Tested by Fate (12 page)

“You must leave it to me, my dear, for it is a matter with which I know how to deal. And you must disrobe so that I gaze upon that which the King will see only in his imaginings.”

Emma obliged, as Sir William reached for his book, still open at the page. Then, intermittently raising his eyes to look at her naked body, he began to read aloud the de Sade story of the debauching of the young Justine.

S
IR
W
ILLIAM
H
AMILTON
was no booby, even if that was a face he often sought to present to the world. He knew that Emma and his nephew still exchanged letters, suspected that, vitriolic to begin with, they had probably settled down to mere correspondence. While he had never known the depth of Emma’s written spat with his nephew, he could certainly guess at some of the contents: if Greville kept insisting that matrimony with Emma would be a disaster, then that had been a subject raised in their letters. That she never
mentioned
such a desire did not in any way diminish the notion that it was an estate she sought, either for the sake of permanence or to spite her ex-lover.

He had pondered on it often, weighing the pros and cons, aware that he would need royal assent from his own sovereign, let alone the nod from the Court of the Two Sicilies. Resignation would remove that requirement, but that was something he was loath to contemplate, even if his duties fatigued him. He loved Naples, the foothills of Vesuvius, and the diggings that such a natural monster had provided.

There was also his desire to do the right thing. Though he felt fit and well, he could not ignore the difference in their age. Unless Providence dealt Emma a cruel blow, she would outlive him by many years, and without the protection of
his name might descend into the hellish pit of poverty. Having already assigned his estates to Charles Greville he had little else to bequeath her. Yet much as he pondered on this, he always shied away from conclusion, reasoning that another day, another week, or another month would make
little
difference. Ferdinand’s behaviour altered that, forced him to concentrate, and also presented a solution to a man who had a brain.

“The matter is delicate, Your Majesty, since it concerns your husband, the King.”

If ever any person lacked a majestic quality in the physical
dimension
, it was Queen Maria Carolina. She was a small, plump woman, inclined to wear drab costumes. Her face was plain and her eyes dull. She seemed permanently weary, hardly surprising since she had been brought to bed with child seventeen times since her marriage to Ferdinand. Other cares assailed her, as the true ruler of the
kingdom
, the day-to-day running of which would tax ten men. Events in France bore down on her, as they did on her brother, the Austrian Emperor.

“It is ’ard, Chevalier ’Amilton, to put together those two words, ‘husband’ and ‘delicate.’”

“I think you know how much I esteem His Majesty.”

She nodded at the diplomatic remark, aware that the Chevalier liked her husband, going well beyond that required of him in the matter of time spent in the King’s company. He was unfailingly polite to her, as well, though she wished she could see the true face he must present when out hunting, for rumour had it that Sir William was a committed killer of game.

“I must pass this to you.”

Maria Carolina took Emma’s sketchpad, already open, and read it, not once, but twice. Sir William Hamilton watched her face,
noting
the slight movements: a diminution of the cheeks, the thinning of the lips, the way the heavy eyebrows stretched a fraction. He knew she wouldn’t be shocked: Maria Carolina and her husband were a tolerant pair. It was rumoured she had an attachment to General John Acton, though since he was said to be a pederast, too, that was open to question.

“This was written about Miss ’Art?”

“It was.”

“You do not approve?”

Sir William executed the tiniest of bows. “It hardly falls to me, when dealing with a king, to entertain such a notion as approval.”

The Queen smiled: Sir William had found a neat way of
deflecting
her question while providing an answer. “Poor Emma.”

“Indeed. It gives me no pleasure to admit that it is not an attachment she favours.”

“It is not one I favour, Chevalier ’Amilton. I allow his bestial attentions because it is my duty to do so.”

Sir William wisely chose to ignore that outburst,
uncharacteristic
in a woman who normally kept the unpleasant side of her marriage to herself.

“I have the problem of her very public attachment to me. I love His Majesty, and would under most circumstances seek to oblige him. But no gentleman could consent to another cuckolding him with his mistress. Aside from that, I’m aware of the passions to which His Majesty is prone, therefore I’ve come to the only person who could intercede without causing offence.”

“The best method I ’ave found is to distract him.”

Sir William Hamilton had encountered some such distractions and been subject to the odd pang of jealousy. Maria Carolina, or the agent she employed on her behalf, had an unsurpassed eye for beauty, of which there was no shortage in the area of Naples. Young peasant girls, with clear olive skin and figures just on the wrong side of being wholly formed, were the Queen’s only method of
contraception
, the only way she could get enough peace to recover from her endless
accouchements
.
Ferdinand was happy with a young and
luscious
bedmate while the girl chosen was happy with a financial reward that gave her the price of a good husband.

