Peace of Amiens - 1. Chapter 1

August 1, 1801

Northamptonshire, England

The five horsemen cantered down the road at a brisk pace, using their speed to deflect any potential highwaymen or footpads, although there was no pace fast enough to satisfy George Granger, the 1^st Earl of Brentwood. He galloped along, surrounded by the four footmen who had been detailed to escort him, heading to London with an urgency that the footmen assumed was brought on by an important matter of state.

Granger had been enjoying the Lakes, spending time meeting the tenants he had inherited from his aunt, Lady Kendal, and making sure his estates were being managed to his satisfaction. He’d found, to his pleasant surprise, that they were indeed in good shape, and that had allowed him to spend more time familiarizing himself with the beautiful countryside. Lady Kendal had left her house on Lake Windermere to Granger’s middle brother, Bertie, but since Bertie was in India, Granger opted to make use of it. It had been a good decision, because he had been able to reassure the staff that their jobs were secure, and set up arrangements to ensure they were paid.

Windermere House was styled in the Palladian manner, and was large enough to be imposing, but not so big as to be ungainly. It sat no more than 100 feet from Lake Windermere, and the lush green landscape combined with the nicely tended gardens gave it an almost surreal feel, as if one had been spirited there by woodland elves. Granger had taken his children and retainers with him, and had enjoyed this extended family time, only to see it dashed away by a communiqué from London. He had received a terse letter from the Admiralty, with orders to report there as soon as was practical. Granger knew that the First Lord, the Earl of St. Vincent, was most intolerant of delays, so he had left his children and his retainers to slog back by carriage, while he had assembled this troop of footmen and set out for London immediately.

Even as Granger took in the sights on this trek through Northamptonshire, his mind was racing as he pondered his letter from the Admiralty. His initial excitement at potentially being given a new command, a new ship, faded as he thought of a different possibility. Granger had learned that Francis Calvert had been wounded in a battle in the Caribbean over a month ago, and the expectation was that he was being sent home to England. Granger understood all too well the vagaries of the wind, and how the weather that had sped home the message about Calvert’s wound and his battle may well have stymied the progress of the ship carrying Calvert back. Granger’s logical mind told him that was quite possible, but his instincts told him that was not the case.

The only news he’d had from Calvert had been that he’d been wounded in his left arm, and that they were unsure as to whether it would require amputation. If he had recovered enough to sail home, he should have been here by now, but he wasn’t. That could only mean that something bad had happened to him. Calvert had almost died when he’d received a wound to his neck, and it was only the excellent and innovative care of Dr. Jackson that had saved him then. Granger was quite sure that there was no surgeon as skilled and talented as Jackson in Antigua, or anywhere else in the Caribbean.

Granger had known real fear when he had received the notice about Calvert’s wound, fear that had overcome his normally stoic shields and had caused him to turn into a sobbing wreck of a man. Of all the men in Granger’s life, Calvert was the closest thing to a soul mate. Their relationship was fueled by passion, which sometimes erupted into arguments, but it was the most fulfilling bond that he had yet experienced. He pondered that the other men who might have competed with Calvert for the top spot in Granger’s pantheon of lovers had largely deserted him. The man he’d first loved, John Travers, was killed in an intense frigate action. Lord Chartley, who had once been his great sage, helping Granger recover from the disastrous state of affairs when he’d returned from the Battle of St. Vincent, was still in Russia, all but married to his Mongolian servant boy. Lord Frederick Cavendish was still one of his best friends, but their relationship was no longer that of lovers; it was one of friends who fucked. He was, perhaps, being a bit unfair to Cavendish, for their feelings for each other were quite deep, but they weren’t strong enough to make Granger want to run off to a desert island with him. He would consider it with Calvert.

