The Emperor (75 page)

‘Tease me, sir?' Lucy murmured innocently.

‘
Aye, aye, you know very well what I mean. Thing is, no-
one minds a man takin' a shine to a lady, provided he don't
make a fool of himself. Wouldn't admit it in front of
Macnamara or young whatsisname, but Nelson's doin'
himself no good, lettin' that woman drag him about the
Courts of Europe, presentin' him like a bear in a cage,
puffin' him off to all and sundry. Writes songs in his praise, if
you please, and sings 'em herself — with encores! Pah!
Couldn't stand to see it m'self, though he's as fine a sailor as
I've ever met, or hope to. But this other business of yours —
different thing altogether!'

‘
I can't think what business you mean, Admiral,' Lucy
said.

‘
Aye, you may laugh at me, you naughty puss,' he
chuckled, tut I mean what I say; and you may always count
on one friend at least while I live. And if I were twenty
years younger, I'd give young Weston a run for his money,
too!’

Lucy was touched, and comforted too. There was no
denying she had sometimes worried that their liaison might
harm Weston's career, and it was good to have an official
opinion on the matter, especially from someone like
Scorton, who had influence with Their Lordships.

*

Weston continued a reliable correspondent. His letters, read
and re-read until they grew quite dog-eared, combined
amusing stories of day-to-day life aboard the
Semele
with
news of the world at large and the progress of the war.

Through him she learnt that the French General Buona
parte had returned to Paris after the victory at Marengo,
only to face plots to replace him, one of them hatched by his
own brother, Joseph. The Austrian Court had repudiated
the armistice signed after Marengo, saying that it had in any
case only applied to the army in Italy, not to Austria as a
whole.

‘
So it looks as though Buonaparte will be kept busy in
Paris for the next few months at least, which is good news
for all of us. There is every chance that one of his rivals will assassinate him, as long as he stays in the capital!’

In September Weston was on the spot when the French
garrison in Malta finally surrendered to the British.

‘
So we have driven the Frogs another step backwards, but in doing so have angered the Russians, for their Tsar
Paul is hereditary Grand Master of the order of St John, and
feels that Malta ought to be in the hands of the Knights and
none other. Needless to say, we do not agree with him. He
is, in any case, as mad as a hatter, and has conceived the
wildest admiration for the Corsican general.’

His letters always ended with love, telling her how much
he missed her, how he thought about her in all his spare
moments, how often he wished for peace, so that he could
be with her, how he looked forward to receiving her letters,
and treasured them when they did come.

Lucy sometimes wondered how much comfort they could
bring him. Though she thought about him constantly, and
longed for him fiercely, she did not have it in her to write
such things. Her vocabulary included no words of love, and
her letters to him were cheerful and busy and matter-of-fact,
ending almost curtly with a trust that he was well and a
diffident hope that she would see him soon.

No matter how she bit the end of her pen or ruined the
nib by digging it into the desk-top, she could never write the
sort of things that he said to her, and the fear haunted her
that she disappointed him, that he might not know how
much she cared for him. Her love was dumb, and she had
not yet come to realize that he understood that, and was
well able to read between the lines and supply her feelings
for himself.

*

In October Lucy arrived in Town for the Little Season,
accompanied by Roberta, who was now in half-mourning,
and on whom she thought a little urban noise and variety
might work favourably. The young Earl remained at
Wolvercote with the other children, and Roberta stayed at
Upper Grosvenor Street, rather than open up Chelmsford
House.

‘
It's too big for me, anyway,' Roberta said. '1 will have to
think seriously about where Bobbie and I are going to live.
The thought of either Shawes or Chelmsford House is very
daunting. One poor widow and one small boy would be
entirely dwarfed by those mansions.'

‘I'd hardly call you poor,' Lucy said.

‘
There are other ways of being poor than having no
money,' Roberta said sadly. 'I've tried both, and I'd much
prefer to be without money.'

‘
Yes, I know,' Lucy said. 'Still, Bobbie is the Earl of
Chelmsford. You must live in some style, or you'll bring
Horatio and Lady Barbara down on you. And as soon as
you breech him, you'll have to find him a suitable governor.
Miss Trotton and Nursey won't do for a young man in
trousers.'

‘
How to know who is suitable? My ideas will certainly
not match with Lady Barbara's, and if I take her recommen
dation, I shall never know a moment's security.’

Lucy looked at her curiously. 'You don't really think she
would harm him, do you?' she asked. 'I thought that was
only a wild fantasy.’

Roberta looked grave. 'I don't know,' she said. 'It's a
terrible thing to think, but greed is the strongest of all
human passions — greed and jealousy.' She fell silent, deep
in thought.

‘
I wonder you don't ask your Papa's advice,' Lucy said
idly. 'He seemed to me a most sensible man, the one time I
met him.’

Roberta looked up, and a slow smile transfigured her
face. 'Why, of course! Lucy, you are so clever. Why didn't I think of it? Papa will know what to do. I wonder — perhaps lie may agree to come and live with us permanently? I don't
suppose at his age he will want to go on active service again.
We could live very comfortably together, and I should feel
so much happier with a man about the house.’

