She might be sitting opposite a well-known ignoramus who loved to play the buffoon, but he was also a ruler of the most absolute kind and accustomed to getting his own way. Emma sought to find a method by which she could deflect his attentions, without insulting his person.
“Since you know who I am, Signore, you must also know that I have a present attachment.”
“I know the gentleman well,” he replied, edging closer, his hand on the parasol. “We are good friends, close enough that he would gift me anything I asked for.”
“You may say that, Signore. I cannot be sure it is true.”
“You are a woman so that makes little difference.”
“To you.” Emma laid a firm hand on her parasol, to keep it in place. “That gentleman is my protector, on whom I depend for everything.”
“What is wrong with me?” he demanded.
“Nothing, Signore,” she lied.
“I disgust you, perhaps?”
The truth, that she did not find him attractive, would not serve. But Emma was convinced that, whatever his rank, she was not about to succumb to such a clumsy attempt at seduction. To call it uncouth was by a long mile an understatement. It was positively insulting. The King was treating like a street whore the mistress of the British Ambassador.
“You say that the gentleman who is my protector would agree?”
“He will.”
Like a conjuror performing a trick, the sketchpad was open and the thin stick of charcoal offered. “Then write to him. If he is such a friend and he agrees, then I do not risk my position.”
Ferdinand looked confused, so Emma continued. “I cannot chance my present comfort, and that of my aged mother, on a whim of desire, Signore. The prospect of what you propose is not unpleasant, but sense informs me I must have permission to accept.”
“When?”
“I walk in this garden often and so I think do you.”
Ferdinand grabbed the pad and wrote quickly in large, untidy, childish letters. His scrawl, when she looked at it, was hard but not impossible to read. He had written to Sir William without the use of either name, identifying himself as a hunting partner who had, on more than one occasion, given him the kill of a stag. By the time she finished reading the King was gone. All she saw was his broad, retreating back, and two dead rabbits.
The question is this. What do I say to Sir William? Do I mention it at all? And what will he say if I do? Surely he would never suggest that I submit!
The questions multiplied the more Emma gnawed on the problem. A dinner with forty guests, and the social obligations that entailed, did little to ease her disquiet. At worst her keeper would accede to the King’s request. At best that equable temper of his would explode. Rare as it was, she had seen it happen, usually when some visitor from home rudely demanded of him a service he was not obliged to provide.
Should she let her mother see it first? She was far more experienced, after all. But Emma was reluctant to do that, wishing for once to act on her own behalf. There was difficulty here but also, perhaps, advantage. This train of thought was interrupted continually by her requirement as the hostess of the evening, and it was the respect shown to her in that role which gave her an indication as to how to proceed.
“You cannot deny that my position is irregular?”
Sir William was reading one of his favourite authors, the Marquis de Sade. He didn’t want to look up from the story of innocence corrupted to where Emma was sitting, poking at her teeth with a sharpened piece of hazelwood. There was a slight flash of annoyance as well, because his mistress clearly didn’t quite comprehend that at his age he required a degree of stimulation prior to their love-making. He would have been doubly annoyed if he had known that Emma was deliberately interrupting him when she knew he needed to concentrate.
“I am at mercy of any number of male vanities.”
Justine was at the mercy of two callous monks, which to Sir William was much more important.
“Because I am attached to you in such an irregular fashion every lecher feels he has the right to try his luck.”
“I have always thought you liked the attention,” Sir William replied, his train of thought broken.
“I sometimes wonder, Sir William, if it is you who derives pleasure from that—the knowledge that while many may make the attempt, none succeed. Perhaps I am the victim of your vanity.”
“You are fractious tonight, my dear.”
Emma turned round to look into his bright eyes, at the lined face, the nose and the jawbones made more prominent by the passage of time. She composed her own features to convey a dissatisfaction to which he was unaccustomed. In three years Sir William could count on one hand the number of times that his mistress had argued with him. Greville’s prediction that she was a sweet and willing bedfellow had been more than borne out. His further observation that Emma had a temper, which would break out occasionally, had not. More importantly, having acceded to the present situation, he had never once heard her complain vocally of her lot. She was too beautiful ever to look shrewish, but those green eyes could convey hurt with little effort.
“Something has happened to bring on this mood.”
“Yes.”
“Am I to be told what it is, or am I merely to be a gull to the consequences?”
“What is your true opinion of those men who leer over me?”
Sir William smiled. “I admire their taste, my dear, while at the same time pitying their prospects.”
“What if I found such approaches offensive?”
“Then, my dear, I would be obliged to demand that those making them desist. But never having observed that and, I may say, trusting your own wit to take what care is required, I have never felt the slightest inclination towards even an ounce of jealousy.”
For the second time that day the sketchbook was conjured up. “Then I beg you to look at this.”
It was with some reluctance that Sir William put aside de Sade to reach for Emma’s sketchbook. Slowly he read the scrawl that requested of him, as a hunting friend, that he surrender his mistress.
“Ferdinand?”
“No less.”
“He pressed his attentions upon you?” Emma nodded, and Sir William smiled. “It is not unusual for the King to behave so. Every woman in the court, from noblewoman to skivvy, has had his hand on her arse. You will have observed, if you did not know already, that his behaviour is that of a child.”
“If you had seen the stretch on his breeches you wouldn’t say that,” Emma protested. “’Tis a wonder they didn’t rip.”
“He is near permanently erect,” Sir William replied wistfully. “The only thing that quietens his ardour is hunting, though a kill can often bring forth an unbidden emission.”
“Am I to be a kill?”
“From your tone, my dear, I observe the prospect does not entice you.”
“He smells to high heaven, and though I may not know I can guess that his attentions would be swift and selfish.”
“In that you are likely correct.”
“And am I allowed to observe that you are not taking the matter seriously? He will chance upon me again. What am I to do?”
“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.
Chapter Eleven
SIR WILLIAM HAMILTON 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 E
mma 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 repli
ed, 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.
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