It is often the case, in conversation, that the import of a remark only dawns on the recipient after several more exchanges have passed. As Sir William and the Queen discussed how to deflect her husband, he could almost see on that square, unattractive face the notion, the seed of which he had planted, form in her mind.

“You said, Chevalier ’Amilton, that no man could consent to ’anding over possession of his mistress.”

“I would find that impossible.”

“We both know other men who would not.”

“With respect, Your Majesty, I am not other men.”

Maria Carolina gave a wry smile. “It would be curious to know how you would react if my dear companion Emma was your wife.”

“A man and his wife are different, Your Majesty. Having formed a bond and had it sanctified by holy matrimony, each party enjoys the right to seek pleasure, within the bounds of discretion, where they may.”

She was nodding slowly, since her visitor was only stating the obvious. Marriages in the upper layers of society were rarely made for love, but for financial or dynastic reasons. It was not unknown for a woman to leave the bed of her lover, attend church for her nuptials, see out the celebrations and return to her lover,
presuming
that her new spouse was doing the same.

There was genuine admiration for Maria Carolina, and not only from Sir William Hamilton. The diplomatic community praised her for her sagacity, were at one in naming her the true daughter of the formidable Empress Maria Theresa of Austria. Unlike her sister the Queen of France, Marie Antoinette, who was held to be frivolous, Maria Carolina had a brain, good deductive powers and the ability to take advice. It was such a pity, the same diplomats concluded, that she had to exercise her gifts on such a poor patrimony, and on such a husband.

“You are saying that, were Miss ’Art your wife, His Majesty’s attentions would not offend you?”

“Let us say that I would leave it to my wedded wife to make up her own mind as to whether they offended her.”

“But you take leave to doubt such a suit would be pressed to the wife of the British Ambassador?”

“Knowing the King as I do, and cognisant of the source from which he receives his advice, I am sure he would see that if such attentions were unwelcome, the interest of the State would ensure that they be discontinued.”

She put her fingers to her lips, hands almost in an attitude of
prayer, a slight smile hidden, just as were her thoughts. But it took no great powers of deduction to guess at their train.

“Would you wish to marry Miss ’Art?”

“The notion would not displease, Your Majesty, given the pleasure it would afford her. I believe you are aware of how attached I am to the lady.”

“I, too, am attached to ’er, Chevalier ’Amilton. She is a pres ence that brightens my day and my younger children adore ’er.”

“Might I say, Your Majesty, that she has, in private, nothing but praise for you, both as a companion and as a monarch.”

“It had always caused me much pain not to be able to receive ’er. It is bad that at a time when one often needs a friend to add colour to a dull occasion, a person like Miss ’Art is debarred from attendance.”

“Again I would tell you that it grieves her also, though she would bear that and much more to maintain her attachment to you.”

“Then marry ’er, Chevalier ’Amilton, and make two women happy.”

“Alas,” Sir William replied, throwing up his hands, “my position forbids it.”

“You require the consent of your king?”

“I do,” Sir William replied, his face bland at what was the crux of the problem.

Maria Carolina nodded slowly, engaging in a long pause, as if seeking a way out of an intractable problem—instead of
immediately
suggesting the solution that had occurred to her when she had sent the conversation in this direction.

“What would His Majesty King George say if you were able to tell him that a refusal to you would offend
the Two Sicilies?” That got a raised eyebrow. “What if you were to say to your sovereign that Miss ’Art is a friend to the Queen, a confidante she seeks to ’ave by ’er side as and when she chooses? What would the King of England say when ’e is told that my little princes cry to be told that the Emma they love cannot be with them?”

It took some effort to quell the beating of his heart. “I cannot answer for my master. But I know in my dealing with both kings and queens, that they can rarely be brought to refuse a request from a person of equal rank.”

“Chevalier ’Amilton,” she said, in grave voice, quite at odds with the beaming face, “I require you, for the sake of the peace of mind of the Queen of Naples, and for the cementing of good relations between the Court of St James and the Court of the Two Sicilies, to marry Miss ’Art.”

It took all Sir William Hamilton’s skill as a diplomat to keep the triumphant note out of his voice. “And the request to my
sovereign
?”

“The request to King George, Chevalier ’Amilton, that this should be so, will come from me. Might I suggest that it is one that you, in all duty, should deliver.”

The faint tinkling of the harpsichord, and Emma’s sweet voice
coming
through an open window, greeted Sir William on his return. He made for his own apartments first. There, with great care and the assistance of his valet, he repaired his toilet and changed his clothes. He donned a cerise watered-silk coat that he knew Emma was very fond of, ordered that some flowers be formed into a bunch and, once that was in his hand, made for Emma’s part of the palazzo.

