by Amanda Elyot
“I am afraid the balance is correct, my dear,” Sir William replied. “And here is a second letter, which they copied to me as well, with regard to your overdraft of seven hundred pounds.”
I was aghast. “Wherever will I get such a sum?”
Sir William kissed the top of my head. “Your husband is not the ogre you have of late believed him to be. I directed that the sum be paid out of my own funds.”
I rose and threw my arms about his neck. His body was thin as a rail now, truly the figure of an old man. “My dear, dear Sir Willum! Thank you! Whatever ’ave I done to deserve you?” I wept.
His lips formed a faint smile. “I have asked myself the very same question on occasion, my dear.”
Just a few weeks later, in February 1803, Sir William fell seriously ill. We had hosted a rather grand concert evening, after which my husband collapsed and needed to be carried into his bedroom by a pair of sturdy manservants. Mam and I nursed him round the clock and in several days’ time he rallied. We thought it best that he recuperate in the country air, so we brought him out to Merton, but late one day in March, Sir William collapsed again. This time we conveyed him posthaste to 23 Piccadilly, where his trusted physician, Dr. Mosely, attended him. For six days and nights I would not stir from his bedside. Nelson, too, kept vigil every day. On March 30, I wrote to Nelson’s elder sister Susannah, admitting exhaustion. But my husband needed me now; there would be time for sleep in the future.
On the morning of April 6, at the age of seventy-two, Sir William died in my arms, with Nelson at his side. I threw myself across his lifeless body and drenched it with miserable tears. Unhappy day for the forlorn Emma ten minutes past ten Dear Blessed Sir William left me, I wrote in my diary. A noble heart had indeed crack’d, and taken with it half of Emma’s life. He had been my savior and my Pygmalion, my teacher and my beloved. More than all, he was my husband—the only word in all the wide world that bestows upon a woman society’s greatest gift: respectability. Sir William had risked his own character to make me honest and virtuous, and in his waning years I had not repaid him well. What a man, what a husband! Would God ever see fit to forgive me?!
Forty
Widowed
In every respect an extraordinary person; a lover and connoisseur of the arts; he had in the highest degree the gift of being agreeable to everyone; with his candor and honesty he drew people to him in such a winning fashion that each among all his numerous acquaintances believed him his best friend. He was a man of the world who knew how to acquire and enjoy the amenities of life. Not a moment passed him by unused. . . .
Such were the words of Sir William’s dear friend the painter Wilhelm Tischbein, but they make a fine eulogy. The newspapers published Sir William’s actual obituary on April 7. It was complimentary to the point of effusiveness, and through my tears I was touched with pride at how the journalists, who so often derided us, had seen fit to honor our marriage.
About twelve years ago, he married Lady Hamilton, and never was a union productive of more perfect felicity. The anxious solicitude, the unwearied attentions, the domestic duties, joined to the uncommon talents and accomplishments of Lady Hamilton, were the sources of the purest happiness to them both, as well as of delight to the circle in which they lived.
The hatchment was affixed to the door of 23 Piccadilly, announcing a death within. I spent 185 pounds on black mourning attire for myself and our servants, and another 170 on a suite of jet mourning jewelry. As was the custom, we remained in seclusion.
My monetary woes commenced almost immediately. Greville, who was Sir William’s executor as well as his heir, confided to me that he held out little hope of my ever seeing a penny of Sir William’s pension. I did have a few supporters at Whitehall—Nelson’s friend in the Treasury, George Rose, and the prime minister, Henry Addington—to whom I wrote regarding my claim, but they apologized for the need to concentrate their attentions on more pressing matters, such as the shaky state of the Treaty of Amiens and the likelihood of resuming the war. Queen Maria Carolina sent a belated, and very formal, letter of condolence on Sir William’s death, but—after everything I had done for her—added nothing supporting my claims to Sir William’s pension. I was already in low spirits, this epistolary equivalent of a Sicilian rumping stunned me to the quick. In a fury, I flung the jewelry she had given me against the wall. I had been there for Her Majesty, holding her hand through every hour of her darkest distress, but when my own despondency was at high tide, she royally ignored my despair. “By gad, if she can forget Emma, I can forget her!” Nelson thundered, with all the vehemence of Bronte.
