Nelson nodded agreement, though the subject bored him and he did not want to talk about it. He half suspected that Herbert had deliberately brought it up to avoid engaging in the one his visitor desired. It had been a strange interlude, these last few months, with the planters huffing and puffing yet fearful to go too far until Nelson heard from the Admiralty, a message they feared might praise his high-handed actions.
Even more odd was the way he had to skulk about in his cutter, leaving ship and returning in the dark, sneaking ashore on Nevis and making his way to Montpelier in secret. But if things had gone badly on water, they could be said to have progressed on dry land. He was far from having an arrangement with Fanny Nisbet, but enough had been imparted in a dozen meetings and over fifty letters to convince him that a formal request for her hand in marriage would not founder on an objection from that quarter. He was desperate to pin down Herbert, who was eel-like in his determination to avoid being ensnared.
Now good manners overrode Nelson’s impatience and forced him to reply. He acknowledged the truth of what Herbert had said. They talked of Admiral Hughes, due to be relieved, too taken with imminent departure to bother with his second-in-command.
“He is determined to get away before the hurricane season makes it too dangerous. I think he’s only awaiting the arrival of Prince William.”
At that name Herbert lifted his head. “You know the King’s son, do you not?”
This was a question he had asked before. The prospect of royalty being present in the islands excited him. But that was not what animated Nelson, and his exasperation was evident in his voice. “You may recall me saying I served with him in Lord Hood’s fleet during the American War. I—”
“He will come here, won’t he, Nelson?
Nelson looked away for a second so that his sigh would not be obvious. “Nevis is high on the list of places His Royal Highness must visit. Naturally, as president of the council, the task of greeting him will fall to you.”
An already puffed chest swelled even more. “Most satisfactory.”
“I have,” Nelson said nervously, “come here upon another matter. That which I wrote to you about.”
“Quite,” Herbert replied, noncommittally, pausing to examine a brightly coloured flower.
Exasperation finally broke the bonds of politeness, and Nelson spoke quite sharply. “Do my attentions to your niece offend you?”
“Never, Captain Nelson,” Herbert said calmly, still fingering his flower. “As a man I esteem you, though I would never allow personal taste to interfere with my duties as the head of the family. Your own family connections raise you to the rank of suitor, regardless of my opinions.”
“I must advise you, sir, that I am poor as a church mouse.”
Herbert laughed. “Never fear, sir. I have seen many an officer arrive out here penniless, only to return home as rich as Croesus.”
“That would apply only in wartime. I am obliged, before pressing forward in any way, to ask of Mrs Nisbet’s circumstances.”
Herbert’s small eyes were on him. “She hasn’t a penny to her name, sir.”
Nelson felt his chest constrict and he struggled to hide the shock. This news flew in the face of all that he had observed of her here at Montpelier. Frances Nisbet played the hostess to such perfection, in this grand mansion on an island crowned with wealth, that the idea that she had no money of her own was ridiculous.
“And her expectations?” he asked, breath held.
Herbert waved an airy hand. “Without my good offices she has none.”
For the first time they locked eyes. “Then I must ask you, sir, if you intend to endow her?”
Herbert held the stare. “And I must ask if you are intent on pressing your suit.”
Nelson had to hesitate then, faced by a Rubicon that, once crossed, would provide no retreat. “I have expressed certain sentiments to the lady by letter, Mr Herbert, that make the subject of income delicate.”
The words were burning in his brain: that he would as happily occupy with her a cottage as a palace; that esteem founded on sound reasons was more to him than money. He was forced by these surprising revelations to ask if such statements were true. But as he conjured up a vision of wedded bliss, of young Josiah running riot in some well tended cottage garden, he was happy to acknowledge the warmth of his feelings.
Besides, he was convinced that Herbert was just being coy, a wise move for a man who, for all his display of generosity, had had the sense to be careful of his money. He esteemed his niece, that was certain, rarely missing an opportunity to praise her. When the time came to show how much he cared, Nelson was sure that his bounteous purse would be loosened.
“I have set my heart on a course of action, sir, from which I would be desperately disappointed to be deflected.”
Herbert nodded sagely, forcing his chin back into his chest. “You propose to take on a heavy burden. And I propose to think on the matter if that answer satisfies you.”
“Only a wedding will satisfy me, sir.”
“So ardent, Nelson, so damned ardent.”
Herbert nearly blurted out his concern then; that this suitor was a man who made trouble wherever he went, and none of Herbert’s fellow planters would take kindly to him being welcomed into the Montpelier household. Yet clearly Fanny was smitten. He had heard that Nelson was as mercurial in a fight as he was as a suitor, as determined to succeed professionally as he was to dun him out of a dowry. And what then? He had just as likely get his head blown off in some action and leave him, John Herbert, to take on the burden of a niece who had been widowed twice.
“I have told you, sir,” he said, “these are matters to be thought on.”
In the face of that Nelson had to be content.
