As the third battle commenced it quickly became apparent that the redcoats had the advantage. Try as they might, Sarah and the younger boys could not find a direct angle to flick their missiles, and in the end they had to resort to high-trajectory lobs in an attempt to get at the invisible figurines behind the ridge. Before long the last of the blue figures was bowled over and Arthur let loose a cry of triumph.
Before the sound had died on his lips there was a piercing shriek from downstairs. It came again at once and this time they recognised their mother’s voice as she cried out, ‘NO!’
Anne nudged her brother and whispered, ‘What’s happened, Arthur?’
He did not reply immediately, but strained his ears to catch the sound of cries of despair echoing up the staircase. He rose from the floor of the nursery, conscious that the others were watching him intently.
‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and see.’
He left the nursery, crossed the landing and began to descend the stairs as an icy sense of dread closed tightly around his heart like a fist. Downstairs he could hear his mother crying, and the softer bass notes of the doctor as he offered indistinguishable words of comfort.
Then he knew the full and irrevocable certainty of what had happened and he felt a moment’s giddiness so that he had to clutch the stair rail to prevent himself from falling. The sensation passed and he continued down two more flights to the entrance hall. There was the door to the parlour, closed as before, but now pierced by the sound of his mother crying. Arthur hesitated, then turned the handle and entered. She was sitting on the floor beside the chaise longue, clasping her husband’s hand to her cheek. Standing to one side of her was the doctor, looking on awkwardly as he considered the impropriety of offering some physical comfort to a woman far above his social station. He glanced up at Arthur with an expression of relief and stepped aside, gesturing to the boy to help his mother.
Anne sensed his presence and turned her head towards him, and Arthur was shocked by the animal expression of hurt and pain that ravaged his mother’s features.
‘Oh, my baby … my poor baby. Come to me.’
He crossed over to her and as she clasped him to her breast he felt her body convulse with a fresh wave of grief. Over her shoulder he stared down at the face of his father. The body was quite still, deserted by the ragged breath that had sustained life not long before. His eyes were closed and the head lolled down on to his breast as if in sleep. Only the spattered drops of blood on his lips and the front of his shirt betrayed the malady that had finally claimed him.
‘He’s gone,’Anne cried, weeping into the wavy hair of her son. ‘He’s gone … He’s left us …’
Chapter 22
The funeral of Garrett Wesley, Earl of Mornington, was a subdued affair, even though plenty of people came to the service and, so they said, to pay their respects. His widow and her children, all of them dressed in black, stood at the entrance to the churchyard, waiting to accept the condolences of those who had attended and were even now heading slowly down the gravelled path.
‘Look at them all,’ Richard muttered. ‘A veritable plague of locusts. Creditors, distant relatives and those who call themselves friends; all of them hoping for a share of the spoils.’
‘Enough, Richard.’ His mother squeezed her eldest son’s arm gently. ‘This is neither the time nor the place.’
Arthur plucked his mother’s sleeve.‘What does Richard mean, a share of the spoils?’
‘Shhh, child. Show some decorum. Stand still and bow your head. Like Gerald there.’
Arthur glanced at his younger brother, standing at the edge of the path, head lowered and solemn-faced.
‘He’ll find out soon enough, Mother,’ Richard said quietly. ‘There’s no point in hiding from the truth, and there’s no shame.’
‘No shame?’ his mother hissed. ‘We’ll see how well you cope when we’re finally thrown on to the streets.’
‘Mother,’ Richard replied wearily,‘You said it yourself. No one is going to throw us on to the streets.’
‘Oh, really?’ Her eyebrows arched. ‘Your father was something of a prodigy for squandering his family fortune. Those vultures haven’t even the decency to wait until his body has grown cold in the ground.’
‘Hush, Mother, they’re coming.’
The bishop smiled as he strode the last few paces towards the family in mourning. He offered his hand to Anne first. She smiled.
‘My lady, may I be the first to offer my condolences?’
‘A fine service. I’m sure Garrett would have appreciated it.’
