Tested by Fate (27 page)

“Rest assured,” Mary Cadogan added, “that Sir William mends easy. He never fails to return from his seaside villa in a better humour than when he left.”

Nelson couldn’t resist fishing. “Which supposes an ill temper when he departs.”

“I doubt you would ever see that side of him, sir,” Mary Cadogan replied, forcefully. “I know of no man for whom he has more time and no other man to whom he would not gift all he had than your good self.”

Mary Cadogan was surprised by his reaction. Nelson seemed to grow before her eyes. She could not know that she had given him the reason for which he had been searching all morning to excuse what he must say to Emma Hamilton. That regardless of his
feelings
, what had happened last night must never be repeated. He would use the mutual regard in which he and Sir William held each other as a shield to deflect her disappointment.

“I must be about my duties, sir.”

“And I, Mrs Cadogan,” replied Nelson, in an almost jaunty tone, “must be about mine.”

Francesca flitted about in her usual manner, moving much and achieving little, her soft singing for once grating on her mistress’s ears. Emma knew that it would do no good to frown at her. She would only respond with a dazzling grin and the singing would continue.

Emma was wondering if she felt different, concentrating on each part of her body in turn to try to discern some fundamental change, without discovering much to either please or alarm her. There was a warm memory in her lower belly, that consciousness of having successfully made love, the recollection of that sated feeling that
followed
gratification. That induced a whole raft of memories. Mentally leafing through her previous lovers she ticked off first their
attributes
, then their failings.

The first, an overweight oaf called Jack Willet Payne, whom she could never recall without the epithet “whale,” was not recollected with any pleasure. Her deflowering had been painful and
unpleasant
. Harry Featherstonehaugh had been her first real lover. Uppark Harry, with his overbearing mother, his stunning mansion, his broad Sussex acres, and hearty rustic ways had been an elemental force in her life. Francesca stopped her singing as Emma chuckled,
throwing
her mistress an enquiring glance that Emma picked up in the mirror. Just fourteen at the time, she could recall the dreams she had toyed with looking across the deer park to the great mansion, dreams that one day she would be mistress of that place, chatelaine of one of the most beautiful houses in the land.

The glow had faded on Harry; he was selfish, vain, boastful, overbearing, violent, and ultimately detached. To him Emma was just a chattel, of less account than one of his racehorses, to be
parcelled
out to any of his friends who wanted her and to be disposed of the minute she became a burden.

Charles Greville was one of those friends, but different. It was fitting that her thoughts should turn to him now, since that was the only previous time in her life that she had been knowingly and
willingly
unfaithful to the man who kept her. Of course Greville had known what she did not; that her dreams of a future of bliss with her keeper were nonsense; that at some point Harry would tire of her and he would be there to pick up the prize. Yet he too, having gained her trust and her love, had betrayed her.

There was a gentle knock on the door and Emma’s heart missed a beat. She put up a hand, too late, to stop Francesca responding. It could be her husband and right at that moment she wasn’t sure that she was ready to face him. She glanced over and saw Francesca take a note from Nelson’s man, Tom Allen. The girl brought it over to her, and Emma recognised the untidy left-handed scrawl,
familiar
to her from all of Nelson’s letters since he had lost his right arm.

“The Admiral’s man is waiting for a reply?” she asked.

“Yes, Signora,” Francesca replied.

Nelson wanted to call on her immediately. Was that wise, Emma
wondered, and was it generated by passion or remorse? Matters were at enough of a stand without Sir William coming home to find
herself
and Nelson closeted in her private apartments. Quickly Emma re-read the note.

It was too dramatic to be romantic, surely, but very much Nelson. Could she risk it?

“Tell Allen to convey to the Admiral that I will be happy to receive him in my drawing room in five minutes.”

Francesca rushed back to the door, then returned to the
dressing
table to brush her mistress’s hair.

Nelson stood outside the gleaming double doors that led to Emma Hamilton’s apartments thinking that he would rather be
single-handedly
boarding an enemy First Rate than here. Every word he had rehearsed had deserted him, leaving him without the faintest idea of what to say. His main argument, that the mutual regard between himself and her husband debarred further intimacy, so
forceful
just a half an hour before, now seemed feeble in the extreme.

All he knew for certain was that they had to call a halt now, that any future departure from the strictest self-control by either party might be disastrous. Sir William could not be expected to sit idly by while Nelson made love to his wife. And Nelson was not stupid enough to think that such an attachment could be kept secret: it looked as though Sir William knew already, and it was unlikely that Mary Cadogan had remained in ignorance.

