‘Saw Hardy the other day, Nelson. Ain’t changed much, still the same dull fellow he ever was.’
‘A capital seaman, though,’ Nelson replied.
Clarence looked at him hard then, since he had heard from more than one source that Nelson had no high opinion of his abilities as a seaman. Fellow was wrong, of course. It was just one of the crosses he had to bear for being a member of the royal family. Nothing done was ever seen in a fair light. Why, not once on his quarterdeck had a single officer questioned his skill. Clarence checked himself then. There had been one in the Caribbean, a Lieutenant Schomberg, and from what the Prince recalled, Nelson had declined to remove the fellow. More than that, with Schomberg insisting on a court martial to clear his name, Nelson had obliged the fellow with a praiseworthy deposition.
Nelson interrupted these less than pleasant thoughts. ‘We have known each other for a long time, Your Highness.’
‘God, haven’t we? Since the American war, Nelson, and that’s, what, twenty-five years past.’
‘I have always supposed you to be one of my partisans, sir.’
‘Oh, that, Nelson, definitely that. From our days under Lord Hood. Every chance I got before the late war I would tell the Admiralty that you must be employed. I hope it helped you get Agamemnon, without which there would have been no Nile. Had a hand in the Baltic decision and your Channel service. Ever your partisan, Nelson.’
‘Thank you for that,’ Nelson replied, although he found it hard to believe. From what he knew of Clarence’s relations with the Admiralty any suggestions he made tended to diminish opportunity rather than raise it. Prince he might be, but no great faith was reposed in his judgement.
‘But I am, at present, looking for your support on a non-service matter.’
‘Non-service?’
William Henry tried hard to make it sound as though such a notion was impossible, because he could guess what Nelson was seeking. He hoped it was on the subject of the Copenhagen battle, for which, much to Nelson’s chagrin, no medals had been issued, but he feared otherwise.
‘You know of my attachment to Lady Hamilton.’
‘A fine woman,’ replied Clarence, with a sinking heart.
‘And a brave one, sir. I could list for you services that she has carried out for her country that would astound you.’
‘I have heard of them,’ Clarence said quickly, for fear that Nelson would indeed tell him.
‘Then it seems to me that your father, the King, has not.’
‘My father?’
Nelson was off, despite Clarence’s best efforts, listing Emma’s achievements in Naples on behalf of the fleet, her relations with the Neapolitan royal family, all with such conviction that the Prince was forced to listen. This was unusual; the protocol, brought over from Hanover by his great-grandfather, was that one only spoke to royalty when one was spoken to. They were never to be interrupted and certainly never lectured. Trouble was, Viscount Lord Nelson had known him as a boy and had taught him a great deal about how to handle a ship. Much as he would have liked to tell Nelson to shut up, he could not bring himself to do so.
‘I feel that if these facts could be brought to your father by someone to whom he would listen, then he might soften his attitude to Lady Hamilton. She does not ask to be a court intimate, only to be received.’
‘My father is a hard man to budge,’ said Prince William. When it came to persons of questionable backgrounds, his mother was even worse.
‘It seems to me, sir, given your own circumstances and the regard you say you have for me, that you would be well placed to advance her case.’
Clarence’s eyes popped at the mention of his circumstances, the cause of much dispute with his father. He was living quite openly with a married woman who had borne him several children, yet he could not see how his visitor could possibly assume that his ‘circumstances’ had any bearing on the case. He was a Prince! What to say? To raise the man’s hopes by agreeing then doing nothing? That might expose him to constant supplication, but an outright refusal would be too harsh. Obfuscation looked to be the best policy.
‘You may have the right of it, Nelson, and you may not. But such things, if they are to happen must be thought out, not rushed at. Don’t want to make matters worse, what! There are people I must talk to with wiser heads than mine. Should they advise that I should proceed we will talk again, and lay a plan of action.’
Long ago, watching his father and his brothers, Prince William Henry had perfected the meaningless smile – meaningless to him that is. To those upon whom he chose to bestow it, it was meant to convey that they were no less than the person closest to his heart. That was the smile he employed now as he made a mental note to tell his servants that, should Viscount Nelson call in the next month or so, he would not be at home.
It was a red-letter day when Nelson’s father finally consented to come to Merton. The old man had always liked Emma and even if he harboured doubts about her character he was a great man for forgiveness. His attachment to Fanny was strong and it was only the knowledge of his own failing health that forced him into a decision he would rather have avoided. He had attended too many deathbeds not to know his own was near, but he worked hard to hide this knowledge from his son.
Nelson saw a new gentleness in his father, a willingness to listen and communicate. It was as if he had finally acknowledged that his boy Horace had grown to manhood and could be treated as an equal. Over the weeks he stayed, Emma charmed him, and they spent many happy hours together, with Fanny never mentioned. Yet Nelson knew, for all his father’s circumspection, that his wife had not given up hope of reconciliation.
