Tested by Fate (10 page)

“Come along, sir,” cried Prince William, as they landed on the fateful morning. He had hosted a breakfast for the ship’s officers and young gentlemen, consuming a couple of bottles of claret with his beefsteak, his high colour, as well as his jolly manner, attesting to that. “I find it hard to believe you are shy, Nelson. I know you to be a warrior, sir, and there is a wench up that hill waiting to be conquered.”

Horatio Nelson had never felt less the warrior, never so unsure of his aim, and the sip of wine he had taken at the Prince’s bidding had not been enough to grant him any courage. It was the press of his officers, midshipmen, and friends landing behind him that pushed them forward, and once his feet were moving some of his confidence returned. The carriage ride up the hill to Montpelier, through what seemed to be the entire island population, exhilarated Nelson. They were there for the Prince, of course, not him, though they wished the bridegroom well. But it was pleasant indeed to bask in that kind of attention, to be allowed to return the cheers of the crowd with a wave that signified he was the man of the hour.

Naturally John Herbert was fussing before they arrived, darting
about, pushing his plantation slaves into something resembling a line, checking that his daughter especially and the rest of the household were in place to receive royalty for an occasion of such magnitude. The clatter of the iron hoops on the roadway sent him into a near faint, the handkerchief he held wiping copious amounts of sweat off his face and absorbing that which ran from his hands.

Nelson had never known the Prince so regal. He handed the bridegroom ahead of him, ceding pride of place, a signal honour that earned a flutter of applause from those who had followed the carriage up the hill. Nelson addressed those assembled in a state that belied his inner nervousness, only relieved when he came to young Josiah. “It will be a grand day, young Josh,” Nelson said. “And think on this. Standing as parent to you, I can see to it that you join me aboard ship. How does that sound, sir, a career as a sailor in the King’s Navy?”

Prince William Henry, behind him, heard the last sentence, and added, “If your stepfather cannot oblige you, Master Josiah, then rest assured I shall.”

There were cooling drinks and a brief sojourn in a shaded part of the garden for the Nelson party as Herbert saw to the final preparations. Nelson noted that his officers and midshipmen had raided Montpelier’s flower-beds for a variety of exotic buttonholes. Hardy and Andrews had gone further, and festooned themselves so comprehensively with orchids that their captain had to order them to return to a state of respectability. They were drunk, of course, having started on the claret at the Prince’s breakfast and not having stopped till they landed on Nevis, only to resume consumption as soon as they reached this shaded arbour.

Eventually all was ready, a table acting as an altar with a lectern to the side so that the clergyman could read the service. They stood facing a set of high French windows, Nelson and the Prince hemmed in by the crowd, leaving only an avenue to their rear through which the bride and her uncle could enter. The scents of hibiscus, the perfumes of the assembled crowd and the smell of their massed bodies
suddenly assailed Nelson. His eyesight and perception seemed very acute, allowing him to see that much of the silk on both men and woman had suffered from being in the Caribbean, a repair here, moth-attacked lace there. Along the base of the veranda a line of ants was at work, carrying off the detritus of the bed of roses that already looked limp, so hot was the air.

As Fanny appeared he was more conscious of the trickle of sweat down the centre of his back than of her appearance, and he had to force himself to concentrate. She was veiled, in a dress of old-fashioned cut that he knew to be an heirloom, the garment in which the late Mrs Herbert had married the uncle who was giving Fanny away. Somehow the veil, which he had expected, annoyed him. He wanted to look at his bride throughout the ceremony. Prey to commonplace doubts himself, he wanted to see if she was likewise, wanted to witness her overcome them as he did.

Beside him, he picked up the faint lemon smell he recalled from their early meetings. It was strong and clean. Fanny wouldn’t sweat, she was too good and refined. His doubts were replaced by the heart-warming image of presenting his bride to his king, he having astounded all of England with a great victory, Fanny already well known as a hostess whose good opinion society considered essential.