On the afternoon of Sir William’s death, Nelson dispatched a letter to Alexander Davison, doubting that I would be “left properly.” He thought Sir William’s nephew, not merely greedy, but also jealous that I had more than merely made something of myself—I had triumphed—since his caddish jilting of me so many years earlier. Nelson also wanted to ensure that William’s deed of gift to me of the furniture at 23 Piccadilly was read aloud before a full conclave, for he was certain that Greville would try to take the furnishings, which I’d purchased myself through the sale of my jewels, along with the title to the property.
I had known the contents and terms of Sir William’s will as early as 1801. I was aware that he was leaving me three hundred pounds in a lump sum upon his death, plus additional payments of eight hundred pounds annually, to be paid in quarterly installments from Sir William’s Welsh estates—“clear of all deductions.” Perhaps it was a passive, ever-diplomatic form of revenge from the grave for my sin of loving Nelson, for Sir William must have realized that he was leaving me in relative penury.
Sir William did provide for a payment of 250 pounds against my present debts, which at the time of his death had shot back up to 700. To Mam, he left a hundred pounds at his death and another hundred per year. In his will, Sir William described Nelson as his dearest friend, “the most virtuous, loyal, and truly brave man I have ever met with,” bequeathing him a snuffbox with a miniature version of Vigée Le Brun’s portrait of me as a reposing bacchante set into the lid. It all appeared so petty and penurious to me now, for Nelson had arranged to give his estranged wife eighteen hundred pounds a year (at which sum Tom Tit—installed at 54 Wellbeck Street and calling herself Duchess of Bronte—griped vociferously), and he was no richer a man than Sir William.
The Morning Herald, always keen to take a swipe at the tria juncta in uno, reported;Lord Nelson has received his celebrated picture of Emma by Madame Le Brun, conformably to the Will of Sir William Hamilton: another beautiful piece is also said to have devolved on his Lordship, in consequence of the demise of that friendly Connoisseur!
On April 12, Sir William was buried in Pembrokeshire, according to his wishes to be laid beside his first wife. Neither Nelson nor I traveled to the funeral. Though I had known about the arrangements for years, Sir William’s returning to Wales to be reunited with Catherine felt like a final nail in the coffin of our marriage. It was almost as if his spirit had visited me in my sleep and held up his hand to say, “You cannot follow me here, my dear.” And I suppose he was right. The dead belong with the dead, and the time for the living to bid them good-bye is while they yet breathe.
Nelson was quite correct not to have trusted Greville to see me properly placed in my widowhood, for Charles did, in fact, deduct income tax from my annuity, prompting Nelson’s vitriol.
Mr. Greville is a shabby fellow. . . . It may be law, but it is not just, nor in equity would, I believe, be considered as the will and intention of Sir William. Never mind! Thank God you do not want any of his kindness; nor will he give you justice.
And then Greville dealt me another blow. How soon can you quit 23 Piccadilly? read his terse note. I bit my tongue and set my jaw and packed my belongings. Within a few weeks of Sir William’s death, I found quiet and modest lodgings at 11 Clarges Street, just around the corner. Though we now lacked the verdant view, Mam and I still had the pleasures of the Green
Park at our disposal, our little household could attend the nearby Church of St. James, and the temptations of the Bond Street emporiums were no farther from our doorstep than they had been at 23 Piccadilly. I browsed for books at Hookham’s, patronized Mr. Atkinson for my perfumes, cosmetics, and creams, and placed my trust in the sage apothecary at Paytherus and Company.
