“It just came out, what with her on yet again about going home.”
Sir William had a lump in his throat. The open admission that Emma had captured his heart had escaped suddenly.
“It is, you must understand, an expression of feeling I thought to leave behind in callow youth. To be moonstruck at my age is to be made ridiculous.”
“Only if it is not requited, your honour,” sniffed Mary Cadogan.
“What chance is there that it might be?”
“You must own that I know my Emma better than you, sir. She might seem to you just a flighty creature whose heart has been won by an undeserving knave. But she is far from that, albeit in her mind’s eye she has a vision of a future that cannot be.”
“What are you telling me, madam?” Sir William demanded.
Mary Cadogan drained her glass, as if by doing so she would fortify her train of thought. “You must offer her better, sir.”
“I cannot compete with Charles Greville.”
“I don’t mean in the bedchamber,” Mary Cadogan replied testily. “I will not say it is a place where Emma cares naught for who she’s with, but you must know that your nephew was not the first man to bed her.”
“I cannot hold that against her.”
“Nor should you, sir, never having had to make your way in our world. It’s not the same as yours.”
“It is not so very different, Mrs Cadogan.”
“Two things must be done, sir and the first is to persuade her that there is no future for her with your nephew.”
“That is not something of which I am certain.”
“But I am, sir,” Mary Cadogan protested. “The next thing to do is to present her with a picture more rosy than the one she harbours now.”
“I have no assurance I can do that.”
“Then send us home.”
“What cruel alternatives.”
“Which be the lesser of twin evils?”
Chapter Seven
SIR WILLIAM was out hunting again the following day, so was spared Emma’s ranting and the need to listen to the words used about him and his nephew, language so coarse that even her mother pretended to be shocked. It wasn’t the cursing that upset Mary Cadogan, so much as the effect of her daughter’s shouting on a head suffering from the previous night’s excess.
Greville was a lecherous, penny-pinching arse, his uncle a spavined old goat, her mother a snake in the grass. Rogue, scoundrel, villain, cheat were spattered about among swearwords that would have shamed a sailor, the whole tirade liberally sprinkled with bouts of weeping and demands to be taken back to the arms of the man she loved. There were endless dashes to the escritoire to start angry letters that ended up as balls of parchment on the floor. Mary Cadogan held her tongue, waiting for the storm to pass. But, with less of a sore head as the day progressed she offered some wise words regarding the good of flogging a dead horse, which reduced Emma to another bout of weeping.
Mary Cadogan was glad now that she had spoken out. The matter was in the open, there to be discussed when Emma calmed down. And she flattered herself that she understood her daughter, passionate and less versed in the application of wisdom to any predicament. When the time came to make a decision, she could rely on Emma’s good sense. In that she was too sanguine by half.
Even back in Naples, a less glamorous location in midwinter, Emma refused to give up on Greville, and brooding on that made her a less engaging companion for those who called at the Palazzo Sessa. Sir William was the first to drop away, happier at the gimcrack Neapolitan court—anything to be spared the accusatory looks of his beautiful young guest. Others who had that summer sat at Emma’s feet found her sudden recourse to tears, without any indication as to what had triggered them, tiresome, especially since she made no move to enlighten them.
Matters were scarcely improved by the arrival of letters and gifts from Greville, finally stung into a response by Emma’s anguished pleas. The blue hat and a pair of gloves were well received. The enclosed cold missive, which advised Emma to “Oblige my uncle,” was enough to near break her heart.
It took the festivities of the Nativity, a weeklong orgy of celebration of the Birth of Christ, before even the glimmer of a chink showed in her longing. It was a time to be out in the streets, to see the endless processions with hand-carried tableaux—three wise men, the shepherds in the stable, the Virgin holding her child under a glowing star, made by rich clans determined to display their wealth. The singing of Christmas hymns in the crowded squares of Naples was uplifting to Emma, but not to Mary Cadogan, who dismissed it as Papist nonsense.
