Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (30 page)

‘That, my lord, is why everything is to be wrapped in woollen
batting for safe-keeping.’

‘A ship’s hold is a powerfully damp place,’ he explained. ‘Your
wool will soak up every drop of it, and rot what you’ve wrapped it round
besides. If you came on board the
Vanguard
I’d take you deep down in the
hold, and you’d see it all for yourself.’

She straightened to confront him, her hands squared at her waist.
‘I’ve been on board a ship before, thank you,’ she said, remembering how awful
her voyage from England had been. ‘I’ve seen quite enough.’

‘Some low, slovenly merchantman’s not the
Vanguard
,’ he
said, with open admiration and affection. ‘She’s a little battered and torn
about now, but she’s still one of the neatest, fastest vessels in the fleet.’

‘You sound as if you’re speaking of a—a person,’ she said,
surprised by the intensity of his feeling. ‘Not just a boat.’

‘A first-rate ship, miss, not a boat,’ he corrected gently,
smiling. ‘And, aye, to sailors a ship does become like a person over time, I
suppose.’

Earlier in the day he’d asked her permission to remove his heavy
uniform coat, and she’d granted it, not seeing any reason to refuse. But as the
day had warmed he’d also rolled the sleeves of his shirt back to his elbows,
and the sight of his bare wrists and muscular forearms dusted over with golden
hair had been more distracting than she’d dreamed possible.

‘When she’s sailing under full canvas and a brisk wind, the waves
crashing against her bow and the lines singing taut and sharp, why, then she
does
seem alive,’ he continued. ‘To stand on her deck on a sunny morn, with the wind
and spray dancing all around—
ahh
, there’s nothing finer in this life,
Miss Layton. Nothing at all.’

But to Abigail there was nothing finer than how glorious he
looked, standing there smiling before her, in his white breeches and shirt,
with the Neapolitan sunlight streaming around him. She might not comprehend his
devotion to the sea or his ship, but she did understand the kind of passion
that glowed in his face. She felt the same when she studied a particularly
beautiful statue or carving—which was why, in a way, she was so determined that
Sir William’s collection be given the care it deserved.

‘That speed and unease of a ship through the waves is exactly why
I must insist on the woollen batting to protect the artefacts, my lord,’ she
said, forcing herself to concentrate on her work instead of his handsomely
distracting self. ‘For the safety of fragile objects, wool is always best.’

‘You’ll do far better with wood shavings, Miss Layton,’ he
insisted. ‘That will keep things snug, even in a stormy sea.’

Steadfastly she looked back to his face. ‘What would be even
better, my lord, would be if your captain could keep better control of his ship
within the waves, so that the passage would be less taxing.’

He sighed with exasperation. ‘Why not ask me to pour a great vat
of oil upon the seas and calm them clear to Portsmouth for transporting your
bric-a-brac?’

‘Why not, indeed, my lord?’ she answered tartly, ‘Since every
other request I make seems to strike you as so unreasonable that you—’

‘Unreasonable, Miss Layton?’ Lady Hamilton swept into the room.
‘I cannot believe this handsome gentleman would ever be unreasonable.’

‘It was a slight difference of opinion, my lady,’ the lieutenant
said quickly. ‘No more.’

‘No more, my lady,’ Abigail agreed, just as quickly. She wasn’t
sure if he believed what he’d said, or if he was simply being gallant again,
but he’d saved her before Lady Hamilton, and for that she must be grateful.
‘You may assure Sir William that we are making excellent progress.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said, smiling, ‘because I intend to
put an end to your work for today, so that you might prepare for the ball.’

‘The ball, my lady?’ asked the lieutenant, his voice carefully
noncommittal.

‘Yes, yes!’ exclaimed Lady Hamilton. ‘I’ve only a week for the
planning, but I’ll have it ready. In honor o’ dear Admiral Nelson’s birthday,
o’ course.’

Abigail’s brows rose in dismay. She’d never attended a ball, nor
did she wish to go to one now, either. ‘Forgive me, my lady, but I must beg to
be excused, seeing that my work here has only—’

‘Oh, no, you’re not to be excused,’ Lady Hamilton said
cheerfully, waving an outsized ivory fan before her face. ‘We’ll need every
pretty English lady we can muster.’

‘Then I shall leave you ladies to, ah, make your plans,’ the
lieutenant said, bowing even as he eagerly grabbed his coat from the back of a
chair. ‘It’s high time I returned to my duties on the
Vanguard
.’

