Breaking the Line

by David Donachie

  ‘Fanny.’

  ‘A chance?’

  Now that matters were out in the open he wanted to say no, to draw a line. Yet good sense prevailed: if Fanny could be brought to see that there was no alternative a fourth might be added to the trio of himself, Emma and Sir William. Not a happy quartet necessarily, but a tolerant one.

  ‘And if it should come to naught?’

  ‘You will be late for your appointment,’ said Fanny with some force, pointing to a wall clock showing it was nearing seven. ‘And since you are calling on Lord Spencer, I will take the opportunity of calling on his dear wife.’

  Nelson, still pondering that conversation with his wife found it hard to concentrate on what Spencer was saying to him. The First Lord was embarrassed, that was plain. He wanted somehow to have Nelson see his admonition in the despatch as having been required officially, but which was a thing personally regrettable. He manifested this in an openly stated willingness to listen to any ideas his visitor might have about future postings. He also insisted that everyone on the Board of Admiralty was eager to hear Nelson’s appreciation of what should happen in the Mediterranean. That wasn’t true: some still thought Nelson no more than a lucky individual, who had found himself in the right place at the right time, with the right weapon to hand. Luck was a fickle thing, prone to run out, and certainly no basis for tactical dispositions. And then there were Keith’s complaints.

  The implication of Fanny’s presence in the same building was clear: that as Lord Nelson’s wife she, not Lady Hamilton, could expect to be received in such a setting. And, naturally, with both she and her husband in such close proximity, when it came time for him to leave they would return to their own home together. In the latter she was both disappointed and embarrassed, for on enquiring about Nelson’s whereabouts, Fanny was informed that having discussed the possibility of some new postings with Lord Spencer, he had left for his hotel.

  For the first time Fanny saw masked sympathy in the eyes of a member of her social circle, which she had dreamt of and dreaded. Lady Spencer knew as much as anyone about what had gone on in Naples. She was her husband’s main support, with whom he discussed all the problems of an office he felt himself unqualified to fill. To make matters worse, Lady Spencer had issued an invitation to dine on the next but one night, as eager as the rest of London to capture Nelson as a guest. Fanny had accepted on behalf of them both, only now to be faced with the possibility that her husband might refuse.

  Indeed that was his first reaction on receipt of Fanny’s note, which arrived before he retired for the night, telling him of the engagement. Nelson was sure he could smoke her game. Fanny would enmesh him in a round of social obligations that would keep him away from Emma. She would parade their marriage in a way that would make it impossible for him to break free of her clutches.

  ‘I would do much more than that, Nelson, if I feared to lose you.’ Emma laid her head on his chest, having listened to her lover’s report of what had transpired. Her reflection on the evening was confused. At one moment she saw it as having gone horribly wrong, at another quite well. If Nelson had not spoken to support her over the incident with the meat he had not defended his wife either, which Emma had feared: she had been only too aware of the time they had spent apart, and that seeing Fanny again might cause him to pause.

  Nelson stroked her hair away from her eyes. ‘You must never fear to lose me, Emma. You are the keeper of my heart.’

  ‘Then I must purchase a silver casket in which to carry it.’

  Nelson slid down under the coverlet, pulling Emma’s shoulder until they were lying head to head.

  ‘You already have a casket, my love.’

  Emma laughed, and pressed herself hard against him as his good hand rucked up first her nightdress, then his own bed gown. One leg was pressed without resistance between hers and a slight roll allowed Emma to push herself under him. His lips were at her neck, her lips close by his ear as she whispered, ‘That is not made of silver, Nelson, and what you propose to place within it is not your heart.’

  10

  Nelson was still basking in the glow of the previous night’s City of London banquet as he and Sir William set off for Windsor Castle. The accolades from the city merchants had been loud and continuous, though they had listened to his short speech of thanks in respectful silence. This body had already gifted him ten thousand pounds for the Nile, a tidy sum but small given the million they must have saved on insurance claims. Now they had added a commemorative sword with a jewel-studded gold hilt, as well as their personal appreciation.

