Ned looks at the baby, then glances at me. He is protective of me.
‘It is alright, Ned; you can touch her. She will not break,’ I tell him. Neither will I. ‘Her name is Esmerelda.’
‘Esmerelda.’ He tries out this word; it sounds awkward on his tongue. He puts out a finger, and the four-month-old grasps it tightly. ‘She will not let go, Mama.’
‘She is like a little octopus, this one,’ María-Christina, Esmerelda’s mother, says. ‘She will not let go of anything once it is in her clutches.’
Esmerelda has her mother’s vivid blue eyes and dark hair. She will be a beauty like her mother; that is already apparent.
‘Give my finger back, baby,’ Ned tells her.
‘Here, Master Ned, give her this instead,’ Dolores Castillo says, handing Ned a silver ‘whistles and bells.’ When Ned offers it to her, Esmerelda grabs it and waves it clumsily in a side-to-side motion, making the bells tinkle. Ned never had one of these when he was a baby; he was happy to play with a sealed box of sleeve buttons.
Miguel Castillo, María-Christina’s husband, comes into the garden with Esmerelda’s two-year-old twin siblings tumbling after him. ‘Ned, would you like to come to the market with us to look for strawberries?’
Ned turns to me. ‘May I, Mama? Please?’
‘Of course, my love. You will help Capitán Castillo with the twins, I hope.’
He bobs his head enthusiastically. I kiss his cheek before he runs to join the expedition.
‘He is a smart boy,’ María-Christina comments.
‘I like to think so.’
‘But it is true, Nell, hija,’ Dolores says. ‘He speaks better than most children his age, and he already knows his alphabet. He also knows that if I put three cakes on a plate and take one away, there are only two remaining. And he is only three-and-a-half.’
‘Ned would know instinctively how many cakes there are on any plate,’ I inform her wryly.
‘He is an exceptional child, my dear. I hope you realise that.’ She rises from the patch of lawn where we have been sitting. ‘I am going to make shortcakes and whip some cream. If there are any strawberries to be had in the market, my son will find them.’
María-Christina and I sit together in the garden. I can sense that she is being careful of me, too, and it disappoints me. Of all the people in the world, I had hoped that she would not feel compelled to treat me as though I were fragile.
‘She is a beauty, M-C,’ I say. ‘She looks like you already. I presume you are going to teach her to go out on the yards when she is ready…?’
‘¡Ay sí! Of course, if that is what she wants to do. But I think I will not be going out on the yards again for a while.’
‘You are not going to stay ashore with the little ones, are you?’
She looks indignant. ‘No! My life is on the sea, not on the shore. No, I will not be going aloft for a while because I am pregnant again.’
I try to keep my face neutral, but she must read my ambivalence, because she says guiltily, ‘I know. Dolores is angry with us. I told her it is not Miguel’s fault. I wanted him to.’
‘When…?’
‘Hard to say. I never had my monthlies again after Esmerelda was born. But I know all the signs by now; I am definitely “up the mast”.’
Esmerelda screws up her face and begins to howl. María-Christina scoops her up and deftly bares a breast. The baby immediately latches on like a limpet and begins to suckle.
‘Another way she is like an octopus,’ María-Christina comments wryly. ‘Or maybe a kraken. She has a powerful sucker. And she is so demanding!’ She kisses her baby’s head. ‘She knows what she wants.’
‘Like you,’ I observe.
‘Like me,’ she agrees, with her musical wren’s-trill laugh.
* * *
Ned may be an ‘exceptional’ child, but he still needs a nap in the mid-afternoon or he begins to wilt like a plant under a strong sun. I carry him up the stairs and sit him on John’s bed.
His hands and mouth are still sticky with strawberry juice, and I dampen a towel at the washstand. He submits to this reluctantly, but he permits it. He is too sleepy to resist me.
I search for his stuffed monkey, Mr Mipps, and eventually find him under John’s dining table, along with several picture books. I pick up the books and the monkey, putting the books back on their shelf and Mr Mipps beside Ned on the bed. Ned clasps the monkey in one arm and drops immediately into a tranquil sleep, as only a child can. I smooth his hair and kiss his temple before I leave him.
There was a letter on the floor of the hall when we came home, a letter addressed in a hand I recognise. Disappointingly, it is not John’s writing. I have not had a letter from John for over three months now.
Nevertheless, this letter is from Matthew Fish, who went north into France in April to look for John. I hope for good news, but somehow I do not expect it. I fear I have become cynical since we lost Johanna.
I go out into the garden and sit on the bench under the olive tree, where I break the seal on the letter. There is another page folded inside… in John’s hand.