The bishop passed on, down the line of the rest of the family, offering his platitudes of comfort in a well-practised manner. Then came the other mourners: a steady procession of those members of London society who felt sufficiently moved to attend and had nothing more obliging for that date in their diaries. Once the better class of mourners had passed by, there followed a succession of composers and musicians, some of whom were so ingratiating that their efforts to ensure continued patronage embarrassed the Wesley family. Once the last of these had passed down the line a dour-faced man approached Lady Mornington and bowed his head.
‘Thaddeus Hamilton, my lady.’
‘Oh?’
The man smiled. ‘I was the late Earl’s tailor. Of Coult and Sons in Davies Street?You may recall, you graced our establishment with your presence last spring.’ When she still looked blank the man raised his eyebrows. ‘Your husband purchased four shirts, and two coats, if you recall.’
‘Did he? I’m so sorry, Mr … Mr …’
‘Hamilton, my lady. Thaddeus Hamilton.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry, it seems such a long time ago.’
‘I’m sure it does, my lady. That’s quite understandable.’ The tailor nodded. ‘Such a tragic loss. I’m sure that all manner of things are forgotten when weighed against the passing of so noble a man. So renowned a composer.’ He licked his lips nervously. ‘So fine a customer … I am sure that the late Earl would have been kind enough to continue being a customer of our establishment, and would have honoured the bill for the shirts and coats I mentioned. But for his tragic poor health in the final months of his life.’
Lady Mornington stared at him coldly.‘Thank you for coming to pay your respects, Mr Hamilton. Rest assured, we will pay all that is due to my late husband’s creditors, as soon as we have finished grieving.’
The tailor blushed. ‘My lady, I meant no offence. It’s just that we have sent several reminders and—’
‘You will be paid, Mr Hamilton. Good day to you, sir.’
The tailor was simply the first of many people who approached them with requests that their bills be honoured and by the time the family returned home Arthur’s mother was in an angry and despairing state. She went straight into the parlour, took her seat and promptly dissolved into tears as her children looked on, Gerald and Henry immediately followed their mother’s lead. Richard led them out to the kitchen and arranged for them to be fed before returning to the parlour. Lady Mornington had taken control of her emotions and was dabbing her face with a lace handkerchief while Arthur stood beside the chair, uncertainly holding her spare hand in both of his.
‘We’ll be all right, Mother.’ He made himself smile at her. ‘You’ll see.’
She looked up at him.‘Don’t be such a fool, Arthur. Don’t you understand? We’re buried in debt.Your father has ruined us.’
Arthur’s smile faded, his lips were trembling now. ‘I don’t suppose that he spent all that money by himself, Mother.’
‘What did you say?’ She turned in her seat to face him, all trace of grief in her expression replaced by fury. ‘How dare you? How dare you speak to me in that manner?’
‘It’s true,’ Arthur snapped back at her. ‘All your fine dresses. Those balls you went to while he was sick. Who paid for those, Mother? They’re your debts as much as his.’
‘Really?’ She drew her hand back from him. ‘And your schooling, and your clothes, and that wretched sheet music your father kept you supplied with. I suppose you paid for all of that?’
‘Stop it!’ Richard said harshly from the doorway.‘Both of you!’ He strode over and stared down at them. ‘The debts are the responsibility of us all. This bickering is pointless. Arthur,’ he pointed to a chair, ‘sit down. I need to speak to you.’
Richard joined him on the long seat and rested his chin on folded hands as he began to explain.
‘I’ve been through Father’s accounts. I’ve read through the reports from the agent in Ireland and, taken as a whole, the family’s finances are in poor shape. Since we moved to London we’ve been living on borrowed money and, from what I’ve seen, we can’t even afford the interest, let alone any repayment of the principal. We simply cannot afford to continue living as we are.’
He looked at the others to make sure they understood the significance of the situation and continued, ‘In order to take on Father’s responsibilities I’ll have to abandon my studies at Oxford. That will save some money. William can remain where he is for now. He’s doing well and it would be a shame to stifle his talent at the moment. As for you, Mother, you must know that we can no longer afford the upkeep of a property this size, nor can we afford so many staff.You will have to take some rooms elsewhere. Something affordable.’
