by Amanda Elyot
As our party was to continue on to Dresden, it was in Vienna that Maria Carolina and I ended up exchanging our final farewells. “I shall always cherish our friendship, miledi. The name of Lady Hamilton will be on my lips and in my grateful thoughts as a dear friend and a munificent woman. And most assuredly, my loyal countrymen and -women shall long remember your service to the crown, for you are too great a lady to be forgotten.” As a token of her esteem, she offered me an annual pension of one thousand pounds, but on Sir William’s advice not to take money from a foreign monarch, I refused to accept it. In its stead, she gave me a letter in her own hand, recommending me to the Queen of England, with the unspoken hope that it would help me gain acceptance at the Court of St. James.
I tried not to weep, but I could not help myself, remembering her many kindnesses, most especially her encouragement of Sir William’s wish to marry me. “Your Majesty, you ’ave already given me the greatest gifts a woman can receive: respect and respectability, for without them I should never have been Lady ’Amilton.”
Having just departed from a queen who esteemed me so greatly, I was ill prepared for our reception in Dresden in early October.
The only good to come of our time in that dreary city was that Johann Schmidt rendered Nelson and me in pastels. Schmidt’s portrait of me immediately became one of Nelson’s favorites. It is the only depiction of me with my hair chopped off—and rare enough for that alone—and it is the sole portrait done whilst I was pregnant. I have always thought of this image of me, clad all in white save for my Maltese Order, as being titled Emma Carrying Nelson’s Deepest and Most Wish’d-for Secret.
We spent our time at Dresden in the company of Sir Hugh Elliot, His Britannic Majesty’s envoy there. Sir Hugh and his thin-lipped biddy of a wife lacked all sense of mirth and merriment, and were quite put out of sorts by all our laughter, our fondness for parties and entertainment, and our appetite for music and champagne. At a dinner the Elliots hosted in our honor, they were shocked silly when Sir William, Nelson, and I behaved just as we had done in Palermo, with ribald jokes and boisterous laughter, as I sang and clapped, and Sir William, all of seventy years old, demonstrated his vigor—after numerous glasses of champagne—by hopping about the room on his back, alternately flailing his arms and kicking up his heels, with his Order of the Bath flying about his neck.
Lady Elliot and her houseguest Melesina St. George Trench gossiped about me behind their fans. I was fat; I was coarse; I was uncouth. Their sniggering wounded me to the quick. But I shut their gobs when I performed my Attitudes for ’em. In those days I would wear a high-necked, long-sleeved calico frock instead of a diaphanous gown; nevertheless, I portrayed the characters with a depth of interpretation that they, by the looks on their awestruck faces, had never imagined me capable of. Sir William, as always, was both moved and charmed beyond all measure. “Mrs. Siddons be damned!” he cried out. “My wife is the best actress in Europe!”
The next day, we wished to be presented to the Saxon elector, and decked ourselves in gallant trim against the occasion. We had already called for our carriage when Sir Hugh appeared to explain that there must have been some mistake, for there was to be no court during our stay in Dresden.
“Indeed there must be some mistake, for that is not what we have heard,” replied Sir William smoothly.
Sir Hugh drew my husband aside. There was much muttering and glancing in my direction, with the words “electress” and “former” and “dissolute” popping out of the conversation.
“Lady Hamilton, I misspoke. What I should have said was that the Dresden court is known throughout Europe to be deadly dull, and the presentation to the elector and electress would have been nothing but a quick bow and curtsy. Nothing to see, nothing to do, no banquets . . .”
“What, no guttling?!” I exclaimed, for when my hackles was up, I tended to become as vulgar as they all thought I was anyway.
“The truth of the matter is,” an uncomfortable Elliot told us,
“that the electress will not welcome Lady Hamilton at court, on account of her former dissolute life.”
I exploded. “Former! Former! ”
Nelson got his back up as well. “Sir, if there’s any difficulty of that sort, Lady Hamilton will knock the elector down, and damme, I’ll knock him down, too!”
Thus ended (without my knocking anyone down) our Grand European Tour. Nelson and I had tried at every step to take our time in getting back to England, for neither of us was sure what would happen once we reached Albion’s shores, other than knowing in our hearts that we never wanted to be parted from each other.