Tears spring unexpectedly to my eyes. Matthew has found him.
Lyon, France
Springtime--?
My beloved —
Nell, how it pains me to write these words. Please forgive how long it has taken; I have tried to put pen to paper a number of times, but I found that I could not.
I understand absolutely, because I could not write a single word. Not for weeks. Not even for myself, to remember her by.
Even now, I cannot write what I feel; there do not seem to be words for that. If only I had been with you! I realise that it might have changed nothing, but we might have shared the burthen. I might at least have had the chance to hold her in my arms before she died.
It is fortunate that I am alone just now, because my eyes betray me. I am sorry; I know this letter is utterly inadequate, and I do not wish to cause you any more pain, my darling girl. Your diary has been both a source of joy to me and a token of loss, but it has helped me feel closer to you and Ned and Johanna--
Here the script wobbles on the page. It is all the more difficult to see because the tears in my own eyes are blurring the words; I set the paper down and blot them with my handkerchief. When the writing begins again the ink is paler than before, and the quill must be badly cut, because the letters are disjointed.
I cannot date this letter, because I do not know the date when I began it, and now it has been days since I put down my pen. The weather has become warm, so I know it must be sometime in May, or perhaps even June.
The days here bleed into each other, and they have not provided me with a diary. I have had to ask for paper and ink to write to you; this is the first time they have acceded to my request. They do not trust me not to send clandestine letters, I suppose, although I know they will read everything I write. Perhaps they think I will sail them out of my attic window like paper boats, which would somehow make their way to London.
They do provide me with the government newspapers—in French, of course. I suspect that these reports are not objective, to say the least.
I am sure that our people are doing everything they can to get me released, but I hear nothing. Nell, if I do not come home, do not wait forever for me. But please, my darling girl, do not forget me.
Yours ever,
John
I have not cried for many weeks, but now, my stoicism fails me. I let the letter fall into my lap and hide my face in my hands. I have already lost so much; I cannot lose John, too.
When I have regained control of myself, I fold John’s letter and pick up the one from Matthew Fish. Nothing it contains could possibly hurt me any worse.
23 May 1801
Lyon
Dear Mrs Howard
I have discovered Major Howard’s location. For a long time they would not let me see him, now they will but they always have a Guard in the room.
They have not harmed him, but neither was they taking particular care of him. They was only letting him shave once a week, and the Blade weren’t sharp enough so it irritated his face something dreadful. Now they let me shave him as long as one of them is present.
They have let me bring him food. They wasn’t feeding him decently and he is too thin. He has two Rooms, albeit not particularly nice ones. Before this place, he said, he only had one and it was poorer than these, without a fire.
I am doing what I can to make his Confinement more comfortable. If Mr Winter could arrange it that I could draw money from a Bank somewhere it would help a Great Deal, but I do not know. It mayn’t be possible to do with our Countries at war.
I think that he has not been well, but he is not forthcoming about it. At any rate, the Cough is not so bad as it sometimes is, so I would not have you worry. He needs some new small cloathes and would like to have a Diary or a Journal. May be you could send him some things by Mr Winter or the St Clairs.
The place where he is held in the Rue des Trois-Maries. It is a block from the Quai, a stone and stucco Building, four stories high. No apparent number. Pinkish-grey in colour it has a Lanthorn on the wall at the first floor.
He says that if you write to him through our Government Ministers the French will be obligated to deliver the letters. In theory anyway.
I plan to stay with him until they let him go. I am sorry to leave you and Master Ned without support God grant that I may bring him Home again before much longer.
Yr obedient
Matthew Fish
At least they have not hurt him. I want desperately to bring him home, but if London cannot do it, I do not know how I possibly can.
I think of my old pack basket, already prepared and waiting.
They cannot prevent me from trying.
* * *
‘Look, Nell!’ Nancy St Clair rummages in the cupboard at the back of the shop, where neglected things like burst tailors’ hams, fabric deemed unfashionable, and unclaimed commissioned items, waiting the requisite amount of time before they can be offered for sale, reside. ‘I had completely forgotten about this ridiculous thing!’
She holds out a roughly scallop shell-shaped thing made of cork, sewn to set of woven ties, like an apron.
‘What is that?’ I take it from her. I have not seen anything like it before, and cannot imagine what a sort of cork bowl with straps on it could be. A strange hat blank?
‘It’s a cork belly!’ Seeing my blank look, she explains. ‘They were briefly in fashion in London at the beginning of the war, along with cork bums. I haven’t the first idea where the notion came from. Were you not aware of it? You lived in London, did you not?’
‘At the beginning of the war I had other concerns. Fashion didn’t figure into them.’