  Sir William, presenting himself as was his right as a retiring ambassador, was wondering if his sovereign remembered the last time they had spoken, just after his marriage to Emma nine years previously, before he had returned to take up his duties in Naples. It had not been a happy parting. King George had declined to receive the new Lady Hamilton, causing his old friend to remind him that he ruled only by the consent of his subjects – not a cheering thought for the likes of Farmer George, who became fractious at any mention of the French Revolution.

  Since the levee had been gazetted and Lord Nelson was known to be due, knots of people anxious to see him lined the route to Windsor. This reassured him that if some at the Admiralty doubted the virtue of his conduct, there was nothing but affection for him from the populace, whether rich City bankers or these good folk on the road. Within minutes of his arrival the King had disabused him of this idea. Having formally, and somewhat brusquely, accepted Sir William Hamilton’s letters of retirement, he turned to the Hero of the Nation.

  ‘How d’ye do, Lord Nelson?’ barked King George, in his abrupt staccato manner. ‘How’s your health?’

  ‘Much improved, Your Majesty,’ replied Nelson, finding himself fixed by bulbous-blue Hanoverian eyes. The face was red and fat, the lips thick and glossy with saliva.

  ‘And Lady Nelson?’ demanded the King.

  ‘Is well,’ Nelson replied, after a short pause.

  That delay was enough to allow the King to turn his back on Nelson and immediately engage an army officer in deep conversation, leaving the Admiral in the embarrassing position of staring at the royal back. Everyone in the room had witnessed the royal snub, and this from the man to whom Nelson had devoted his service life. Sir William, nearby, shook his head in despair, and his friend was left with nothing to do but blush. Nelson noticed that those who had been eager to speak with him when the King was finished were now edging away. None would dare to offend their sovereign by speaking to a man who was only present on sufferance.

  What was more depressing to Nelson was the presence of several of his service superiors, even one or two who had in the past been members of the Board of Admiralty. And it was clear from the attitude of some that they thought Nelson was only getting his just deserts. What for? he wondered. His love of Emma or his defiance of Lord Keith? For the first time he realised the depth of the enmity against him that existed in some quarters.

  It remained like that for half an hour, with King George totally absorbed in his conversation with the soldier. Nelson could not leave – no one could until the King departed; that was the protocol. Only Sir William conversed with Nelson, making him feel like a pariah as he waited for the King to turn round again. Farmer George did nothing of the kind: as soon as he finished with the soldier he marched out of the audience chamber, leaving behind a buzz of speculative conversation.

  As they made to leave, a liveried servant handed Sir William a note. He opened it and his bony face took on an angry look. He passed it to Nelson who saw it was from the head of the Queen’s household, the purpose to inform Sir William, curtly, that his wife would not be welcome at Queen Charlotte’s Drawing Room the following day. Emma, Lady Hamilton, was not going to be received at court.

  ‘After all she has done,’ said Nelson.

  ‘The King has treated you just as badly, my friend. I wonder what he found so interesting about that soldier’s conversation.’ Sir William
then added in a wry tone, ‘I’m sure they were not discussing his successes.’

  Nelson had a more pressing concern and waved the note. ‘I do not envy you, breaking this news to her.’

  Sir William did not relish the prospect either, and it was a silent pair that coached back to London.

  Nelson had no desire to take dinner with the Spencers. First, Lady Spencer, though a sparkling conversationalist, was not noted for the quality of food or wine at her table. Second, it was very much a service affair attended by some of the admirals who had been at Windsor that morning and witnessed his humiliation by the King. Third, Lady Spencer had enquired of him if he wanted to be placed next to Fanny, as he had on a previous occasion, so that she could help him with his food. He had angrily declined.