“We are gathered here today, in the sight of God …”

Nelson was aware that he had dreamed throughout the whole ceremony: visions of battles, cannon blazing, sails and masts torn asunder; of the return of the hero, cheers from the rigging of every ship anchored at Spithead. Or of a glorious death, with Fanny and Josiah black clad and weeping before his memorial in Westminster Abbey, placed next to that of James Wolfe. At times he was bleeding on shattered quarterdecks, at others advising a roomful of gold-braided admirals, all of whom nodded with sagacious agreement at his tactical and strategic proposals.

“Captain Nelson.”

The ring seemed to make its own way to Fanny’s finger, and as
the clergyman pronounced them man and wife she lifted her veil to reveal damp eyes but dry cheeks, one of which he kissed, before bestowing another on her lips, and one for good measure on the back of each hand. In his ears, as though from far away, he heard the locals clap and his officers and midshipmen cheer.

I
T WAS
E
MMA’S HABIT
to recall every date of significance in her life: her birthday; her first employment; the date on which Samuel Linley had died having held her hand throughout the hours in which he wasted away. There was the night she met Uppark Harry, the day she first gave way to the importunities of Charles Greville. The anniversary of her arrival in Naples, on a sunlit April day, was a time for reflection, a time to put together the advantages and drawbacks of her life. Four years on, she relived the moment of stepping into these apartments for the first time, thinking how much she and her circumstances had changed since then.

Slowly her longing for Greville had evolved into something near hatred. The letters they had exchanged grew ever more bitter, sometimes descending into bathos as Emma threatened to kill herself, to return to London and take to the streets, selling herself for a
pittance
, expiring in the gutter, which would tarnish him with shame for ever. When that failed to move him, she even threatened to marry his uncle and bear a child, though Greville saw through that. Even Emma had to acknowledge that he was
Sir
William Hamilton, with dukes and the like coming out through his ears when it came to relations. Quite apart from that he was the King’s Ambassador.

“I sometimes wonder if I’m happy,” she said to her mother.

“What brought that on?”

“Thinking of Greville, and of the changes in my life since we came here.”

Mary Cadogan was sorting dresses and costumes for the
forthcoming
performance of Emma’s
Attitudes,
the occasion to be celebrated on the date of her arrival in Naples, a day Sir William
Hamilton insisted had been one of the most significant in his life. Not that the Chevalier needed much excuse: he would throw a dozen such balls in a year, inviting several hundred people, more if the calendar of social obligation permitted it. He loved to entertain.

“What looks bleak turns out to be for the best,” said Mary.

Her daughter was applying powder to her face, prior to making up her eyes, lips and rouging her cheeks. “I wish I had a gold
sovereign
for every time you’ve given me that answer. I swear you’d say it on a sinking ship.”

“Said often don’t make it wrong. If this ain’t clover I can’t tell what is.”

“I got my feather bed, right enough,” said Emma, more to
herself
than her mother, to whom she had never mentioned her visit to Lady Glynne’s bedroom.

“What are you on about, girl?”

Emma just shook her head. Being mistress to Sir William Hamilton now had all the familiarity of habit. It was hard to
remember
a time when it hadn’t been so. Only at such moments could Emma be brought to a position of deep introspection. The benefits she enjoyed far outweighed the sorrows. Half of Naples thought them husband and wife, joined in secret ceremony, though her
letters
from home told her that others were not fooled. In every respect, she was the lady of the house, acknowledged to be so by everyone who lived within or visited. The list of guests who’d enjoyed her company included the cream of society, aristocrats, painters, writers, thinkers; English, Scottish, Welsh, and Irish fought with French, Germans, Austrians, and the ubiquitous Italians for a moment of her attention.

She had achieved a social pinnacle that would have been denied her anywhere in England. But it wasn’t the men who mattered when granting her that—they would have paid court to her for her looks alone. It was their wives. Quite apart from those she counted as close friends, the drawers of her escritoire were filled with letters from women whose station was of the highest, each one
committing
to paper kind sentiments and flattering references to some or several of what they considered her attributes.