He was right. Fanny knew, from hints and asides from her friends at the Admiralty, that had they still been together, had there been no risk of scandal, they would both have been out of London by now. Nelson would have been given a profitable command, one of the West Indian stations or the Far East. Should the war be renewed, as everyone expected it would, then Viscount Nelson, on such a station, could amass the same kind of fortune as the likes of Sir Hyde Parker, the kind of wealth that would allow him to live as his fame demanded. Surely, even as besotted as he seemed to be, Nelson could see the harm he was doing to his prospects with this adulterous liaison.
The Reverend Edmund Nelson being at Merton gave her a chance to communicate once more, so she wrote to him, repeating all the arguments for a reconciliation, and pointing out that she had, and was still behaving with dignified reticence. She had never traduced Emma Hamilton in public or in private, because to do so would be common.
The return of the letter, with the subscription added, ‘opened but not read by Viscount Nelson’ was a cruel blow to her hopes. In that, and a great deal of his previous behaviour, she could not recognise the man she had married. Where was the gentle kindness, the nature that saw good men where others saw base? That woman had changed him, stolen him away from her and the nation, the real Horatio Nelson.
She never knew how Nelson had felt as he wrote those words across her letter. He had been unable to read it from a fear that he might weaken. The same fear stopped him travelling to his father’s funeral – Edmund Nelson passed away peacefully in Bath only weeks after his visit to Merton. The old man’s suspicions about his health, never voiced in his son’s house, had been correct. Although his relatives had warned Nelson that his father was fading, his death still came as a shock. It was purgatory not to attend the funeral, but if Fanny was there, Nelson would not be able ignore her. His greatest fear in meeting her face to face was that his resolve to separate from her totally might be tested.
Emma worked just as hard for her social acceptance as Nelson, using both the Piccadilly house and Merton to apply pressure on the well-connected guests she entertained. There was a long list of elderly sea officers, those who admired Nelson as numerous as those who did not, her husband’s relatives and diplomatic contacts. The Marquis of Queensberry, who had the King’s ear, came. He was one of the richest men in the Kingdo
m, a cousin of her husband, and eccentric enough to match King George himself. The Duke of Hamilton, one of England’s premier peers and Sir William’s brother, had visited Merton. There was Lord Minto, who had been Nelson’s friend and adviser in Corsica. There were dukes, duchesses, former and serving ambassadors, bankers and courtiers aplenty, but all foundered on the rock of Hanoverian intransigence. As time went by, hope faded, and when she listened to Nelson insisting that all would be well, it was with a sinking heart, not a hopeful one.
Her faith was much restored when she, Nelson and Sir William, the tria uno in juncto, decided on a three-week journey to visit Sir William’s estates near Milford Haven, stopping on the way so that Sir William and the admiral-hero could collect degrees from Oxford. Not for them the flight to Paris, which was, since the peace, the destination of most of British society. Nelson could not bring himself to love or visit a country that had been so recently an enemy, and one he suspected would soon be again.
Setting out from Merton, it was as if runners had been sent ahead to say they were coming. Just as when he had visited Windsor after the Nile, Nelson’s name brought out the populace, leaving Sir William to reflect on the fact that King George, who disliked Nelson and would not receive Emma, often travelled in darkness for fear that his coach might be stoned.
The newspapers, and their dissemination throughout the country, had made something of Nelson the like of which he had never seen. Sir William Hamilton had grown up with royalty and had known many famous men, but not one had ever got more than polite admiration. The names of Drake, Anson, Boscawen and Blake paled beside Nelson’s, and he was received wherever he went with adulation almost religious in its fervour.
The bridges at Maidenhead and Henley were so crowded it took an age to cross the Thames. Oxford turned out in vast numbers, and the hotel in which the party stayed was surrounded throughout the night while the most famous man in Britain played host to an endless stream of visitors. At Blenheim they looked at the palace the monarchy had built for John Churchill, first Duke of Marlborough. Emma stated that Nelson deserved one of twice the size, but he told her that Paradise Merton would suffice. No duke or duchess appeared to greet them: instead they sent out some cold food, which was rejected as smacking of condescension.
Continuing adoration soon displaced the cloud of that insult. A journey through the heart of England designed to take three weeks took six, with the freedoms of various towns offered wholesale and dozens of inns renamed along the route. Emma made sure that their reception should come to the royal ears. Let the King and Queen of England know that Nelson, the conqueror of the French, could probably, if he so chose, master them too. John Bull loved the Hero of the Nile and Copenhagen more than he loved Farmer George.
And everywhere there were seamen, officers and men who had sailed in a fleet or ship that Nelson had commanded. For him these were the happiest meetings, a chance to talk over old exploits and actions, to touch the heads of their offspring, the most recent of whom were often named Horatio.
By the time he reached Gloucester, Nelson had honed his speech, always made from some hotel balcony, and in it he praised his countrymen, male and female, and told them that they, of all the races in God’s earthly kingdom, had the hand of the Lord on their side.
The only cloud on the horizon was Sir William, who appeared to be fading before the eyes of both his wife and his best friend. He seemed thinner week by week, his mind began to wander and he was wont to talk of things that had happened years before as if they were happening now, while he found it increasingly difficult to remember what had happened an hour before.
By the time the party had returned to Merton, what Nelson had thought would happen came to pass. Bonaparte was being bellicose again and the peace was threatened. Nelson’s services were required and, as always, he was available.
