Breaking the Line (10 page)

Within minutes the door opened and Tom Allen entered, bearing a pitcher of hot water to wash and shave him and to inform him that the men outside were the local Yeomanry. They had, it seemed, been up half the night polishing their brasses because they were determined to escort him wherever he went this day, right to the edge of Norfolk county.

‘Then please ask the owner of the Wrestler’s to provide them with breakfast on my account, and hay for their mounts.’

‘Ain’t the Wrestler’s no more, your honour.’ Tom was so full of
pride he was nearly bursting. He pulled Nelson’s nightgown over his head and proceeded to flannel him briskly. ‘Ain’t just the local horse soldiers who’ve been busy, either, so has the local limner. I was consulted about the image he painted, and I can swear to a true likeness. The sign outside this establishment now has a fair study of your own face and the Wrestler’s Arms is now to be known as the Nelson.’

‘Reckon there’ll be one from now on wherever we go,’ Tom added.

The cavalry provided an escort to the church, packed to the rafters for the Thanksgiving service. Nelson stood in full dress uniform and glittering stars with Emma and Sir William to one side and Cornelia Knight to the other, singing hymns of praise to his country and his king. He listened as the vicar lauded him from the pulpit, not forgetting to add that all victories were the work of God, and that the Hero of the Nile should be humble before Him. But he was also Englishman enough to add that the Supreme Being, with his all-seeing eye, was well aware of the just cause of Britannia, which was why he had cast the heretical French into the deep waters of Aboukir Bay.

By the time they emerged the carriages were waiting – Mary Cadogan had supervised the packing and bill paying so that they could leave Yarmouth immediately. Cavalry to each side, they left the town, to the renewed cheers of the populace, under a lowering sky with a gusting wind that threatened foul weather but could do nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of those who lined the route.

Every stop to change horses was a repeat in miniature of Yarmouth, the crowd, the cheers, folk desperate to touch him as if to transfer to themselves a sliver of his glory. They skirted Lowestoffe to avoid another civic reception and spent the night in a small country inn, free of their cavalry escort, well away from any crowd. The next day the party was off at dawn, the heavy-built coach rolling at a steady pace along the well-laid turnpike roads. These were travelled free, since no toll-keeper, aware of the identity of the main passenger in the pair of coaches, could bring himself to levy the fee.

There were still crowds, because the news had gone ahead of them that the Hero of the Nile was home and making for London, so just as on the day before, every change of horses occasioned a small amount of ceremony. There were toasts, food, open-faced men, women and children who would swear years later that this was the high point of their life. They were greeted by beaming innkeepers eager to tell Lord Nelson that his name would now grace their establishment, as
well as the odd notable person who had come from their large house and insisted that their station gave them the right to a private conversation. That they all had a young relative eager to go to sea was only to be expected and by the time the two coaches parted company Nelson’s pockets were stuffed with requests for a place.

It had remained heavily overcast all day, and several times it had teemed with the kind of rain which reminded Sir William of why he had so loved Naples. By the time they turned off to make for Roundwood House, the sky was streaked with lightning, and the coach now bucked along rutted, muddy tracks.

‘At least we will be spared another set of speeches,’ said Nelson, a remark that was greeted by a grateful murmur. Even Cornelia Knight seemed tired and subdued, no doubt eager for a decent room, hot water and food. ‘I don’t know the layout of the house, but I doubt it is spacious, though I trust my wife will manage to make us comfortable.’

Nelson felt as jittery as he had before they found the French fleet at the Nile, jumping at each crack of thunder, each bright flash of lightning, for the storm was now right over their heads. The sudden right-hand turn on to crunching gravel told him he was home, before he realised he could not call it that. It was just a rented place he had never seen. He tried very hard to convince himself that with his father in residence no crisis could occur. If Fanny was concerned about his behaviour she would say nothing before the Reverend Edmund Nelson for fear of upsetting him. It did no good to Nelson’s state of mind to remember that his father might be privy to certain matters, and he shuddered at the thought of facing his stern parent in a mood of disapproval.

There was no welcoming party at the porch, no light in the doorway or from the small paned windows. Indeed, with the red brick of the house soaked dark with rain, the place looked forlorn. Tom Allen had jumped down, water streaming off his oilskins, to pull at the bell, but it was minutes before anyone appeared. Seconds later Tom was at the open door of the coach.

‘Lady Nelson ain’t here, your honour, and hasn’t been for weeks past. There’s now’t but a housekeeper.’

