Tested by Fate

by David Donachie

Could Greville not see the joy she felt in wearing a fine dress, having her hair tended for a night of entertainment, and crossing the portal for pleasure not duty? This was the first time in an age that Greville had offered to take her out to somewhere fashionable.

  “Rumour has it,” Romney said, “that you were the belle amusement at last night’s rout.”

  “I greatly enjoyed myself, I admit,” she replied defiantly, wondering how he knew.

  “More than you have on previous visits?”

  “Who said I have visited the Ranelagh before?” Emma demanded.

  Her mother had told her she had a duty to deny her previous existence, even to those who must know it well. She was the semi-respectable Mrs Hart now, not the wild, promiscuous person of her former incarnation.

  The old man grinned, laid aside his pad and ran a hand though his spiky grey hair. “The two different faces of the gardens have always fascinated me, Emma—the decorum of the early evening contrasted with the riot of the later night. It seems that two different worlds occupy the same space. Reynolds captures the first, Hogarth the second.”

  “With some men in both,” Emma replied firmly. Having been lectured by Greville she was in no mood to take the same from Romney.

  But it was true what he said, just as it was true that she had misread the place, never having been there at what Romney called the Reynolds time. Then the prostitutes who plied for trade were still outside the gates. The gardens in the early evening were patronised by respectable London, who admired the carefully arranged plants, listened to good music and short, amusing dramas. They were not a scene of riot, with couples cavorting in the bushes, lewd songs, and risque plays, all aided by the consumption of vast amounts of wine.

  “All I did was stand to sing,” she insisted.

  “With a much admired voice, I’m sure.” Emma blushed and dropped her head. “Take the compliment, my dear. You do have a sweet voice and the lessons Greville arranged for you have made it sweeter yet.”

  “If I’d seen his face I would have stopped.”

  He might have been scandalised, but others weren’t. Compliments and drinks arrived before her in equal measure and she knew she had become drunk on both, the depth of her inebriation only serving to deepen her lover’s disgust. She had seen that go skywards when she had got up, acceding to a request to dance. He demanded that they leave and the atmosphere on the way home had been icy. Once inside his own house Greville blew up like the volcanoes he was fond of describing.

  Her mother, roused by the clamour, had advised Emma to apologise, grovel a bit if necessary to appease the man who kept them. Emma had taken a great deal of persuading, especially when Mary Cadogan had insisted she change into a drab grey dress to indicate penitence. It had been in vain. Her lover had even refused to share her bed, retiring to his study for the night, and in the morning, still under the burden of his anger, he had delivered, her to this studio.

  “I begged him to forgive me, even changed out of my finery to do so. You should have seen me, Romney, in that drab outfit, on my knees weeping in despair.”

  “Show me the pose you adopted.”

  Emma sank to her knees, her hands joined in supplication. The old man gazed on her shaking his head. “Too biblical for my taste. I prefer the Greeks, though it would be a charming notion to paint you in a more modern pose.”

  “But would that sell?” she asked sarcastically.

  “An artist does not always toil for money.”

  Their shared look was proof enough that such a sentiment did not apply to Greville. “The mood you saw him in this morning was evidence that I am still not forgiven,” she said.

  “You shall be, Emma, never fear.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  The large brown eyes, normally so expressive, took on a certain blandness. The truth was that she was a beautiful bargain, a woman who might have commanded a much more puissant lover if she had so decided, might have moved in the grandest circles with a little education. There was a touch of love in Romney, old as he was, for the best model he had ever had. Greville kept her out of sight as much for fear of loss as he did to save coin. He had seethed with anger when the Prince of Wales had waxed lyrical on Emma’s beauty, since his admiration was bound to be followed by an attempt at seduction. What Greville could never accept was that while male attention flattered her, and she responded, Emma wasn’t interested.

  “Greville will forgive you because he is so very fond of you, Emma.”

  “Is he, Romney?” she whispered.

  “Most decidedly so. He values you so very highly.”

  Visitors to Romney’s studio were frequent, and people who might become clients took a chair to watch the artist at work. His ever-attentive son, who was also the person charged with encouraging commissions, served refreshments. Emma had witnessed much of this, and was normally unconcerned by others’ presence. But this day she was less than happy, given the pose she had been asked to adopt. It wasn’t Greville who bothered her, it was the person she suspected to be his uncle William, as she reprised her wide-eyed and unattractive pose.

  Greville had seen her in such a state of dé shabillé, wrapped in their shared bed sheets, but for a total stranger to see her so was a different matter, especially one whom he esteemed so much. As soon as Romney declared the session closed Emma dashed to a private room to repair her appearance, then emerged with her hair brushed, face clean, and properly dressed.

  “Allow me, Emma, to name my uncle William,” Greville said. “He is, as you know, His Majesty King George’s ambassador and minister plenipotentiary at the court of Naples.”

  “How you load me with honours, Charles.”

  “They are yours by right, sir. Or should I say Chevalier?”

  “But they are also much less impressive than they sound. Mere trifles, I would say, of some use in the Two Sicilies but of small account in a London full of grand titles.”