The effect on Emma was marked. She was much taken by the natural theatricality of the people, which lifted her mood. Perhaps it was the commemoration of that birth, when she had been denied a life with her own child, that finally made Emma realise the connection was broken: that a man who could sever so cruelly his relationship with a child who might be his daughter could steel himself to deny anyone.
Drink helped, and her mother encouraged her, knowing that wine-induced moods, though tending towards the maudlin, at least contained an acknowledgement of the facts. When she felt it would serve, Mary Cadogan encouraged Sir William to resume his courtship, glad to see that although Emma struggled she did so to accommodate not discourage him. Another man might have stumbled, but Sir William had the bedrock skills of his diplomacy. Emma gave silent acknowledgement, in mood not words, which indicated to Sir William that she was prepared to go further than mere gallantry.
All that was needed now was the moment.
“It is a rare thing, Mrs Cadogan, yet pleasant all the same.”
Mary Cadogan nodded to accept the compliment. It had been her idea that, after all the mad revelry of the last three weeks, masques, balls, and open-air festivities, a private supper would be a blessing. Thus, instead of the usual nightly throng that graced the Ambassador’s table, or a coach trip through the crowded streets to dine at another board, they were having a quiet, intimate meal, just the three of them, in his private apartments.
Soft candlelight played over the stone statuary and white porcelain vases, blue glass and red, the table a brighter pool in the centre. Servants came and went as silently as ghosts, as if they, too, knew what was afoot and were determined to ensure success. The paintings on the walls, each with a candle to illuminate them, seemed to aid the intention, being composed of cupids and nymphs, or lovers separated by a fate they longed to overcome. Even if she thought herself detached from what was happening, Mary Cadogan knew that she was part of the performance. Her role had been in organising this, her presence adding a veneer of innocence. It was pleasing to see the pretence played to perfection by the two other participants.
Emma was all gaiety, dressed in a gown of light muslin that betrayed the full flower of the figure underneath, drinking a little more quickly than she should, making occasional conversational gaffes that caused her to giggle and Sir William smile. It was the way she had worked for Kathleen Kelly. There was no intimacy of the kind that would occur between friends. It was as though Sir William and Emma had only just met. An unkind observer would say it was a tart’s performance but Mary Cadogan didn’t care, because it was a damned fine one, so fine that withdrawing, which she had to do, was painful. She longed to be a fly on the wall, to see how Sir William Hamilton would manage the final step from surrogate uncle and detached benefactor to lover.
He used his latest purchase, a large urn dug up by another collector from the ashen mud of Pompeii, to set the mood. It was a vase that carried classicism to a point well beyond the borders of good taste, depicting an orgy of sexual couplings. Men and women were entwined, of course, but there were other images of guests consorting with a variety of animals or with their own sex. Standing behind her, Sir William slowly turned the vase to point out each detail of the frieze.
He was taller than Emma, and the scent of her body, rising on the heat from her skin, was overwhelming. The sight of her exposed shoulders, catching t
he candlelight, made breathing an effort. With his head by hers, as he leant forward to indicate another point of interest, he brushed her auburn hair. Emma leant back slightly, affording him an alluring view of her voluptuous breasts.
“I fear we are a sorry crew compared to the ancients, but they had their pagan gods as examples.” He pointed to a reclining female figure, naked, head back. Even with primitive art it was obvious that she was enjoying the attentions of her lover, on his knees, head between her legs. His voice was soft and hoarse, low enough to vibrate though her head and neck. “And this, Emma, this creature in profile, is so like you. All that is different is the adornment of the hair. I have often wished you would dress your hair like a Roman courtesan.”
Emma experienced none of the sensations she had enjoyed with Uppark Harry or Greville at his best, that racing of the blood that made every nerve end tingle. But she did feel flushed, and the languor induced by good food and wine made leaning into Sir William seem natural. Nine months of being denied the company of her lover also had an effect on her, since she enjoyed physical love as much as she longed for emotional security.
