by Karen Essex
In the carriage ride on the way to Broomhall, Elgin announced his plans. King George himself had suggested that Elgin apply for the position of ambassador to Constantinople, and it seemed that Elgin had received the appointment. Mary did not know how to react. Had Elgin been courting her for his own amusement, only to abandon her, leaving her embarrassed and disappointed when he went off to his new post? Elgin quickly allayed her fears.
“I intend to speak with your father, Mary, but I wish to know in advance whether you would be willing to leave the comforts of family and home to accompany me to the East.”
He would not allow her to answer until he had elaborated on the importance of the post. Napoleon’s ambitions were no secret. He intended to wrest India from the British, and to seize and control all trade routes to the East—the lifeblood of the English economy—and dismantle the Ottoman Empire, thus capturing a significant portion of the globe’s resources in the name of France. The English economy would be in shambles, and the Crown would no longer be able to guarantee the safety and welfare of its people.
“The English must have an alliance with the Turkish sultan to rid the world of the Napoleonic menace,” Elgin said. “It is my patriotic duty to do my small part in preserving the nation’s security. I cannot envision any woman by my side in this historic endeavor but you, Mary Nisbet.”
“But sir, it is so very far to go for a Scottish girl who loves her family.”
She adored him, it was true. And she had craved romantic adventure since she was a young girl. Here was this glorious man offering it to her, replete with a proposal of marriage. Still, having to make a home for her husband, herself, and possibly their children in the Ottoman realm did seem a rather extreme road to take in life.
Elgin let Mary have her private thoughts. When they arrived at Broomhall, he helped her from the carriage, not speaking until they had walked through the grand entrance. As he guided her through the wide corridors of the mansion, he spoke confidently of their future, and of the brood of healthy, chubby children that would thrive in this home, with Mary and himself to guide them, and with their adoring grandparents nearby. All of these dreams would become reality as soon as he completed his foreign service.
“Mr. Harrison, my architect, has given me a passion for a secondary mission in the East, Mary, one that I believe is crucial to our country’s future. The Ottomans occupy Greece, of course. Athens, that glorious beacon of democracy, the city of Pericles, is under the rule of the Sultan and governed by those who report to him. With the Sultan’s permission, and with a team of scholars, artists, and craftsmen, I will be able to have first-rate casts made of Greece’s most spectacular architectural ruins. Think of it, Mary. Every element of design, from the superb columns, cornices, and pediments of the temples to the great statues of the gods, and even ordinary household goods, can be copied in molds and drawings and brought back to England for our artists, architects, and craftsmen to study and to emulate. My embassy shall be known throughout history for its benefits to the Fine Arts in Great Britain. You and I together shall be responsible for elevating the taste of the nation.”
Elgin’s eyes were vibrant as he revealed his ambitions to his prospective bride. Here was the man whose romantic notions seemed to exceed her own. Hers were girlish and selfish, she knew, whereas his were designed less to bring joy to himself than to change the very world in which they lived. Elgin was striving to improve an important aspect of the British national character, infusing its already superior nature with a heightened appreciation of the highest level of art achieved thus far by man.
Yet it was almost impossible to think of leaving her family and all that was familiar and living in Constantinople. Mary was an only child, and her parents would be inconsolable at the loss. Her beloved grandmother was quite aged and might die while she was away. And to have children in such a strange land, known for its arcane medical practices and its uncontrollable smallpox outbreaks, seemed an adventure that even she was not prepared to undertake. She voiced these concerns to Elgin, who listened carefully, taking the liberty of stroking her gloved hand with great concern as she spoke.
“We shall take the most esteemed physician in England with us in the event that you require his care,” he answered. “I would never put you in danger, Mary.”
He must have seen from her expression that she still harbored doubts, because he took a deep breath and continued: “When I was in Paris, I made the acquaintance of the American Benjamin Franklin. He was on a diplomatic mission for his country and he was a great inspiration to me, a young man aspiring to a career in diplomacy. His keenest interest, however, was the study of electricity. He contrived a device called the lightning bell, which chimes whenever lightning is in the air. He demonstrated this for me, and I believed the invention quite magical at the time. But he explained to me that lightning is naught but electrical current, that invisible and mysterious thing that is a conductor of energy.”