His mind turned to his most recent affair, that with Alexander I, Tsar of all the Russias. Granger had fallen completely in love with the powerful ruler, and while he knew the Tsar cared deeply for him, Granger also knew that he was nothing more than a temporary plaything for the monarch. He’d spent the last few months coming to terms with the fact that their fling was just that, and he guessed that the next time he saw Alexander, it would be a tense and uncomfortable reunion. Alexander had gifted him a prime piece of real estate in Westminster near Spencer House, and had given him £150,000 to build a mansion. Granger had since engaged John Nash to work on plans for the structure, knowing that he’d have to augment the costs with his own funds, but construction had not yet started. He’d come to realize that Alexander’s gift was less an offering to show him love, and more of a settlement, as one would provide to a jilted mistress.

Granger knew that Calvert had had other lovers too, or at least he’d had one. He remembered how Calvert had all but jettisoned him for Gatling, the man who had filled the role that Granger had once occupied, and found himself getting angry at Calvert all over again. Calvert was the type of man who craved monogamy, and was more than willing to devote himself fully to one other person. Granger could never give Calvert that type of relationship, or at least he had never been able to do so in the past. He let his mind wander, trying to decide if, now that he was a peer in his own right, with more money than he’d ever dreamed he’d accumulate, and with his sexual yearnings more controllable than they were when he was nineteen, he could indeed make that kind of pledge to Calvert. He had always rebelled against that in the past, but he began to wonder if it would be possible. He all but flagellated himself for such useless ramblings. As Calvert had not yet returned to England, the odds were greater that he had died from his wound than that he had recovered.

Before his mind went down that rabbit trail to hell, he was interrupted by Petrie, the senior footman, the one who was also serving as Granger’s temporary valet. He had devised an ingenious system for watering ships from Granger’s home on the Isle of Wight, and that had earned him a place as one of Granger’s most valued servants. “The horses are a bit tired, my lord,” he said respectfully.

Granger pulled himself out of his deep immersion and took stock of their location. “We are almost to Daventry,” Granger said. He paused to look at the skies and noticed that night was almost upon them. “We will spend the night there.”

“Yes, my lord,” Petrie said. Granger obliged him by pulling his reins in and slowing the horse to a trot. He could sense the relief from the footmen and from the beasts they were riding. They crested the hill in front of them, and once they were atop it, Daventry House came into view. It was originally an Elizabethan structure, but it had been rebuilt over the years, largely retaining its original architecture while incorporating more modern amenities and construction techniques. The most imposing things about the structure were its chimneys, which soared above the house in pairs, giving the house an almost church-like feel. The house was surrounded by gardens and large tracts of open land, while beyond that were rolling acres of cultivated fields.

Granger slowed his horse to a walk as the beast trod up the graveled road to the front of the house, where he found several footmen and the butler waiting to greet him. The butler was a man named Jefferson, probably well over sixty years old, who had been serving in his position as long as Granger could remember. “Welcome, my lord,” Jefferson said. “Lord Rugby is unfortunately not in residence.” Charles Daventry, the Earl of Rugby, was Granger’s best friend, a man whom he had known since he was a boy, and one with whom he had worked most effectively over the past few years. Daventry would most likely be with the Prince of Wales, since he was one of his Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, and would be busy trying to stay in His Royal Highness’s good graces. Dealing with Prinny, as the Prince of Wales was known, was a job Granger did not begrudge his friend. His future monarch was selfish, lazy, and cowardly, and that made putting up with his nonsense taxing at times.

“I assume that his lordship is still in Brighton, but it is of no matter,” Granger said. That was where Prinny spent the summer months, and held court for all those sycophants who surrounded him. “We have come to impose upon you for food and lodging for the night, as I am tasked to return to London.”

“Nothing could be easier, my lord,” Jefferson said smoothly. To impose upon the hospitality of a friend when traveling was quite common, so there was no great inconvenience to Granger’s request. The staff took care of their horses, and welcomed Granger’s footmen into their fold, while they provided him with an ample supper. Granger spent time wandering about this massive old building that was the family home of the Daventrys, marveling at the art, most of which had been accumulated after the Restoration, and the various family heirlooms. He studied the portrait of Daventry’s parents, noting that Daventry had fortunately inherited his mother’s good looks. His father had an almost raptor-like expression, revealing a bit of the character of the man who had done much to restore and rebuild the fortunes of his family before his untimely death.