‘I distinctly remember the lady who brought this thing here, in 1793. She wanted us to make gowns for her that would accommodate this thing, because it was ‘the height of style’ in London.
‘We had to measure her whilst she was wearing it, and she intended the gowns to be fitted in the same manner. But in the meanwhile, as we were constructing the clothes, someone wrote to Town and Country, or Tatler, or one of those things, and denounced cork bellies as being in the very worst taste, and the craze quickly died. “Indecent and indelicate”, I believe was how it was phrased. Or something to that effect. The silly woman was mortified, and she made us re-make all the gowns in a more becoming fashion. We never took this out of the cupboard again.’
‘Why did they wish to look enceinte?’ I ask. ‘I cannot imagine a more cumbersome fashion accessory.’
‘You do not think paniers were cumbersome?’
‘I never wore them. May I have this thing?’
‘Of course, but whatever for? I suppose you could use it as a very large pincushion.’
I hold the cork belly behind my head. ‘Perhaps a bonnet. Wouldn’t it be lovely with a couple of ostrich plumes? “The Birth of Venus” bonnet! Or perhaps I shall remove the straps and use it to hold oranges.’
She looks searchingly at me. I think she is looking for evidence that Johanna’s death has unhinged me. ‘Or maybe it will simply serve as a prompt against vanity,’ I tease her.
She laughs cautiously. ‘Well, it’s certainly less morbid than a skull. Perhaps we could wrap it in long strips of silk like a turban, and pin paste jewels to it. We might start our own fashion trend! For all the ladies of the London ton who are embarrassed to have these still in a wardrobe somewhere.’
This is a truly silly idea, and picturing it makes me laugh genuinely. We set the cork belly aside and return to cleaning out the cupboard.
I have no intention of using the thing as a bonnet.
* * *
I have put together a box of things for John: three new shirts, several pair of clean stockings and drawers, and half a dozen handkerchiefs. I have also purchased a diary and a journal, new goose quills, an inkwell, and ink powder. I suppose they will not let him have a knife to cut the quills, but perhaps Matthew can do that. If, of course, this package reaches him at all.
17 July 1801
Gibraltar
My darling John,
I hope this box reaches you without too much delay. I know not how long diplomatic mail typically takes to arrive, and in these times I expect it takes longer than is typical. If the French see fit to deliver it, that is, which I hope they will.
Forget you! I have no intention of forgetting you, my love. We shall see one another again; I swear it.
I had thought to include some English newspapers, but I realised that they might not let you have them. Things are not as dire as the French would have you think. Parker and Nelson—mostly Nelson, it seems—defeated the Danes at Copenhagen in April, striking a blow at the League of Armed Neutrality, but since Tsar Paul died in March (strangled with his own neckcloth, they say!) that alliance has ceased to be an immediate threat. The government has been shamefully silent about the affair in the Baltic; presumably they ordered it, but opinion seems divided over whether the naval action against the Danes was wise, and they seem ashamed to own it.
Our soldiers landed in Aboukir Bay to fight the French army in Egypt, also in March. Pitt’s government resigned; Addington became Prime Minister on 14 March.
Nelson is now commanding the Channel Fleet, keeping England safe from French invasion. It is beneath his ability, but it is meant to reassure the nation (and probably to bolster Addington, who appears to be floundering a bit).
I do not put in anything pertaining to the King’s health, or the Bill of Regency signed in the House of Commons. It is almost certain that even if John’s captors allow him to have this letter, they will read it first. And I cannot write it in cipher, because John certainly no longer has his copy of Henry V. I cannot resist needling the French just a little, however.
Do not believe the propaganda in the French papers about the Battle of Algeciras. I watched it. It was a minor victory at best.
Ned is doing so exceedingly well! He is such a good child; you would be so proud of him, John. Dolores says that he is exceptional in his vocabulary, and he knows his alphabet and understands simple mathematical concepts. He now sleeps upstairs in your bedchamber. For the time being he sleeps in your bed; when you come home, we shall need to acquire his own for him. If you prefer to sleep upstairs, I mean.
He misses you sorely. As do I.
I will send money separately to Matthew so it can not be confiscated, just as soon as I know where to send it. If you need anything at all, blankets, firewood, brandy, books… make it known to him, and between us we will manage to provide it.
Above all, dear John, keep your health and your spirits up. This will not last forever, and we will be together again. I promise.
Your ever devoted
Nell
I do not write anything about our daughter. We will speak of her in person. I cannot yet bear to memorialise her brief life on paper.
I hope that whoever is protecting John will continue to do so. Even though, if it is who I believe it to be, I intend to kill him one day.
