Scandal and Secrets

by Christopher Hoare

  Elizabeth lowered her voice. “It is an affliction I experienced as quite a small child. At that time the French aristocracy were even more obsessed with Purity of the Blood.”

  “Purity o’ what? I don’t think I understand.”

  “The idea that nobility comes from birth, and a marriage below one’s station is not merely a scandal but that the children of the union are to be considered blighted in the eyes of God. I remember my family were at loggerheads for months over a boy they wanted to betroth me to. Was the second son of a mere count good enough for me?”

  He regarded her in some surprise.

  She laughed. “It seems so trivial a matter to me now. Half of the disputants went to the guillotine before I was six.”

  Worthington shook his head. “But this is the reason fur the Marquess’ concern over our Roberta?”

  “Yes. He will not accept her fit to bear a future marquess.”

  “Good Lord, and he can end her marriage for that?”

  “He is trying to, as I believe Mr. Holmes informed you.”

  Worthington began to see the seriousness of these issues Mr. Holmes spoke about to him―it had seemed a great deal of snobbery over nowt when they spoke of it at Chatham. The poor girl could be robbed of her marriage and her good name over some matter normal folk could laugh at. Why had His Lordship not spoken to her about it? Was there nothing Bond could do without her pleading for the Prince Regent’s assistance? Perhaps that would be the end of it if she was successful.

  “I would have liked to have told her how disposed I am to assisting her to the very end of my ability,” he said. “But it is clearly not appropriate for me to say to a married lady. If there were some way . . .”

  “I believe she understands your concern and appreciates it. She too would like to discuss these issues more deeply and is constrained by her marriage vows.”

  “But if the Marquess does cast her out . . .”

  “Then I believe many of us would feel free to take her side,” Elizabeth said. “Your inclination would then be most appropriate.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Subterfuge and Truth in Bern

  Lord Bond strolled down the sidewalk swinging his cane as if he were without a care in the world. When he reached the steps of the Metropole, he stood to take a pinch of snuff. The Swedish gentleman who had followed them from Stralsund was no longer in sight, since he had doubled back through the market. He was one of two suspicious travellers Bond believed to be working for the French.

  The message from Elise this morning had informed him of the arrival of someone with an American passport. He put away his snuff and mounted the steps. The doorman opened both glass panelled doors, and a footman came immediately for his cane and top hat.

  “What may we do for you, mein Herr?” a third flunky asked.

  “I will have directions to the lounge and a French language newspaper if you will.”

  “Jawohl, mein Herr.”

  Bond settled himself behind the newspaper in a seat beside the window, and told the waiter to bring him an absinth. There were fewer than a dozen guests in the room, if he were to count Elise, sitting at the writing desk opposite, as a visitor like himself. She had not paid any attention to him as he arrived, which may either have been careful security or a trace of her pique at him for giving her the false identity of Miss Smith, a children’s governess in the household of the English Consul to the Canton of Bern.

  He had barely read two pages of the newspaper before the waiter brought him a note written on Metropole notepaper. Her message was short, “Second floor room 17. I will go first.” He watched her leave over the pages of his newspaper and waited five minutes before following her.

  She met him at the top of the stairs. “Do you want to go first?”

  “Who is it? Do we know him?”

  “I haven’t seen him, but I suspect we do.”

  “We’ll knock and go in together.”

  A voice inside replied to his knock. “Yeah, come in.” The man himself scrambled to his feet when they entered. “Not you two again!”

  Bond gave a slight bow. “Good morning, Gideon. Would you like a carriage ride in the fresh morning air?”

  He plunked down again. “I’m not likely to take any gol-durned carriage ride with either of you.”

  “Oh dear, still nursing a little animosity are we? If you will sit and listen, I will explain why you will agree to my suggestion.” He pointed Elise to an inner door and crossed the room himself to open the French doors to the balcony and look out.

  “I’m here alone if that’s what you’re checking,” Paine said.