If the servants had been too busy to notice because of the task of clearing up after last night’s banquet, that would not last. And what had his own man, Tom Allen, made of the events of the
morning
? First a hastily scribbled note to Lady Hamilton, her reply, then Nelson’s instructions for him to wait by the front entrance to the palazzo and hotfoot it upstairs should there be any sign of Sir William
Hamilton. Tom might be slow-witted, but even he, Nelson
suspected
, could make four out of that.

On the other side of the door Emma was composing herself, trying to quell the thumping in her breast, worrying about how the folds of her dress lay, the angle of the light as it played on her
profile
, and most of all the calm face she must present to her expected visitor, an expression she knew would require all her skill to
maintain
. She realised now just how dangerous a liaison with Nelson might be, for to her he was not like other men: she had never felt for anyone the combination of tenderness and passion, hope and fear he evoked in her. If he was coming now to declare his undying love, she must send him away miserable.

She had ceased to worry about Sir William, her concern now was Nelson. Her reputation was tarnished, his was golden. He was about to be raised to the peerage, probably to a dukedom. Contact between them could only diminish him. Although, deep down, Emma did not believe this mattered, it was the part she was
determined
to play and it would be the performance of her life.

“Francesca, the door,” she said, when she heard the firm knock. “Then you may leave Admiral Nelson and me alone.”

F
RANCESCA
opened the door, but Horatio Nelson did not enter. He stood looking at the vision in the high-backed button chair before him, feeling the last vestiges of his resolve seep away. He knew, as he looked, that Emma had set out to entrance him: why else would she be sitting so that her loveliness was shown off to its best advantage? He took in the mass of russet hair, worn long and curled, the carefully powdered face that hid the rose-tinged glow of her cheeks. And even at this distance of several feet her eyes were huge and green.

Emma, her stomach churning, was fighting to stop herself
smiling
. Every feature of the man in the doorway was imprinted on her mind: the deep blue coat with one empty sleeve pinned across; the great star and ribbon of the Order of the Bath; the medal round his neck for St Vincent, held by black silk against his snow-white stock; the gilded epaulettes and frogging on his coat that marked him out as an admiral.

His entrancing good blue eye was on her in a steady gaze. She recalled the scar on his forehead, hidden by his bright silver hair, which she had kissed last night, still fresh enough to be red and angry. In intimate embrace it had been easy to see the scars Nelson bore from a hundred fights. She had kissed them all: cuts, dents, and the stump of his lost arm, all the way to the puckered end that he had used to support his body as he made love to her.

“Lady Hamilton,” he said formally, with just the faintest trace of a tremor.

“Admiral Nelson,” she replied, in a voice so nervous and loud, it seemed to echo off the walls.

Formality insisted that Nelson kiss her hand, which he feared to do. He did not want to come any closer to her than this doorway.
It was only the presence of her maid that forced him to step into the room. When she slipped out Nelson nearly followed her. It had never occurred to him that they would be left alone. He had no choice but to move forward, stiff-legged, and bend over the
proffered
hand. The contact did for them both.

“I am undone,” he said, his voice anguished, as he raised his head to look at her and saw tears gathering in her eyes. “You’re
crying
?” he said distractedly.

Emma dabbed at her eyelids. “It seems I am.”

“Why?”

“Do I flatter myself that I am about to disappoint you?” she asked.

“You would struggle to flatter yourself, Emma, and nothing you could ever do would disappoint me.”

The name came unbidden, but truly after the intimacy they had enjoyed it was only natural.

“Last night …”

Quickly he put a finger to her lips. He feared that she might say it had all been an aberration and he did not want to hear that: he wanted it to remain as he thought about it, the natural culmination of a shared passion. It might not be love, for Emma had made him wonder if he truly knew the meaning of the word, but it was
something
to be cherished.

“What I am about to say requires all my strength, more than I would ever need to fight a sea battle.” He was looking directly into her eyes, once more gripping her hand. “Because of that I cannot say what I wish, cannot tell you the depth of the feelings I have, for to do so would make the rest impossible. Sir William is a man I
consider
a friend.”

Emma wanted to say, “He is that to me, no more,” but desisted: she felt that he had reached the same conclusion as she, that any relationship between them was impossible. To tell Nelson that much as she esteemed her husband she did not love him would hardly aid matters.

“Apart from that, there is my duty …”

Tom Allen knocked, then opened the door and called, “Sir William’s carriage is coming up the hill.”