By this time, Charlotte Nelson, the reverend’s daughter, had already been living with us for several months. She was fifteen when she came down from Norfolk because I thought she should be introduced to a more sophisticated life than she had been accustomed to. After all, she was the niece of the nation’s greatest hero, and many young men would be eager to make her acquaintance. It was my office to keep the cads at bay. Though our backgrounds could not have been more different, there was a protective and maternal streak in me that did not want her to end up as her “Aunt Emma” had done at the same age. And, looking back on those years, I suppose I missed having a daughter then. I had brought two into this world, yet could publicly acknowledge neither of them. Having a young girl to fashion into a proper young lady delighted me no end. Though I could scarce afford to look after Mam and me on our meager income, it gave me great pleasure to outfit Charlotte for dances and dinners and squire her about to museums, the opera, and the theatre.
The Treaty of Amiens, which the French had been treating as a grand joke since November of 1802, had completely crumbled, and Boney was now as big a threat as ever. On May 6, my lover received his orders to prepare to return to duty. Nelson was anxious that Horatia be christened, and wanted to be assured that his daughter would receive the sacrament before he departed. Unfortunately, it was too risky for either of us to stand up for her in the church, even in our guise as godparents. By now, Horatia was two and a half years old, and despite her puppy fat, the facial resemblance to her father was palpable.
Mrs. Gibson brought Horatia to St. Marylebone Church, the very place where Sir William and I had exchanged our wedding vows. I recalled then that the sanctuary was too small for a permanent baptismal font. At Nelson’s instructions, I impressed upon Mrs. Gibson the vital importance that no parents’ names be inscribed on the baptismal certificate, and in fact, the baptism itself was to be struck from the church record. A double fee was provided for the rendering of this favor, but Mrs. Gibson entirely misunderstood us and thought the double fee was for the purchase of a copy of the baptismal certificate. Thus, the St. Marylebone records list one Horatia Nelson Thompson, born October 29, 1800, baptized May 13, 1803. No parents’ names are enumerated on the certificate, though it does list Lady Emma Hamilton and Lord Horatio Nelson as godparents.
Three days later, Nelson reported to Portsmouth, where he was made commander-in-chief of the Mediterranean fleet. On the eighteenth of May, England declared war on France.
In the past year, John Bull had all but forgotten his animosity toward Lord Horatio Nelson Bronte, Viscount of the Nile and Burnham Thorpe. Such a cheering throng gathered to see him off at Portsmouth that in order to preserve his person from being torn to pieces, he was drawn out to the longboat in a bathing machine. I had their huzzahs; now I have their hearts, he wrote to me.
Naturally, I never wanted to let him go, and if there was ever a man torn between desire and duty, it was Nelson. He was my sun and my moon. And to him I was more than his beloved. I was Britannia. He set off aboard the Victory on May 20, writing to me that very day:You will believe that although I am glad to leave that horrid place Portsmouth, yet the being afloat makes me now feel that we do not tread the same element. . . . Be assured that I am thinking of you every moment. My heart is full to bursting. Believe me, my dear Emma, although the call of honour separates us, yet my heart is so entirely yours and with you that I cannot be faint hearted, carrying none with me.
Every time I received a letter from him, I would place a rose in my hair, for it was truly a gala day. It always made me feel like we were a bit closer when I wrote to him of every little thing: of my trips to Norfolk to visit his family, of chaperoning his niece Charlotte, of the progress of our dear Horatia. Though I cried myself to sleep every night, I tried to keep my missives full of light and love. And Nelson seemed so happy to receive every scribbled word, assuring me of his complete and unswerving devotion and his desire to marry me. Nothing in the world could have made me happier, for I suspected that I was once again with child, the delightful outcome of our parting evening. More than anything I wanted to retire to Merton with him and our cozy little family. How I longed to sign my letters Emma Nelson! I used to practice on sheets of foolscap and then burn my romantic efforts so the servants should never see them.
Of paramount concern to Nelson was the placement of netting, about three feet high, around the “Nile” at Merton, to prevent Horatia from falling into the water. More than once he reminded me whom to speak with about it, for they had told him where such a commodity might be purchased, adding, I shall be very anxious until I know this is done. In one letter, he told me of his plans to settle four thousand pounds on Horatia—through a trustee—For I will not put it in my own power to have her left destitute; for she would want friends if we left her in this world. She shall be independent of any smile or frown!