And though it was something of which she was unaware of, Emma Hart was honest. The road to this moment had been long and painful, streaked with nocturnal tears. Even though tonight had been a performance, she lacked the duplicity necessary to be a whore with an eye for a prize. The part of her being that longed for gaiety—singing, dancing, and drinking—was balanced against a need to feel secure, to be loved for herself, not just for her accomplishments in the bedchamber. So, having finally acceded to the inevitable, she would not tease the man who offered her that.
There was no resistance as Sir William placed his hand flat on her belly, pulling her backwards so that she could feel him through her thin garment. She closed her eyes for pleasure’s sake, not disgust, as he leant to kiss her shoulder. This he did several times, each touch of the lips and gentle movement of his hand interspersed with paeans to her looks, her hair, her body, her accomplishments, and his deep regard for her. He pointed to the reclining courtesan again. “I would give much to see you thus.”
To oblige him, and slip out of a thin dress lacking undergarments, was easy. She didn’t turn right away, aware that he had stepped away and was silently admiring her back. After several seconds he moved forward, a hand on her elbow to spin her round. She stood, one foot slightly raised while his eyes ranged over her body. He cupped his hand under one breast, lifting it slightly so that the erect nipple pointed straight towards him.
“Truly, Emma, you are fit for an emperor.”
The touch had made her shudder, sending a clear signal to her putative lover that she could match his passion. He bent and kissed that same nipple, at the same time taking her hand, so that when he raised his head again he could lead her to his bedchamber. Accustomed to a man who was young and passionate, Emma was surprised and pleased by Sir William’s gentility. What he lacked in ardour he more than compensated for in patience and experience. He was adept with hand, tongue, and voice, mixing flattery and touch to achieve his purpose, which was to raise Emma Hart to a pitch of sexual expectation so high that the pleasure she craved must follow. In doing so he worked the same effect upon himself, leaving his new lover with the impression of a man not far from the full flush of youth.
Emma returned to her own apartments halfway through the night, wrapped in Sir William’s dressing gown, leaving him to his slumbers. Her mother was asleep too, in a chair, head lolling forward, probably too anxious or curious to go to bed and intent on waiting up for her daughter to return.
Looking at her, mouth open, jaw slack, Emma went through a gamut of emotions: anger at her mother’s machinations, gratitude for the concern that had prompted them, a renewed stab of passion for Greville, swiftly followed by a feeling bordering on hate. What had happened tonight she knew was not enough. She could take pleasure from Sir William’s company both in bed and out, but one coupling did not make for a commitment. That expression nearly made her laugh out loud. She thought she had that very thing with Uppark Harry and Greville, only to see it snuffed out by indifference.
The balance of what was on offer had been spelt out, albeit with much circumlocution, by her mother. Fine bones and youthful mettle were all very well in a lover, but they did not keep you fed and clothed. Beauty, her only asset in the eyes of most men, was not going to last for ever. If she craved comfort, and she did, then any arrangement that provided it was better than one that promised only passion.
“I must be more like you, Ma,” she said, “and look out for what suits me in advance.”
Mary Cadogan opened her eyes and, seeing what Emma was wearing, Sir William’s patterned dressing gown, she smiled and nodded.
“Did I do right, Ma?”
Her mother’s voice had the croaky quality of one who had drunk too much wine and slept badly. “How’s to know, child. Only time will tell us that.” She heaved herself stiffly out of the chair, a hand going to ease her aching back. “But I will say that what went afore is dead and buried now, even if you find that hard to accept. Take it from one who knows, that pain don’t last for ever. A mind on what’s to come is worth a ton weight of memory. I take it the Chevalier didn’t disappoint?” she added, with arched eyebrows.
“No,” Emma replied softly.
