Too Great a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  “I appreciate your generosity, Sir Willum. But where shall we live? I don’t suppose, as Greville is endeavoring to recover some of his honor by offering me an ’undred a year, we could go back to Edgware Road.”

  Sir William shook his head. “That, I fear, is out of the question. As a consideration of the arrangement, you must close the door forever on that chapter of your life. Perhaps you would like to retire to the countryside, where you might stretch the income farther. A quiet cottage, perhaps in Flintshire near your grandmother? That might suit, would it not?”

  “No, it would not, though I love my gammer dearly. I daren’t answer for Mam, but you ’ave spoilt me, Sir Willum. ’Ow can I go back to dreary, damp Hawarden, to a life even duller than Edgware Row—especially as there is no Greville there to greet me—after I ’ave been so admired in Naples? ’Twould be like asking a derby winner to pull your plow!”

  “You have time to more fully consider it,” replied Sir William, “so long as you inform me of your intention by Christmas. That will permit me the time to make the necessary arrangements, should you indeed find it more amiable to return to England. I give you my word that your annuity will continue with no ill will on my part, until such time as you chuse to marry.”

  “Marry! To some country lout, I expect you mean! You’ve spoilt me for that, too. Kings and princes ’ave paid court to me. Back home, the best a girl such as I could do is marry a tradesman.”

  “You are a delightful companion, Mrs. Hart. I confess I should hate to lose your society. Of course you might meet a young Englishman here, not a pup, of course, but a mature man of means between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, perhaps. If only you had been given a proper education in your early youth, you would indeed be, as they say, a consort for a king.”

  Somehow, I took comfort in those words. “I’m getting a proper education now, a’nt I?”

  I spent the rest of the day deep in thought, wandering the rooms of the Palazzo Sessa, wondering whether I should miss them. From the balcony just off the late Lady Hamilton’s boudoir I could see the double peak of Vesuvius rising majestically from the fertile plains beyond the little town of Portici. Had I not been wearing a straw bonnet to shield my complexion, the sun would have kissed me in the Continental fashion, dabbing each cheek with a spot of Nature’s rouge. I leaned against the iron railing and inhaled the aromas of Naples, both sweet and savory, pungent and delicate. A gentle breeze from the sparkling bay wafted essence of bergamot past my nostrils, and a moment later gifted me with the scent of sweet basil. Off to the west, the coast curved toward the grotto of Posillipo—Posillipo, where His Britannic Majesty’s envoy had renamed his delightful, ivy-covered villa in my honor; where we often swam naked in the piscina with only the starfish and each other for company.

  My mother joined me on the balcony. “I’ve been looking for you, Emy, gal.”

  As though her words had released the plug on a dike, I flung myself weeping into her arms. “I’ve lost ’im forever,” I sobbed. “How could my beloved Greville betray me so? Excepting Sir Willum, of course, I ’ad thought that ’e was the only true gentleman I’ve ever known. P’raps if I had learnt to better control my temper, Greville wouldna been so quick to cast me off.”

  Mam stroked my hair. “Husht thee naise. You mustn’t blame yourself, girl. You ’ave a grand ’eart, as big as all of England, Wales, and Scotland all rolled into one. If anything, although you’ve seen a lot, and p’raps too much for a girl of twenty-one, you still have a lot to learn about men, is all. I know you’re ’urting like the devil, but wunst you’ve dried your tears, you’ll look at things the way Greville ’imself and ’is uncle do.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “In that detached way these uppity crusts do. Their sort of cynicism, softened by your own benevolent ’eart, becomes a kind of pragmatism. Which ain’t a bad way to go through life when all is said and done. And a lot easier on your tender sensibilities than flinging yourself at life like a romantic.”

  I sighed deeply. “Would you miss this, if we was to go back home next spring?” I gestured toward the purple vista.

  “Well, these Neapolitans don’t know the first thing about cooking, for one. All that macaroni and gravy. Someone needs to teach ’em what’s what. A good joint and a passel of potatoes and turnips, or a good ’earty Irish stew is what does a body good.” She looked out at the pristine bay, where merchant vessels bobbed about, their colored sails like enormous festival pennants. “I go where you go, Emy. Don’t make your decision based on what you think is best for your poor old mam, for what’s best for me is what’s best for you, and I ain’t jesting when I say it.”

