Horatio Nelson was a God-fearing man who cared much for the state of his soul. Fanny must remind him that damnation waited for an unrepentant sinner who dared break the commandments. This Lady Hamilton might be a beauty, and celebrated socially. Hot, teeming Naples and a voluptuous woman might have turned his head, but did she have good manners and the kind of grace that Fanny knew she herself possessed? Her plan was not to chastise him: all men were weak creatures when it came to matters of the flesh. Fanny would prevail by example, by the certain knowledge that in the places where Nelson would want to be received his ‘veritable Diana’ would not be welcome. He would, away from the bright sunlight of southern Italy, realise in the more sobering climate of his native land, where his true interests lay.
The Nelson party arrived in London in the middle of a tempest. The streets of the City were strewn with roof tiles, and in parts of Westminster roads were closed because of the danger of falling masonry. Emma was grateful for the weather conditions as Nelson could enter the capital without fuss: most sensible people were content to huddle indoors and read about rather than witness his return. They were finally decanted at a hotel in St James’s with only a small, chilled crowd outside to greet him.
Emma was the only one who stopped between coach and entrance, to look around at what were familiar buildings. Arlington Street was not so very far away, and there were a dozen places round this area where she had spent time in the company of various suitors. They had passed through Whitechapel on the way, where one lover had abandoned her, and from which Greville had rescued her. Covent Garden lay to one side as they passed along the Strand. Emma had been one of a thousand waifs and strays scratching a living there once, selling flowers occasionally for the price of some food, ever alert to the possibilities of falling even further in to wretchedness.
To Nelson, London was a strange place, a great metropolis full of preoccupied strangers who had no sympathy for their fellow men. Emma never spoke it: to do so would bring an admission that it was as much home to her as Naples: familiar, with sights that invoked both pleasant and unhappy memories. But then so much of what she had experienced was alien to her lover. She suspected he knew more of her past than he let on, but was grateful to him for his silence.
‘Lady Hamilton!’ His voice brought her sharply back to the present. The look on his face was troubled, making her wonder if he had read her thoughts. Then he smiled. ‘I fear we have a busy day ahead.’
He was correct, of course, the first duty being to ensure that while those he wanted to see were shown up to his rooms, others were politely turned away. The Marquis of Queensberry, a relative of Sir William Hamilton, called, and was introduced at his own insistence to Nelson, a courtesy that was not extended to the next Hamilton caller, Charles Greville.
Nelson’s first naval visitor was Thomas Troubridge, on his way to take up an appointment as captain of the Channel Fleet, now commanded by Earl St Vincent. He would be the senior executive officer to Nelson’s old chief, probably his last appointment as a captain before he, too, earned his admiral’s flag. That gave the pair plenty to talk about that did not include Emma, not least the notion that Nelson himself might serve under St Vincent again, notwithstanding the fact that their lawyers were locked in a dispute about the distribution of Mediterranean prize money.
Troubridge loved Nelson, but despaired that his old friend would ever see how other matters impacted on his service prospects. St Vincent wasn’t sure that he wanted him, given that the Channel Fleet was confined to blockade. The chances for independent action of the kind Nelson always craved were near non-existent. He would go mad beating back and forth before Brest, occasionally retiring to Spithead when the weather turned too foul to remain at sea. Worse, if the way he had behaved in the Mediterranean was anything to go by, Nelson would crave time ashore with Lady Hamilton, no doubt to the detriment of his responsibilities.
The correspondence between the commander-in-chief of the Channel Fleet and his new executive officer had not left out discussion of their old friend and comrade, and little of what they had said to each other had been flattering. Nelson’s ability was not in question, but his judgement was. Also Troubridge, as a highly regarded officer without a blemish to his character, was popular enough at the Admiralty to know that Nelson was not.