Mary waited patiently while Elgin explained his interest, but she could not imagine what the element of lightning had to do with their future.
“When I am near you, Mary Nisbet, I feel as if there is lightning in the air. I feel a bell chime inside me, as if I am more alive than I was before you entered my experience. I feel the sort of current Mr. Franklin described make its way up and down my spine whenever we are close. You cause my heart to pound, Mary. I do not believe the days of my life shall be tolerable if you do not marry me.”
He took her hand and put it directly over his heart so that she could feel its rhythm, which was rapid and strong. She squeezed his hand and said that he should speak to Mr. Nisbet as soon as possible, before her good Scottish sense overtook her passion for him.
But Mr. Nisbet proved to be unimpressed by Elgin’s proposal, his ambitions, and his prospects. “He is in debt up to his brows fancifying that estate of his,” Mr. Nisbet said, his tone threatening to crush Mary’s hopes. “I do not care to think of my daughter’s dowry going to pay a man’s debts on an extravagance that is beyond his means. Elgin is just like his father, an impractical man with grand ideas and no head for business.”
Indeed, it was well known that the late earl, after borrowing heavily to finance an ill-fated quarry business, had died leaving his wife and six children with little more than a celebrated lineage.
“Father, you are overlooking every one of Lord Elgin’s most excellent qualities and focusing on the singular aspect not in his favor. Do you forget that it was King George who suggested that His Lordship apply as ambassador to the Porte? What might a man so regarded by the king not achieve? His mother, Lady Elgin, is beloved of the king and queen, and governess to little Princess Charlotte. He is titled. He is a favorite of His Majesty and Mr. Pitt. His ancestry traces directly to William the Bruce. How much more illustrious need a man be to be my husband?”
“He needn’t be illustrious, Mary, but he should at least be solvent. Why is he throwing all of his money—no, the money given by lenders—away on turning out an estate fit for a king when he himself has no money?”
“Will Broomhall not be my home too? And the home of my children, and your grandchildren? Why must we consider his income at all? Is my father not one of the wealthiest men in Scotland, and am I, a brotherless child, not his only heir? The income from our lands exceeds eighteen thousand pounds a year. Why, that is three times the annual amount Elgin tells me has been allotted by the government for his embassy. Given the ways in which we are blessed, and the seriousness and excellence of the man who is asking for my hand, and the feelings I have developed for him in recent weeks, why should money be a consideration at all? What is money in the face of love? I would have thought that my happiness meant more to you than mere money. We Nisbets will never be without money, but oh how easy it would be to spend a lifetime without ever finding the kind of love—yes, love—that I have begun to feel for Lord Elgin.”
“Such a gift for speech-making, Mary,” her father replied. “Pity there are no lady amba
ssadors.” Then he adjourned to his study. Within a fortnight, however, and with her mother on her side, Mary easily won the day. Mr. Nisbet, ever the dutiful father and skeptical Scot, arranged to give the newlyweds a bond, the interest of which Elgin was free to spend as he liked. But Elgin could not touch the principal of Mary’s fortune without Mr. Nisbet’s permission. “A little insurance against his habits,” Mary’s father explained to her, and to Elgin privately, which mortified the bride.
A modest wedding was hastily prepared so that the bride and groom might take up residence in London, where Elgin would hire a staff to accompany him to Constantinople. Mary spent the weeks before the wedding in a fusion of anxiety and ecstasy over the enormous changes her life was soon to undergo. She felt both her happiness and her nervousness grow, finally reaching a crescendo as she stood before the altar. But during the wedding ceremony, her head started to spin and she fainted. Neither Elgin nor any of the attendants could reach her in time to prevent her from hitting the floor. As she regained consciousness, she wondered if she was having another of her premonitions. She feigned unconsciousness a moment longer so that she might have time to think. Was her spell some kind of warning? Should she reconsider this marriage, with its drastic move to a foreign land? But Elgin’s deep voice, filled with concern, calling for a physician, and insisting that they must not continue until Mary had been examined by a doctor, dispelled her fears. Of course she would marry this man, who sounded as if his own life would end if any harm came to his bride. Besides, did she not experience portents of good events as well as evil? This was indeed a premonition, she told herself, but one of the exciting, love-drenched life she was to lead as the wife of her beloved. She heard her mother whispering about “a young girl’s nerves on the brink of this great event,” and Elgin saying that they must make certain that the cause was not something grave. Mary sat up and smiled, dismissing their fears. Nothing would stop her from marrying Elgin, who on his wedding day cut a gorgeous figure in his dress coat—a figure commensurate with his titles and aspirations. She stood slowly as her mother rushed forward to straighten her gown and veil. Bishop Sandford looked her dead in the eye, asking if there was anything she might have to confide in him. But she shook off her dizziness, stood upright, and became who she’d been destined to become: Mary Hamilton Nisbet Bruce, Countess of Elgin. No daughter of an untitled Scottish landowner, no matter how wealthy, could have made a better match for herself.
