Tested by Fate (23 page)

“You could take it, sir,” protested Quilliam, the other young mid, his freckled face alight with faith.

“Not I, Mr Quilliam, but I do reckon that if any men could confound those defences it would be British tars.”

“How would you assault Naples, sir? asked Pasco.

Nelson was tired, Hardy could see that, and he moved to send these pests about their occasions. For a moment the expression on Nelson’s face lightened, as if the pain and all his cares had dissolved. “Why, I should use charm, young sir, which is what you must do when you go ashore.”

“They say the ladies are very fine in Naples, sir.”

“They are to heroes, which is what you are. Every man in this fleet is a hero.”

“We are about to anchor, sir. Permission to signal our tow.”

“Make it so, Captain Hardy.”

“Mr Pasco, Mr Quilliam, you must have duties to attend to when anchoring. I suggest that is where you belong.”

Anchoring in a bay full of boats come to greet them was a tricky matter, especially since
Vanguard
, having lost her foremast and four seamen with it, required to be towed by a frigate. There were barges with bands playing “Rule Britannia,” “Britons Strike Home,” and “See the Conquering Hero Come.” Everybody of quality in Naples was there to greet the victor of the Nile, and they had banners to prove it, some woven with images that were far from true
representations
of the man they admired. Behind him, the quays were lined with a mass of people, all cheering.

“Sir William Hamilton,” said Hardy, pointing to a barge
pushing
through the throng to head for the side of his ship.

Nelson leant over the bulwark and saw Sir William, but searched for his wife. Lady Hamilton was sitting down, but her head was up, looking towards him.

“Five years,” he murmured to himself, his eyes fixed on the woman who had so made his blood race. As the barge got ever closer so did her face, under a broad brimmed hat and muslin scarf. The pain in his head grew worse as he stared, but it was not the cut that caused it so much as the way his heart was thumping in his chest. He didn’t want to go down to the entry port to greet her, that being dark and shaded. He wanted to see her here on his
quarterdeck
, in the sunshine, perhaps with her hat off, to find out if he felt now as he had the last time they met.

“Hardy, my apologies to the Ambassador. If he has no
objection
I will receive him here.”

Hardy smiled and tossed his square head, as if to say, “He’ll damn well see you where you please.”

It was a tense five minutes, from the point at which the barge disappeared from his eyeline, to hooking on and the passengers
coming
aboard. For some reason he found himself thinking of his wife again: the image of Fanny gazing admiringly at that Lemuel Abbot portrait she’d written of induced feelings of deep guilt. He knew that his God could see into his soul, was aware of every thought and every action. How could He forgive him for what he was
thinking
now?

The guilt evaporated at the moment he saw her. Emma Hamilton emerged from the companionway, smiling, her cheeks red with excitement, followed by a bright-eyed Sir William, who was much aged and thinner than the man Nelson remembered. Suddenly he realised that he, too, must present a very different apparition to his guests.

“My dear Admiral Nelson, you have joined the immortals.”

Nelson locked eyes with Sir William’s wife, who stood
examining
him, taking in the empty sleeve and the mist-covered iris of his damaged eye. “I fear I am a much-reduced creature, milady.”

“You are very much more substantial to me, sir,” she replied.

He almost didn’t hear the words, so taken was he with the look in those huge green eyes. They were like a mirror to her soul and carried in them something deeper than mere admiration. Suddenly she flew at him and, in a very unladylike fashion, threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheeks.

T
HE
P
ALAZZO
S
ESSA
was illuminated by three thousand candles, liveried servants lining the entrance to greet the stream of guests. The King and Queen attended, though not in a fully royal capacity, because Naples was supposed to be at peace with France, even had plenipotentiaries in Paris discussing an alliance. Yet the battle of the Nile had changed everything; France was not to be quite so feared, with no ships and no army, and ambassadors, princes, the cream of the Neapolitan aristocracy mingled with streams of naval officers from the victorious fleet.

Emma Hamilton’s entrance was the kind of staged affair she loved. Her dress had been specially made, very low cut, blue and gold with an edging embroidered with the intertwined names of Nelson and the Nile. The transparent shawl with which she
preserved
some modesty was white, liberally sprinkled with gold anchors, while on her head she wore a cap of victory, which kept her hair high. On the arm of her elderly husband, she entered the room that had once held the bulk of Sir William’s excavated treasures. These had been packed ready for shipment to England, there to be sold, allowing the room to be turned into a space that could
accommodate
the three hundred guests.

Now Nelson toyed with the thought he had entertained when the couple had come aboard
Vanguard:
that Sir William had aged much more than he. Wounds, battle, constantly being at sea, and the strain of command had done for Nelson, implanting lines on his skin and greying his once blond hair, while at sixty-eight, age alone seemed to have altered the Chevalier. He was thinner all over, but particularly so in the legs, which looked spindly in his tight white breeches. The nose, which had always been prominent, now stood out starkly, this in a face that showed an excess of definition due to taut skin.