Yet war was avoided, to many minds more by pusillanimous Britain than by French reticence. As he waited, the points of reference in Nelson’s life acquired regularity. Naturally he called at the Admiralty, where St Vincent and Troubridge had assured him of the Mediterranean should war break out. Both, simultaneously, accepted invitations to Merton that neither had any intention of fulfilling. He spoke in the House of Lords, initial shyness giving way to an ease of speech and a command of subject that made him a draw. He had a list of friends and officers he felt duty bound to call on. Last, but far from least, he would call at Mrs Gibson to visit Horatia, often stopping at a toyshop on the way.
Horatia enchanted him; the way she smiled, watched his face, held his finger. She liked movement and noises, the most successful present being a watch with a tick so loud it could be heard on the other side of a door. This, waved before her on a chain, brought forth gales of childish laughter. On the rare occasions when Mrs Gibson entered her drawing room while the Admiral was present she would either find the pair surrounded by toys, playing happily on the carpet, or Lord Nelson sitting with his eyes closed, looking serene, with Horatia asleep on his breast.
It troubled him that Emma never called at Mrs Gibson’s. She saw Horatia only when the child was brought to her, usually when the other children in the family were present. As a party-lover Emma always felt happier when a number of people were around, with her at the centre, planning games and outings, supervising races and contests, engaging Nelson with several children instead of just his own. But then she had other concerns; running and improving Merton, and looking after a husband who was wandering inexorably into his dotage.
Sir William made one more royal levee, determined to face his childhood friend, not sure what he would say, but certain that for Farmer George it would be uncomfortable.
‘The country in which I grew to manhood is no more.’ His servant realised that Sir William was talking to himself and did not respond. His job was to get the old man to Windsor and back again. If his charge rambled, which he was prone to do, that was none of his concern. ‘Closed minds and closed legs surround the King, though that dull queen of his must have opened them often enough. After all, she has produced a string of fat idiots and twittering harpies.’
He was like that all the way, criticising his king and queen, the Prince of Wales and the dukes of York, Clarence, Kent, Sussex, and the princesses who were said to be too stupid to find themselves husbands. He made the levee, entering on the arms of old and trusted friends, and he mouthed words of reprimand to the man with whom he had shared a nursery. But he did not say them loud enough to be heard, his entire complaint taking place more in his head than his mouth. But when he returned to Piccadilly he was vehement about the manner in which he had told off his sovereign.
He was also feverish. Emma insisted he go to bed, and sent a message to Nelson to join her, since her husband’s ramblings seemed to get worse, with an undertone of accusation.
‘Greville dunned us both, Emma – and he will get everything. How are you going to live? You spend too much and save nothing. Nelson has no money, pray for war eh! What has it come to when we wish for that? You treated me shabbily Emma. I tried to hate you, and him, but every time I felt jealous I felt angry – with you, no, with myself.’
‘My dear friend,’ said Nelson, coming to the bedside.
‘Nelson.’
‘Yes.’ Nelson took his hand.
‘My true friend.’ Sir William summoned the strength to squeeze, and Emma, who had moved to the other side of the bed, took his free hand.
‘I hope so,’ whispered Nelson.
Sir William gathered strength enough to pull. ‘A tria, uno in juncto,’ he said.
He repeated it over several days as he sunk towards death, only to come round again. He spoke of things in delirium that many would not have wanted to hear, of his hatred of the Church – all churches not just the papist one. Of the things he had seen on the walls of Pompeii and his certainty that the cult of Priapus was still practised by the superstitious peasantry of Calabria. Sir William fought to hang on to life with a naked tenacity the like of which he had never sh
own when up and doing. As his skin fell away from his face he came to look like some biblical prophet, foretelling a world where pagan gods would rule. The time came when his most frequent mantra was whispered not spoken, so that Nelson and Emma had to lean close to hear, ‘A tria uno in juncto’.
‘Always that,’ said Emma, with a sob, as the blue eyes lost their sparkle and both she and Nelson began to pray for the soul of Sir William Hamilton. They were beside him for most of the night, not always praying or weeping, but discussing the practical matters attendant upon getting the body to Pembrokeshire, so that Sir William’s wish to be buried beside his first wife, Catherine, could be fulfilled.
Before dawn Nelson left, and walked for an hour before taking lodgings a few streets away. He wrote to his sister-in-law Sarah to ask that she come and support Emma at this time of sorrow, heading the letter with the address of his lodgings. No longer could he write from twenty-three Piccadilly, the home of a friend happy to accommodate him. Emma was now a widow, which meant he could only cross her threshold when she had other guests.
Without the assistance Sir William had provided Nelson was forced to take a close look at his finances, and what he saw did little to lift his spirits. All the bills for Merton would now come to him, he had his brother Maurice’s ‘widow’ to maintain, he had fees to pay for young Horatio at Eton, plus any number of requests from acquaintances and strangers who assumed that because he was successful he was rich. The opposite was the case; while not in penury he was hovering on the edge of discomfort, which could only get worse if he did not curtail the way Emma spent money on Merton, both the fabric of the place and the entertainment.
Breaking the Line Page 31