  Charles had been talking about his uncle for days, with an increasing excitement that was hard to fathom in one so naturally reserved, yet nothing in either voice now suggested the kind of blood tie that would hint at an emotional attachment. Certainly the uncle was a kindly looking soul, soft voiced with an ease of manner that came from having mixed from birth with the cream of society. Greville had told her more than once of his connections, of the fact that, as a child, he had been a playmate of King George.

  “I confess, my dear, to being quite startled when I entered. The face you presented to the world then was frightening in the extreme. Now I find myself gazing at untrammelled beauty.”

  Emma smiled sweetly but without sincerity, recognising in the voice the muted tone of dalliance with which, in the past, she had been so familiar. Compliments would come easily to Sir William Hamilton, as would the desire to seduce her should the chance present itself. His manner stayed in that vein on their return to Edgware Road, to a supper prepared for them by Emma’s mother, who was introduced and treated to as fine a piece of noblesse as Emma could remember. While they ate, Sir William and his nephew talked of family, politics, land, inheritances, and the older man’s recent widowhood.

  It was in the latter that he showed real emotion, his sadness at the loss of his late wife, who had been for many years an invalid. But, for all that, the conversation carried little resonance for Emma.

  Greville’s hint that she should retire and leave them to talk was made abruptly enough to stir her rebellious spirit, but only in her breast: she had enough sense with Uncle William in attendance to suppress comment. To answer back would have made her Ranelagh misdemeanours look tame. But at least the Ambassador knew his manners. When she rose he leapt to his feet and came to hold her hand.

  “Mrs Hart, I cannot say how much I have enjoyed the pleasure of your company.” The eyes that held hers were blue, steady, slightly watery, and benign. “I intend to presume upon my nephew’s good graces to see you again—that is, if the prospect of such does not repel you.”

 
“How could it, sir?” Emma replied, in a lilting voice of which her singing teacher would have approved heartily. “I revel in good company.”

  “Revel?”

  Sir William rolled the word around in his mouth, as if it was a sweetmeat he had never tasted. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Greville watching this exchange, a slight smile playing on his lips. When other men had tried the same, he had been furious.

  “My nephew tells me you like to sing.”

  “I do.”

  “Then may I be permitted to visit when you are in a mood to do so?”

  “Of course, Uncle,” Greville barked. “You must come and see Emma at any time of your choosing. I’m sure she will enrapture you.”

  “My dear Charles, she has done that already.”

  “Good night, sir,” Emma said, curtsying.

  Sir William kissed her hand and then she left. Greville’s words followed her, and as she closed the door, she pressed her ear to the panel.

  “I see that you approve of her.”

  “That is understatement, Charles. Were she not in your care I swear that, old as I am, I would set my cap in her direction. She is a rare creature, and her manners are of the highest.”

  “She’s decorous now, I grant you, sir. But you have no idea how many rough elements had to be polished to produce the diamond you now observe.”

  “Emerald, Charles! With such eyes she can be nothing less than that.”

  “Then it is, no doubt, with some reluctance, Uncle, that you must once more turn your mind to Wales.”

  After that first visit Sir William came often, accepting with pleasure the way that Emma called him uncle. He called her “the fair tea-maker of Edgware Row,” alluding without the least trace of restraint to his appreciation of her beauty. She returned his affection in full measure, happy to spend time with a man so congenial, who was not just urbane but could take and give a quip in equal measure. In that he showed up his nephew, who was wont to examine raillery aimed at him for an insult, and to include in his own attempted witticisms a degree of cruelty that robbed them of their humour.

  Uncle William was an easy man to be with, and the occasional gallantry did not seem amiss from a man who still had his good looks. It was rare for Greville to leave Emma alone with any man, but he seemed to have no fear of his relative. Though in his mid-fifties, the Ambassador looked younger, which, when she remarked upon it, he ascribed to his love of walking.

  “And you shall walk with me, Emma, should you and Charles come to Naples. I’ll take you to Pompeii and Herculaneum, and show you what beauty lies under the mountain of ash that Vesuvius spewed forth to cover them.”

  Seeing her confusion, he smiled. “These names mean nothing to you?”

  “No, Uncle William, they do not.”

  His patient explanation was similar to that undertaken by Greville when he had first made her acquaintance. He described the volcano and the destruction it had caused, spoke of how he and others initiated digs to extract objects of great beauty and antiquity that had been wholly preserved by the ash.

  “There’s a fine collection of such virtu, many of the pieces acquired by me, in the house of a friend. Should you desire it, I will take you to his gallery for a private viewing.”

  “I’d like that very much, Uncle, though if this volcano is still a danger, a visit to Naples is something I might not greet with the same joy.”

  “I would never say not to fear it, but it can be approached as easily as I approach you, my dear. And the effect is somewhat similar. I got so close to the summit one day that I singed the soles of my boots.”

  “Then for all you’re a clever fellow, Uncle William, you have a streak of foolishness.”

  Sir William was as good as his word: he took her not only to his friend’s gallery but to any place she chose to visit. He escorted her to the Pantheon in Oxford Street, where society gathered in the daylight hours to gossip, exchange pleasantries, and indulge in attempts at seduction. Sir William Hamilton commanded attention in his own right, but he clearly enjoyed the extra consideration he received with a beautiful woman on his arm. And Emma responded by behaving with becoming grace, commanded by Greville to be on her best behaviour, determined not to let down either him or the uncle they both admired.