‘Fetch her,’ snapped Nelson. For once he was angry enough to put out someone instead of himself.

With a shawl as a cowl over her head the housekeeper, a middle-aged kind-looking soul appeared at the coach door. As soon as he saw her shiver he relented, and insisted she shelter inside so he could question her.

‘Lady Nelson never took to the place in my way of thinking, milord, forever saying it reminded her too much of the Reverend Edmund’s Norfolk home. The old man, your father, seemed happy enough, even after her ladyship departed, but he got a mite sick of no company and went off to join her in London. Post still comes here for both, of course, and I have been sending it on to Portman Square.’

Nelson spat, ‘Portman Square?’ The housekeeper recoiled.

‘That be where Lady Nelson has taken a house.’

Nelson had to bite his tongue, although he wanted to curse Fanny. He could not say in the presence of Emma and Sir William that he had expressly asked her, when renting a London house, to avoid the Portman Square area, since that was where Charles Greville had engaged in some speculative building. The last thing he wanted was to find himself renting a house built by Emma’s ex-lover. But to say so would let Emma know that he was in possession of such information, and he had been careful in talking with her to avoid alluding to knowledge of her past. Added to that it would wound Sir William, who was still fond of his nephew, despite the manner in which he had behaved.

‘I could make up beds if you so require, milord, though I have not the food for a meal in the larder.’

‘No. Bring me the address and we will be on our way, but I would take it as a kindness if you could direct the coachman to a decent inn.’

‘You would oblige me by taking what post has come, milord, for the address has been appended to that already.’

‘Of course.’ Nelson fished for a coin and slipped it to the housekeeper. ‘And I thank you for your care of the place.’

The package was delivered to him, letters that included his own sent from Yarmouth, re-addressed to 64 Upper Seymour Street, Portman Square, London. Nelson wondered if by disobeying him on two counts, to wait for him at Roundwood, and by taking a house in Portman Square, his wife was in some way sending him a coded message.

‘We shall send a messenger ahead from Colchester, to London,’ he said suddenly. ‘To find us all a hotel.’

He looked away from Emma and her husband, leaving them to speculate. It was understandable that they should stay in a hotel, but for him, with a wife and a rented house in which to take residence, it looked very like he intended nailing his colours to the mast.

8

Fanny Nelson was apprised of her husband’s arrival in England by a polite note from Mrs Nepean, wife to the secretary of the First Lord. This lady was a firm friend, who probably knew more about what was going on in the naval world than anyone, since all correspondence, both outgoing and incoming, was seen by her husband. But she was the soul of discretion.

In the four months that her husband had been travelling from Naples Fanny had received any number of disturbing letters, some from the points on his journey, given that the party seemed to be in no hurry to get home, others from Naples. To add to these she heard from other correspondents, passing on snippets of gossip and heavy hints that matters were not as they should be, all well wrapped up in disclaimers of any true knowledge of the state of affairs.

In the privacy of her own boudoir Fanny fetched them, dating from before the battle of the Nile and read them again. The change wrought by the aftermath of that event was plain to see. When she compared letters preceding her husband’s return to Naples with those that followed she perceived two things. The first was his change in tone, which lacked the fulsome affectionate touches of his earlier correspondence. The second was his praise for Lady Hamilton. That had been in his letters before, and Fanny had known that her husband admired the woman. But the way he lauded her in the later epistles grated mightily: she was the queen of sagacity as well as beauty, as much a hero of his victory as Nelson himself. He even praised Lady Hamilton for the way she had knocked the rough edges off Fanny’s own son, Josiah, making her so angry she had underscored several passages and put many an exclamation mark in the margin. The cruellest letter of all had been the one in which he had
abruptly informed her to stay at home: that her presence in the Mediterranean would not aid him in the execution of his duties.

Had his infatuation with Lady Hamilton gone beyond admiration to something else? That was the one thing to which those numerous well-disposed people had hesitated to allude directly. There was much hinting at intimacy without any proof and Fanny was not going to condemn her husband on hearsay. There was little doubt that Emma Hamilton was a loose creature, capable of seducing an innocent, but had it come to that? If it had what was the cause? The actions of a temptress eager to add the name of Nelson to her conquests, or the infatuation her husband had failed to disguise in his most recent letters?

Fanny Nelson was prey to moods, one night unable to bear the thoughts that assailed her so that she went to sleep sobbing, on others so incensed that murder was not out of the question. Over the months of living with this quandary she had plotted a course by which she thought she could proceed. She had no intention of giving up her husband, but if she must win him back, she knew that to do so would require her to remind him of why they had married in the first place.