He had done nothing less than run insubordinate rings round Lord Keith, who was no mean sailor himself and had deserved more respect. The despatches Keith had sent detailing Nelson’s conduct, though couched in the language of officialdom, had done much to tarnish the glory of the Nile victory. Between the lines of Keith’s reports it was obvious that he felt Nelson put proximity to the body of his mistress before the needs of his country, a view that had subsequently been disseminated in high places.
His relationship with Emma Hamilton had given his naval detractors a stick with which to beat him. Lord Spencer might love the man for his victory, and Lady Spencer might be ever grateful for the way it had aided her husband politically, but there was a steady drip of venom from old adversaries and folk eager to be scandalised. Although Nelson had been instrumental in defeating one enemy fleet and had destroyed another, there were admirals senior to him who could say without a blush that he was too bold, too much of a chancer, to be entrusted with another command.
‘Davidson,’ said Nelson, grasping the hand of his prize agent and friend. ‘It is so good to see you after so long.’
Alexander Davidson hadn’t changed. He still had the same high colour under ginger hair, though that was showing the first hints of grey, the same piping voice and soft Northumbrian accent. He was a true friend, one of the few people not naval that Nelson could utterly rely on and he loved him like a brother. He envied him, as well, because of the speed with which he and his pretty wife quickly produced the children to whom Nelson stood as godfather. He enquired after them, bursting but unable to tell even Davidson that he too would soon be a father.
What Davidson saw was a man not much different from their first meeting in Quebec: older, yes, wiser, no. Then Nelson had been, just as he was now, a victim of his enthusiasms. The only person to whom Nelson had confided the breakdown of his relationship with Fanny, Alexander Davidson was less surprised than most about his affair with Lady Hamilton.
‘How could you let Fanny take a house near Portman Square?’ Nelson asked suddenly. ‘It was my express wish that she should avoid that area.’
If Nelson hadn’t changed, his wife had. The rather mouse-like creature Davidson had met and got to know over the first years of her marriage to Nelson had turned lately into something of a shrew. Fanny Nelson was no longer content meekly to obey her absent husband’s instructions. She had taken to questioning some and disobeying others, which could only be ascribed to her disquiet at information she was receiving regarding her husband’s behaviour. Fanny had never said anything to Davidson, but her demeanour told those with eyes to see that she knew about Emma Hamilton and her husband. Nelson was in for a turbulent homecoming – of that Davidson was certain.
‘Nelson, I am your agent, not your executor. I can dispose of your prizes and instruct your lawyers to sue that greedy old goat, St Vincent, but I can only advise Lady Nelson and if she chooses to ignore me I’m not sure what I can do.’
‘Are you saying she chose deliberately to disregard me?’
Davidson shook his head, although he suspected that the answer was yes. It was not a subject on which he wanted to dwell, so he moved swiftly to business matters, reassuring Nelson that his finances were reasonably sound. While he was not rich he was comfortably situated, though Davidson thought he should be less free with his disbursements to his family – and once he had perused the accounts of the journey from Italy, more circumspect with support to his friends.
‘I would never deny Sir William Hamilton anything.’
‘So it would seem,’ Davidson replied. ‘But he is already in debt to you for some two thousand pounds and that is not, I’m sure, a situation with which he is com
fortable.’
Nelson wasn’t good with money, mainly because he cared so little for it. Even as a half-pay post captain stuck in Norfolk he had been a soft touch for a beggar. With a steady stream of income from prize money and gifts, he could afford to be generous now, but only up to a point. Davidson had seen too many naval officers come ashore wealthy only to soon find themselves strapped by their own profligate spending. And some of the monies Davidson had counted in were sums owed rather than paid.
Disputes were ongoing with the Admiralty, St Vincent and Lord Keith about prize money distribution, all designed to keep the lawyers busy, and Davidson had to report that his attempts to settle these without litigation had failed. It was the same after every commission, ten times worse after a battle, with every officer in the fleet convinced that he had been cheated of his just deserts. Added to that, the Navy Office, the Victualling Board, the Sick and Hurt Board, and His Majesty’s First Lord of the Treasury would never agree to the amounts expended on keeping a fleet at sea. It was part of Davidson’s job to take issue with them as well so that any monies Nelson had paid out of his own pocket could be recouped in full.
