Soul

What narcissism, Lady Morgan observed, thinking about the egocentricity of the great sea admiral. Admittedly Nelson had saved England from the clutches of Napoleon, and perhaps from the dismantling of the British aristocracy (here Lady Morgan shivered and crossed herself; several of her husband’s cousins had lost their heads in the French Revolution). But sometimes, in secret, very unpatriotic moments, Lady Morgan found herself wondering what would have happened if Napoleon had invaded. Certainly both fashion and food would have improved, and there was a certain philosophical intensity and moral laxity about the French that Lady Morgan secretly admired. The English vilified the Corsican, but really he was far more than just a malevolent dictator, she concluded. Perhaps this was how history was shaped—accidentally; a whirling ballerina pirouetting from one battle to another, collapsing into the arms of whomever won. Was fate really so arbitrary?

Lady Morgan glanced across the square. It was crowded with the usual throng of carts drawn by heavy draught horses, plumes of their steaming breath cutting into the air as they strained under their various loads of coal, wood and vegetables. Several flower girls stood on the street calling out their wares, wearing cheap straw hats with poppies woven through the straw. Street pedlars ran between the city gentlemen in their tails and top hats. The ubiquitous clerks scurried alongside, arms full of papers. A chimney sweep and his climbing boy loitered nearby, the sweep flirting with a barrow girl who stood over a brazier of roasting chestnuts. A matchstick girl, tray hanging in front of her, shouted sporadically, while a muffin man, ringing his bell furiously, added to the pandemonium.

Hordes of urchins darted amongst the pedestrians, sooty-faced, bare-footed, their torn trousers held up by string. They whistled, cheered and generally caused havoc.

A peeler kept vigil, his horse prancing nervously as the carriages rattled past. A cartload of night soil trundled by, sending a wave of noxious air towards the open window of the carriage. Lady Morgan lifted her perfumed handkerchief to her face. Just then she spotted a crossing sweeper running before a well-dressed young gentleman whose good looks and groomed appearance set him apart from the crowd. His back bent obsequiously, the sweeper cleared aside the horse droppings and debris that covered the pavement ahead of the man.

They reached the carriage and the crossing sweeper put out his mitten-covered hand for a tip. By the time the man had paid him, there was an urchin offering to open the carriage door for him. Hamish Campbell angrily dismissed him with a wave. Hoisting himself into the brougham, he took a seat opposite Lady Morgan, slightly breathless from his brisk walk.

‘Why, we have become quite clandestine,’ he remarked as Lady Morgan offered him her lips. He kissed her on the cheek instead and, flicking the tails of his plaid frock coat clear of the seat, leaned back against the cushioned upholstery.

‘Clandestine? It is only married individuals or unchaperoned virgins who need be clandestine,’ Lady Morgan retaliated. ‘No, I’m afraid we have become quite estranged. And that, my elusive friend, isn’t nearly as exciting.’

Hamish pulled off his cream kid gloves and rubbed his hands together in a vain attempt to alleviate the cold that had cramped his fingers. He had been avoiding this encounter for as long as he could; it was only when Lady Morgan’s manservant visited with a second request that he had acquiesced.

‘Are you feeling neglected, Frances?’

‘Feeling neglected? Why, I am neglected. I’ve had no escort for the past two operas, and I’ve had to resort to becoming that tedious child bride’s unofficial social secretary. And, as we both know, the husband is far more fascinating. N’est-ce pas?’

Sensing a trap, Hamish remained silent. The confessions people threw carelessly into such lapses of conversation had always astounded him and he knew Lady Morgan hated silence almost as much as she hated being ignored. He stared out of the window, painfully aware of her gaze, then felt her hand on his knee.

‘You do understand?’ she murmured softly.

Hamish noticed a small boy feeding the pigeons, accompanied by his uniformed nursemaid, and thought of more innocent times.

‘Frances, we have never been lovers.’

Floored by his directness, Lady Morgan blushed, something she couldn’t remember doing for years.

‘No, but I thought…it was implied…’

‘There was nothing implied.’

She watched his face closing against her and decided upon another tactic.

‘My dear boy, you cannot imagine what joy it gives me just to have you sitting here by my side. And we have enjoyed such extraordinary conversations; I had hoped it would lead to greater intimacy…’

Hamish was intensely aware of the social repercussions of incurring her wrath, and decided it would be wise to allow her hand to linger on his thigh. He received a small but not insignificant stipend from Lady Morgan, not to mention the advantageous introductions she facilitated. However, she was renowned for her possessiveness—a trait Hamish had known about when he embarked upon his original campaign. But some events in life could not be controlled or circumvented, even by the most ambitious of men.

‘I am Colonel Huntington’s assistant. The job is demanding.’

‘Indeed. So demanding that you cannot see me in the evenings, nor even visit Highfield Manor.’

‘I will hunt with you, if that’s what you wish.’

‘You know what I wish. But I understand. As I know well, James is très amusant.’

Hamish winced, a small tic appearing under one eye.

‘I want you back in my salon,’ Lady Morgan said bluntly. ‘As I’ve said many a time, I am an understanding woman, probably one of the most forgiving in Mayfair. God forgive me my guilelessness.’

‘Indeed, Frances, you are known for your good grace.’

Hamish couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his voice. She decided to ignore the remark.

‘But, my dear,’ she gave his knee a playful squeeze, ‘I think the real question is whether the young wife would be so understanding. After all, she is one of those tiresome women who is foolish enough to believe she is in love with her husband.’

Hamish placed her hand back onto her own lap. ‘Madame, are you attempting to blackmail me?’