Petrie helped Granger get ready for bed, and then Granger found himself alone once again, and once again his mind went back to Calvert. He decided that his misgivings over the fate of the man that he loved were probably quite valid, but that his summons to the Admiralty was unrelated to it. If the Admiralty had gotten news about Calvert, they would have sent him a letter detailing it; they would not have summoned him to appear in London.

Granger woke up before dawn and ate a substantial breakfast, and after thanking the staff profusely for their good care, he was able to set out with his party just as the sun was rising.

August 3, 1801

Portland Place

“I did not think it was possible for us to arrive this quickly, my lord,” Petrie observed as they guided their horses up to Granger’s home in Portland Place. It was reasonable to expect that on horseback, he could travel 25 miles per day. They had almost doubled that pace, mostly by changing horses often and avoiding all but the most necessary of stops. Granger smiled to himself, thinking that he could almost have given the jockeys at Newmarket or Ascot a run for their money on this trip.

“It is amazing what one can accomplish when one is motivated and focused on achieving a goal,” Granger observed, softening his pompous words with a smile. “I will trust you to see that the horses and men are taken care of.”

“Yes, my lord,” Petrie acknowledged. Granger dismounted and strode up the stairs to his home, where the doors magically opened for him, courtesy of the footmen designated to perform that function. His efficient and handsome butler, Cheevers, was waiting to greet him.

“Welcome home, my lord,” Cheevers said.

“Thank you, Cheevers,” Granger said affably. “I’ve not had much to eat, so I’ll want supper, then a bath.”

“Of course, my lord,” Cheevers said. “I placed your mail in your library.”

“Thank you,” Granger said, and strode into his library even as he heard Cheevers quietly give orders to take care of his needs. Before he read his own correspondence, he dashed off a note to the Admiralty to inform them that he had arrived in London and would call on them in the morning. He paused to give that to Cheevers to have it sent by courier over to the Admiralty building, then sat down to review his latest correspondence. As he sorted through the mail, he spotted a letter on that all-too-familiar stationary that only the Admiralty used. He hurriedly took it up and opened it.

My Dear Lord Brentwood,

I promised to alert you if I had news of Captain Calvert, knowing that he is a good friend of yours. Captain Calvert’s wound had evidently healed enough that he took passage home on HM brig Spitfire. Unfortunately, Spitfire encountered a French frigate, and found herself in a situation where she was slower than the Frog, and incapable of matching her firepower. A lengthy chase ensued across the Bay of Biscay, but the end result was that Spitfire was forced to strike her colors.

It is dashed bad luck on Calvert’s part, but we will have to hope that the French treat him well, and that he is freed on parole in short order. I will continue to keep you posted should I hear any additional news.

St. Vincent

Granger stared at the letter, none too happy that his instincts had been correct. He reasoned that at least Calvert was not dead; he was merely a prisoner. Granger had spent several months as a prisoner in France after he’d been captured aboard HMS Leander. The French had kept him in Paris to try to prove to the populace that their government was achieving great things, despite the fact that Lord Nelson had just destroyed their Mediterranean Fleet at the Battle of the Nile. Granger knew that he was quite a celebrity, both here and abroad, while Calvert did not have his star power. That would probably serve him well in this situation, since the French should have no reason to deny him parole.

Granger picked up his next letter, which was from Lord Rosslyn. Granger had been impressed with him when they’d read Lady Kendal’s will, so he had engaged him to help resolve the details of his separation from Caroline. Caroline had sent him a continuous string of threatening letters, full of vitriol, but Granger had simply ignored them. He had hoped that would calm Caroline down, but the letters still kept coming. His solicitors had seemed to be unable to make any headway with her, so Granger reasoned that someone of Lord Rosslyn’s stature, as a former Lord Chancellor, might help her see reason.

Dear Lord Brentwood,

I have labored mightily with the solicitors representing your wife, and until this moment I had made little progress. Today, I received a most interesting letter from Caroline agreeing to the terms we had outlined. Per your instructions, you will have sole custody and control of your children, and you will provide Her Ladyship with an income of £5000 per annum. You will retain possession of all your property, including Brentwood.