  As if to add insult to injury his hosts had seated him opposite Admiral Sir Richard Hughes, an old adversary whose conversational gambits, and fawning respect for Fanny, seemed designed to make Nelson feel uncomfortable. The only saving grace was that Lady Hughes, his battle-axe of a wife, was seated far enough away for her overbearing voice and manner to be inaudible.

  Now a vice-admiral of the White Squadron, Sir Richard had only one more rank above that to achieve. If he lived, and others died, he would end up as an Admiral of the Fleet, doubtless with the necessary peerage, although he had not been at sea or held anything other than shore commands for fifteen years.

  To Nelson he was the worst kind of officer, a trimmer and time-server. They had clashed in the Caribbean when, as second in command to Sir Richard, he had insisted that he enforce the laws relating to foreign vessels trading into the sugar islands. His then commanding officer had concurred with him only to rescind that agreement as soon as Nelson’s ship was out of sight over the horizon. The result had been a lawsuit against Nelson, which, had it been successful, would have ruined him.

  But Sir Richard was powerful, not because of his innate gifts, but for his connections. He came from an extended naval family of many generations standing. Several, including this one, had served on the Admiralty Board and were famous and active officers with whom Nelson would have been proud to serve. But the family connection made no distinction between the worthy and the ineffectual. When not at sea the Hughes clan were of the type to ensure that their voices could be heard, because they spent a great deal of time cultivating their fellow officers. In Sir Richard’s case, this was with a view to feathering his own nest, a task at which he spent much more time than he ever did in confronting the country’s enemies.

  Now he was busy telling Fanny about the splendid success Lord Keith had enjoyed in taking Genoa from the French. He had lost ships and men in the process, but even Nelson had nothing but praise for his actions: although they disagreed about many things, not least about the tactical distribution of the fleet, Keith was an active officer and an inspiring commander. But he was no genius, which was what Sir Richard was implying to Fanny.

  It was with more sorrow than anger that Sir Richard turned to the difficulties of a divided command, the opinion that the presence of more ships and greater application at certain vital junctures might have ensured another Nile. It was all carefully couched not to name Nelson, but sharp enough to let him know that Hughes, who had reckoned him insubordinate as a Caribbean post captain, still thought him so.

  Fanny took a while to pick up her husband’s mood and to realise what lay behind Sir Richard’s subtle barbs. That she had let him burble on infuriated Nelson, who wondered if in his absence anyone could say anything they liked about him to his wife and not be checked. The thought that he was being unfair to Fanny lay at the back of his mind, but his annoyance was so great as to disallow any possibility that it might surface.

  In truth, he was still smarting from the treatment meted out to him by King George. For a man who prided himself on representing his subjects Farmer George had missed the mark by a mile, proved on his return: the route from Windsor was still lined with well-wishers few of whom, Sir William assured him, would turn out for the King himself.

  Fanny had been shelling walnuts for him, one of the many tasks that had been beyond him since he lost his arm. She filled a small glass dish and pushed it across to him. With his left arm he swept them to one side, glaring at Sir Richard. The dish smashed on a candlestick, killing the conversation. Every eye turned first to Nelson, then to his wife. Across the table, Sir Richard Hughes allowed himself a slow smile.

  ‘Mr James Perry, milady.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Emma, still fingering the calling card that had preceded her visitor. Quickly she tidied up the materials left by the dressmaker for her approval, silks of various colours and lace of such fine quality it must have been smuggled in from France.

  Perry entered, tall, a bit stooping now, but still with something of the looks he had had as a young man. He was a newspaper editor now, of one of the most important titles in the capital, the Morning Chronicle. But more than that he was an old acquaintance of Emma.

  ‘Mr Perry.’

  ‘Lady Hamilton,’ Perry replied, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips. ‘You look to be blooming.’

  It was a strange word to use, but Perry did not elaborate, leaving it in the air for his hostess to decipher. Not that she had much trouble with it. Perry was one of the best-informed men in London: he knew what was going on everywhere, had well placed informants all over Europe, probably had secrets in his desk drawer that would destroy half of society. But he was also discreet, especially with those to whom he was well disposed. Emma Hamilton was one of those people.