Chapter Five
1786
MARY CADOGAN’S relations with Charles Greville were based on one principle: he was the master and she, though of the superior sort, was his servant. It was an arrangement she worked hard to keep in place, never assuming as Emma’s mother any prerogative that didn’t come naturally to her through her position. Never once did she presume to comment on their relationship, content to accept that, despite occasional disputes, it satisfied something for both parties. In so much as he was capable of affection Greville cherished her daughter. Emma, emotional always, veered between submissive love and occasional bouts of intense fury, but on the whole seemed content with her lot.
That Emma loved him mystified her mother, but she had seen too many unlikely couplings in her varied life to indulge in any deep reasoning. When he was absent Emma praised Greville to the skies, quite forgetting that her mother saw nearly as much of the man. Even the pain of Little Emma’s removal, which had come closest to breaking their connection, faded within weeks of the child’s departure, leaving an atmosphere once more calm, as though she had never been a resident.
Mary Cadogan was too wise to try to comprehend the ways of love. The most inappropriate pairing often lasted longest and perhaps this was one of them. Her interest was to keep them in the house, in relative comfort, to satisfy the fussy Greville, and smooth the odd bouts of rebellion in her daughter. She and Greville talked often, of course, since the maintenance of the house required it. There were menus to discuss, guests to accommodate as well as the mundane costs and quality of the keeping of the house.
No meeting was an occasion for comfort. Greville lacked that ease of manner with servants that made for a simple exchange. He tended to bark his enquiries rather than speak them. He worried over the smallest amounts of money but insisted that when he entertained nothing should be left aside that his guests had a right to expect from a host.
He was constantly on the cusp of ruin, speculating here and dealing there to keep himself and his way of living afloat. The building of a collection for future sale and keeping Emma Hart ate up money that had to come from somewhere. The annual five hundred pounds allowance from his father didn’t go far, so he tried to make up the shortfall by dealing i
n pictures, acting as his uncle’s agent, and accepting commissions to act for others. The rental of his house in Portman Square failed to produce the required income, leading to a sale, which resulted in losses once he had paid the builders.
His endless search for a rich wife was no secret, though it was never openly discussed. Nor was it a cause for much anxiety. If Greville did land an heiress the match would be for money, not love. It was tacitly accepted that success was not intended to affect the arrangements at Edgware Road. They would continue, albeit without the permanent presence of the master.
So Charles Greville existed in a financial and social circle whose ends couldn’t meet. But his housekeeper, a clever woman, manipulated his moods and her expenses in an attempt to satisfy both his purse and his aspirations. The knowledge that this was so did little to temper his moods at their weekly meetings.
Mary Cadogan sensed that this interview was to be different when Greville invited her to sit. It was not the normal day for their perusal of the accounts and the commitments for the coming week; that had already taken place. And he was nervous rather than cranky, fiddling with papers or moving the candles, occasionally jumping up to poke the fire before throwing himself back on to his chair. The opening remarks had the general quality of gossip, as if he was in some doubt as to how to proceed.
“Tell me, Mrs Cadogan, what did you think of my uncle William?”
“A fine gentleman, sir.”
She meant it, but considered it a daft question. How could she say any different? Uncle William, as both Greville and Emma called him, had been a breath of fresh air in the house, with his worldly manners, ready wit and lack of side. He was a man who found the lower orders easy company, was of the type to make them feel comfortable attending on him—that evidenced by the genuine tears that had accompanied his departure. Yet she had heard his name damned only two days previously on receipt of his latest letter by the very nephew who claimed to esteem him most.
“It seemed to me that Emma was exceedingly fond of him.”
“She was and still is, sir.”
“Has she spoken to you of this?”
He had turned away to poke the fire again, but his voice gave a lie to the impression he was trying to create, that the question was of little import.
“Emma talks of him often, sir, to you as well as me, I’ll wager. He was kindness itself and not above an excess of flattery to please her. It wouldn’t be going too far to say she misses him. We all do in the house, from scullery to attic.”
“What you term flattery was nothing more than the plain truth, Mrs Cadogan. My uncle regarded your daughter in the highest possible light, not only for her beauty but for her manner and her accomplishments.”
Mary Cadogan wanted to say that that was obvious, as obvious as the attentions paid to Emma by everyone Greville introduced her to. How many times had he come back from some event railing against some poltroon for his forwardness? Mary Cadogan reckoned that through usage, Greville had lost sight of what a prize he had captured.
“It is pleasing as her mother to hear that, sir.”
“I have arranged for Emma to visit him in Naples,” Greville said abruptly, sending up a shower of bright orange sparks as he poked at the coals. “Naturally I would like you to accompany her.”
The obvious question to follow that was a request to know what he was going to do, since there was no “we” in the proposal. But that was one she felt it would be unwise to ask. Mary Cadogan knew, or at least formed judgements on, more than Charles Greville imagined. It was one of the advantages of being a servant that you were free to observe what others involved in such exchanges failed to see: the pitch of a voice, the undertones of a statement, the look the listener couldn’t see were all objects of acute interest to a person rarely included in the conversation.