Below stairs they were abuzz with curiosity at this unusual
behaviour
, and sensed that something was in the air. Mary Cadogan, with a firmness they had come to expect, made sure that not one of them tried to sneak upstairs. Whatever Sir William had in mind was to be carried out without disturbance.

Emma didn’t hear him enter, concentrating on playing the
harpsichord
part of a Haydn concerto. That allowed Sir William to examine her, which he had done a thousand times these last few years. Dressed for the climate in garments of light material, he could see her breasts moving as she swayed across the keyboard. Her hair moved too, its ends close enough to the sunlight coming through
the window to flash red at one second, then burnished gold the next.

Carefully, his silver-buckled shoes making no sound, he approached her back, admiring the way the tendons and bones flexed and moved as she played. Emma must have turned because she sensed him; he was sure she hadn’t heard. But turn she did, swiftly, gracefully, her green eyes lighting up with pleasure as she saw him.

“Sir William?”

“My dear Emma.”

“Flowers. Is there some occasion that I have missed?”

“No, my dear. But there is, I am happy to say, one that you may anticipate.”

The frown of curiosity on such a flawless complexion was
delicious
, creasing her forehead slightly, moving those full red lips together without ruining their shape. The frown deepened as Sir William went down on one knee and placed the posy he was
carrying
in her open hand. Then he took the other and lifted it to his lips, holding on to it when he had kissed her hand.

“My dear Emma. You have been companion to me now for near five years, and I am certain my life has been improved by the association. It is my fond hope that the same truth holds for you. With that in mind, and knowing that it is something you desire to come to pass, I have come here, and gone on to one knee in
time-honoured
fashion, in order to ask you to be my wife.”

The green eyes opened wide with shock. “Wife?”

“You would make me the happiest man on earth if you merely said yes.”

“Wife?”

“
C
HARLES
, I swear to you, Emma couldn’t say anything but ‘wife’ for several minutes. She kept repeating that one word.”

“How amusing,” said Charles Greville, though both his tone and the sour look on his pale serious face belied his words.

They were in a coach, heading back from Windsor. Sir William had used his right as a returning ambassador not only to report to his sovereign regarding his Neapolitan mission but to pass over the request from Maria Carolina that King George’s Minister Plenipotentiary regularise his position
vis-à-vis
her good friend and
confidante,
Emma Hart. Greville, returning from his family home in Warwickshire, had met him at the royal castle.

“She agreed to a wedding in the end?”

“Most assuredly.” Sir William could recall the scene now. Emma had flown around the room in a torrent of excitement, before
acceding
to his request that she help him back to his feet. Emma had obliged, showered him with kisses, rushed to tell her mother, embraced all the servants, who seemed just as ecstatic, then rushed back up the stairs to embrace him again.

There was pleasure here, too, in almost guying his nephew. Charles Greville should know he had nothing to fear in the matter of his inheritance, yet he was piqued by his uncle’s intentions. It was as though he still considered Emma his own; was annoyed that the man he had put in as a surrogate had usurped his prerogative. Now, for the first time in five years, he was on his way to meet her.

“The King was gracious?” Greville asked.

“My old foster-brother George has no knowledge of grace. He sees directness as a quality. It is a good thing that I represent him
abroad and not the other way round. We’d be forever at war.”

“Any hint of madness?”

“None, unless you count that damned habit he has of saying ‘what, what’ all the time. He was always a bit of an odd fish, even as a child.”

He had been a damned unhappy fish earlier, King George, searching for a way to refuse his ambassador permission to marry. Throughout a deeply uncomfortable interview Sir William had searched in vain for a sign of the child and young man he had known. Whatever his oddities, George had possessed a degree of humorous vulgarity. In the rollicking life they had led as young men he had always been to the fore when it came to causing mayhem. George loved women, married, single, betrothed; high-born,
lowborn
, and anywhere in between. He drank like a fish, sang loudly, badly and frequently, teased any watchman whose path he crossed, and flew in the face of authority. He had also, as a prince, set up house and fathered a bastard by a commoner.

Now he was Farmer George, father of the nation, model
husband
with a dog of a wife who had raised dullness to a performing art. He preached marital fidelity as if he had never bedded the wife of another man, bore down on his sons in the article of low-born mistresses for behaving exactly as he had himself, and had hummed and hawed to his old friend like the worst kind of pious hypocrite. Sir William, angry at the hypocrisy, had enjoyed his discomfort: the letter from Maria Carolina had made it impossible for him to refuse. He hadn’t quite squirmed, but it was a close run thing.