BY DINNERTIME ON THE Phaeton, following an afternoon of riding the endless lolling waves of the unsettled sea, Mary’s ailments and miseries reclaimed residence in her body. She sat down with Captain Morris, Lord Elgin, and his still-morose staff to the nightly meal of salt beef, sauerkraut, peas, dried anchovies, and hard biscuits. The strong smell of the ship’s timbers, swollen with salt water and mildew, hid any scent of the food. She could not judge whether this was good or bad because her appetite was low, as was the quality of the food before her, along with her energy on this rainy evening. She had spent her entire twenty-one years accustomed to boundless vigor, but now, after another entire day of the “morning” sickness, she was so listless that it was difficult for her to cut her meat. The old fork with its flattened prongs was a perfect match for the dull knife. She would have liked to ask her husband to help her but did not wish to appear like a baby in front of the others. Elgin had fed her once before—honey-coated strawberries and sweet bits of melon—but that had been in the privacy of their bedroom at home. She felt a stir in her body just from the memory of it. After he had put a few bites of fruit into her mouth, he sliced a berry in half, placing a piece upon each of her nipples, and eating them slowly away, licking the “plate” clean, as if devouring her very flesh. That would not do at this moment, of course, but it was nice to think about, even if it made her blush inexplicably. For one brief moment, a little thrill supplanted the nausea. Recalling those moments of ecstasy, Mary looked at her husband, but she saw no evidence of the lover he had been on that morning just two months ago.
He sat in perturbed silence, methodically sawing his meat with his knife, bringing the pieces stiffly to his mouth, and washing each mouthful down with a generous swig of wine—not the swill Elgin had feared would be aboard, but one of the fine selections from his own cellar. His staff, too, was silent. Mary thought that the sound of their jaws working the food, combined with the clink and clank of silverware, would drive her mad. She supposed that the men had the right to remain upset after Elgin’s announcement that afternoon, but what good was it doing them or anyone else to remain in a sour mood?
She took stock of the sullen collection of men seated at the table. Despite her delicate and irksome physical condition, she speculated that it was her job to elevate the level of cheer, save the evening, and repair her husband’s relations with his staff. Otherwise it would be not only a long evening, but a long two years in a foreign land. It was important to start off on the right footing with these men. Elgin was staking his reputation on the success of his mission, and after all, Elgin’s success was now also linked to the happiness and welfare of herself and their yet-to-be-born children.
A guid word is as easy sayed as an ill ane. Mary’s old nanny used to say it, and Mary had always believed it. She was one to bring up the spirits of her companions, not one to be brought down by them. She had inherited a combination of the Scottish pragmatism of her father and the English resolve of her mother. She was keen on the idea that a strong mind, enforced with a strong will, could overcome any difficulty. One could utterly control one’s moods and feelings, even one in her miserable condition, living under the dreadful circumstances of this voyage. She also believed that if one were clever enough, beautiful enough, and woman enough, one should be able to control the moods and feelings of men.
“I see that we have all survived the afternoon’s storms in our cozy quarters and are no worse for the wear,” she said cheerfully, not knowing what she was about to unleash. Reverend Hunt, when he was not reading Greek or writing dull sermons, demonstrated his scholastic abilities in another way—by measuring and cataloguing any and all spaces that he inhabited. He decided to break the silence of the meal by sharing his recent discoveries.
