Tested by Fate (11 page)

Mary Cadogan observed them with a judicious eye, keeping her
place, never presuming, notching up each point at which the
relationship
progressed, where it stumbled. She was always there to reassure Emma that what she had now was better than what she had left behind. She had a clear idea of what went on behind the closed door of the bedchamber. No man can keep a secret from his
servants
, least of all his valet, so Sir William’s tastes were well known below stairs.

Only Emma knew the depth of her frustration, only her mother knew it existed. If Sir William guessed she was not unreservedly happy, then he had the good sense to keep it to himself.

A
DOZEN CHARACTERS LATER
Emma rejoined the party to partake of supper, more music, and cards, accepting the compliments thrown in her direction. General Acton was there, the elderly Englishman who was minister to King Ferdinand, but was even closer to the Queen. She engaged pleasantries with the German poet and diplomat Goethe, who would amuse Emma by rustling up a
flattering
couplet in four languages with consummate ease. The Duchess of Argyll, her good friend, had her usual place by the door. Angelica Kaufmann, the most celebrated artist in Naples, had painted her several times already, yet was still sketching in the background.

There were half a dozen wealthy rakes on the last part of their Grand Tour, all of whom, during the evening, would seek to seduce Emma away from her older lover. They would not succeed,
however
handsome or well connected. This pleased Sir William mightily: although rumours abounded about his Emma, she showed him
nothing
but fidelity.

Sir William swore that this endless caravanserai fatigued him and kept him away from his five true loves: Emma Hart, the sea bathing villa at Posillipo, the hot lava flows of Vesuvius, his archaeological digging, and the English garden he had crafted for King Ferdinand and Queen Maria Carolina at Caserta.

While Emma flatly refused to go near it in winter, Sir William’s hunting “cottage” provided an oasis of peace in the summer. The air there was clear and cool compared to that of the city, the smell of flowers and cut grass so much more pleasant than the rank odour of the open sewers that ran through the alleyways of Naples into the bay. The draughts that came through the gaps in the doors and
windows
were welcome, and with the mountains so close, and a great cascade coming straight off the glaciers, chilled water was always available to drink, or to dab on a heated brow.

Even if he wasn’t much given to lifting spade or hoe, Sir William sweated as he ordered his gardeners about. They weeded and clipped, trying to keep alive plants accustomed to cooler climes and to check those that would run riot in the sunshine. Even though he spoke the language his minions took pleasure in misunderstanding every word he said to them and it was the frustration of that which brought on the perspiration. Disinclined to interfere, Emma wandered off to find a shady spot where she could sit with sketchbook and charcoal and entertain herself by drawing Vesuvius, smoking away in the
distance
. A liveried attendant fell in behind her, so that should she require anything, he would be on hand to fetch it.

Sir William had worked hard for over twenty years on his
garden
and much of it was now mature, small copses and flower-beds, bushes and hedgerows, cut by winding paths. It was a place of peace, a gift to the court of Ferdinand and Maria Carolina, a sanctuary to ease the burdens of statehood. It was pleasant to proceed slowly, to gaze upon the carefully arranged beds, then kneel to sniff the
pungent
scents that rose from a disturbed flower.

“
Buon
giorno,
Signorina.”

The voice made her stand up abruptly. It came from within the small grove of trees, was a deep
basso
profundo,
suited to the man who emerged, blinking like some wild animal suddenly exposed to the light. The King of Naples was tall, dark-skinned, and a trifle unkempt, with food stains on his black coat. The hair, jet black and unbrushed, was sticking out in a dozen different directions from under his hat and in his blood-streaked hand he carried two dead rabbits.

Emma was unsure how to react. Incognito, Ferdinand had attended many a ball at the Palazzo Sessa, had watched her perform her
Attitudes
with alarming concentration. In complimenting her on her singing, he had even gone so far as to say that she sang like a king. This, she found out later, was a reference to his known love of his own voice, and in his mind was the highest compliment he could pay her.

The disguise was slight, but respected as far as possible by all those present. Even as a known glutton he never stayed to consume any food or drink, which underlined the fact that he had come to see her. Should she recognise him now, a man who plainly sought to avoid that at other times?