“Wait outside, Tom,” Nelson barked. The door shut with some force. “I must not be found here, you know that, and if Sir William confronts me and refers to last night I must tell you I will not lie to him.”

“He won’t, Nelson, be sure of that,” replied Emma, praying she was speaking the truth.

“And I wish to remain your friend.”

“For ever that,” Emma replied, a catch in her voice.

He kissed her then, a mistake he knew, but impulse overrode sense. When he tried to pull away her arms prevented him, and when he spoke his voice was hoarse and his head just inches from hers. “You must let me go, Emma.”

She did so, feeling as her hands dropped a sensation of utter defeat. Emma had wanted many things in her life, to marry a prince when she was a young girl, to live in a grand house surrounded by children and doted on by an adoring husband. The memories she had reprised that morning flashed through her mind and Emma gave credence to the thought, for the very first time in her life, that she had failed. Nelson backed towards the door. He gave her a last longing look, then spun round and left.

Tom Allen was waiting outside, but he was not alone. At the end of the corridor stood Mary Cadogan. As Nelson passed her, she shook her head slowly and tutted, as if to say that even for a hero, he was living dangerously.

“Mister Tyson is waiting for you, your honour,” said Tom.

“Who?” Nelson said, before he collected himself. He had known Tyson since his first command and had taken him on recently as his new secretary. Tom seemed bewildered by his confusion. That made Nelson stop in his tracks.

“Tom. Not a word about this morning to anyone. Do you understand?”

As he nodded his servant tried to look innocent, and failed. A
blind man could have seen that his master and the lady of the house were a mite more friendly than was proper. He waited for the
Admiral
to say more, but the sound of the carriage wheels, rattling over the cobbles at the front of the palazzo, had Nelson scurrying away. The last thing he wanted was to bump into Sir William.

Sir William Hamilton arrived home without ceremony and, having been informed by his major domo that his wife was about to leave for a meeting with the Queen at the Palazzo Reale, made his way to his own apartments. There he dealt with the morning
correspondence
, mainly composed of notes from various Neapolitan ministries that were empty of anything that could be considered meaningful. More interesting were reports from his own sources on the state of feeling in the kingdom to which he was accredited.

Naples was a city in which it was very necessary to possess two faces. Every nobleman, every person of rank, knew that he was
sitting
on more than one volcano. Vesuvius might smoke in the distance and erupt from time to time, but the more dangerous fault was political, not geological. Secret groupings abounded, in which the currency of entry was discussion of political change, and everything from peaceful overthrow to regicide was propounded as the best means of toppling the absolutism of the Bourbon monarchy.

Had foolish, childish King Ferdinand grasped, as he hunted and whored, dabbled in his Capodimonte pottery sheds, or received his most prominent subjects, that a good half of them belonged to
societies
dedicated to his removal? His queen, whose sister Marie Antoinette had perished on the guillotine, was certainly conscious of this. She lived in a state of perpetual terror that the same fate might befall her and her children.

Yet they would not fall victim to the peasantry. It was odd that here, in southern Italy, the only people on whom the monarchy could rely were the uneducated
lazzaroni
. They loved their king for the very same reasons that most nobles despised him: his lack of the attributes normally expected in a sovereign. Ferdinand’s elder brother, who should have succeeded to the kingdom, had been
harmlessly mad as a child and youth, and declared unfit to govern. It was suspected that the brain of Ferdinand himself might be
delicate
too, and should not be taxed too severely. Therefore the King had been raised with little education: no lessons in statecraft, finance, or diplomacy, or even the rudiments of dignified behaviour. He was a boor with the manners of a rustic: he ate and drank to excess,
preferred
the company of peasants to nobles, took pleasure only in the chase and fornication. To men who desired Naples to be accorded respect he was an embarrassment; to those who hankered after
constitutional
change he was a tyrant. To the
l
azzaroni
,
unwashed, unambitious, and careless of the future, he was one of them, and nothing less than a hero.

When Sir William Hamilton thought of the components of the kingdom to which he had been the British representative for near 35 years, he almost succumbed to despair. Falsehood was more prevalent than honesty, laziness combined with bombast more
apparent
than activity and courage. Public revenues, with very few exceptions, were seen as fair game. Thus grand aims were never realised as the money set aside to pay for them disappeared into
various
deep pockets. Somehow he had to persuade this sclerotic structure to mobilise troops and warships, then attack a nation that had swept all before it in the last seven years.

“Admiral Nelson?” he asked his valet.

“Is in his chambers, Maestro,” the man replied, it being his job to know these things.