Nelson was seated in the place of honour, with the King and
Queen on his left, while Emma and Sir William sat to his right. A slightly unusual arrangement, in terms of rank, had him between the two ladies, both husbands outside them, for which Nelson was grateful. Sir William he could abide, but he had eaten enough meals beside the gluttonous Ferdinand to want ever to do so again.

If the food and the setting were magnificent, the proximity of Lady Hamilton was agony. The Queen had no English and his
foreign
language skills extended no further than the need to ask for an enemy to surrender, so any conversation with Maria Carolina had to be translated by her good friend Emma and, in a room full of noise, she found it necessary to lean across the guest of honour to
undertake
that task.

Physical contact was constant, on one occasion her hand
actually
rested on his knee, squeezing it as she made some pertinent point to the Queen. Asked for his impressions of the battle, Nelson obliged, while claiming that his position in the line, followed by his wound, precluded him from being the best-placed observer. But he was observing Lady Hamilton with a proximity that both excited and appalled him. Her head was often no more than an inch from his, a beautifully formed ear enticingly erotic. Nelson had always been attracted to voices, and hers, low, varied, and always with that hint of amusement, entranced him. He could smell her perfume and her hair, and sense the heat of her body, so had to fight to avoid looking down the front of her dress to her alluring bosom. An
occasional
squirm was required to ease the pressure on his groin, his napkin pressed into service to cover an embarrassment he could do nothing to control.

Such a situation drove Nelson to drink more than was usual, a greater quantity than the Queen, though less than Lady Hamilton, who grew bolder the more she consumed. Any attempt at modesty by her guest was overborne in a flurry of arms and loud laughter, with many a plea to Sir William to intercede and tell Nelson he was a hero, and should behave as such; that he was their shield and must make Naples his Mediterranean base.

“I had intended to use Syracuse, milady.”

“Sicily!” cried Emma. “We will not hear of you departing, Admiral Nelson, will we, Sir William?”

The Chevalier nodded gravely. “It would certainly grieve us, sir.”

“I won’t be off just yet, Sir William. You will have noticed, even with an unpractised eye, that my ship lacks masts. I doubt the
dockyard
can repair her in less than a week.”

“But we wish you here for more than that, Admiral,” Emma pealed. “A month, a year, for ever. If you do not promise me, I shall request a royal command.”

That had her leaning across to the Queen again, babbling in German, and what ease Nelson had managed was ruined. Emma Hamilton had put one hand behind his back, better to reach over. The absence of his right arm brought her closer to him than would otherwise have been the case. He could see her lips moving even if he couldn’t understand what she was saying. He wanted to grab her there and then with his one good hand, but he sat back instead, forcing himself to look right past her to Sir William, smiling at the Ambassador, an expression that was returned in full measure.

He can’t see it, thank God, Nelson thought.

Sir William Hamilton, with his acute sense of observation, was thinking that his wife had gone slightly overboard with regard to Nelson. The nautical simile made him grin just as the man in
question
looked at him. Certainly the Admiral was a hero, who deserved the thanks of half a dozen nations. He deserved this celebration, too, and all those that were bound to follow. Every city in Britain would want to toast him, and since he was such a hero, women by the yard would fawn over him. The fact that this was true did not alter the fact that his wife was one of them.

Emma’s husband put it down to the heightened sense of
theatricality
that was one of her abiding traits; that and her need to be at the centre of things. Nelson might be the nation’s hero, but Lady Hamilton wanted him to be her hero as well, somehow to give the impression that she had had a part in the Nile victory.

“Have you thought, sir,” asked Sir William, “about your title?”

“I wouldn’t wish to tempt Providence.”

“It would be improvident of His Majesty King George, if not downright imprudent, to hesitate in granting you a peerage. I
daresay
the thanks of the nation, in financial terms, would not be too much to ask.”

Of course Nelson had mulled over these things since the
morning
of victory. He would have been stupid not to. A title was a near certainty, indeed there were those who had insisted he deserved one after St Vincent. He had scotched that suggestion. A peerage required deep pockets to support it. A knighthood cost nothing. But if they voted him a pension as well …

“Nelson of the Nile,” cried Emma, pulling herself back far enough to look into his eyes. “That should be your title.”

“I had thought of honouring my birthplace.”

“Which was?”

“Burnham Thorpe, in Norfolk.”

“Then, sir, that is the whole of it.” She rose to her feet, which alerted all the diners, who, seeing her standing, glass raised,
followed
suit. The toast she gave was in French. “
J’offre
à
vous
,
Monsieur
le
Duc
de
Burnham
Thorpe
et
le
Nile
.”

The roar that filled the room made Nelson blush, which endeared him to the lady looking down at him with unabashed admiration. Even Maria Carolina had raised her glass, though her dignity as a queen forbade her to stand. Ferdinand looked bemused, as if the idea that anyone else could be toasted in his presence, that cheers could ring out for another, was impossible.