“Signore.” That made him grin, and Emma had the relief of knowing she’d chosen the right course. “Do I perceive that you have been hunting?” she asked in Italian.

“I’m still hunting,” he replied.

“Is the garden not too cultivated for hunting?”

“There is sport all round for he who’s determined enough to pursue it.”

It wasn’t hard to get the drift of these exchanges. The King was known to lack education, but Emma knew from Sir William that when it came to pursuit of the ladies he was as direct as any
hot-blood
in Naples. A man who grew tongue tied and bored over affairs of state had great clarity of speech, and no subtlety whatsoever, when it came to fornication. Judging by the bulge in his breeches, which he was making no attempt to hide, that was his aim now. But knowing what he was after did not supply the answer as to how she should react. How do you say no to a king?

“I have admired you often, Signorina Hart,” he said.

A maidenly hand went to her mouth, to indicate surprise as well as to cover the incipient smile that threatened to break on her lips. “You know my name?”

“Everybody in my kingdom does,” he replied gruffly, completely demolishing the pretence that followed with a look of confusion. Emma curtsied, not the full depth due to a monarch, but certainly enough for a gallant prepared to flatter her.

“I’ve seen you make magic with just a shawl. There’s not a man in the room does not yearn to see what is under so flimsy a
garment
. I want to see.”

“It would scarce do for me to reveal what it is in public,
Signore
.”

“Then let’s go somewhere private.” He jerked his thumb over his head. “These bushes will do.”

“I was in search of some shade, sir,” Emma said, thinking, but that bush is not what I had in mind.

“Shade?” he demanded.

“I was heading for the bower at the end of the lane.”

“Then I shall join you.”

Emma advanced down the path, hearing behind her a whispered exchange, which obliged her to stop and peer. She saw the servant palm a coin, which denoted a bargain struck. But she was on her way again before Ferdinand looked round, forcing His Neapolitan Majesty to scurry so that he could catch up. The bower was close, and within a minute they were under an overgrowing wisteria. Emma sat down without asking, which caused the King a split second of annoyance. Then he joined her, occupying the other end of a
rough-hewn
bench, his eyes boring into hers. Unable to return that look, Emma laid her parasol across the bench as a not very effective
defensive
barrier.

She might be sitting opposite a well-known ignoramus who loved to play the buffoon, but he was also a ruler of the most absolute kind and accustomed to getting his own way. Emma sought to find a method by which she could deflect his attentions, without insulting his person.

“Since you know who I am, Signore, you must also know that I have a present attachment.”

“I know the gentleman well,” he replied, edging closer, his hand on the parasol. “We are good friends, close enough that he would gift me anything I asked for.”

“You may say that, Signore. I cannot be sure it is true.”

“You are a woman so that makes little difference.”

“To you.” Emma laid a firm hand on her parasol, to keep it in place. “That gentleman is my protector, on whom I depend for everything.”

“What is wrong with me?” he demanded.

“Nothing, Signore,” she lied.

“I disgust you, perhaps?”

The truth, that she did not find him attractive, would not serve. But Emma was convinced that, whatever his rank, she was not about to succumb to such a clumsy attempt at seduction. To call it uncouth was by a long mile an understatement. It was positively insulting. The King was treating like a street whore the mistress of the British Ambassador.

“You say that the gentleman who is my protector would agree?”

“He will.”

Like a conjuror performing a trick, the sketchpad was open and the thin stick of charcoal offered. “Then write to him. If he is such a friend and he agrees, then I do not risk my position.”

Ferdinand looked confused, so Emma continued. “I cannot chance my present comfort, and that of my aged mother, on a whim of desire, Signore. The prospect of what you propose is not
unpleasant
, but sense informs me I must have permission to accept.”

“When?”

“I walk in this garden often and so I think do you.”

Ferdinand grabbed the pad and wrote quickly in large, untidy, childish letters. His scrawl, when she looked at it, was hard but not impossible to read. He had written to Sir William without the use of either name, identifying himself as a hunting partner who had, on more than one occasion, given him the kill of a stag. By the time she finished reading the King was gone. All she saw was his broad, retreating back, and two dead rabbits.