  ‘My very favourite housemaid,’ Perry added.

  It was a well-worn joke between them, given that that was what Emma had been on their first meeting at a Southwark fairground. Emma had led him a merry dance that night, a recollection that Perry was always willing to see in an amusing light. When she had been mistress to Charles Greville they had come across each other frequently, given that he and Sir William Hamilton’s nephew moved in much the same social circles. Perry had watched Emma develop with a distant but paternal eye, and had rejoiced to see her wed to old Sir William, in the certain knowledge that a girl who was lively, good-humoured and kindly had found some security.

  Emma had asked him to call because she was in a quandary. The stumbling way in which her husband had informed her that she would not be received at court had hurt deeply. She was well enough aware of her own past to see why that should have been when she and Sir William had first been married. The King had disapproved of the match and only assented because his ambassador had come to him with a request from Queen Maria Carolina that it should be sanctioned.

  But her efforts on behalf of her country in Naples must surely count for something. The British royal family and the government surely could not be unaware of how hard she had worked, and how much she had achieved on their behalf. While acknowledging that she had not been alone, Emma felt that it was mostly by her efforts, as a close companion to the Neapolitan Queen, that Naples had stayed true to the alliance with Great Britain.

  Emma wanted to know what obstacles lay in her path, because only then could she work to remove them. She felt she could not ask Sir William because he would evade any answer that would cause her discomfort. Even less could she seek reasons from Nelson, for that might open the casket of worms that was her past. Perry was perfect; he knew her history, knew everyone who mattered and was something of a friend. She put the question to him.

  ‘Ah, Emma,’ Parry said, seated now, twirling a wineglass.

  ‘With respect, James, that does not tell me very much.’

  ‘I wonder what you would like me to say?’

  ‘The truth.’

  Perry felt sorry for her. Chequered past or not Emma was a good woman. If not without her vanities and a sense of humour sometimes hard for the prudish to appreciate, she knew how to be benevolent, as in the example of Cornelia Knight, a woman without either fortune or prospects whom Emma had nurtured as a friend and accepted as a responsibility. Withi
n twenty-four hours of arriving in London that bosom friend had fled from any connection with the Hamiltons. She was now trying to persuade society that, despite her long association with the couple, she had had no idea of the any untoward connection between Emma and Lord Nelson.

  ‘The first thing,’ Perry said, ‘is that you are with child and, given the length of your relationship with Sir William, it is unlikely that he is the father.’ Emma blushed, which Perry found enchanting.

  ‘Is this common knowledge?’ Emma asked

  ‘I have it, though I have told no one. Nor will I. But you must understand, Emma, that if I have it, then it is highly likely that others are informed. I am not the only newspaper editor, and I am certainly not Billy Pitt or the King.’

  ‘They will know too.’

  ‘It would surprise me if they did not,’ Perry said sitting forward. ‘Governments need to know the minds of others, much more than mere newspaper editors, thus, just as I do in a lesser way, they garner intelligence by fair means or foul. The Prime Minister is bound to share what he knows with the King. Let us take one example. How do you think your time in Naples has been viewed here in London?’

  ‘Positively, I hope,’ said Emma. ‘I tried my best, and I believe my service had a great effect.’

  Emma went on to list her achievements, not forgetting to show Perry her jewelled Russian cross. He listened, helping himself to more wine, his face betraying neither agreement nor dissension. Could he tell her that what she had seen as service, helping her husband to be an effective ambassador, others had interpreted as interference? Could he tell her that what had come back from Naples was not tales of her effect upon the Queen, but of her extravagance? Many a guest at the Palazzo Sessa had flattered Emma, drunk deep at the trough of Hamilton hospitality, then written home to damn her as a whore risen too high and her husband as an old fool. Others, who had sat and applauded her Attitudes, had penned reports to relatives in London, excoriating them as lewd.