Emma’s chest was heaving, as if she had taken part in some
taxing
physical activity, her face flushed with pride and happiness. She did feel that she had a right to some reflected glory. Had it not been she, with her husband’s blessing, who had gone to the Queen when Nelson was stuck in Syracuse needing supplies? It had been Emma, Lady Hamilton, who had used every ounce of her credit to persuade Maria Carolina that Neapolitan neutrality, which forbade giving
assistance
to Great Britain, should be breached.

Had that not happened, Nelson could not have continued his
pursuit of Bonaparte. Without that, no battle of the Nile could have taken place. So, the very fact that this man was sitting here
blushing
at the praise being heaped on him was, in a large part, due to her intervention. Emma believed that when they toasted Nelson, they inadvertently also toasted her. As she sat down, the cheers still ringing, she saw that Nelson now looked uncomfortable.

“There’s something amiss?”

“I wish I had the French for another toast, milady, which would be to my captains, my officers and my seamen, for in truth they are the people who won at the Nile.”

“I would not waste your modesty on this crew, Admiral Nelson. They wouldn’t understand it.”

“Do you understand it?”

“I applaud it, sir, here,” she replied, putting one hand on her heart.

Eyes locked for just two seconds, both Nelson and Emma Hamilton were aware only of their own thoughts; that emotion was taking control of them. The noise of the packed room had faded so that they seemed to share a cocoon. Emma suffered a moment of confusion, under the strain of a raft of feelings she had not allowed for years, the kind of sensuous passion she had felt in the company of Uppark Harry and Charles Greville. Her whole life seemed to be encompassed in a thought that lasted no more than a split second before, for the sake of propriety, that mutual stare had to be broken.

She couldn’t read Nelson’s mind. Looking into his one good eye gave her no clue as to what he was experiencing. He felt the same set of sensations that came upon him as he went into battle, familiar from so many engagements: racing blood, acute awareness, the ability to see things in a detail denied to him normally, access to those juices that made a fighting man aware of a threat and gave him the speed with which to counter it and stay alive. What seemed odd to Nelson, when he realised his state, was that for the first time in his life, he should feel all this in the company of a woman.

However, concentration on each other was impossible in a
banqueting
hall containing three hundred people. And when the meal
finished and they repaired to the ballroom to dance, Emma was engaged by a variety of partners. Never much given to formal
dancing
, more at home with a hornpipe, Nelson had the excuse of only one arm, as well as a degree of exhaustion, to avoid participation.

It was unlikely that what happened that night would have occurred if he hadn’t been quite so fatigued. An added
complication
was that Nelson wasn’t alone in feeling so. When it came to saying good night, Sir William made it plain that he was worn out by the events that had preceded the ball, never mind the assembly itself. Emma wasn’t put out by this nor was she surprised: her
husband’s
desires had diminished steadily since he had turned 65. In the last year that had accelerated, since Sir William refused to
abandon
his other pursuits. He still coached out to Pompeii for his excavations, still climbed Vesuvius, albeit slowly, and he continued to oversee the care of his English garden. He claimed he had scant energy left for copulation. Tonight was one of many in which he made it plain to Emma that her presence in his apartments was not obligatory.

The absence of servants was also due to the night’s
entertainment
: clearing up after so many guests saw everyone busy, with few to spare for lighting candles, warming beds, or seeing to a most important guest. Under the supervision of Mary Cadogan, the entire staff, including those brought in especially for the occasion, was busy washing, drying, and packing crockery or filling hessian bags with linen and breaking down the dozens of assembled tables. Aware of this, Emma Hamilton saw it as her duty to ensure that the hero of the Nile was comfortable.

Illuminated only by the pair of candles he had used to guide himself to his accommodation, the suite of rooms Nelson occupied was in near darkness. A portrait of George III above the mantel of the fireplace in the drawing room rendered a glowering rather than an inspiring image, which reminded him that royalty were a fickle crew. There was no sign of Tom Allen, who’d last been seen
heading
for the kitchens, which were full to overflowing with local women.

The act of undressing was difficult without assistance, barring his dress coat, with the embroidered star of the Order of the Bath, which slipped off easily. When it came to the heavy brass waistcoat buttons it was a struggle, and he cursed his servant for deserting him. That was until he recalled that Tom had been at sea as long as he had himself and was, like him, a man. The sight of all those
olive-skinned
jades would have been enough to inflame any red-blooded fellow. That brought back to him the way he himself had behaved, and he recalled the thoughts he had toyed with earlier, which caused him to smile, then frown, then mentally beg forgiveness from his all-seeing God.

When a knock came he assumed it was from a household
servant
and called that he or she should enter. The breath stopped in his chest as Emma Hamilton came through the door.

She was still dressed in the costume that had been created to flatter him. What light there was, was playing across her face and hair, as well as the gold embroidery of her clothing.

“I came to see if all your needs have been met.”

Was the
double
entendre
deliberate? Nelson didn’t know, and his reply, which was automatic, only added to the confusion. “Without aid and only one arm, I find it difficult to undress.”

“Your servant?”

“I fear after months at sea some Neapolitan lady has claimed him, leaving me to struggle with these waistcoat buttons.”