I have enclosed the agreements which require your signature. I would request that you return these to me as soon as possible. Since this arrangement was originally proposed by us, I do not feel we have any alternative but to accept them.

Rosslyn

Granger read the words twice, so surprised was he at Caroline’s change of heart. She had first demanded £15,000 per year, then had dropped her price to £10,000 per year. Granger had stood firm at his offer of £5,000, and it had seemed that there was no likelihood of bridging that chasm. He felt that Caroline was basing her demands on the expanded income he received after Lady Kendal’s inheritance, which had nothing to do with her at all. He wondered what had caused her to agree to his terms. He rummaged through his correspondence and found a few letters from her, but they were the same as her prior communiques, full of anger and rage. Since he was alone, Granger allowed himself the luxury of a sigh, expressing his frustration at all the mysteries that had been suddenly piled upon him.

He ate a large supper then relaxed in the baths, lamenting that he was doing so alone. He thought of the many men he had entertained in these pools, and those recollections were erotic enough that he pleasured himself as he remembered them. Petrie helped him get ready for bed, and despite the uncertainties that plagued the young earl, he slept quite soundly.

August 4, 1801

Portland Place

George Granger sat at his table eating his breakfast, trying not to do so with undue haste. He was anxious to find out what their Lordships had planned for him, and he was equally anxious to leave London. In August, the city was most unpleasant. It was hot, it was humid, and it was deserted. That wasn’t quite correct, in that there were people here, but the people who Granger could socialize with, the ton, were mostly scattered to the various parts of the country, enjoying their time at their rural estates.

“My lord, this just arrived,” Cheevers said, and held out a salver with a letter on it. Granger felt his blood pressure rising as he saw that it was from the Admiralty.

“Thank you, Cheevers,” Granger said, then opened the letter. It was a brief note telling him that he had an appointment for tomorrow morning at nine. It was all Granger could do to hide the annoyance that lurked beneath his façade. He had been summoned back to London with a directive that made it seem urgent, he had pushed himself, his footmen, and their horses at breakneck speed to get here today, and he was told to sit about and wait until tomorrow.

Granger stood up and paused in front of the mirror, admiring how good the fit was on his full-dress uniform. Catching himself being vain, a characteristic he loathed, along with the realization that he had put this uniform on for nothing, significantly fouled his mood. Granger walked up the stairs to his room and saw Petrie organizing his wardrobe. He was tempted to work off some of his anger on this man, but Petrie must have recognized his mood and looked terrified. If Winkler had been here, he would have known how to handle his master’s mood, but Petrie was a novice. Granger stared at the man for a few moments until his fussy sense of justice asserted itself. It was dashed unfair to vent his anger on a young man who was loyal, talented, and efficient at his job. “I am bidden to the Admiralty tomorrow, which means that I can shed this uniform.”

“Of course, my lord,” Petrie said, and began to help him undress. Granger opted to eschew wearing a uniform at all and chose instead to wear buff trousers, a white shirt, and his black riding boots. He could put on a cravat, waistcoat, and jacket should he choose to go out.

He went back to the library, noticing that it was already quite stuffy and warm. As the temperatures rose during the day, this room would become increasingly unbearable. He had already signed off on the papers for Caroline and sent them back to Rosslyn, so he was trying to decide what to do, when an idea hit him. He had been wealthy enough, and fortunate enough, to stay with Talleyrand when he was in Paris. They had become friends, and exchanged letters whenever the chance arose. Granger found the man’s letters to be as entertaining as his conversation, and worked hard to try and match his wit. It was a losing battle, but he gave it his best effort. Their letters had lately been carried back and forth by Mr. Otto, the French representative in London responsible for arranging prisoner exchanges. Granger was aware that Otto had become much more important than that, and had in fact become the key liaison as Britain and France attempted to negotiate a peace treaty.

