by Amanda Elyot
“At present.”
“Is it your wish to permit Mrs. Hart to pose with her infant daughter?”
“As a man who prefers that his arrangements enable each party to derive an equal sense of satisfaction, I raise no objection. Sir Joshua, I also am a man who is jealous of an opportunity for quietude.”
I saw Sir Joshua’s portrait only once after it had been completed. He titled the composition Girl with a Baby. Bathed in what passes for moonlight, little Emma and I look ghostly and ethereal, while behind us, in scratchy brushstrokes of deep greens and blues, the perceptive and imaginative viewer can make out a sylvan glade and a stone bridge, beyond which looms a distant castle.
Those were happy days we passed, little Emma and I, in Reynolds’s grand studio, for not only was I able to spend so much time with my little daughter at my breast, but in that brief period I came to believe that I could indeed pass for a Madonna, resurrecting my wayward reputation. “Being totally clear from all the society and habits of kept women, creditable and quiet people will come to respect you,” Greville assured me.
If only he’d enlarge his “system”—by permitting little Emma to continue to reside with us in Edgware Road—my journey toward responsibility and respectability would not have felt like such an arduous one.
Ten
Growing Pains
After Mam brought little Emma up to Hawarden that spring and left her in Gammer’s care, I was brokenhearted and dreadfully rudderless. With Greville absent as well, I had no one to shine for. Now that the house was childless, we had two maidservants—Molly Dring and Nelly Gray, the former as plump as the latter was spindly—but under his system, I was not expected to converse with the two girls other than where it concerned the scope of their household duties. Having been in service myself, I was still unaccustomed to my new role on the other side of the great societal divide; it caused me discomfort, like a scratchy garment.
My visits to Romney in Cavendish Square became our mutual saving grace. The portraitist was both a dear friend and a sympathetic ear. “You’re a tonic to my soul, girl,” he would declare contentedly as he ground his colors, whilst I wandered about the studio inquiring as to the subjects of his unfinished canvases. Then he would tell me the story behind the painting, all those wondrous tales of the Greek and Roman heroes, of their battles and victories, of their gods and goddesses.
On April 13, two weeks before my seventeenth birthday, I was sitting on the painter’s stool, gazing out the window, when Romney suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, lud love you, child!”
“What?”
“Sit there, just as you are! Now turn your torso to me—no, no, just your torso—leave everything else where ’tis.” After another moment or two of prodigious study, Romney came over and adjusted the angle of my head. “Much better. That slight tilt of your chin, Emma, gives you the most exquisite jawline. Your face becomes a perfect ’eart. You ’ave a receding chin, my dear—it’s your only feature that does not approach the feminine ideal. Nevertheless, once you learn ’ow to pose yourself to best advantage, I assure you no one in Europe will be the wiser.”
Truth be told, I was already aware of—and secretly displeased by—my weak chin; it was my least favorite feature. “Blame my mam,” I teased, pointing to my mother. “It’s ’er chin what I’ve got.”
“Well, there’s no giving it back, gal, so you two will just have to content yourselves—and Greville as well—with a mark just short of perfection. But that’s what gives a person character, so I shouldn’t fret over it, Emy. And I reckon even Georgy ’ere, though ’e’s in the perfection business, will agree with me.” Mam reached into a deep pocket and discreetly withdrew a flask from which she allowed herself a tot of gin.
From then on, I almost always posed with my head tilted at such an angle that I appeared to have the perfect chin!
Romney worked so slowly that for several sittings there would be little for my protector to view. Our sessions formed one of the choicest aspects of my enjoyment, but I bit back my frustration that this was the only sphere beyond Edgware Road that I might share with my beloved Charles.
I confess that I would have very much appreciated the privilege of entering the salons of polite society, for Greville went about in town alone, but I dared not press my advantage, particularly when he suggested a rare excursion to Ranelagh, knowing how much it would delight me to celebrate my birthday there. Endeavoring to please him in all things, I thought myself entirely content in my new, quietly retired life, but the truth was that I missed the gaiety of the pleasure gardens, though not the acquaintance of my prior companions there. To share every experience with my Greville—and only Greville—formed the chief cornerstone of my desires.
We had been enjoying the excitement of Ranelagh. . . . The orchestra, which at that hour was playing polkas and other lively airs, struck up a tune that was familiar to me. In short order, I was singing full voice, and on my feet dancing giddily to the spirited tune, and then two more, receiving a raucous approbation.
As the final note of the third country ballad died upon the air, Greville broke through the cluster of admirers and clasped my elbow. With the sternest expression I had ever seen grace his noble countenance, he trotted me out of the pleasure gardens without another word, except to call for his carriage when we reached the gates.
All during the ride back to Paddington Green, my beloved Greville’s silence pained me; he would not hear a word of explanation, nor, can I admit even now, was there much defense to be made on my own behalf.
Greville assailed me once we set foot inside the cottage. “Your conduct this evening was intolerable,” he scolded in a tone so severe that it sent chills along my spine. Seating me by the parlor fire and instructing me not to speak a word until he had finished his admonition, he added, “I have no desire to harbor an ungrateful hoyden under my roof, Emma. You have breached the particulars of our agreement, causing me undue embarrassment and monstrous regret that I allowed myself to be tenderly swayed by your predicament. There appears to be no end of young bucks to fawn upon you, if the lascivious attention of such vulgar company is what you prefer to my companionship. You have only to say the word and I will leave you to them without a moment’s remonstrance. I will admit to you that at present I find no reason not to cast you off in the morning for your childish ingratitude and your failure to honor the terms of our ménage.”