‘Only if you swear to me you’ll be one o’ my guests at the ball,
my lord,’ Lady Hamilton said. ‘The admiral will expect you there with him, I
know.’

The lieutenant winced, his expression so wretched that Abigail
might have laughed if she hadn’t been feeling exactly the same way.

‘Forgive me, my lady,’ he began, ‘but my duty—’

‘It’s your duty to come and pay our hero homage, my lord, an’ to
dance with the ladies, too.’ Lady Hamilton tucked Abigail’s hand into the crook
of her arm so at least
she
couldn’t escape. ‘Now, come with me, Miss
Layton. As our sailing friends say, I must “rig you out proper”.’

Abigail’s last glimpse of the lieutenant was over Lady Hamilton’s
rounded shoulder as she drew her through the door. His expression was one of
such mournful sympathy that Abigail could almost—almost—forgive him his stubbornness
about the woollen batting.

But first she’d have to cope with Lady Hamilton, now steering her
briskly up the stairs. ‘While I appreciate your interest, my lady, I’m afraid
I’m not, ah, the sort of lady to invite to a ball.’

‘Nonsense.’ Lady Hamilton led her into her sitting room, with her
bedchamber just beyond. Windows ran along one wall, open to the breathtaking
view of the harbour, dotted with tall English warships. Three Italian women
curtseyed to them as they entered: a mantua-maker in an extravagant organdy
bonnet and, flanking her, two assistant seamstresses. ‘Once we’ve put aside
that dreary mourning, why, you’ll look as pretty as a princess. Prettier,
considering the homely state of the princesses at this court.’

Bewildered, Abigail watched the three women begin displaying
lengths of embroidered muslin and silk ribbon and Venetian lace for her
consideration. She could only imagine the beauty of the gowns they’d create,
and the exorbitant cost of them, too. Why, she could squander half of what
she’d earn here on a single gown!

‘I am sorry, my lady,’ she began, ‘but I can’t begin to afford
to—’

‘More nonsense,’ her ladyship said, holding a pink ribbon beside
Abigail’s cheek. ‘It be on my reckoning, and that’s an end to it. I cannot bear
to see you shrouded away like a little crow, and I’d wager your father would
say the same, wouldn’t he?’

Tears sprang to Abigail’s eyes, and she pressed her hand over her
mouth, struggling to keep them back. Father
had
always wanted her to be
more light-hearted and merry, like the other girls on their street, but there’d
never been extra money for fancy gowns or dancing masters, nor had Abigail
wished to leave Father’s side after he’d become ill.

‘There, now, no more tears,’ Lady Hamilton said softly, patting
her arm. ‘I ’spect you’ve shed more’n enough of those by now. Let’s be more
cheery, eh? Signora Teresa, something cheery for the young lady!’

But nothing Abigail had known in her life had prepared her for
how Signora Teresa and her assistants seemed to pounce upon her, measuring and
marking and draping her in drifts of sheer Indian muslin and shining silk, and
tucking plumes and ribbons into her hair. The ambassador’s wife oversaw it all
with the same unquestionable assurance that Admiral Nelson must have shown at
the Nile.

‘Here, now, the final touch.’ As the seamstresses packed their
baskets to leave, Lady Hamilton took a length of white ribbon, woven with blue
flourishes, and tied it in a bow around the high waist of Abigail’s old black
mourning gown. ‘You can at least wear this until the rest is ready, day after
tomorrow.’

Overwhelmed, Abigail shook her head. ‘I do not mean to be
ungrateful, my lady, but this is too much for me to accept. My father was a
university scholar, not a true gentleman, and to make me out to be a lady like
this cannot be right.’

‘Hush,’ Lady Hamilton said, smoothing the ribbon bow until the
other women had left them alone and the door had closed. She gave the bow a
final pat and stepped back, twisting her hands in the ends of her shawl.

‘Let me explain, Miss Layton, and please mind what I say.’ All
the earlier levity was gone from her lovely face, replaced by something harder,
more determined, and far, far more serious. ‘I wish to see you happy, yes, and
dressed as you should be. And if you and that handsome lieutenant can amuse one
another while you’re my guests, all the better. I do love lovers, an’ always
will.’

Abigail blushed—something she felt she’d done almost without
stopping since she’d come to this house. ‘You are very kind, my lady, but I’ve
come here to work.’

‘Perhaps you have,’ she answered. ‘But now that you’re here,
you’re part o’ something else altogether. Has your lord lieutenant spoken much
o’ the battle to you?’