  “We can’t afford to live well, if at all, in London on two hundred a year. And if I was fortunate enough to find another protector, I’m certain Greville and Sir Willum would cut off our pension.”

  “Is that what you want?” asked my mother. “A new protector?”

  “No. ’Tisn’t. Not really.” I shook my head. “Do you really think we can go back to Hawarden, or some place like it, after this?”

  “It’s not for me to answer that question, y’nau?”

  “It’s rather a different climate from home in nearly every way,” I mused aloud. “And Naples is as different from London as London is from Hawarden. All that bustle of London, still everything so gray and dreary most days. I confess I’ve grown rather accustomed to sunshine.”

  “I can’t say as it’s done any injury to my aching hip,” Mam concurred.

  “Smells better here, too,” I added, enjoying the redolent fragrance of the coral-colored roses that bloomed beneath the window. “And I’ve become rather acclimated to the indolent pace . . . dinners as take four hours . . . all the musical entertainments. . . . You ’ave to agree that my singing ’as been greatly improved and much admired. . . .”

  “That I do. And it’s not your only attribute to be praised to these blue skies. I know you’ve no rival for beauty in the entire city, and Sir Willum takes care that everyone sees that. And the king hisself, though ’e’s as ugly as an ’alibut, has an eye for you. What do you bet ’e’s thinking of you when ’e’s ponshyn that homely wife of ’is?”

  “Mam! I think the queen is at least tolerable-looking, if not more than that. Those stiff court gowns with all their gems and pearls and embroidery become her figure, for you’ll admit at least that she’s got a majestic carriage. Besides,” I added, beginning to weep again, “Maria Carolina knows ’ow to ’old on to ’er man when she wants ’im. Unlike your daughter.”

  “Husht, pet, don’t be too ’ard on yourself, now. It ain’t quite the same thing and you know it.”

  “All ’Er Majesty needs to do is display ’er pale white arms to ’Is Majesty and ’e salivates like a mongrel. It tantalizes ’im so when she sits before ’im and slowly dons her opera gloves, ’e would willingly make ’er the pope if it was in ’is power to do so! She’s smart as the sting of a whip, Mam, and I would count myself blessed to ever find myself in the merest shadow of ’er favor.”

  “Which of course there’d be little chance of if we was to be living in England or Wales.”

  “Well, that’s true enough!”

  “So, ’ere you’ve got weather that ’appens in England wunst every blue moon. You’ve got a coach at your disposal, a passel of comely gowns and frocks, days spent lazing in the countryside, and nights strolling along the elegant Chiaia with all eyes upon you, or at the opera or the musicales, where your presence alone is one of the chief attractions. There’s no end of admirers, starting, not with ’Is Majesty, but with our ’ost. Sir Willum values you for more than your looks, Emy, and that’s not to be sneezed at. ’E’s come to rely on you over these past few months, and one would ’ave to be blind not to see it. Sure, ’e no longer sees you as ’is ’ouseguest but as the chatty-lane of ’is establishments, if I may borrow a word from that French valet of ’is. And ’e’s arse over tit in love with you, though ’e keeps ’is cards close and is
clever not to tip ’is ’and about ’is intentions. But ’e could be yours, gal, if you wanted ’im. Just give ’im time. Old folks like us, we get set in our ways; now and again it takes us a bit more time to acknowledge the truth of a matter even when it’s been staring us in the face bright as the sun and twice as large.” Pausing for breath, Mam gazed off toward Posillipo. “Naturally, the decision is yours, child. Though I’m guessing it might be’oove me to go down to the kitchen and start teaching that fancy French cook of Sir Willum’s ’ow to whip up some ponsh meip if I want to eat proper for the rest of my life.”