Nelson sighed as the state of his accounts was finally disclosed. ‘I swear Davidson, if I had not a headache before, I have one now,’
‘To more pleasant tasks, then,’ said Davidson, pushing forward a letter with a heavy seal. ‘It is the Lord Mayor’s banquet tomorrow. The City of London has asked me to pass on to you a request that you consent to be the guest of honour.’
It was a signal accolade, and Nelson couldn’t keep the pleasure from his countenance. He would occupy a seat often reserved for royalty at a dinner that was near the top of the social calendar and attended by the most elevated persons in the land. It must have been planned for months, with a guest of honour in place well before now: someone had either stood down or been displaced by his return. He longed to ask who, but did not dare.
‘Can I ask if you will be remaining here?’ Davidson asked, bringing him back to earth. The inference was plain: would he be moving in with his wife?
‘For the time being, but I would ask that you find me a house of my own.’ Nelson turned away as he added. ‘It should be spacious as I anticipate the need to accommodate guests. Also, I will need a full complement of servants since a degree of entertaining will be unavoidable.’
In the rear of the hotel hallway, with Davidson gone, Nelson was finally alone. Fanny, alerted by messenger to his arrival in London, and invited to come to the hotel, had replied that she would meet him at three. She must have wondered why he had taken residence here, and not come straight to Seymour Street, but the note she sent back only stated that she looked forward eagerly to their reunion.
All the worry was gone now. Nelson felt the same calm descend on him as he experienced before an action. Odd to think in those terms of meeting his wife, but he did. He heard the hackney pull up on the cobbles outside and stopped pacing, standing, feet apart, facing the doorway, for all the world as if he was on the quarterdeck of a ship gliding into battle.
Fanny did not rush to greet him. Ever the lady, she allowed her cloak and hat to be removed, waited while her father-in-law was likewise cared for, before she looked to where her husband stood. When she advanced it was only far enough to get away from draughts and street noise. Nelson was already moving towards her, his eyes searching her face, unsure of what he was looking for – hurt, anger, determination. What he saw was calm certainty.
‘Fanny,’ he said, with a slight croak, and he kissed her gently on each dry cheek, his nose taking in the lemon verbena with which she habitually scented herself.
He looked past her. Edmund Nelson stood as erect as ever, though his son looked with concern at the near white hair and the increased lines on that stern dark face, now almost cadaverous.
‘Father.’
The Reverend Edmund Nelson stepped forward to put his arms round his boy. Taller by several inches he hugged him with the kind of warmth that should have been exchanged between Nelson and Fanny, and in doing so he unwittingly underscored the distance between them.
‘It is good to see you home, Horace,’ he said, gruffly, ‘and I think you know how proud you have made us.’
Then he stood back, his hands on his son’s shoulders, wondering that a child of his should have achieved so much. He had loved his Horace as much as he had despaired of him, had been proud of his son for just being a post captain in the King’s Navy. The battle won off Cape St Vincent had astounded Edmund Nelson as much as the reverse at Tenerife had depressed him, but the Nile victory had made him wonder at the possibility of an Immaculate Conception. Had there been so much fire in the bloodline of his late wife, Catherine, to make such a hero? He was certain that there was none in his.
‘They have set aside the parlour so that we can talk,’ Nelson said, taking his father’s arm to lead him forward.
Seated out of public view in the small salon, Fanny perched alone on a chaise-longue while the two men occupied chairs. Conversation was stilted, but Edmund Nelson brought his son up to date on the doings of his siblings. Nelson said little, but Fanny sat in near silence, only responding when her father-in-law sought confirmation regarding a sister, a brother or a grandchild. Eventually, after some twenty minutes, realising that a married couple who had not seen each other for two and a half years needed time alone, Nelson’s father took his leave.