Horatio Nelson was a God-fearing man who cared much for the state of his soul. Fanny must remind him that damnation waited for an unrepentant sinner who dared break the commandments. This Lady Hamilton might be a beauty, and celebrated socially. Hot, teeming Naples and a voluptuous woman might have turned his head, but did she have good manners and the kind of grace that Fanny knew she herself possessed? Her plan was not to chastise him: all men were weak creatures when it came to matters of the flesh. Fanny would prevail by example, by the certain knowledge that in the places where Nelson would want to be received his ‘veritable Diana’ would not be welcome. He would, away from the bright sunlight of southern Italy, realise in the more sobering climate of his native land, where his true interests lay.

The Nelson party arrived in London in the middle of a tempest. The streets of the City were strewn with roof tiles, and in parts of Westminster roads were closed because of the danger of falling masonry. Emma was grateful for the weather conditions as Nelson could enter the capital without fuss: most sensible people were content to huddle indoors and read about rather than witness his return. They were finally decanted at a hotel in St James’s with only a small, chilled crowd outside to greet him.

Emma was the only one who stopped between coach and entrance,
to look around at what were familiar buildings. Arlington Street was not so very far away, and there were a dozen places round this area where she had spent time in the company of various suitors. They had passed through Whitechapel on the way, where one lover had abandoned her, and from which Greville had rescued her. Covent Garden lay to one side as they passed along the Strand. Emma had been one of a thousand waifs and strays scratching a living there once, selling flowers occasionally for the price of some food, ever alert to the possibilities of falling even further in to wretchedness.

To Nelson, London was a strange place, a great metropolis full of preoccupied strangers who had no sympathy for their fellow men. Emma never spoke it: to do so would bring an admission that it was as much home to her as Naples: familiar, with sights that invoked both pleasant and unhappy memories. But then so much of what she had experienced was alien to her lover. She suspected he knew more of her past than he let on, but was grateful to him for his silence.

‘Lady Hamilton!’ His voice brought her sharply back to the present. The look on his face was troubled, making her wonder if he had read her thoughts. Then he smiled. ‘I fear we have a busy day ahead.’

He was correct, of course, the first duty being to ensure that while those he wanted to see were shown up to his rooms, others were politely turned away. The Marquis of Queensberry, a relative of Sir William Hamilton, called, and was introduced at his own insistence to Nelson, a courtesy that was not extended to the next Hamilton caller, Charles Greville.

Nelson’s first naval visitor was Thomas Troubridge, on his way to take up an appointment as captain of the Channel Fleet, now commanded by Earl St Vincent. He would be the senior executive officer to Nelson’s old chief, probably his last appointment as a captain before he, too, earned his admiral’s flag. That gave the pair plenty to talk about that did not include Emma, not least the notion that Nelson himself might serve under St Vincent again, notwithstanding the fact that their lawyers were locked in a dispute about the distribution of Mediterranean prize money.

Troubridge loved Nelson, but despaired that his old friend would ever see how other matters impacted on his service prospects. St Vincent wasn’t sure that he wanted him, given that the Channel Fleet was confined to blockade. The chances for independent action of the kind Nelson always craved were near non-existent. He would go mad beating back and forth before Brest, occasionally retiring to Spithead when the weather turned too foul to remain at sea. Worse, if the way
he had behaved in the Mediterranean was anything to go by, Nelson would crave time ashore with Lady Hamilton, no doubt to the detriment of his responsibilities.

The correspondence between the commander-in-chief of the Channel Fleet and his new executive officer had not left out discussion of their old friend and comrade, and little of what they had said to each other had been flattering. Nelson’s ability was not in question, but his judgement was. Also Troubridge, as a highly regarded officer without a blemish to his character, was popular enough at the Admiralty to know that Nelson was not.

He had done nothing less than run insubordinate rings round Lord Keith, who was no mean sailor himself and had deserved more respect. The despatches Keith had sent detailing Nelson’s conduct, though couched in the language of officialdom, had done much to tarnish the glory of the Nile victory. Between the lines of Keith’s reports it was obvious that he felt Nelson put proximity to the body of his mistress before the needs of his country, a view that had subsequently been disseminated in high places.

