The Flag of Freedom (20 page)

That was tactful, Nathan conceded. Addressing it to the Moorish Prison might have caused the Admiral some disquiet.

Sir,

Whereas you presently find yourself without a command, the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty have conveyed to me their wish that you be granted a leave of absence for an indefinite period, during which time their lordships have been pleased to confirm that you are at liberty to accept any post that is offered you, commensurate with your rank and abilities, by any person or persons whose interests are not opposed to those of His Majesty's Government.

Should any such post arise and the circumstances being favourable, you are to deliver the despatches that accompany this missive to those representatives of His Majesty as you may encounter on your travels and deliver such replies as shall be entrusted to you.

You are further requested and required as an officer of His Majesty's Navy to diligently seek out
any intelligence of the enemy in whatever region you are required to visit and to undertake such surveys and observations as may be useful to those forces at His Majesty's command,

Yours &c

St Vincent

If this was meant to relieve Nathan's apprehension, it failed on several counts. He was particularly concerned that it was not a direct instruction from the Admiralty or from the Admiral himself. If any problems arose, it left both parties with ample scope for misunderstanding or outright denial. Of course, the letter itself provided some reassurance, but if he lost it, as he had the order sending him to Venice, he very much doubted if a copy would be made available. And then there were the ambiguities.

…
any person or persons whose interests are not opposed to those of His Majesty's Government
…
the circumstances being favourable
…
those representatives of His Majesty as you may encounter
…

Clearly, St Vincent was being deliberately evasive. Was this because he feared the letter might fall into the wrong hands – or from some more sinister motive?

He looked up to see Imlay watching him carefully. He was holding another letter in both hands, like an offering, but there was something in his manner that put Nathan instantly on his guard.

‘This also is for you,' said Imlay. ‘I was asked to deliver it personally. But you may wish to read it in private.'

Almost with reluctance he handed it over and then made a small gesture to Tully who looked startled but picked up his hat and, with a concerned glance at Nathan, followed Imlay from the cabin.

Nathan considered the envelope with foreboding, for Imlay's manner indicated the probability of bad news, news of which Imlay himself was aware. He recognised the hand immediately, for though he had received only one letter from her in the past year, he had read it so often it was imprinted on his memory. He broke the seal. It was from Sara. Two pages in her large, clear, confident scrawl. Dated almost two months ago, with a London address. Not his mother's. She wrote:

My dear Nathan,

Having just been informed that Imlay is to journey to Gibraltar and has every expectation of meeting with you, I could not miss a sure opportunity of writing, not being certain that any of my previous letters have reached you.

If they did, however, you will know the very sad news that Mary Wollstonecraft has died. I am sorry if this comes as a shock to you, for I know that you esteemed her greatly, and that she was a very good friend to you, as she was to me, both in Paris and in London. Although it is several months since she passed away, there is not a day goes by that I do not grieve for her, for I believe her to be the dearest friend I ever had.

Nathan stared down at the letter.

Mary Wollstonecraft was dead.

He had a sudden mental image of her, flushed and excited, after visiting Thomas Paine in the Luxembourg prison, and in the garden at Neuilly with little Fanny at her breast and the maid Hélène pushing Alex on a swing.

He had been much exasperated with her at times, especially over her relationship with Imlay. Her despair at his infidelity had caused her to make at least two attempts on her own life: once by throwing herself in the Thames, when Nathan had come close to drowning himself in a bid to fish her out. He wondered if she had finally succeeded. But no. He read on:

Mary died in childbirth at her home in Somers Town, with her husband, family and friends at her side, myself among them. The cause of death was given as a poisoning of the blood. The infant survived and is a healthy little girl named Mary, after her mother. I am looking down at her as I write and she is smiling happily up at me from her cot and is the dearest little thing.

If you have received my previous letter, you will know that Mary and Godwin were married in March, since when she and I had been sharing a house in the Polygon, with Godwin occupying the house next door.

Nathan read this sentence twice so as to be sure of taking it in, but was no more enlightened at the second reading. He had no knowledge of this previous letter she referred
to, and when he had read of Mary's
husband
being at her side, he had immedi ately taken this to mean Imlay. But apparently not.

What was this about
sharing a house in the Polygon, with Godwin occupying the house next door.

The explanation, as such, was swiftly forthcoming:

You may think this eccentric, but both Mary and William were anxious to maintain their independence, and it is no more extraordinary, as they would argue, than for a Duke and a Duchess to maintain their own separate apartments and households while continuing to hold each other in great affection. Indeed, although Godwin had many times called for the Abolition of Matrimony, and their marriage exposed the true nature of Mary's ‘Arrangement' with Imlay, on which account she lost a great many of those she counted as friends, they were a very happy couple and often communicated by letter and in person.

Nathan's frown grew a little more perplexed. Had it not been for the tragic nature of the letter, he might have wondered if he was the victim of a tease.

Certainly, Godwin's great love for her is apparent from the extremity of his grief, and I have taken upon myself the care of him and the little ones until he is more able to take an interest in his life and responsibilities.

Nathan chewed this over for a moment without coming to any definite conclusion.

In the circumstances, however, and knowing how much people are inclined to Gossip, especially in London, you must consider yourself to be freed from any understanding or obligation that you may feel towards me, especially as I now have several others for whom I must accept responsibility.