“Given the weather and the lack of privacy, which precludes the sort of serious study I would have preferred to engage in, I measured the space below, Lady Elgin,” he began. “The ship’s cabin is composed of six compartments. The compartment we staffers share measures exactly twelve feet in length by six feet in width by another six feet in height, barely the height of a man, the average of which I am certain is no less than five feet and nine inches, or perhaps eight.”
Mary looked to Elgin for a response. Normally the earl would have shivered with impatience during Hunt’s mathematical homilies, but this evening he stared ahead and continued to drink, perhaps grateful that his wife had initiated any conversation at all, thereby relieving him of the duty.
“You must be speaking of Englishmen, my dear Reverend,” Mary said. “Italians and Frenchmen are surely much smaller.”
“Indubitably true, madam,” Hunt replied politely. He was not to be deterred. “The space in question holds thirteen trunks—each with three locks—five beds coinciding with the five of us gentlemen who must sleep in them, three basins, three small nightstands, six hats, six great cloaks, five foul clothing bags, two pewter bottles, two umbrellas, cabin boys in and out preparing one’s shaving necessities, and one ladder, tied to the wall with four knots, rendering it potentially useless in any emergency.”
“A miracle of physical science that it all fits,” said Morier.
“Indeed. But that would be admitting that it, and we, do fit, Mr. Morier.”
“We tried to arrange for you to travel on Cleopatra’s barge, Reverend, but it was confiscated by Napoleon in Egypt and unavailable,” Mary said lightly, hoping to ignite any sense of humor the preacher might have. But he did not indulge her, though Morier and Hamilton did chuckle.
“The quarters are crowded
because the deck must be kept clear in the event of attack,” Captain Morris said, defending the conditions on his ship. Mary thought he must be weary of hearing the men complain about their quarters. “Isn’t that correct, Lord Elgin?”
Elgin responded with a tilt of one eyebrow. It seemed that no one would be able to lure her husband into conversation this evening. Why was he still sulking? Mary wondered. The staff was not happy, but no one had shown signs of mutiny.
“The smallness is made even smaller when shared with the odors of chamber pots and filthy clothing,” Morier said.
“That is why ladies carry perfumed handkerchiefs, Mr. Morier,” Mary said, cajoling him. Morier was one year older than she, but she had no problem talking to him as if he were a boy. “I do wish gentlemen would try the remedy. They would find it ever so useful.”
Elgin’s eyes—narrow slits all during the meal—were now wide and glimmering with the wine he had been steadily ingesting. “Very amusing,” he said to his wife, but without any conviction.
“What is a dinner without amiable conversation?” Mary continued. “We are all sharing the same cramped quarters. Let us be comrades-in-arms in the woes.”
“Here, here,” said Dr. MacLean, raising his glass, happy to have another excuse to keep drinking. The physician was joining them in a rare appearance. When he was not tending to Mary’s needs, he spent all of his time in his compartment with a bottle of whiskey. Mary raised her glass and the others followed begrudgingly. Soon, however, they were lost in convivial talk, speculating on what lay ahead in Constantinople—the gorgeousness of the Golden Horn, the magnificent Hagia Sophia built by Emperor Justinian I, and the mysteries of the Sultan’s seraglio, with its veiled beauties and multiple wives.
Mary seized the opportunity to build on the fellowship. After dinner, she insisted that Captain Morris play his harmonica. With the men clapping in time with the music, Mary sang old Scottish folk songs, none of which they knew. She invited the two young lady’s maids she had brought as her personal attendants to accompany her in song. Their high, unsure voices became steadier as they sang the second and third tunes, harmonizing nicely with Mary, who had been developing her singing voice since she was a child. No one wanted the evening’s entertainment to end, except Elgin, who had sat quietly as if no one else were in the room as he drank his brandy. He did smile from time to time, which made Mary think that he was enjoying the entertainment as much as his staff was but may have thought it unsuitable for an ambassador to join in the fun. By the time he was on his third glass of brandy, Mary noticed that her husband was no longer either distracted or amused, but was watching the men watch her. She could not read the expression on his face, but it was one that she had not yet been acquainted with. Finally, Elgin stood up in the middle of a song and announced that the evening must come to an end. Whether the men were genuinely touched by Lady Elgin’s desire to make them happy, or whether they did not wish to return to their horrid sleeping quarters, Mary did not know, but it was past midnight when Elgin spoke up, and his words were greeted with some protestation.