‘Not at all,’ Abigail said. ‘He’d didn’t speak a single word of
brave deeds and glory.’

‘And he won’t, Miss Layton,’ Lady Hamilton said with a sad smile.
‘That’s the way o’ these officers. The worse the war is for them, the less they
speak of it. And from what I’ve heard from Sir William, the Nile was very, very
bad indeed.’

‘But the English won, didn’t they?’

‘They did, aye, but at a terrible mortal cost,’ Lady Hamilton
said sorrowfully. ‘Over two thousand men killed between the two sides, and many
died most horribly when one of the French ships exploded. Hundreds of burned
and dying men floatin’ about in the waves—the ones that survive don’t forget
that, no matter if they be French nor English. Once the wounded are brought
ashore tomorrow I’ll go and call upon them myself, though the sight will fair
break my tender heart.’

Horrified, Abigail could not imagine the carnage the other woman
was describing. How could the lieutenant smile at all after fighting in such a
battle? Though England and France had been at war as long as she could
remember, the reality had never touched them at Oxford, not like this. Her
version of war had come from Homer and other ancient poets, full of idealised
glory and noble causes, no real pain or death.

‘So that is why you are having this party for the admiral’s
birthday, my lady?’ she asked. ‘To help him and his men forget?’

‘Would that that were all!’ Lady Hamilton’s laugh held little
humour. ‘No, Miss Layton, we’re all of us in the war far deeper than that. Our
great navy won the day at the Nile, but Bonaparte’s armies on land remain as
strong as ever and ready to claim all o’ Italy if we let them.’

‘Italy?’ Abigail repeated faintly. ‘Not Naples, too?’

‘Oh, yes, Naples, too,’ Lady Hamilton answered firmly. ‘My
husband would never have knowingly asked you, as a woman, to risk yourself by
coming here at this perilous time. But now that you are here, you must know of
the danger.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’ Abigail tried to sound brave. It was a
bravery she didn’t feel. To be trapped in the path of the French army, here in
a place that was already so foreign—oh,
why
hadn’t she stayed in Oxford,
where she’d been safe? ‘I suppose it is better to know than not.’

‘It is indeed better!’ Lady Hamilton exclaimed. ‘Now you
understand why it’s so important to Sir William to have his treasures and you
shipped home as soon as can be.’

‘Yes, my lady,’ Abigail said, no longer even trying for bravery.
‘That—that will make for a very different sort of Christmas for us this year,
won’t it?’

‘It will if the French army comes, which we don’t want at all,’ Lady
Hamilton warned. ‘That’s the true reason you and I and all the other English
folk here must make a great, brave show of the admiral and the rest of his men,
and of the King and Queen o’ Naples, too. French spies are everywhere, and we
must take care they carry only tales of how strong and proud and clever we
English are.’

Lady Hamilton raised the end of the ribbon tied around Abigail’s
waist, tracing the monogram with one finger. ‘Here you see two letter Ns: one
for the Nile, and one for Nelson. Everyone in the house will be wearing this
ribbon at the ball. It’s the least we can do. For them, and for England.’

‘For England.’ Abigail looked down at the ribbon that now seemed
so much more than a mere length of costly silk.

Her reasons for being so ill-tempered earlier with Lieutenant
Lord Richardson had likewise changed, and now seemed selfishly insignificant,
enough to make her thoroughly ashamed. He deserved far more than that from her,
and as soon as she saw him again she meant to apologise. And she’d do it: she’d
do it just as she would be as strong and brave and clever as Lady Hamilton had
said she must be.

For what choice, really, did she have?

T
HE
next morning, James made sure he was in
Sir William’s gallery first, before Abigail arrived and almost before the sun
rose. Though they’d both been included at dinner last night, he hadn’t found a
chance to talk with her alone, and afterwards she retreated to her room before
the other ladies rejoined the gentlemen in the drawing room.

He caught his reflection in the bull’s-eye mirror over the
fireplace, and quickly smoothed the front of his hair back again, over the
cowlick that always made it fall forward. As he’d lain awake late last night it
had crossed his mind that Abigail might be avoiding him on purpose—hardly a
pleasing or flattering possibility. Not that he could blame her, either. Not
after he’d been so insistent about the method of packing. The more he thought
of it, the more he realised, to his considerable remorse, that he’d been as bad
as any bully, expecting her to obey his orders as if she were a new crewman,
not a lady.