Lady Mornington cringed. ‘I imagine you’ll be insisting that I take in washing next. Have you no shame, Richard?’
He ignored her remark and continued, ‘At present Anne and Henry can live with you, but I have other plans for Gerald and Arthur.’ He turned to his brother. ‘I understand that you have made little progress at Brown’s. From what I’ve heard of the school, I’m not surprised. So I’ve decided to send you and Gerald to Eton. The family can afford it from what we save in rent. But, Arthur, you must promise me to make the most of the opportunity.’
‘What if I don’t want to go?’
Richard shrugged. ‘Your wishes have nothing to do with it. I am the head of this family now, and I will decide what is in your best interest.’
‘I see.’
‘Good. Then it’s settled.’
Chapter 23
Brienne, 1782
Napoleon slowly lowered the letter from his father on to the library reading desk. He was alone in the room on a Sunday morning. From outside the window came the muffled sounds of the other students playing in the courtyard. Snow had fallen overnight and a thick layer of brilliant white covered the bare landscape around Brienne. Even now a fresh flurry of flakes whirled past the window. Napoleon’s heart felt leaden with despair.
A month earlier Napoleon had finally had enough of being the butt of practical jokes and the other petty cruelties relentlessly heaped on him by Alexander de Fontaine and his friends. Even though there had been no repeat of that night in the stables, the very thought of it filled Napoleon with dread, disgust and a bitter hatred for the faceless aristocrats responsible for his torment. Shortly before Christmas, Napoleon was finally driven to act.
He had written a long letter to his father. In it he explained the situation as gently as he could, since he did not want to make his father aware of the shame that soured him. It would be the unkindest act of all to make his father think that he was ashamed of his family’s social station, even if that was the truth of the matter. So Napoleon tried to express himself in pragmatic terms. He wrote of all the activities he was excluded from by virtue of his financial situation. He explained that the wear and tear of college life exacted a heavy toll on his clothing and that without money he could not replace outworn clothes and so he was reduced to a tramp-like appearance. He was concerned that he did little honour to his family and reflected badly on them. He felt guilty about this. As a consequence Napoleon felt driven to request that his father must either arrange that a far more substantial allowance be paid to him, or that he should be withdrawn from Brienne and educated back at home, where he would fit in and do far more justice to his family’s noble traditions.
The reply from Ajaccio was a blunt refusal. His father told him that there was simply no more money to spare. There was more to being a gentleman than money, and if Napoleon would only conduct himself in the proper manner and behave in a way that befitted a gentleman then his father was sure that he would prosper at Brienne. Inside Napoleon cursed his father for not seeing through the careful phrases of his son’s letter to the raw agony of the life he had been forced to endure at the school. Perhaps he should have written in a more forthright manner so that his father could understand the depth of his misery. Another letter then? Napoleon considered the idea for a moment before rejecting it.That would only make him look even more weak and pathetic to his father.The opportunity for an effective appeal had been lost.All that was left to Napoleon now was to make the most of the situation.
Impulsively, his fingers closed round his father’s reply and crumpled it up, working the paper into a tight ball. Napoleon turned from the reading table and, taking aim on the waste basket, he lobbed the ball of paper over towards it.The missile hit the rim of the basket and dropped to the ground at its base.
‘Buona Parte! Pick that up!’
Napoleon jumped in his seat at the sound of the voice, then turned to look over his shoulder. Father Dupuy had just entered the library to supervise the morning borrowers.
‘Pick up that paper!’
‘Yes, sir!’ Napoleon jumped down from his stool. He hurried over towards the crumpled letter, scooped it up and quickly deposited it in the bin.
‘I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.’
Father Dupuy, accustomed to the Coriscan boy’s ill humour and bouts of fiery temper, was surprised by his meek response. ‘Is anything the matter?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What was that piece of paper?’
‘It was personal, sir.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that. Let me see it.’
There was no avoiding the order. Napoleon retrieved the tight bundle of paper and placed it on to the teacher’s outstretched hand. While the boy stood in front of him the teacher carefully unravelled the paper and read through the contents. When he finished, he returned the letter to Napoleon.