“A request that he join me,” said Sir William. “We have
important
matters to discuss.”

John Tyson sat in the anteroom next to Nelson’s bedroom, and noted how different he was from the young, gauche master and commander with whom he had first served on the sloop
Badger
in the Caribbean. It wasn’t just the Admiral’s uniform or the missing right arm: as always Nelson eschewed a wig, but his hair was silver grey now instead of straw blond, yet still untidy and tied at the nape of his neck in a queue. His face had lost its rosy colour but no lines
betrayed the worries that must assail him. His one good eye was still pale blue and direct, the voice remained soft, friendly and
encouraging
, the smile still warm.

Knowing Nelson and others like him had often caused John Tyson to ruminate on the attributes required for leadership. Just as he knew he did not have such a gift, he had met many who claimed it and a very few who had that ability in varying degrees. But none had those attributes like this man.

“You know your predecessor ran off the deck at Aboukir?” said Nelson, without looking up from the mass of correspondence he was reading—letters and reports from every superior officer in his own fleet, as well as despatches from Earl St Vincent.

“There are those who vie to be an admiral’s secretary, sir, and think that being shot at is not part of their brief.”

Nelson looked up and smiled. “Not John Tyson, I hazard. I seem to recall you having to be restrained when an opportunity arose for a boarding from the deck of dear old
Badger
.”

“I’d be more content to stand still now, sir, since my bones have stiffened somewhat. But it’s true I could not rest below with a fight going on above my head.”

Since those days as Nelson’s first purser, Tyson had watched or heard of his rise in the service. The King’s Navy was like an extended family in perpetual motion where news was eagerly sought
regarding
past compatriots. If Nelson had a ship, Tyson knew of it, and also if he had a success or a setback. His romantic adventures with the opposite sex were the cause of much mingled mirth and
concern
: Nelson was considered to
be extremely unreliable in that department, forever in pursuit of the unattainable. Just as worrying was the passion with which he had imbued his suits in places as far flung as France, Canada, and the Caribbean. The news that he had finally married a widow of good family, a seemingly steady woman with good sense, had been greeted with relief.

The disputes to which he was prone were common knowledge too: he had clashed with admirals and their wives, as with civilian and service officials. Then there had been the disastrous tour of the
Caribbean Islands Nelson had undertaken with His Royal Highness Prince William Henry, the Duke of Clarence. It was generally held that Nelson had spent five years without employment before the present conflict because the King blamed him for allowing his son to make a fool of himself.

But that was all in the past. Now he was at his peak, and a
peerage
was certain. Tyson reckoned that if Nelson had been famous before, he had merely been one of a dozen others—Edward Pellew for his single ship actions, Jervis for the victory of St Vincent, Lord Howe for the Glorious First of June, and Admiral Duncan for
thrashing
the Dutch at Camperdown. But after the victory at the Nile, Nelson would be elevated above all other mariners of whatever rank and he, lucky John Tyson, had landed the job of serving him as his secretary.

“I have here more correspondence, sir,” said Tyson, pointing to the pile of official papers, “but I hazard of a nature more to your liking than that.”

As he handed them across the desk, Tyson reeled off the names of those who had sent these communications: the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire and various beys, deys, bagshaws, and viziers of that dominion. There were letters from Vienna, from the Emperor of Austria and his leading ministers; from French exiles in Germany, the Prussian court, Italian grand dukes, deposed Venetian and Genoese doges; from occupied Rome, with the blessings of the Pope and his cardinals. And they were all, without exception, written in the formal diplomatic language, which was French.

“I fear I am good for no more than one word in three of this, Tyson.”

“I will have them drafted in English for you, sir, but if I may give you the gist, they are all fulsome in praise of the Nile victory.” Tyson picked up one. “The Sultan, for instance …”

“Who sat squarely on the fence, Tyson,” Nelson interrupted. “Had his navy been more active I would have found the French weeks before. Were they not his domains Bonaparte invaded, his Mameluke warriors he beat in battle by the Pyramids? The Sultan
and his court did nothing, and left us to fight their cause for them.”

“The Sultan,” continued Tyson calmly, “not only sends you written congratulations, but news that he is to confer on you the Order of the Crescent, as well as the most splendid special reward. An envoy is on his way from Istanbul with the decoration, a
singular
honour that is awarded only to those who have performed with the highest gallantry to the Ottoman State. It is a decoration known in Turkish as a
Chelenk
, and the correspondent describes it as an aigrette, a plume of triumph made from silver and diamonds, which is to be worn in the turban.”