Nor was she merely decorative. Her lover was besotted with her, and included her as much as he could in what he called his “toils.” Every discussion with the court was reprised inside the Palazzo Sessa. Emma knew as much about affairs of state as Sir William, and was invited to comment and proffer advice, the sole caveat being that the Ambassador was allowed to ignore it if he chose. In the process she learnt a great deal about politics, not only in Naples, and her conversation, if she chose, rose well above the level of mere chat or gossip. She could now converse in French and Italian as well as in her native tongue. Gone were the days when every meeting had been a trial, where one or two words missed ruined a whole raft of talk. Now Emma could engage in an exchange of ideas, hunt down an allusion, and exercise her wit with whoever came to visit.

When Emma sighed that she was, truly, far from content, her mother said, “Strikes me you’ve got more’n enough to be going on with. Where does the Chevalier go that he don’t take you along?”

“Court,” snapped Emma.

That was a constant bone of contention. She had met both the King and the Queen informally, the latter on dozens of occasions. On their first meeting Maria Carolina had been stiff, which befitted their respective stations, but the Austrian-born queen, who
surrounded
herself in her private life with forty servants from Vienna, was delighted to find that Emma spoke enough German to converse with her haltingly.

Two things grew from that: Emma applied herself to learning the Teutonic tongue and the Queen relaxed the rules of protocol that debarred her from receiving Mrs Hart on unofficial occasions. Lacking colourful people in her life, as well as those who had no thought for personal advantage, the Queen warmed to Emma and the two women became companions. As their friendship deepened, a daily visit to the Palazzo Reale when in Naples, or the Royal Palace
when they were in Caserta, formed part of Emma’s day. There she would sit with Maria Carolina and engage in gossip, or play with and assist in the English lessons of the numerous brood of royal children.

Sir William, taking both note and advantage of this, began by entrusting messages for Maria Carolina to his young mistress, then sought her help in nudging and persuading the Queen to adopt some particular policy. Because Emma was careful never to carry to her anything too radical, or to protest too loudly in support of any plan hatched in the Palazzo Sessa or the small seaside villa at Posillipo, the attachment had grown to a point where Maria Carolina acknowledged Emma as a confidante.

That made it doubly galling not to be officially received. Every formal court function, from the daily levee to the endless state balls, masques, and entertainments, was barred to her. Emma could engage in games with royal children, sing to them, dance with them, and squeal with them. She could have them as guests at the Palazzo Sessa. But she could not be seen on the arm of Sir William on any official occasion.

“If you’re still fretting on that, girl, you’re soft in the head. What will be will be, the locals say, and they have the right of it. And it won’t do to be miserable, especially not this night.”

An anniversary party at the Palazzo Sessa, the cream of Naples in attendance; music, dancing, and an opportunity for her to do what she loved most, to perform. Yet Emma wanted more. Did she really want to be Sir William’s wife? It would damn Greville, impress her mother, and she would have official recognition in society. But though she was fond of him, and much as she appreciated the attentions he paid her, it would not be something she would undertake for love.

Her elderly paramour had taught her patience. As a diplomat, especially in such a febrile posting as Naples, he insisted it was a trait required by the ton. Many times Emma had seen him receive what appeared to be terrible news and admired the way he never allowed it to prey on his mind. Equally, when requested by the court to pass
on to his own government some stinging rebuke, he would pocket the missive for several days, then quietly dispose of it when the Neapolitan government, alarmed that it might have gone too far, added a conciliatory codicil.

But her patience was on the way to becoming frustration. All that held her back from the inevitable explosion was the simple truth: there were no more options to pursue and no Greville
waiting
in the wings to carry her back—the only thing that would bring her to break her commitment to Sir William. Was it just as her mother said, “That she always wanted to be on a coach to
someplace
else”? Was it fear that her lover, now approaching the age of sixty, might die and leave her in limbo? Certainly he was less sprightly, but not much so. He still walked, still climbed Vesuvius, still
scrabbled
away at his excavations. But there were her looks, which would fade as she aged.

“Aged?” Mary Cadogan said, her voice full of reassurance. “Name of God, child, you’re not yet thirty.”

“I don’t know why I tell you what I’m thinking. All you ever do is tell me to rest content.”

“There’ll be no rest now,” Mary Cadogan replied, ignoring the true import of what her daughter was saying. “There be near two hundred folk out there, as grand as you like, all waiting for you, Emma Hart.”