  Eighteen

  A Change of Heart

  I did not give Sir William my reply right away, for I knew that it went hand in glove with the presumption that our society would no longer proceed beyond an affectionate and respectful cordiality. Dear Sir William had been nothing but kind to me, yet at that time I was not in love with him. Truth told, I was tampin’ over the way things had transpired, too angry to enter Sir William’s bed even if I’d been of a mind to. Both men bore a share of the blame for hurting me so, and at least it did the diplomatic Sir William an ounce or two of credit not to press his amorous suit, even when it appeared evident that I planned to remain in Italy.

  This decision more or less taken, I spent the summer like any Neapolitan lady of quality, yet adding by degrees the responsibilities of Sir William’s chatelaine, supervising the household (when I wasn’t delegating Mam to do so) and entertaining the ambassador’s guests. Oh, did we have dinners and dances then! My head went dizzy from the political intrigues involved in what should have been the simple preparation of a seating chart: Count So-and-so could not be placed anywhere near Prince No-name or for certain one would find a reason to call the other out. This marquess was left-handed; that ambassador was deaf in his right ear; Ladies X and Y were notoriously not speaking, though they attended the same parties and conversazioni, one not to be socially outdone by the other. By September, I might as well have been a minister without portfolio.

  My days were also taken up with my schooling, for every day I had Italian and French lessons, music and singing; and my drawing lessons continued as well. Sir William much enjoyed my renditions of English and Scottish country airs, but his true sensibilities lay with the great German and Austrian composers; to please him I applied myself to learning the lieder of Mozart and Handel, and further increased my repertoire with some of the Italians’ popular opera buffo pieces.

  From November to March, the boar-hunting season, the entire court would ride out to the town of Caserta at the foot of the Apennines. The vast royal palace there, with its gloomy facade, resembled nothing so much as a barracks. Sir William would reside in his capannina, accompanying the king each day for the quotidian butchery, while I strolled about in the magnificent English Gardens adjacent to the royal palace there. But without Sir William’s companionship at Caserta, for all the gardens’ beauty and the charming views they afforded, I was terribly lonely. The capannina, though it boasted fifty rooms, was dull and drafty and not conducive to a comfortable ménage, for it had never been designed with a woman’s amenities in mind. Sir William was gone all day, and my social position—for by that time they all assumed I was Sir William’s mistress—did not permit me to be formally recognized or received at court. Caught between acceptance on the one hand and avoidance on the other, I was teetering on the verge of returning to England after all.

  “What can I say that will induce you to remain here?” Sir William asked me.

  “Say you’ll come back to Naples with me.”

  “You know I can’t, Emma. Duty. The king expects me to accompany him at every hunt.”

  “Every bloody one of them?”

  Sir William chuckled. “Aptly put, my dear. And yes, I’m afraid, every bloody one of them. It may not sound like much of a privilege, but I am the only foreign emissary to receive an invitation from King Ferdinand to accompany him every day. As His Britannic Majesty’s envoy, my job is to get as much as we can out of the Two Sicilies, whether it comes in the form of commerce or military aid, or simple goodwill—whatever our king might require at any given time.”

  “Well, then, I ’ope Farmer George appreciates the service you do for England!”

  Before we knew it, the Christmas season was upon us, the first Mam and I had ever spent outside of Britain. The climate, so lush and sultry during the summer months, turned inordinately cold. In Naples there was snow on the streets, and Vesuvius was now as white-capped as was Mont Cenis when we’d crossed over it in early spring.

  “I expect this is God’s way of keeping us from getting ’omesick,” Mam grumbled, rubbing liniment on her aching hip. “If we’d wanted to spend the Lord’s birthday in a frosty, gray country, without enough ’eat in the fires to warm our bones, we’da stayed back in England! Just in case you ’aven’t ’eard, Emy, girl, I ain’t the only one chawin’ the fat over it. Everyone’s talking ’ow it’s never been so monstrous cold ’ere. Them superstitious lazy-ronis, ’oove all gone underground to catch a bit of warmth in the catacombs, think the Almighty is punishing the Neapolitans for something or other; leastways that’s what Vincenzo told me. Cat got your tongue, gal? Why, you’re as silent and thoughtful-looking as one of Sir Willum’s statues.”

  Mam ambled over to embrace me. “ ’Appy Christmas, Emy.” She handed me a prettily wrapped package. “It ain’t much, but I thought you should ’ave something to open on the Lord’s birthday.”