On October 31, 1800, we boarded the King George mail packet bound from Hamburg for England, but en route to the pier, Nelson insisted on stopping the carriage at a mantua-maker’s. “I shan’t be but a minute,” he assured us. True to his word, he emerged from the shop barely sixty seconds later, bearing a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Some lace for Fanny,” he said sheepishly. “She would think ill of me if I came back from three years in Europe empty-handed.”
Circe
1800-1805
Thirty-five
A Hero’s Welcome
“Land ho!” November 5, 1800. A cry went up. The eastern coast of England had been sighted. I asked the man on the watch if I might borrow his spyglass to glimpse it for myself and he readily obliged me. It had taken us five months from the day we departed Palermo to reach this point. I was now a little more than six months with child and had prepared myself against the day of our arrival home with an ensemble stitched especially for the hero’s welcome: a white muslin gown that bore on its hem the words Bronte and Nelson embroidered in pendants suspended from anchors, with a crown atop each anchor, all joined with a repeating garland border of oak leaves (the symbol for true friendship), worked in gold thread and sequins.
The sleepy port of Great Yarmouth bustled awake when we stepped off the ship the following morning. It looked as though the entire town had turned out to greet us in their Sunday best. Huzzahs echoed off every facade, and a clatter arose when our horses were unhitched from the carriage and replaced by a number of strapping residents, who drew the coach all the way to the center of town, depositing us with a thump at our destination, the Wrestler’s Arms. We could scarce get inside the inn, for everyone had their hands and arms outstretched trying to touch Nelson as though he were a sacred relic. Their cheers and cries filled the streets. “Speech, Speech!” the voices cried as one. “Nelson! Nelson!”
When their hero bowed to them, they went wilder still. Medals were struck immediately to commemorate Nelson’s return. At a local church, we attended a thanksgiving service and the organist struck up “See, the Conquering Hero Comes.” In the evening, celebratory bonfires were lit in the streets and we were serenaded by citizens singing patriotic songs under our windows.
“Just imagine the reception we’ll get in London!” I exclaimed.
“There is a large part of me that would gladly trade it all to remain here,” Nelson replied. The agitated movement of his stump betrayed his inner turmoil. “For though I am elated to have won the people’s hearts, there is one among them I wish to avoid. Emma—my beloved Emma,” he murmured, bringing his lips to my swollen belly, “every ounce of glittering tin on my chest is nothing to our love. All the glory I have gained is best enjoyed when you are at my side.”
Fully aware that rumors had reached her ears, I, too, was anxious about meeting Lady Nelson. And our triumphal procession into London was beset with bad omens. With Nelson in full regalia, we entered the city on November 9, in the midst of the most freakish storm in living memory, our horses dodging hailstones half the size of my fist. Tiles blew off the facades in Fleet Street, flowerpots tumbled to the street from Grosvenor Square windowsills, roofs were ripped off of churches with no thought spared for the worshipping congregations gathered beneath ’em, and the north windows of the foundling hospital were blown clear in. Parapets crumbled and people were knocked into one an
other like Punch and Judy puppets. Our team reared up in fear as our driver struggled to control the reins.
The storm lasted but twenty minutes, yet left marked devastation in its wake. Nelson and I were more shaken than the others, for once the carriage pulled up in King Street, we knew not what would happen once we set foot inside Nerot’s Hotel.
They were waiting for us in the quietly furnished public parlor: a slim, plain woman—looking like a matron with a fear of colds, in a simple high-waisted, high-necked gown, with a white bonnet tied in a tight bow beneath her chin—and an older gentleman who somewhat resembled Nelson, dressed in the manner of a clergyman. The chill in the air was not warmed by our reception. The gentleman rose and extended his arms in greeting. “Horace!”
“Father.” Nelson entered his embrace rather stiffly. “I trust you are well.” The woman with the small, gray eyes remained seated, taking in the scene as though she was holding her breath.
“We expected you three days ago, Horace. In fact, we expected you to come straight to Suffolk—to Roundwood. Fanny and I had the house scrubbed top to bottom and planned a festive dinner against your arrival. But of course”—the man glanced at Sir William and me—“you evidently had other plans in mind.”