When he had gone, Nelson said, ‘You look well, Fanny.’
‘Then it only proves, husband, how appearances can deceive.’
It had been a feeble opening, and Nelson knew he deserved that sharp response. But it had also been necessary: he had no idea of what his wife knew. All he had was his own determination.
‘You are unwell?’
Fanny was nervous. She had expected some shyness in Nelson, some evidence of guilt, but it was absent. He was behaving as though nothing was amiss. Perhaps that was the truth. Could it be that all that gossip was wrong?
‘I am troubled – not least, husband, to find you staying here in a public hotel instead of at the house I have taken for us both.’
‘Hard by Portman Square,’ Nelson replied, without rancour, ‘a location I expressly requested you to avoid.’
‘I cannot see that makes a jot of difference, and nor will it till you vouchsafe to me the nature of your objections.’
‘I admit I did not issue a direct command …’
‘Command?’ Fanny interrupted.’ Are you still at sea?’
‘A word ill chosen,’ Nelson said hastily.
Fanny fought hard to control her emotions. She must be patient, must play upon his sentimental feelings for her. If he had indeed strayed she wanted him to come back to her of his own free will. ‘You know I hate the winter, husband.’
Nelson smiled. ‘Even in London.’
‘I grant you it is not Norfolk,’ said Fanny, feeling on safe ground, ‘though Roundwood ran it close. Even your own father admitted to that.’
Fanny had hated his home at Burnham Thorpe, not least because it reminded her that their five-year stay in his father’s Norfolk rectory had been forced upon them by Nelson’s lack of employment and the consequent shortage of income. But there were other factors: biting east winds that came straight from frozen Arctic wastes, barren trees that sighed even more than she did as she pined for the warm Caribbean sunshine in which they had been betrothed. With no childhood connection to Norfolk she could not be brought to love it, nor accept people she thought of as rustics, even when the sun shone on a warm summer day.
‘You do know that I called at Roundwood?’
‘No,’ Fanny replied, surprised but still poised.
‘With my travelling companions,’ Nelson added. ‘I was quite put out not to be able to offer them hospitality after all that they have done for me.’
‘They would have frozen, husband,’ Fanny said vehemently, ‘especially in the present spell. Why, even in here the howl of the wind is audible.’
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p; ‘The weather is exceptionally foul,’ Nelson replied. ‘Somehow I had always seen myself return in sunshine.’
‘When common men stir no sight is seen, the elements themselves trumpet forth the arrival of heroes.’
The paraphrase of Shakespeare’s line on the birth of Caesar had clearly pleased him, because Nelson grinned at her, allowing Fanny to relax and do likewise.
‘I do not recall that Halley’s Comet was seen on the day I was born.’
‘It should have been, husband, given what you have achieved.’
‘Thank you for that, Fanny.’
‘It is hardly fitting that we perch thus, Horatio,’ she said. ‘Will you not sit with your wife.’
Tempted to refuse, Nelson could not, and as he sat closer to her he experienced a feeling of warmth. When she held out her hand, he took it, and he could not avoid the direct look she gave him. Was she questioning him? Again he smelt her lemon scent, which conjured up some of the better moments of their joint past.
There was still something in her face of the handsome woman she had once been, and it could be said with certainty that she comported herself in exemplary fashion as the wife of a naval hero, both in her carriage and her manners. Everyone who had mentioned her in his correspondence had nothing but praise for Fanny. She was as kind as he would be himself to an itinerant sailor, of whatever rank, and utterly at home in the layer of London society in which she moved.
She kept her social obligations assiduously and there was not a senior officer or politician born who could complain of being ignored by Lady Nelson. She had taken on the care of his father without ever once alluding to it as a burden. In short, she was a good person, and he knew that he had no desire to hurt the woman for whom he still carried a high degree of affection. Nelson prayed she could be brought to see what good Sir William had seen: that his love for Emma was too strong to withstand.
Breaking the Line Page 11