She was unable to give the true answer; that however accomplished Sir William seemed, however kind and wise, she was not in love with him. For five years she had shared her bed with a man she loved, and nothing merely physical could compare. She felt empty.
“You do like him?”
“Yes.”d
Mary Cadogan hooked her daughter’s arm to lead her to her own bedchamber. “Then that is where the likes of us start from, Emma. We can ask no more’n a chance, and if what we are faced with ain’t too low to contemplate, then we can bear with it.”
“I want Greville to pay for this.”
“His type don’t suffer. Take what you can get and leave the rest to God.”
“There should be more.”
“Happen there is, girl. And happen you will find it.”
Chapter Eight
1787
THOUGH THE DISPUTE over enforcement of the Navigation Acts had been resolved in Nelson’s favour, the Admiralty backing him to the hilt, several obstacles still hampered his pursuit of Fanny Nisbet. With Sir Richard Hughes now departed there were his duties, as the commander on station between admirals. Second, there was her uncle, who still seemed to blow hot and cold, sometimes a touch of both on the same day. Would he give her a dowry? He declined to be drawn. Did she have expectations for his estate? Perhaps! How went Nelson’s own requests to his family for financial assistance? How could he answer when a reply might be six months in coming?
Then there was the difficulty of explaining his feelings when he was mostly confined to letters, his fulsome and excitable, hers sweet and full of gossip. A dashed visit to Nevis, with a brusque demand for clarification, extracted from Mr Herbert permission that they might become engaged, provided his niece had no objection. That was a difficult moment, one which Nelson dreaded. But Fanny assented to his suit, and even allowed him a gentle kiss to seal their bargain.
But if any cause could be laid at the root of his difficulties it was His Royal Highness, Captain Prince William Henry of Hanover. The slender youth of previous acquaintance, full of respect and wonder for a senior naval officer, had quite gone. Instead, Nelson had to contend with a porcine, gluttonous creature, who could never be brought to admit he was in the wrong profession, a potentially fatal trait in one who, though he commanded a frigate, should never have been entrusted with a coracle; a man who had achieved his rank because of his blood, not his ability. Whoever had chosen his officers had done so on the grounds that seamanship was necessary, and a Germanic background was an asset. Where they had failed was in the notion that in dealing with someone like Prince William, tact was also required.
On arrival at Antigua, Prince
William delivered a brusque and rude demand for a court-martial. He wanted his first lieutenant, Schomberg, removed for failure to show due respect to a superior officer. Horatio Nelson wanted to remind the Prince that he was signally failing in that respect himself. Barking at the senior captain on the station was not a right even gifted to a king’s blood relative. But the need for tact applied to him as well. It was nothing new for a first lieutenant to fall out with his captain—it happened all the time, the confines of a ship almost inviting conflict between the two senior officers if there was any grit in the oyster of their relationship. Those faced with solving such a confrontation knew that a court was a poor solution, since neither party would emerge unscathed.
Prince William didn’t know that Nelson had on his desk a letter from Schomberg detailing his own accusations against his captain: failure to keep proper logs; arbitrary misuse of his power to release rations and accusations of collusion with the purser to deny the rights of his crew; drunkenness; a wanton disregard for the safety of the ship; and a failure to heed the advice of his officers, as well as the ship’s master.
The list was endless and, if Nelson recalled his visitor properly from their time spent together in the Caribbean, probably true. When serving under Lord Hood, Nelson had tried to bring on the Prince’s nautical education, with little success. The boy was dogged but useless at mathematics, slipshod in his attentions to the needs of his division, an embarrassment at sword practice, and something of a boor at the dining board. In the circle of those who could speak openly to each other, it was agreed that such things mattered little. No royal prince would forsake home for life aboard a man-o’-war. This one had confounded them by pursuing a naval career, though whether the notion had been his or his father’s was not known.
“Now, Nelson—”
“Captain Nelson, Your Royal Highness. Or sir, if you prefer.”
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