  “All to the good, if true,” Bond replied, “but you are likely to have an eavesdropper―the Metropole is not secure.”

  Elise returned from the other room. “There is a spy staying in Room 302, and he has collected at least two friends in the past two days.”

  “How do you know he’s a spy?”

  Bond closed the French doors and took a seat opposite him. “Because he is a Swedish national who has followed us here from Swedish Pomerania.”

  “Swedish national don’t add up to a French spy.”

  “Since France had an army of occupation there for four years and the Marshal of the army was rusticated for getting too chummy with the Swedes, I would suggest the French have long tentacles there.”

  “So, what are you gonna do about it?”

  “Ah, so we are back to the carriage ride.” Bond smiled. “We have the offer of a chateau for our deliberations. It is just three miles from the city and beside the river. We can go to and fro by road or water.”

  “This is some continental Englishman?”

  “Not at all. The family are German speaking Swiss with no connection to either America or Britain. The family is not in residence at present, so we would have the whole place to ourselves.”

  “Without snoops,” Elise added.

  “Can you agree to this, or is Ambassador Crawford coming?”

  “The Ambassador won’t be coming, he has too much on his plate with the French. You really screwed things up with spreading rumours about the French loan.”

  Bond raised his hands to show his palms. “So, who will be America’s commissioners, and where are they . . . ? Ah. Do not answer that, it will be more secure in the carriage. You are up for a carriage ride?”

  Bond repeated his question when they were seated in an open landau with a team of four and on their way up Reichenbacher Strasse.

  Paine looked about at the city before answering. “They are waiting for some of the members to catch up at Belfort . . . they are coming from Russia.”

  “Would that be gentlemen from the preliminary peace discussions that were to be brokered by Tsar Alexander?”

  “That the British government turned down . . . yes.”

  “Ah well. Better luck next time.”

  Bond was pleased; the chateau was readily accepted by all of them, although he didn’t want Elise to get any new ideas from the luxurious surroundings . . . Miss Smith’s position would serve her well here. When they had dropped Paine back at the Metropole, they discussed the chateau in detail as they rode to their lodgings with the British commissionaires.

  “The only thing I didn’t like was how close the trees were to the chateau. It strikes me that a number of spies could hide there.”

  “But a beautiful setting,” Elise said.

  “Yes. I fancied you were looking at the ambience rather than the security.”

  “I did both.”

  “Hmm.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You haven’t written a letter to Lady Bond since we have been here by any chance?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “I wrote her about the return of those dresses and finery the two of you wore in Antwerp―they must be surrendered to an Admiralty prize court. She had the nerve to suggest I might know where yours were rather than she.”

  Elise laughed. “She knows you too well, Bond. You cannot fool her.�
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  “I cannot imagine what you mean,” he said, glaring down at her. “She must have been in a poor mood when she replied to my letter. I would have thought she would have been ecstatic to read my words after such a long time.”

  Elise shook her head. “What did you try to put over on her?”

  “Nothing, of course.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “You really do not understand, do you?”

  “What is there to understand? We are still married. My father has not won yet.”

  “What did you write?”

  “I assured her that should our marriage be annulled we could easily start again from proper banns and a church on land and say our vows again. She seemed to query the thought.”

  “Good Lord, man. Why do you suppose we women consent to throw ourselves into matrimony? It cannot be from the wonderful creatures we tie ourselves to. We marry because we need security, we need a husband’s social standing and his fortune―although Lady Bond is self-sufficient, I dare say. We need a champion who will fight for us and protect us―who will always be there when we need him. What aspect of any of those propositions did your marriage to Lady Bond give her?”

  “I was devoted to her . . .”

  “You gave her nothing but deceit and heartache. Why would she want you back if she had the chance of escape?”