  It was a handsome Kashmir shawl. “Mam,” I gasped, “this must ’ave cost you a king’s ransom!”

  She shrugged. “I’ve yet to see the need to use up Sir Willum’s clothing allowance on fripperies for myself.” She tucked the shawl around my shoulders. “I’m a practical sort, my girl. Mayhap I had a sense you’d need a little something extra to keep you warm this season.”

  Our modest celebration was interrupted by Sir William’s friend, the landscape gardener John Graefer. Graefer was a frequent visitor to the Palazzo Sessa, enjoying our musical evenings as well as a good rubber of whist.

  “ ’Appy Christmas to you,” Mam told him. “You’re welcome to stop by tomorrow evening if you can find yourself a partner, for Sir Willum ain’t at ’ome this week, tho’ my daughter and I would be most obliged to take you on. As whist ain’t her best game, I don’t expect you’ll be parting with too many ducats.”

  “I’ve something for you as well,” I told Mam after Graefer had departed. Opening a drawer in my jewelry chest, I withdrew a bottle of spirits. “Romney brought it with ’im all those months ago and I’ve been saving it up for today.”

  “Oh, Emy!” Mam said, her eyes misting over with homesickness when I handed her the bottle of gin. “What an ’oliday this is turning out to be after all!”

  “If only Sir Willum were ’ere to share it with us!”

  I took my thoughts to my bath. Soaking in the tub as the verbena-scented water clung to my chemise, I thought about how to tell him what was in my heart. I had missed him dreadfully these past few weeks, and I had finally come around to acknowledging that my feelings ran far deeper than an affection born of gratitude for his many kindnesses to Mam and me. I loved him, not merely because of what he had done for us, but for his own myriad merits. Sir William was everything a man should be: educated, courtly, witty, charming, solicitous, athletic, adventurous, artistic, and beloved by all who knew him, for never had I heard an ill-tempered word spoken against him.

  Since we had démenaged to Caserta in November, I had permitted him certain liberties of my body: caresses and kisses and intimacies of a further nature that taught me that Sir William was prodigiously skilled in the art of making love. Whilst in every other situation he was the detached ironic observer, in the boudoir he was playful as well as ardent, and the recollection of those nights—and days—in the capannina when we’d found much to delight in each other fired up my blood anew. With a sudden rush of passion, I realized that I wanted him, wanted to give myself to him fully and compl
etely.

  “Buon Natale, Vincenzo e Giulia! Happy Christmas, Mrs. Cadogan!” Sir William’s voice resounded through the ground floor of the palazzo.

  “ ’Ave you come ’ome for the ’oliday, sir?” I heard my mother inquire. “What a pleasant—”

  “Where’s Emma?” he asked enthusiastically.

  I suppose Mam had forgotten that I was bathing, for she flung open the door to our rooms. Startled, I stood up to greet him, momentarily unmindful that my shift was clinging to my nude body in clusters of sodden folds. Sir William was apparently just as stunned by the unexpected manner of welcome, for he halted immediately, remaining rooted to the spot.

  “My . . . good God . . . no . . . goddess. Emma . . . my dear, have you any . . . ?” Sir William’s eyes were misted with tears. “Damme . . . you are the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld,” he whispered. “If my statues could weep with jealousy, surely they would do, for never was there a womanly form so flawless . . . so exquisite. . . . Emma, you take my breath away.”

  I held out my arms to him. With a cry of joy and not a fig for his fine garments, he strode across the tiled floor and flung himself into my embrace. I held him fast, raining tears and kisses on his cheeks, eyes, and lips. Mam stepped into the corridor and discreetly closed the door.

  “My Emma. My own,” murmured Sir William as he lifted me from the tub, divesting me of my shift, which remained all but forgotten in a soggy heap beside the basin.

  Sir William’s ardor and energy were exceptional for any man, let alone one of his years. Suffice it to say that we were both immensely satisfied with our Christmas gifts to each other. Unfortunately, however, our holiday was to be short-lived, as Sir William was expected to join the king at Caserta the following morning for another day of wholesale slaughter.