*

A week later Chetwyn fell ill. He had been walking home
alone, drunk, from one of his clubs, when he had stumbled
and fallen while crossing St James's Square. It was very late,
and the square was quiet, and no-one had happened to pass
by, and he had lain half-conscious for several hours, during
which time it came on to rain, until he was thoroughly
soaked and chilled.

His man, Thorn, had eventually begun to worry about
him. He sent an enquiry round to the club, and on learning
that his lordship had left some time ago, set out to trace his
master's probable route, and found him shivering and
groaning under the bushes in the centre of the square. He
got him home and to bed, but a fever had rapidly deve
loped, and Thorn, worried by its severity, sent word round
to Upper Grosvenor Street.

Lucy went at once to Ryder Street, and after one glance
at her husband proclaimed that she would nurse him herself,
and not leave him until he was well again.

‘
Oh, but my lady, you can't think of it!' Thorn cried,
shocked. 'Not here, not in Ryder Street. These are bachelor
apartments! It — it wouldn't be fitting!'

‘
Don't talk such nonsense,' Lucy said tersely. 'I am his
wife.'

‘
But my lady, there isn't anywhere for you to sleep, or for
your maid. There's only this room, as you see it, and the
drawing-room, and the dressing-room where I sleep.’

Lucy considered. She was indifferent to comfort as a
rule, but there was no denying that the rooms were very
small, and if the illness were to be protracted, they would be
very inconvenient. She came to a decision.

‘
Parslow, do you think you could lift his lordship, if
Thorn were to help you, and carry him down to the chaise?'

‘
Yes, my lady,' said the excellent Parslow imperturbably.
'If I may suggest, my lady, you might go down ahead of us
with blankets, and have the carriage door open, and the
footman inside to help us lift his lordship in.'

‘
Of course. Well, Thorn, what are you waiting for? Pack
your master's bag immediately.'

‘
Pack, my lady?' said the man in bewilderment. His mind
did not work as swiftly as Parslow's.

‘Yes, pack. We are taking his lordship home to Upper
Grosvenor Street, where I can nurse him properly. It's a
short journey, and the greater comfort at the end of it will
be worth the trouble of moving him.'

‘Yes, my lady,' said Thorn. 'Pack, you said, my lady?'

‘
Not his clothes, simpleton! His night-things, his brushes, his razors! Parslow, you had better go with him and see to it.
The man's got windmills in his head.’

They disappeared into the dressing-room, and Lucy went
over to the bed to feel Chetwyn's pulse, and to wipe the
sweat from his face, where it had gathered in his eye-sockets
like tears. The touch of her hand brought him to conscious
ness, and he opened his eyes and looked at her, evidently
puzzled.

‘Lucy?' he whispered at last.

‘Yes, it's me,' she said. ,

‘Where am l?'

‘
In your lodgings. You had a fall, and hurt your head,
and now you've got a fever, so I'm taking you home to look
after you properly. Let me lift your head, while you take a
sip of water.’

He drank gratefully, and she put him gently back on the
pillows. He looked up at her, his eyes clouded with fever.
‘You're a good girl,' he said, closing them. ‘Mother'll look
after me.'

‘
What's that?' Lucy asked, startled, before she realized
that the fever had confused him. He had used to call Jemima
Mother. Probably when she said 'home', he had thought she
meant Morland Place.

‘
Tired,' he said. 'So tired.' She laid her fingers on his
forehead, and he smiled and moved a little towards her
hand. 'Nice,' he mumbled. 'Don't leave me, Luce.’

*

Chetwyn's general health had been undermined by drinking,
and for the second time in a year Lucy found herself nursing
a case of the lung-fever. The similarity of the symptoms
unnerved Roberta so much that she burst into tears, and
Lucy suggested that she go back to Wolvercote.

‘
Docwra and I will manage between us, don't worry,' she
said, but Roberta wouldn't hear of it.

‘
I couldn't leave you at a moment like this,' she said,
drying her eyes and blowing her nose vigorously. 'Besides,
I'm sure you will need me, to take over while you sleep. I
shall be all right now. I'm sorry 1 was so weak and foolish —
it won't happen again.’

Lucy did not call in a doctor, not even the eminent Sir
Arthur, who had presided over so many notable deaths. 'He
didn't make such a hand of treating Charles,' she pointed out tactlessly to Roberta when she suggested sending for
him. 'lung-fever cases need careful nursing, and peace and
quiet.’

Outside the windows a glorious golden autumn was
stretching out that lovely summer. Hicks had straw spread in
the street to muffle the noise of the traffic, and the two
footmen stood guard to beg passers by to keep their voices
down, for Lucy was insistent that the windows of the sick
room should be kept open. 'He needs fresh air,' she said.
Docwra had been converted over the last four years to the
principle Lucy had inherited from her father, though
Roberta still hankered after the closed windows and hot
fires of traditional nursing.

Docwra made a pneumonia-jacket of double flannel,
filled with duck-down; Lucy propped Chetwyn as high as
possible on pillows, and administered her own specific,
champagne well-laced with brandy, along with small doses
of foxglove-oil to stimulate the heart. But despite all this
Chetwyn's condition declined. He sank into semi-conscious
ness, his pulse grew faint and rapid, and his breathing
laboured as his fever grew higher and higher.