It is difficult for me, my dear Nathan, to write of such things as our feelings for each other when we have not spoken of them for so long and in circumstances which have changed very much between us, and in the world. We have been apart for so long and spent so little time together.

Please do not be anxious for me. Although I grieve for Mary I am otherwise content and in no want of money or other comforts. Your mother remains very kind and generous. Alex is in good heart and at school in London, and he sends you his greatest respects and hopes for your continued safety and wellbeing.

As does your affectionate and special friend,

Sara

Nathan read several of the passages again, trying to discern a hidden meaning. A hint of what she truly meant to convey to him.

Knowing how much people are inclined to Gossip
…

Gossip about the true nature of her relations with Godwin – or Mary?

Something that she thought would give him cause for distress or offence, however.

…
especially as I now have several others for whom I must accept responsibility.

This might be intended as a warning that it was not just she and Alex he would be taking on, but the two little girls, Fanny and Mary. Or it might be an indication of her attachment to Godwin.

…
circumstances which have changed very much between us, and in the world
…
We have been apart for so long and spent so little time together.

What she meant was – we can no longer feel the same passion for each other as we did in Paris, at the time of the Terror. We no longer even know each other.

Sadly, this was true. And yet. He wanted her and he wanted what they had had then. The same intensity, and longing, and
love
.

And he felt this savage and unreasonable jealousy.

Was she freeing him – or herself? The more he thought about it, the more he was inclined to believe the latter. She wanted this man Godwin. Godwin and a home and family, a ready-made family. Not some distant memory of a few nights' passion in Paris, and a man five years younger than herself, who did not know what he wanted, and probably never would.

There was a tentative knock on the cabin door and Imlay entered. Alone. His face was grave. Nathan indicated the letter. ‘It is from Sara,' he said.

Imlay nodded. ‘I know,' he said. ‘She gave it to me.'

‘Then you know about Mary. I am sorry.'

‘So am I.' Imlay sat heavily, taking off his hat and
running his hands through his hair. ‘He is just a boy, he has never grown up,' Mary had said of him once, but he looked his age now.

It was impossible to guess what his true feelings towards Mary had been. Nathan, having met them both in Paris, was convinced he had set out on a course of seduction partly because of the challenge she represented as a celebrated feminist and writer. But it was not impossible that Imlay had fallen in love with her. He had talked of buying a farm in Kentucky and having six children together. Of living the simple life. A life of principle and high ideals. He might even have believed it at the time. He had the facility of believing in whatever image of himself he wished to put across to people; it was one of the chief reasons they were fooled into believing it themselves.

‘You know of this Godwin?' Nathan asked him.

‘Yes. William Godwin. He is a writer. Like myself.'

Nathan raised a brow but let this supposition pass unchallenged. ‘A writer?'

‘More of a journalist, I guess. And I believe he is regarded as something of a philosopher.' His tone verged on the dismissive.

‘You were in London when Mary died?'

‘No. I heard about it later.'

‘So what of the child?'

‘Godwin's child?'

‘I was thinking more of
your
child. Fanny. The child you had by Mary.'

‘I have made what provision I can for her,' Imlay retorted stiffly. ‘Sara is looking after her at present. Did she not tell you?'

‘Yes. She seems to be looking after all of them. Godwin included.'

‘Ah – yes.' A bitter smile. ‘Godwin seems to bring out the maternal in women.'

Did he want Nathan to believe there was something between them – Sara and Godwin? Had she confided in Imlay? They had known each other well in Paris. For a time Nathan had wondered if they had been lovers before Mary came into the picture. Or even since, for fidelity had never been Imlay's strong point.

‘Why did you give me this now?' Nathan pressed him.

‘What was I to do? Withhold it?'

He would have, if it had suited him to do so. But perhaps that was unfair. Imlay had some sense of honour, though it was adaptable to circumstance.

‘Well, it seems I have little reason to return to London,' Nathan told him, as he folded the letter carefully in half and returned it to its envelope to read again, no doubt, over and over again in the loneliness of his cabin, or the next prison cell. This was nonsense and he knew it. He had every reason to return to London – apart from his own fear of commitment. ‘So, I will take you to Tripoli, God help me.'

‘Excellent.' Imlay beamed. ‘We will have a splendid time.' His face fell with an almost comic facility. ‘It will help us forget our bereavements – and our disappointments.'

‘You said I might have Tully as first lieutenant.'

‘By all means, by all means.' He fitted his fist into his hand. ‘I will speak to the Governor this very morning. I am sure he will be able to arrange it with the Port Admiral.
And if not, a letter to the Commander-in-Chief will secure whatever approvals are necessary.'

‘In writing.'

‘In writing, as you say.' Though he frowned a little.

‘So what other officers do we have, apart from Lieutenant Belli, of course?'

‘What other? Ah, I am afraid Lieutenant Belli is our full resource, so far as officers are concerned. Oh, and the midshipman, Lamb.'

‘Lamb? Mr Lamb is with you?'

‘Yes. He assisted Tully during the refit. I believe he spent last night ashore, but it is quite possible, of course, that he will consent to join us as a volunteer, if you were to put it to him kindly.'