Though he was kept prodigiously busy by the exigencies of his commission, Nelson always had time to write to me. I had told him that we were once again going to be parents, and on August 23, 1803, he composed a passionate and somewhat agonized reply:My Dearest Beloved, To say that I think of you by day, night, and all day, and all night, but too faintly expresses my feelings of love and affection towards you. The call of our country is a duty which you would deservedly in the cool moments of reflection, reprobate, was I to abandon: and I should feel so disgraced by seeing you ashamed of me! No longer saying, “This is the man who has saved his country! This is he who is the first to go forth to fight our battles, and the last to return!”
“Ah,” they will think. “What a man! What sacrifices has he not made to secure our homes and property; even the society and happy union with the finest and most accomplished woman in the world.” I shall, my best beloved, return—if it pleases God—a victor; and it shall be my study to transmit an unsullied name. There is no desire of wealth, no ambition that could keep me from all my soul holds dear. No; it is to save my country, my wife in the eye of God. . . . Only think of our happy meeting. Ever, for ever, I am your’s, only your’s, even beyond this world. . . . For ever, for ever, your own Nelson.
Forty-one
This Time We’re Not So Lucky
My body was not taking as comfortably to this pregnancy as it had done when I was carrying Horatia, and I was having a far rougher go of it than I did when I was a mere girl myself, with little Emma in my belly. This time, I was gaining a tremendous amount of weight, my stomach was always agitated, and my legs felt like they was cast in lead. Halfway through my time it was becoming an effort just to bend down to scoop up my lapdog. The caricaturists were having a grand old time at my expense.
Missing him something dreadful, I wrote to Nelson suggesting that I might (with young Charlotte accompanying me as a sort of ward) journey down to the Mediterranean and join him on the ship. He scotched the idea immediately. My health, his health, and the general impracticability and unsuitability of the whole arrangement, all were reasons he enumerated for my staying put, not the least of which was our unpopularity: As for living in Italy, it is entirely out of the question. Nobody cares for us here.
Worrying for Nelson’s ailments put my mind off my own. My poor love complained of toothache and headache, eyeache, writing, My sight is getting very bad, but I must not be sick till after the French fleet is taken, and heartache—both literal and figurative. The lingering odor from the fresh coat of paint that his flagship Victory had received before her departure was making him ill as well . . . and he mentioned to me that he had more than once been seasick.
“What’s all the Peruvian bark for if you won’t avail yourself of it?” I lightly scolded, endeav
oring to conceal the depths of my anxieties.
Toward the end of 1803, I took to my bed with a cold and a cough. It was more than a month before my time, but in truth, I felt too unwell to maintain my energetic entertaining. I lacked enthusiasm for just about everything and wanted to see no one but Mam.
On January 20, 1804, my babe arrived prematurely. The pain was excruciating; I bit down on cotton towels that my shrieks should not shake the house to its rafters and affright the servants.
“It’s another girl,” Mam whispered. I was almost too spent to take her in my arms. She was too small; I could see that. “Please heaven, let her live,” I mumbled before I fell into a deep sleep with the tiny mite on my chest.
Where I had been up and about within a day of Horatia’s birth, I could barely stir after bringing Nelson’s second daughter into the world. If it’s a girl, she must be Emma, he had written ecstatically when he first learnt of my pregnancy, for what else could she be, after our first pledge of love was called Horatia? I had still never told him about the first “little Emma,” nor could I ever do so now. The newborn Emma was to be left with Mrs. Gibson, but this time, the foster mother had to be let in on the secret. There was no credulity in my appearing on the woman’s doorstep for the second time in three years with another foundling in my arms. I was to inform her that Lord Nelson would certainly settle a small pension on her, providing she never broke her silence. Even Horatia should be kept from the knowledge that the new arrival was her sister.