  There was a changed feeling in the household with Hamilton a frequent visitor. He came for tea most days and supper many nights, either at Edgware Road or at the house of a friend, singing round the harpsichord, games of Blind Man’s Buff, and the like. Life was once more the charmed existence Emma had enjoyed on first arrival. The Chevalier, as Greville called him, made no secret of his admiration for Emma, but never once did he overstep the bounds of good taste.

  Occasionally, Greville would look at her with that hunger she knew so well, which never failed to produce a corresponding response in her breast. In the bedroom, he seemed restored, more relaxed, the Charles Greville she had known from her days at Uppark. He laughed more, his sallies lost their cruelty and Emma’s love for him deepened accordingly, while gratitude was boundless to Sir William, who had brought this transformation.

  There were worries, she knew, to do with Sir William’s estates and what would happen to them after his death, undercurrents of anxiety that still troubled Greville. He greeted his uncle’s suggestion that he and Emma visit Naples enthusiastically one day, with a frown the next. And Emma nursed her own hope to use this new household mood: she wished to advance the notion that her child, now three years old, should be brought to London. Greville wouldn’t hear of it, but Sir William, when she mentioned it privately, saw no objection, and undertook to broach the subject with his nephew at an appropriate moment.

  “Perhaps he will be more amenable when we are on our travels.”

  “Travels?” Emma asked.

  “You go to Chester, I believe?”

  Sir William saw the confusion on Emma’s face, and had the good grace to show embarrassment. “Charles has not told you?”

  “He hinted,” she lied, to recover her poise.

  “We go to Wales on Friday, my dear, to look over my estates, while you journey to see your relations in Chester, including your child. You will travel with us as far as Cheltenham. I suggest the timing for what you desire could not be more appropriate, you with the child, me nudging Charles to agree.”

  Emma was still confused, and her response showed it clearly. “How long are we to be away?”

  “A month.”

  The last time Emma had seen her daughter she had been in swaddling clothes. To gaze on her now, a child of three years, induced the most unwelcome sensations. The large eyes held her smile in place for a lot longer than she had intended, but there was no change in the little one’s expression when Emma spoke her name, nor when she held out her arms to enfold her.

  “Say a welcome to your mother, Little Emma,” encouraged Grandma Kidd. The old lady was now so bent that her head was almost at the same level as that of the suspicious child. But there was no doubting the deep affection in the look, even if it was from a face lined like tree bark. Her smile exposed that what few teeth she had had left were now gone. “She’s come all the way from London Town just to see you.”

  It required a gentle push to get Little Emma any closer and a tug from her mother to make enough contact to complete the hug. But the ice of greeting had been broken and the little girl, a lively child, soon began to chatter, first to her great grandmother, then slowly including this stranger called mother. Emma found the transition harder than her daughter, and constantly referred to her grandmother for clarification of the child’s unformed speech.

  “You’ll get used to it, girl. She’s a rare one when it comes to tattle, bit like you was when you were a bairn.”

  That induced a rare silence in Emma. Grandma Kidd was one of the few people who could mention her past and evoke unpleasant thoughts. Her life had not turned out in a way that anyone in the family wanted. Her grandmother was an upright, honest woman, though not a hypocri
te when it came to accepting money help from whichever source provided it.

  Yet the old lady must have been saddened to see the way her brood had gone, first her daughter, Mary, then her granddaughter, not settled but living off the good grace of men who thought them too lowly to marry. The way she was looking at the child now, as she played with and talked to her doll, carried with it some of that sadness, as though she was seeing Little Emma grown and in the same predicament.

  “How do you cope with the burden?”

  “Bairns ain’t no burden, Emma. They is a joy, least at that age.”

  “It may be that the child can come and reside with me.”

  “In London?”

  “Yes. With my mother as well, a proper family.”

  “That would be good,” Grandma Kidd said, without conviction.

  Emma imbued her voice with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “I have engaged in this the good offices of Mr Greville’s uncle, the one I wrote to you about.”

  “Old Tom Fort reads for me. He says it be called Napoli where this uncle comes from, not Naples as you wrote, and with him being an old sailor, well, happen he knows.”

  The way it was said implied some lack of honesty in the man who had lived there, though Emma struggled to find what difference it made.

  “Old Tom Fort is just showing away ’cause he’s been there. I’ve yet to meet a sailor who don’t boast. Stands to reason the locals term it different to we English.” That earned a loud sniff, as if the matter was to be considered but not too readily accepted. “Tom would have doffed his hat soon enough to our uncle William.”

  “He ain’t your blood.”

  “It is a liberty he allows, in fact positively encourages. He is, Grandma, the most gracious of men, with a smile that would have you over in no time.”

  “Wed? Only you didn’t mention.”

  “Widowed, with a heart still bruised from the loss. Not that it depresses his spirits. He loves to be gay and has a ready wit as well as stories you would scarce believe about the scrapes some of our English folk get up to abroad.”