“Brown’s Hotel,” said Greville, indicating that they had arrived at the place where Sir William and his intended bride had taken rooms.

It was with an attitude of studied calm that Greville ascended the stairs to their suite. It would be a curious reunion, which Emma had known she would have to face, and which she had signally failed to mention on the journey from Naples. Opening the door, Sir William was surprised to see Mrs Cadogan. But that made sense:
Emma must be nervous that by some inadvertent act she would destroy a prospect of the happiness she had come to London to set in stone.

With that air of theatricality that never deserted her, she had taken station by the bow window. The light was nothing like as
flattering
as that of Naples: indeed, there was scarce any sun to speak of, even on this, a late-spring day. But what there was played across and flattered her features. Emma had dressed carefully too, in a dark blue dress that hinted at sobriety. Yet she had also taken care that it did not hide her magnificent figure, so that Charles Greville should be sure that the creature he had abandoned was even lovelier now.

Sir William had to admire her poise. The slow turn, the look towards him to receive a nod that told her of the King’s consent. Then an even slower smile, followed by an advance across the room, both hands outstretched. Emma was every inch the lady.

“Charles.”

“Emma,” he replied, bending to kiss one of those hands.

This was a moment of truth for Emma, the point at which she would know her feelings. Would there be that
frisson
running through her hand and her arm? She knew she was being watched by her future husband, knew that Charles, if only for the sake of his pride, would be looking for a response. She felt nothing, just the touch of dry flesh on her moist skin. The breath that she had held, in fear of finding the love she had once harboured for Greville still there, was released. Greville saw it and the disappointment was plain in his eyes.

“I arranged to meet Charles at Windsor, my dear,” said Sir William, “so that I could fetch him back to see you.”

A slight untruth. Greville had suggested meeting at Windsor, taking advantage of the interview to bring himself before royalty. His excuse was that gossip of the worst kind regarding Emma had flowed to the King’s ears from every malicious voice in London. If necessary he wanted to be on hand to refute it.

“Then I thank you for that, Sir William,” said Emma, voice slightly over-modulated to show Greville she was truly now a lady.
“Your nephew and I have much to catch up on. Letters can never do as much justice to events as conversation. Mother, would you oblige me by ordering for us some tea?”

Sir William was content. The prospect of this meeting had caused him some concern. He disliked the notion of committing himself to Emma without being sure that her previous regard for his nephew had cooled. His concentration, at that moment of contact, had been total: he had seen her response and it had pleased him. But more than that he had observed how stiff Greville had become, like a man rebuffed. He could now leave them alone with an easy mind. And the way she had said “your nephew” was like a deliberate blow aimed to wound Charles’s pride.

To take Emma out into society carried many risks, but they had to be borne. Some people, Sir William knew, would slight her without ever allowing themselves the chance to test defamation against
experience
. Others, ogres to his mind, would come to peer, but with a set view that would not alter whatever Emma did. Yet, even in stuffy London, so different from pleasure-loving Naples, there were those who would receive both the Chevalier and his intended bride and make them welcome.

Sir William Beckford, author of
Vathek
and a famous pederast with a reputation to put Emma’s to shame, accommodated them at Fonthill, eagerly discussing the plans for his new house to be built as a seal at the end of his ten-year self-imposed exile. Bath, home to the fashionable world in August, was split. Sir William’s old friend the Dowager Countess Spencer fled to Longleat to avoid a
meeting
; her daughter, Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, welcomed the pair with open arms.

Emma sat once more for old Romney, feeling different from the chattel who had been painted so many times before. Now she was there in her own right, as a future ambassadorial bride, posing for pictures that would not be sold off for her keep. It seemed that every artist in London wished to capture her likeness, though time allowed her to accede only to a youngster called Thomas Lawrence.
This came at the behest of his patron Lord Abercorn, Sir William’s cousin, who had agreed to stand witness for her, this in a family that was scandalised in the main by the match.

There were parties at the Richmond home of the Marquis of Queensberry, where Emma performed
opera
buffa
songs that enchanted all present, one fellow so much that he offered her two thousand pounds to appear in a pair of concerts. That was
something
to make an old friend laugh when they went to Drury Lane. Jane Powell, Emma’s fellow housemaid, was now a famous actress, ever grateful to that rat Gil Tooley, who had engineered her and Emma’s dismissal from the Budd household, for forcing her into the profession.