Little could be hidden from someone who occupied and supervised the house. It was her task to take in and pay for the post, so even if the contents of any letter were unknown to her, the name and location of the correspondent were not. If a verbal message came when the master was absent it fell to her to take it. With her daughter the mistress of the house, Mary Cadogan had more than a passing interest in the relationship between her and Greville. Having suffered so many changes in her life she was attuned to the atmosphere that preceded a shift. And right now that extra sense was at full stretch.
“I must go to Edinburgh for six months,” Greville said finally, a slight growl in his tone, evidence to Mary Cadogan that he had been waiting for her to ask. He threw the poker at the fire and himself into his chair. “I had considered taking Emma with me, but it won’t answer. Nor, as I’m sure you will agree, would leaving her here.”
Again Mary Cadogan didn’t respond. There was a sniff of finality in the way he was speaking. Was Greville the type to cast Emma out like Uppark Harry before him? A vision of her and her daughter on the street again was hard to keep out of her mind.
“Sir William has written to say he is happy to accept you both into his household until I can join you.” There was a vague wave of the hand. “Some time in September or October, I would say.”
It wasn’t that which had caused the shouted goddamns she heard from the outside of the parlour door. The invitation from Sir William that the trio of nephew, mistress, and mother should visit Naples had been made often in this very room.
“You have told Emma this?”
“No,” he said slowly. “I fear that after our last parting, as well as the loss of Little Emma, she will take it badly.”
With another man it might have been easy to accept his every word at face value, but not with Greville. He surely didn’t want her to tell her daughter of his plans. That was a task he could not pass to another. So why tell her first? There would be scenes for sure, tantrums from Emma, the kind of tears and wailing that wouldn’t go amiss in a stage tragedy.
“I want her to be happy, Mrs Cadogan. I hope you know that.”
“I do, sir,” she replied. Once more, what else could she say?
“If I do anything, I do it for her own sake.”
The word “liar” was in her mind but not on her lips as he continued, forced jollity evident in his voice, his words jumbled. “My uncle has painted such an enchanting picture of Naples, I am afire to see the place. Emma will share a similar excitement, I’m sure, and he is so fond of her and she of him, they are so very easy in each other’s company, that the visit is bound to be a success. I must in truth tell you I am already suffering pangs of both loss and jealousy.”
“For six months?”
“Quite,” he replied, avoiding her eye. Then, warming to his theme, he spoke with calculated enthusiasm. “Think of it. He will be able to take her to dig for his treasures. She has often said she would enjoy that. And Naples is not London. My uncle remarked on the ease of manners. I daresay Emma will meet the very cream of Neapolitan society.”
“That will be very nice,” Mary Cadogan replied, in a voice that earned her a sharp look.
“You do not agree?”
“Why, sir,” conjuring up an expression of false innocence, “whatever gave you that idea?”
“I have arranged for a fellow to accompany you, David Gifford, a pupil of Romney, who is charged to visit Rome to improve his skills. He has French and Italian, so will be useful.”
So Romney knows, Mary Cadogan thought, and this pupil knows. It must be that Uncle William knows. How come Emma don’t know?
There was something afoot that she couldn’t fathom right off. But it was there and a clear mind was needed to discern it. She was tempted to challenge him, to demand outright what he was up to. But there was no point. He wouldn’t oblige her with the truth.
“When do you intend to tell Emma, sir?”
That made him look exceedingly uncomfortable, causing him suddenly to shift his body in the chair as though he itched all over. “As soon as she returns from her singing lesson.”
“Would I be permitted to enquire how far your
plans are advanced, sir?”
That made him shoot out of the chair again, so that he could turn his back and avoid her eye. “The decision is made.”
“And when would you be expecting us to travel?”
Another vague wave, as though that part of what must occur was a fresh thought. “The middle of the month.”
“No more’n a week away.”
“Matters have come to a head in less time than I allowed.”
“Best prepare for a squall then, sir, for my Emma will not take kindly to your notion.”
“I cannot see why,” he insisted, more to convince himself than her. “Naples, in the company of a man she is fond of. It’s an exotic place, you know, very exotic. Emma has been entranced to hear my uncle describe it. I’ve seen the look in her eye when he tells his tales. I cannot see how it can fail to appeal to her sense of adventure.”
“Change is never as welcome to those doing it as it is to them that proposes.”
In the end, Mary Cadogan was surprised by the meek way in which Emma reacted to news of the arrangements. Perhaps Greville had persuaded her that there was some advantage in his proposals, benefits he had not vouchsafed to herself. Also, she knew that Greville had cowed Emma’s spirit somewhat, but only realised now how much. An earlier Emma would have raised Cain at his plans and rightly so. Mary Cadogan, for all the strictures she herself had employed with her daughter, wasn’t sure that she was as fond of this humble apparition as she was of the old contrary one.
Since a storm-tossed crossing and that first night in the inn at Montreuil, the journey had represented six weeks of sights, sounds and smells larded with discomfort and misery. The latter, in Emma’s case, stemmed from the need for a six-month parting between her and the man she loved. For her mother it was the need to listen to the endless expectations her daughter espoused that Greville would fly to her side long before the due period was complete.
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