  He stared aghast as the carriage jolted to a halt. Thoughts ran uncontrollably around in his brain. Where did such scandalous ideas come from? Had they been passed from his companion to Lady Bond like the poison of a plague while they were together in Antwerp? No wonder she now seemed so cool and distant. He must leave the Continent at the first opportunity and hurry to Scotland to charm her―even woo her again. She was lost, else.

  Chapter Twenty

  A Royal Command

  A sharp March wind off the North Sea kept the bunting on the standing rigging flying and the naval ensigns flapping to and fro. The crew lined up on the weather deck had to grab for their headgear whenever stronger gusts blew across the anchorage. The flag party at the mainmast held on to the unfurled Royal standard in readiness to run it up to the main peak. On the quarterdeck, Roberta steeled herself to remain calm as the Royal Barge made its way down the River Medway toward them. She told herself that it was not the meeting itself that caused her anxiety, but the conversation she must find a way to introduce to the Prince Regent.

  Mr. MacRae and Lieutenant Farley standing beside her seemed equally fidgety as if they too were conscious of their need to make a good impression. Roberta had been surprised when Commander Worthington had introduced Farley as HMS Regent’s future commander when he had brought the crew to Clydebank. Apparently the Court Martial had exonerated him from negligence in the loss of the gun-brig Marigold.

  Roberta exchanged a glance with Elizabeth, standing at the head of her artificers and stokers at the entry port. All the officers had been shocked and surprised when Roberta had announced that the engine room staff would provide the honour guard aboard the ship during the Prince’s inspection. “Is not this honour of a royal visit to be ascribed to those men who toil below in dark and dirt to ensure the vessel conquers the waves?” she had argued. The last duty the boilers had provided that morning was to supply ample hot water for the baths that made the skins of the Black Gang shine like new-born babes in the fresh laundered uniforms. She knew Commander Worthington would be proud of the compliment when he heard, but Spiteful had been away at sea in the Channel to the Westerschelde for two days.

  There came a slight bump as the Royal barge came alongside the Regent. Two crewmen from the barge scrambled up the rope ladder to catch the ropes from below that would raise and secure the entry stairs; Regent not being a First Rate with a fixed entry port. Regent’s bosun and bosun’s mate stepped to the opening to pipe the Royal visitor aboard. As soon as that was done, the Prince Regent in the company of the First Lord of the Admiralty ascended the stairs to the accompaniment of a bourrée from Handel’s water music played by a small ensemble on the barge.

  Roberta took a deep breath as His Royal Highness set foot on the deck wearing a dark blue frock coat covered in orders and gold braid, white breeches and stockings, a naval sword at his waist, and a modest tricorn hat as befitted the wind. She took a step forward to curtsey.

  “Please let me introduce Lady Roberta Bond, Your Highness,” Viscount Melville said.

  His Highness offered his hand to her as she stood upright. “Jolly good show, My Lady, good show. I’ll warrant that is the first time a Royal visitor has been greeted by a curtsey aboard a warship. Lord Melville tells me you are the designer and builder of these novel ships. Designer and builder, by gad.”

  “Yes, Your Royal Highness. They are built to sink the Corsican’s invasion barges.”

  “Bang on. Bang on indeed―drown the blighters.”

  Roberta smiled at the Prince’s enthusiasm, feeling for the first time that her task might be possible. “Please let me introduce you to my senior officers, Your Royal Highness.”

  He walked with her to stand before Farley and Mr. MacRae, and shook their hands as they were introduced. “Mr. MacRae has been the Stephenson shipyard’s sailing master throughout the building and proving voyages; Lieutenant Farley will be the vessel’s commander as soon as the Navy accepts the hand-over.”

  “Indeed. Good show.”

  “And next, I must present Miss Elizabeth Grandin, our Chief Engine Room officer. She is standing at the head of her artificers and stokers . . . who form Your Highness’ Honour Guard today.”

  As the Prince moved forward, Roberta came face to face with the First Lord, who wiggled his eyebrows at the novelty of her announcement. Behind stood a number of other dignitaries―Mr. Holmes, who seemed to find it difficult to suppress a laugh, and Lord Paulit, who surreptitiously wagged a finger of mild censure.