Granger picked up his pen and drafted a letter to Talleyrand, explaining that Calvert was his friend and his protégé, and asked him to help make Calvert’s stay in France more comfortable, and to do what he could to hurry him home on parole. Once he was done, he went upstairs to put on the garments he had avoided before, laboring mightily to get his cravat tied just right, and then descended back to the study to make sure his letter to Otto was sealed correctly. As it was, he planned to call on the Frenchman directly.

“My lord,” Cheevers said, interrupting his thoughts. “Lady Brentwood is here and is requesting that she be allowed to see you.” The staff here was quite disgusted with Caroline, so Cheevers’ barely hidden expression of disdain was easily apparent. Granger had given orders that she was to be turned away if she came here, but she had agreed to his proposal on the separation, so it was only decent that he be polite and receive her. Besides, he was somewhat bored and not a little curious as to why she was here.

“Please show her into the drawing room,” Granger said. He went to that room, arriving there first, and began to pour them both a drink.

“Hello George,” Caroline said as she entered the room. She was dressed nicely, wearing a lightweight gown suitable for the summer weather. Granger studied her appearance and for the first time, he noticed her physical flaws. Her teeth were more crooked than they had appeared previously, her nose seemed a bit bigger, and her jaw was recessed. Her hair was a rather dull shade of brown, and she had styled it to fall over her ears, which stuck out a bit too much. In the past, his love for her had allowed his mind to perceive her as beautiful, when in fact, she was merely pretty.

“Caroline,” Granger said, his tone neutral, even as he bowed and kissed her hand.

“I had heard you were in town,” she said stiffly. “Thank you for receiving me.”

“A drink,” Granger said, handing her a glass, then gestured for her to sit in one of the chairs, while he sat in another one so they were facing each other.

“Thank you,” she said. They looked at each other, with the tension levels soaring, two people who had once been in love and were now all but mortal enemies. Granger opted to remain silent, since Caroline had called on him.

“I agreed to your terms for our separation,” she said.

“I received a letter yesterday informing me that was the case, and I signed off on the papers and dispatched them back to Lord Rosslyn this morning,” Granger said. It seemed to be such a stark reply, so he opted to try and be more gracious. “Thank you for doing that.”

“You are welcome,” she said, then sighed. “George, I do not want to fight with you.”

“I do not want to fight with you either,” Granger said, confused as to what she was really saying. He was more than willing to try to have a cordial relationship with her, but that did not include a reconciliation. He had not minded her infidelity, but he had been seriously vexed at her lack of discretion. He was unwilling to risk his standing in society, and that of his children, by remaining tied to her. “I am unclear as to what you are proposing.”

“We have built a family together, and I would like to be part of their lives,” she said, referring to their children. “And I would like to think that if I needed your help, I could rely on it.”

Granger smiled softly and nodded. “I would like you to remain involved with our children, and I would like to think that if I needed your help, you would be there for me.”

“I think that is a start, and we will have to see how things work out,” Caroline said, being a bit snippy.

“I must admit to being surprised by your change of heart,” Granger said. “I opened my most recent mail and found one of your vicious letters.”

“Vicious?” she challenged. “I think that, based on what you have done to me, they were quite benign.” Granger recognized that they were both still very sensitive, and that he had inadvertently taken them to this abyss.

“I have no desire to review the various woes we have inflicted upon each other,” he said steadily. “I am merely curious as to why you changed your mind.”

“It took time for me to work off my anger, something that I have obviously not completely done,” she said with a smile. “We have made a good team in the past. We have, at a core level, very similar outlooks on the world. Other than our personal grievances, there is no reason for us to be at odds.”

Granger suddenly understood Caroline all too clearly. Her approach to him was less about the things she had just mentioned, and more about her own survival in society. Since his return from Russia, Granger had done nothing but enhance his position, and that gave him more power. She was reluctant to see such power used against her. This was not a benevolent gesture, but an attempt to avoid total ruin. Regardless, he did not want a fight with her. “I completely agree with you,” he said. And with that, they had perhaps not signed a treaty of alliance, but had come to terms on a truce.