“Father, allow me to name Sir William Hamilton; his wife, Lady Hamilton; her mother, Mrs. Cadogan; and Miss Cornelia Knight.” Having gestured toward each of us, he added awkwardly, “My father, the Reverend Edmund Nelson . . . of Norfolk. And my wife, Lady Nelson.”
“I am sorry we did not have better weather to welcome your arrival,” she murmured. Where were her soft, if not ebullient, words of congratulations for her husband, the nation’s greatest hero? Where were her expressions of admiration for his great deeds? Had my beloved been away at sea for upward of three years—nay, but three hours—I should not have greeted him by discussing the climate! I should have flung my arms about his dear neck and covered him with kisses!
“Why are you sorry, Fanny? ’Twasn’t as though you could have done anything about the weather. Tell me, how is your cold?”
“I am in tolerable good health. Under the circumstances.” Her remark, being cryptic, left me to wonder whether she referred to the sudden hailstorm or to my presence.
“Oh, I mustn’t forget!” exclaimed Nelson, removing the parcel of lace from his coat pocket. “A gift for you from the Continent. Perhaps it can dress up a gown or a bonnet, or whatever it is you women do to decorate yourselves.”
There was not an ounce of trim on Fanny’s pearl gray gown. She opened the package as she simultaneously surveyed my hem, with Nelson’s name and title embroidered upon it. Her voice was pinched. “Thank you, husband. I am sure that I shall put this to excellent use.” To strangle me with it, perhaps.
“Come, Horace. Our rooms are ready upstairs. Have been for more than a day, I daresay.”
“Our good father is right,” said Fanny. “Time to bid a good day to the Hamiltons and their . . . retinue.”
“We will dine with the Hamiltons this evening,” Nelson replied, his tone brooking no dissent. With little choice but compliance, Fanny emitted a disobliging little snort. Nelson bowed to us. “Until five, then. We shall sup in our rooms.”
Sir William’s cousin William Beckford graciously allowed us the use of his town house in Grosvenor Square until we might find a residence of our own, but within a day of our arrival, Miss Knight received a letter and, after perusing its contents, packed her trunks and bolted. I had a powerful feeling that it warned her of associating too closely with the tainted reputations of the tria juncta in uno. I sent word of her sudden departure to Nelson at Nerot’s.
Altho she is clever & learned, she is dirty, illbred, ungrateful, bad mannered, false, and deceitful. But my Heart takes a noble vengeance. I forgive her.
Nelson was less charitable. What a b—that Miss Knight is! came the swift reply.
That day, Nelson paid his official call to the Admiralty, lecturing them on his strategy to defend the Channel coast, should Napoleon attempt to invade by that route. The following night, we received an enthusiastic reception at the lord mayor’s banquet, where Nelson was presented with the sword of honor. Fanny was conspicuous by her absence, but Nelson, accepting the accolades and approbation of his peers, was in his element.
Sir William accompanied Nelson the next day to King George’s levee.
“Well, ’ow did it go?” I inquired excitedly upon his return to Grosvenor Square, certain of another triumph.
“Rumped!” he exclaimed. “The greatest man England has ever produced and His Majesty rumps him!”
“I don’t understand, Sir Willum? What ’appened at Windsor?”
“There Nelson stood, with all his medallions and orders about his neck, and the stars on his chest, the sultan’s chelenkh in his hat, and the king approaches him. Naturally, Nelson and I expected some effusion, some ‘Saved our necks from the frogeaters, eh, wot-wot? ’ His Majesty goes to greet him, Nelson bows, and all Farmer George can find to say is, ‘Have you recovered your health, sir?’ And Nelson replies that he is quite well, thank you very much, Your Majesty, and begins to mention the contributions to the Crown of the absent Lady Hamilton, whereupon the king turns his back on him to converse with some decorated redcoat about military strategy! Rumped him right in the middle of the room, for all to witness! The snub could not have been more pointed, my dear. And to heap insult upon injury, the king’s third son, the Duke of Clarence, who Nelson served with years ago in the West Indies, comes up to him, huffing and puffing in that Hanoverian way, and says, ‘Nelson, my man! Allow me to be the first to shake your hand!’ whereupon he goes straight for the hero’s right arm, only to be tripped up by an empty sleeve. I tell you, we were mortified and could not leave soon enough. Nelson’s in a black mood if ever I saw it, and not least of which, my dear, is because he was unable to raise the issue of your being presented at court.”
