deal of it, to keep his command supplied, and it was Tyson’s job to ensure a steady flow. In a war-torn world where armies and fleets competed with governments for coin, it was in short supply. Nelson lamented that with the treasures of Malta and the money Bonaparte needed to pay his army on board, there had been enough on the sunken
L’Orient
to keep him supplied for a year.

‘Ships carrying money and the like should fly a special flag, Tyson saying, “do not sink me”,’ Nelson moaned, as he studied the state of the accounts.

Tyson shook his head at a man who seemed unaware of the greed of many of his fellow officers. Nelson could not fathom that there were captains who would let a whole fleet go to secure a Spanish plate ship. He merely informed Nelson of his efforts to raise coin from sources close by and from England, it being his job, also, to ensure that every penny pledged was properly accounted for: his personal credit was at stake and he operated for his profit on a small margin. A minor error in the accounts might be picked up by an Admiralty clerk, which would cost him dear. A major miscalculation would see him ruined.

Nelson had to account for every pound spent, too, and there was always a difference between what the Admiralty considered proper expenditure and that which any admiral on station needed to spend.
With the well-being of his sailors his paramount concern, Nelson used money with a prodigality that prompted a steady flow of censorious correspondence. Sums expended months, even years before, in storms, battles or even on a calm day in port, had to be explained to an official who sat close by a fire at work and had his home to go to at night. That sailors at sea might want for some comfort was none of this fellow’s concern.

‘Lady Hamilton is preparing to come aboard, sir. Captain Hardy has undertaken to greet her on the quarterdeck.’

Immersed in his letters, the name shocked Nelson. He looked up at the midshipman who had brought the message, dying to ask him if Sir William was in attendance – but, of course, he could not be, or his name would have been announced. No one else had been announced either, which implied that Emma had come alone. Why had Hardy sent for him so swiftly? He looked at Tyson, who seemed intent on keeping his head down, like a man who knew something and feared eye contact. Nelson grabbed his hat and left. Tyson exchanged a glance with Tom Allen, which confirmed for him the truth of a rumour that had been flying around the fleet since before they left Naples.

That every man aboard was privy to that rumour was obvious as Lady Hamilton made her way up the companionway to the quarterdeck. As always aboard a square-rigger tied up to a mole, a mass of work was being carried out. Blocks and pulleys were being greased, ropes spliced or replaced, sails hung out to air, men below with vinegar soused the ’tween decks, with hatches open to let in some air. Under the supervision of the gunner, the cannon and the gun carriages were being serviced, while other men worked on the breechings that held them to the side of the ship. The carpenter and his mates were hacking out damaged wood and replacing it with new timber. Men were over the side with paint, the smell of which mixed with the tar used to caulk new planking, crane parties were hauling aboard supplies while water barrels were being scrubbed clean for refilling. The pace of that work slowed perceptibly, since everyone had one eye cast towards the quarterdeck to see Captain Hardy and the officer of the watch raise their hats to the visitor. When Nelson came on deck, his haste to greet the lady was plain to see. His sailors were too shrewd to murmur approval when he, hat off, kissed her proffered hand, but there were many satisfied sighs and nods – mixed with the odd snort from those who saw a broken commandment.

‘Lady Hamilton,’ said Nelson, ‘you have come alone?’

Emma spoke in a clear voice, easy to hear over what was now a silent ship. ‘I need neither companion nor chaperone to visit such a close friend.’

Suddenly the air was full of shouting as the officers, petty, warrant and commissioned, realised that HMS
Vanguard
was quieter than a church hosting a funeral. Now each worker sought to assure those in authority that if all the other fellows had been curious, he had not, which created a great babble of noise that made Nelson laugh.

Hardy was blushing, while the officer of the watch made himself as frantically busy as everyone else close by: they all wished to pretend they had not seen confirmed what they had all suspected. Nelson might not be a good reader of social signs ashore but he knew his sailors too well to be fooled. What he had thought secret had been, if not common knowledge, certainly a shared suspicion.

Emma leaned a fraction closer. ‘Have I missed something, Nelson?’

‘No, my dear,’ he replied in a soft voice. ‘I fear you have just confirmed something.’

‘I should be angry with you, Emma. You were flitting about last night in the most obvious way and you must have considered the consequences of coming aboard my ship without a companion.’

She was lying along the cushions on the footlockers, her head in his lap, looking up, green eyes squinting as the sun sparkled on the panes of the casement windows. ‘Why consider what I do not fear to be known?’ she asked.

‘Discretion?’ he asked.

‘Is for mere mortals, not the Hero of the Nile – the Hero of the Nation is nearer the truth.’

‘Please!’

She sat up, her face close and level with his. ‘You are that, Nelson, though it does you credit that you seem to be the only man unaware of it.’

Nelson wanted to admonish Emma and tell her that what might pass in the confines of a villa would not pass in the street or on a naval deck. But what he had sensed on his own deck not ten minutes before prevented that. Though he could never be brought to admit it, Nelson had a preternatural knowledge of mood, a most essential attribute in a commander. He could sense discontent merely by walking the deck: it was in the cast of a shoulder or the avoidance of an eye, in the bearing of a midshipman or ship’s boy. A happy ship was a fighting ship and, while he would not step too far outside the
rules of his profession, he was prepared to push them to whatever limit was required to look after his officers and crew. There was a warm glow in his breast at the thought that his men were pleased for him. There would be those not happy, men who hated the sin, but he had felt a wave of affection at the moment he had kissed Emma’s hand.

‘It is not uncommon,’ Emma asked, ‘for officers to have their wives aboard, is it?’

‘Unusual, my dear, but not uncommon. Thomas Freemantle rarely sails anywhere without his beloved Betsy.’

‘A lady who is young and lively?’

‘Very! A beauty and a favourite of every officer who knows her husband.’

Her face was very close to his now. ‘I was just wondering … Where do they … Captain Freemantle and his Betsy … you know …?’

‘Emma, you are shameless.’

She giggled. ‘I do hope so.’

An hour later, dressed and with all repaired, Nelson and Emma strode the decks as he explained the function of each article needed in the construction of a fighting ship. As he talked, or introduced her to some sailor or petty officer, Nelson watched their faces, pleased that there was no hint of a blush anywhere. He was used to the way the midshipmen dogged his footsteps, but the open admiration for Emma in the faces of these boys cheered him.

A woman who had never lost sight of her original station in life, Emma was not the type to play the
grande
dame.
In fact she had the same ease in common company as Nelson, and beauty enough to win over anyone whose heart might waver at the thought of her being their hero’s paramour. Thus their progress was one of pleasant asides, smiles, much doffing of sailors’ caps and officers’ hats.