The question is this. What do I say to Sir William? Do I mention it at all? And what will he say if I do? Surely he would never suggest that I submit!

The questions multiplied the more Emma gnawed on the
problem
. A dinner with forty guests, and the social obligations that entailed, did little to ease her disquiet. At worst her keeper would accede to the King’s request. At best that equable temper of his
would explode. Rare as it was, she had seen it happen, usually when some visitor from home rudely demanded of him a service he was not obliged to provide.

Should she let her mother see it first? She was far more
experienced
, after all. But Emma was reluctant to do that, wishing for once to act on her own behalf. There was difficulty here but also, perhaps, advantage. This train of thought was interrupted continually by her requirement as the hostess of the evening, and it was the respect shown to her in that role which gave her an indication as to how to proceed.

“You cannot deny that my position is irregular?”

Sir William was reading one of his favourite authors, the Marquis de Sade. He didn’t want to look up from the story of innocence corrupted to where Emma was sitting, poking at her teeth with a sharpened piece of hazelwood. There was a slight flash of annoyance as well, because his mistress clearly didn’t quite comprehend that at his age he required a degree of stimulation prior to their
love-making
. He would have been doubly annoyed if he had known that Emma was deliberately interrupting him when she knew he needed to concentrate.

“I am at mercy of any number of male vanities.”

Justine was at the mercy of two callous monks, which to Sir William was much more important.

“Because I am attached to you in such an irregular fashion every lecher feels he has the right to try his luck.”

“I have always thought you liked the attention,” Sir William replied, his train of thought broken.

“I sometimes wonder, Sir William, if it is you who derives
pleasure
from that—the knowledge that while many may make the attempt, none succeed. Perhaps I am the victim of your vanity.”

“You are fractious tonight, my dear.”

Emma turned round to look into his bright eyes, at the lined face, the nose and the jawbones made more prominent by the
passage
of time. She composed her own features to convey a dissatisfaction
to which he was unaccustomed. In three years Sir William could count on one hand the number of times that his mistress had argued with him. Greville’s prediction that she was a sweet and willing
bedfellow
had been more than borne out. His further observation that Emma had a temper, which would break out occasionally, had not. More importantly, having acceded to the present situation, he had never once heard her complain vocally of her lot. She was too
beautiful
ever to look shrewish, but those green eyes could convey hurt with little effort.

“Something has happened to bring on this mood.”

“Yes.”

“Am I to be told what it is, or am I merely to be a gull to the consequences?”

“What is your true opinion of those men who leer over me?”

Sir William smiled. “I admire their taste, my dear, while at the same time pitying their prospects.”

“What if I found such approaches offensive?”

“Then, my dear, I would be obliged to demand that those
making
them desist. But never having observed that and, I may say, trusting your own wit to take what care is required, I have never felt the slightest inclination towards even an ounce of jealousy.”

For the second time that day the sketchbook was conjured up. “Then I beg you to look at this.”

It was with some reluctance that Sir William put aside de Sade to reach for Emma’s sketchbook. Slowly he read the scrawl that requested of him, as a hunting friend, that he surrender his mistress.

“Ferdinand?”

“No less.”

“He pressed his attentions upon you?” Emma nodded, and Sir William smiled. “It is not unusual for the King to behave so. Every woman in the court, from noblewoman to skivvy, has had his hand on her arse. You will have observed, if you did not know already, that his behaviour is that of a child.”

“If you had seen the stretch on his breeches you wouldn’t say that,” Emma protested. “’Tis a wonder they didn’t rip.”

“He is near permanently erect,” Sir William replied wistfully. “The only thing that quietens his ardour is hunting, though a kill can often bring forth an unbidden emission.”

“Am I to be a kill?”

“From your tone, my dear, I observe the prospect does not entice you.”

“He smells to high heaven, and though I may not know I can guess that his attentions would be swift and selfish.”

“In that you are likely correct.”

“And am I allowed to observe that you are not taking the
matter
seriously? He will chance upon me again. What am I to do?”