The shouts from the assembled guests were enough to banish Emma’s earlier melancholy. Using no more than a pair of shawls and a Greek shield, the pose she struck was immediately
recognisable
, to an audience with a classical turn of mind, as Andromache mourning the death of Hector. Candles combined with cleverly placed mirrors ensured that light and shade added to the effect. Her mother used a thick black curtain at each change of scene, servants moving lights and mirrors, this accompanied by a clash of cymbals as the curtain was pulled back. Emma had rearranged her clothes to appear in another guise, that of the bronze statue of a dancer, recently excavated from the ruins of Herculaneum. The transformation was
so swift and accurate that it drew forth gasps of amazement and a round of applause.

Behind her lay the Bay of Naples, moonlight playing on the water, with the occasional scudding cloud adding a dramatic
backdrop
to her pose. A trio of musicians played suitable airs, a dirge for Aphrodite, a minuet for the bronze dancer, something light-hearted and gay when she became the Comic Muse.

Abandoning her shawls, and with the use of a staff, Emma changed her attitude to that of the Goddess Circe, daughter of the Sun. A sorceress, she was leaning forward, arm outstretched, her garment low cut and tantalising to lure Odysseus, sailing home from the sack of Troy, on to the rocks of her island.

Emma loved to perform, to enthrall her audience with these
Attitudes,
and in fact this was an extension of her personality: every move she made in company had a tinge of theatricality. She had rehearsed every gesture, every facial expression, many times in her mirror glass. She had an interior and an exterior disposition, the
latter
a critical eye that judged each act, each phrase and each movement against the aspirations she worked so hard to perfect. That
watchful
spirit was most active in performance. She could pose in any one of fifty guises, sing in four languages and loved to dance: sometimes stately gavottes, at other times, in the right company, the wild
peasant
saltarella
of southern Italy.

She performed other
Attitudes
and executed dances more pagan in origin, embodying notions that Sir William had brought back from his excavations. Since these included the exposure of a great degree of flesh they were reserved for his eyes only. Much of his virtu—lewd vases, cups, and statuary—carried graphic images. In addition Sir William had copies of frescos and drawings from the walls of the ruined houses of Pompeii, all of which Emma was invited to emulate.

Some of that art could not be reproduced, not even by her talent, so scandalous was the nature of the images portrayed. Humans in every kind of sexual congress; women with one man or several; old men with young boys; representations of Sapphic poses, painted
lovingly before being sealed by disaster, to survive the passage of near eighteen hundred years thanks to the harsh hot ash of Vesuvius.

Sir William enjoyed these as much as he delighted in Emma’s private performances. Early on in their relationship he had openly confessed to being a lover of licentiousness, even to being a great masturbator. He had not only his art, but books as well. Without Latin, Emma could not read them but she barely needed to given that he was only too eager to act as her muse, sure she gained as much gratification as he did from the retelling of these obscene
stories
.

Sir William Hamilton had grown up in a world in which the acquisition of sexual accomplishments was as much a requirement of his position in society as his undoubtedly polished manners. He had had a dozen mistresses before his marriage, and several after, and when young had been no stranger to the better class of bagnio. Courteous, kind, sometimes fatherly, behind his bedroom door he revelled in vulgarity. The carefully modulated manner, the pose of the diplomat deserted him, to be replaced by a mode of speech that owed much to the whorehouse. A loud fart would reduce him to uncontrollable giggles, and he was even more amused if he was not the perpetrator. Everything he had learnt from experience and his reading he passed on to Emma, happy to find himself attached to a companion who loved ribaldry and physicality as much as he did.

Quite prepared to acknowledge his age and the constraints it placed on his abilities, Sir William more than made up for his
wanin
g
sexual powers with the sheer variety of his endeavours. He saw innovation as a challenge, and the presence of an uninhibited
creatur
e
like Emma Hart as a licence to push back the boundaries of his own skills, and to lift to increasing heights the pleasures she should enjoy in his company.

And he continued to fill the house with visitors, determined that either during the daylight hours, or when the sun had faded, Emma should never feel any hankering to return to London.