Mary Cadogan went north, first to Hawarden to see her mother and settle some money on the family, then to see Little Emma. She was able to report on her return that the child, now supported by Sir William, was well, that her education progressed at a goodly pace, and that she had no idea that the lady she was talking to was a relation. “Better to let her grow up in ignorance,” was the
grandmotherly
conclusion.

The temptation to send a note to Arlington Street, to Kathleen Kelly, was to be avoided. Besides, she was a woman with her ear to the ground. She would know that Emma Hart was back in London on the arm of a Knight of the Bath. Perhaps, on the day of the
wedding
at St Marylebone Church, she would be outside to see Emma.

The sun shone as if by command, giving a golden tinge to the stone of the church. Crowds had gathered to watch the nuptials, the usual mob drawn to any hint of scandal, but leavened with more than just the curious. Some members of society might not be able to bring themselves to attend, but they were determined to see a woman famous now, all over Europe, as a beauty.

There was gentle applause mixed with ribald good wishes for Sir William, dressed in cream silk, the sash and brilliant star of his knightly order very prominent. Strangers watched for infirmity, but saw only the sprightly gait of a fit and healthy man, and a face that could only be described as patrician. A hush fell as Emma’s carriage
approached, open-topped, with the bride in a pale green dress of fine silk, set off by a dark green sash around her waist, both designed to show her fair unblemished skin and highlight her huge green eyes. On her head she wore a high hat of the same colour as the sash, held in place by a silk scarf and topped by a huge curled feather, both of a hue to match the dress. Her rich auburn hair, so beloved of every man she had known, she wore loose and long, the whole ensemble bringing forth from the crowd a spontaneous ripple of acclaim.

From inside the small church they could hear the music and the singing, not a choir, nor a doleful church melody, but musicians hired by Sir William to lend an air of gaiety to the proceedings with light, quick airs from Austrian and Italian composers. She stepped down from the carriage on the arm of Lord Abercorn, and went into the dim interior of the porch.

Few had attended the ceremony, at Sir William’s request, and he stood at the end of the short aisle facing Emma, erect, looking proud as she walked slowly towards him, nodding to those present. Greville was facing her, his eyes searching her face, perhaps in the hope of seeing doubt. After a brief glance at him, Emma looked away and produced a dazzling smile aimed at his uncle.

Would Greville see it for what it was—performance? From her earliest days Emma had dreamed of marrying a prince. Sir William wasn’t that, but he had a palazzo, he lived in the grand manner and she rode in carriages as fine as any nobleman could muster, and all worshipped at her feet. But she had also dreamed of an
all-encompassing
love, a depth of passion so profound that her heart would burst at the thought of union. But as she reflected on the life she had led so tar, which was different from those childhood dreams, Emma knew that she was lucky. To ask for perfection at a moment like this seemed the height of selfishness.

Sir William bowed to her before turning to face the cleric, who stood ready to carry out the ceremony. As he spoke the words of the service she could hear the soft crying of her mother in the front pew. As a woman who had done much to engineer this moment
tears seemed an odd response. Did she wish for better too?

Her future husband’s skin felt as dry as parchment as he took her hand to put on the ring. She noticed a slight tremble as he aimed it at her outstretched finger and wondered what doubts he too harboured at this, the final moment, as he bent to kiss her hand.

“I now pronounce you man and wife.”

“Lady Hamilton,” said Sir William softly.

The musicians, silent throughout the ceremony, burst into a joyous
rondo
of harpsichord, violas, and French horns, and all
present
applauded as the couple turned to them. At Sir William’s bidding, he bowed and she curtsied, before they turned to enter the vestry, there to sign and solemnise their marriage. What doubts Emma had were now gone. Those words Sir William had used chased her demons away. She was now the lawful wedded wife of the
Ambassador
and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of the Two Sicilies.

She was Lady Hamilton.

Sir William, preparing to return to Naples, sent to tell King George of his intentions. That was, by custom, another occasion on which an ambassador was obliged to meet the monarch, also an occasion, if he was married, to present his wife at court. The reply came back from Windsor, couched in terms of no politeness whatsoever, that neither the King nor the Queen recognised Emma as his wife; that while he was welcome to attend and receive his instructions, on no account was he to be accompanied by her. Sir William had no choice but to go, but he used the occasion to tell the man with whom he had shared a nursery what he thought of such behaviour. Their meeting wasn’t private, as it should have been, but held publicly at the normal weekly levee.

“I depart at the end of the week, Your Majesty.”

“Time to be gone, what, what?” King George replied, with a knowing look aimed at those courtiers close enough to observe and hear the exchange. “I daresay you yearn for the warmer climate of Naples. They allow for things there that would not pass elsewhere.”