His relationship with Emma Hamilton had given his naval detractors a stick with which to beat him. Lord Spencer might love the man for his victory, and Lady Spencer might be ever grateful for the way it had aided her husband politically, but there was a steady drip of venom from old adversaries and folk eager to be scandalised. Although Nelson had been instrumental in defeating one enemy fleet and had destroyed another, there were admirals senior to him who could say without a blush that he was too bold, too much of a chancer, to be entrusted with another command.

‘Davidson,’ said Nelson, grasping the hand of his prize agent and friend. ‘It is so good to see you after so long.’

Alexander Davidson hadn’t changed. He still had the same high colour under ginger hair, though that was showing the first hints of grey, the same piping voice and soft Northumbrian accent. He was a true friend, one of the few people not naval that Nelson could utterly rely on and he loved him like a brother. He envied him, as well, because of the speed with which he and his pretty wife quickly produced the children to whom Nelson stood as godfather. He enquired after them, bursting but unable to tell even Davidson that he too would soon be a father.

What Davidson saw was a man not much different from their first meeting in Quebec: older, yes, wiser, no. Then Nelson had been, just as he was now, a victim of his enthusiasms. The only person to whom
Nelson had confided the breakdown of his relationship with Fanny, Alexander Davidson was less surprised than most about his affair with Lady Hamilton.

‘How could you let Fanny take a house near Portman Square?’ Nelson asked suddenly. ‘It was my express wish that she should avoid that area.’

If Nelson hadn’t changed, his wife had. The rather mouse-like creature Davidson had met and got to know over the first years of her marriage to Nelson had turned lately into something of a shrew. Fanny Nelson was no longer content meekly to obey her absent husband’s instructions. She had taken to questioning some and disobeying others, which could only be ascribed to her disquiet at information she was receiving regarding her husband’s behaviour. Fanny had never said anything to Davidson, but her demeanour told those with eyes to see that she knew about Emma Hamilton and her husband. Nelson was in for a turbulent homecoming – of that Davidson was certain.

‘Nelson, I am your agent, not your executor. I can dispose of your prizes and instruct your lawyers to sue that greedy old goat, St Vincent, but I can only advise Lady Nelson and if she chooses to ignore me I’m not sure what I can do.’

‘Are you saying she chose deliberately to disregard me?’

Davidson shook his head, although he suspected that the answer was yes. It was not a subject on which he wanted to dwell, so he moved swiftly to business matters, reassuring Nelson that his finances were reasonably sound. While he was not rich he was comfortably situated, though Davidson thought he should be less free with his disbursements to his family – and once he had perused the accounts of the journey from Italy, more circumspect with support to his friends.

‘I would never deny Sir William Hamilton anything.’

‘So it would seem,’ Davidson replied. ‘But he is already in debt to you for some two thousand pounds and that is not, I’m sure, a situation with which he is comfortable.’

Nelson wasn’t good with money, mainly because he cared so little for it. Even as a half-pay post captain stuck in Norfolk he had been a soft touch for a beggar. With a steady stream of income from prize money and gifts, he could afford to be generous now, but only up to a point. Davidson had seen too many naval officers come ashore wealthy only to soon find themselves strapped by their own profligate spending. And some of the monies Davidson had counted in were sums owed rather than paid.

Disputes were ongoing with the Admiralty, St Vincent and Lord Keith about prize money distribution, all designed to keep the lawyers busy, and Davidson had to report that his attempts to settle these without litigation had failed. It was the same after every commission, ten times worse after a battle, with every officer in the fleet convinced that he had been cheated of his just deserts. Added to that, the Navy Office, the Victualling Board, the Sick and Hurt Board, and His Majesty’s First Lord of the Treasury would never agree to the amounts expended on keeping a fleet at sea. It was part of Davidson’s job to take issue with them as well so that any monies Nelson had paid out of his own pocket could be recouped in full.

Nelson sighed as the state of his accounts was finally disclosed. ‘I swear Davidson, if I had not a headache before, I have one now,’

‘To more pleasant tasks, then,’ said Davidson, pushing forward a letter with a heavy seal. ‘It is the Lord Mayor’s banquet tomorrow. The City of London has asked me to pass on to you a request that you consent to be the guest of honour.’

It was a signal accolade, and Nelson couldn’t keep the pleasure from his countenance. He would occupy a seat often reserved for royalty at a dinner that was near the top of the social calendar and attended by the most elevated persons in the land. It must have been planned for months, with a guest of honour in place well before now: someone had either stood down or been displaced by his return. He longed to ask who, but did not dare.