  The Prince’s retinue began to fill the space beside the rail as Roberta and the First Lord guided them down the line of crew. There must have been half a dozen captains, two more admirals, and four gentlemen-in-waiting who wore more modest versions of the Prince’s regalia up to and including the huge white cravats that reached to their chins. Roberta would have liked to have greeted Mr. Holmes but he could get no nearer to her than to walk with MacRae and Farley as the procession wound about the deck.

  The Prince, the First Lord, and the naval party chose to go below decks to see the accommodation and the engines while the Prince’s gentlemen remained on deck. Roberta wondered if one of these gentlemen was the culprit who had prevented her husband from petitioning the Prince himself. They all seemed to wear disdainful expressions, as if nothing less than a hundred and twenty gun ship of the line was worthy of their interest.

  “How did your journey south go?” Lord Paulit asked as they stood in the starboard engine room listening to Elizabeth’s explanations.

  Lieutenant Farley took the opportunity to answer. “Very well, My Lord. With our gaff sails set to a strong Atlantic blow and our engines at full power, we made better than thirteen knots from Cape Wrath to the Pentland Firth.”

  “Very good. And no trouble with the engine bearings?” His Lordship said.

  “Nay, M’Lord,” Mr. MacRae added. “That’s a thing o’ the past, th’ noo.”

  The inspection of the ship took almost an hour, and the Prince seemed quite taken with the novelty of it. Several times he bent his head to Roberta and said, “Please describe what this does,” as he encountered machinery he had not seen aboard a man-o-war.

  Mr. Holmes managed to work his way through the throng to offer Roberta a few words of greeting from her husband―judiciously timed to ensure the Prince heard.

  “What’s this? What’s this? You have not seen your husband for weeks, My Dear?”

  “Months, Your Highness,” Mr. Holmes answered for her. “And now he is off to Switzerland with the diplomatic mission.”

  “He has arrived, I believe,” she said.

  The Prince cocked his head to one side. “Ah,
yes. Your husband is the Marquess of Tiverton’s son, is he not? He has done us great service gaining intelligence about the Corsican’s plans.”

  “As has Lady Bond, Your Highness,” Mr. Holmes added. “She accompanied him on his mission to the Low Countries in September last.”

  “No! Surely not. You were in Antwerp, My Dear? How did that come about?”

  “I went with him as the steamship expert, Your Highness.”

  Mr. Holmes added to her words. “She not only saw the French steamships, she had to meet Napoleon to do it.”

  The Prince’s eyebrows almost disappeared from view. “You met the Corsican? You actually met the blighter? You must tell me all.”

  “It is a long story, Your Highness.”

  “No doubt. No doubt, but a very interesting one. You must come ashore with us as we go to the dinner and reception in Chatham.” He looked about for the First Lord. “Lord Robert! Lord Robert, we must take this charming and interesting young lady with us when we leave. That is acceptable, I presume.”

  “Certainly, Your Royal Highness. Once we leave, her duties aboard will cease and the Navy’s officer will take command.”

  Roberta smiled at Mr. Holmes for his timely assistance and turned to Mr. MacRae. “I will leave all the Stephenson responsibilities to you until I return.”

  “Verra weel, My Lady.”

  On the journey up the Medway to Chatham, His Highness was surrounded by his gentlemen who claimed important matters of state―likely the hierarchy of the town dignitaries they would meet. Roberta likewise was surrounded by the captains and admirals who questioned her closely about steamships versus sail.

  “When Farley said the gaff rig had aided the steaming off Cape Wrath, he must have been confused,” one captain insisted.

  “Not at all, Sir,” Roberta answered. “While you are perhaps familiar with steam assisting the power of the wind, we who are steamship sailors often look at the situation in reverse. I have never been averse to using a favourable wind to allow my stokers to economise on the use of coal.”