I was angered, wishing I had been there just so I could whap the king as I had threatened to sock the Saxon elector. “You poor, poor Sir Willum. How dare the king treat ’is most noble subjects so rudely?”
Sir William sighed. “Because he is the king, my love.”
It was an inauspicious opening to a new chapter in all our lives. As the days progressed, I was shocked to discover that the warm reception we had received from the masses was in direct contrast with the greeting we received from many of the People Who Mattered. The ladies who had visited us in Naples would call upon me, but none of the other English noblewomen would pay a call or leave their cards with our servants. At the dinner parties and the theatrical performances that we attended with the Nelsons, there was as much sniggering behind fans and remarks upon my girth (particularly vis-à-vis Sir William’s increasing gauntness) as there were huzzahs. Hypocrites they were, in the worst way, for the haute ton thought nothing of hopping from bed to bed, forsaking their marriage vows and taking lovers and mistresses with impunity. The love that Nelson and I bore for each other was no different from that of Lord Sandwich, who, while First Lord of the Admiralty, enjoyed a lengthy amorous liaison with the singer Martha Reay. But I was not only lowborn, with an unfortunate past; Nelson was their god, the greatest national hero since King Arthur. Our mutual admiration, so honest in its openness, was considered by them to be the height of indiscretion. That these two-faced toadies should consider us pariahs galled me to distraction, and often to tears, for at times I found it very difficult to put a brave face on it.
Soon after our arrival in London, the four of us spent an evening at the opera, joined by Captain Hardy, and the Reverend Edmund Nelson. In the front row of the box sat Nelson, with Fanny to his left and me on his right. Fanny had not wished to attend at all, and had argued bitterly with Nelson about it, but Nelson insisted that she could not be rude to his two dearest, closest friends in all the world, and to insult us was to insult him, adding, “It will not be tolerated, madam.”
Perhaps in an effort to assert her much-celebrated dignity and
her position as Lady Nelson, Fanny looked more elegant than I had ever seen her, gowned in white, with a violet-colored head-dress. Before the curtain was rung open, the orchestra struck up “Rule Britannia,” the song I had claimed for my own ever since Nelson’s brilliant victory at the Nile. I rose to my feet and sang out as if I were Britannia herself. To my immense delight, the ovation for Nelson lasted longer and was louder than anyone could remember and it was many, many minutes before the opera could begin.
But if Fanny had not already guessed my secret, I surmised that she had an inkling of it when I fainted during the fourth act. Afterward I put it down to the excitement and the stifling heat inside the theatre, but there was no disguising her husband’s immediate reaction to my swoon, for he was panicked and concerned and tender all at once.
As we quit the opera house, Nelson and Fanny began to quarrel. “How could you have ignored dear Lady Hamilton’s distress, Fanny? Where is your womanly feeling, your compassion?” Nelson asked his wife angrily. “Dear Lady Hamilton has been nothing but good to me. I’faith, she is to be credited with saving me from the fever when I came back to Naples after the Nile victory. Had it not been for her tender ministrations, I daresay I might not be here to discuss it.”
“I am tired of hearing about that woman!” cried Fanny. “I will not stand for such ill use. Chuse, Horace. Chuse between your dear Lady Hamilton and myself, for I will have all your heart or none of it!”
“You already have my answer, madam,” Nelson replied stiffly.
I felt poorly that he should be so cross with Fanny, for too well I knew what it was to suddenly lose the man you thought was the center of your world. Uppark Harry had ignored me entirely, and Greville’s perfunctory replies to my desperate entreaties were near as curt as Nelson’s. To her credit, Fanny was in fact more dignified than I had ever been about the whole business when I was in her shoes. So, for a brief time, I tried to befriend her—if not to make her a bosom companion, at least to turn incivility into acquaintance. I could never part with Nelson’s heart now, but I cannot say I accorded her too much blame. Fanny was a genuinely scorned woman and behaved as such at every possible opportunity, her famous self-control slipping away by the day.