Convulsed with sobs, I rushed into my boudoir, and closing the door behind me, I threw myself into Mam’s arms. “Oh God, what shall I do now!” I wept. “It’s all over. . . . I’ve lost ’im . . . and all because I was a stupid, giddy girl. And I . . . want . . . ’im . . . so much . . . to love me,” I spluttered. “I’m so scared. What will become of us?”
“Husht thee naise. ’Ere.” My mother withdrew her handkerchief and handed it to me. “Dry your tears and make your face pretty again for ’im.” I followed her advice, then permitted her to help me out of my embroidered bodice and overskirt. “Put this on instead, pet,” Mam said, handing me a plain, long-sleeved white dress. “You know ’ow much your Greville admires you when you present ’im a picture of restrained simplicity.”
It was as a penitent that I gently knocked on the door to Greville’s study. “I’m so awfully sorry, my love,” I whispered through the oaken barrier. “Mayn’t I come in?”
Greville opened the door and I sank to my knees before him, tears of contrition trickling down my unpainted cheeks as I looked up into his pale and serious countenance.
“You ’ave taught me nothing but good, Greville,” I sniffled. “I own my error, and will ’enceforth strive in every way to emulate your goodness. But please, my love, please forgive me! Don’t cast me out. I don’t know what will become of me if you do.” My sobs returned with vigor. “From now on, I will walk in your ways with every step I take, for I know you are in the right.” I pressed my lips to his. “Oh, ’ow I love you, Greville. Thank you, my beloved. Your Emma will never again betray your trust in her.”<
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At my next sitting for Romney, I shared everything that had transpired that night.
“I knelt before him,” I said, sinking to my knees, my white skirts billowing about me as though I sat astride a saintly cloud. “And raising my eyes thusly, I beseeched him to forgive me.”
Romney studied my imploring gaze. “I should like to paint you like that. ‘The Penitent.’ For that expression would melt even the most adamantine heart.”
“And so from now on, you will find me dressed just as you see me now: in ‘sweet simplicity,’ as Mam calls it.”
“My dear child, you would eclipse the sun in sackcloth, but surely you do not intend to go about for the remainder of your days attired in a housemaid’s frock?”
“Indeed I do.” I nodded. “Oh, my dear friend, for a time, I own, through distress my virtue was vanquished, but my sense of virtue was not overcome.” I laid my hat aside to prepare for the morning’s sitting. “Greville restored my sense of virtue. ’E believed that it was not too late for me to recover my dignity, and in his eyes—and arms—I ’ave been graced with a second chance. Do you not agree that I should be grateful every day for my dearest Greville’s protection?”
Nodding his head, Romney donned his smock. “In some ways I am in the same boat you are, my dear. Now, let us return to the Circe,” he said. “We’ve scarce begun and I should like to ’ave more of it completed by now, for Greville is expecting to view it before the month is out. Your costume is behind the screen where you left it last.”
“Tell me ’oo she is, again?” I asked, retreating behind the folding screen, where I seated myself at a small dressing table. First brushing out the lengths of hair that framed my face, I then began to secure them atop my head—a soft corona of auburn.
“Circe was an enchantress, my dear Emma. After the fall of Troy, the great Ulysses sailed for ’is ’ome in Ithaca to return to the arms of ’is wife, the faithful and patient Penelope. But Circe waylaid ’im, luring ’im to ’er shores, where she made love to ’im and kept ’im sated for many months, turning to swine any of ’is sailors who sought to escape.”
I allowed this description to sink in. “And you think I look like this Circe?”
“Mrs. Hart, your beauty could enchant the pope ’imself to ’and you the keys to St. Peter’s.”
I saw George Romney, thirty years my senior, as my friend and more than father, and he was eager beyond measure to see me as his muse. With great delight he told Greville that my features were capable of exhibiting all the gradations of every passion with absolute truth, yet all the while maintaining an uncanny felicity of expression. Oftentimes Romney’s good friend, the actor Henderson, would pay the artist a call and stay to observe my sitting, offering me the odd professional tip or two, strengthening my interpretative ability. Soon I was able to seamlessly and effortlessly make the transition from one character to another, holding each attitude and its corresponding emotion for as long as the artist required.
Using my blossoming talents to every advantage, Romney sketched me as Medea, bloody dagger raised, faced with the horror of the infanticide she has just committed. As Thetis, I stood below the walls of Troy and, with the knowledge that his future foretold a violent death in Ilium, pleaded with my son Achilles to return to Thessaly. As an impassioned Cassandra I struggled with the agonizing despair of the doomed Trojan prophetess. I embodied the seductress in Circe; posing with a spaniel pup, I was the youthful personification of Nature; and kneeling in prayer, I became the virginal Penitent.
From mid-March through early August, I sat to Romney fourteen times. Although I missed little Emma and thought of her—and Gammer—often, at Edgware Road I was content to act more like Greville’s wife than his mistress, superintending the household with Mam, and assiduously adhering to my lessons with a newfound diligence. My mother, as eager to learn as I, would sit beside me; soon she, too, became a proficient reader—Mam, who had had to sign her wedding certificate with an X! Her orthography and penmanship quickly outshone mine, and I was never to catch up!
Now secure in Greville’s affection, even if he had yet to tell me that he loved me, I believed myself at peace with my insularity. But my youthful exuberance, my zeal for every ounce of life I could lay my hands on, could not remain dormant forever.
In the dark winter months of 1783, when the elm trees were bare and the grass on Paddington Green was hard and unyielding beneath my feet, a warm presence from the sun-drenched south appeared like the first breath of spring on our doorstep.
Eleven
Pliny the Elder
“Egad, Uncle, they’re practically pornographic!” Greville swiftly attempted to close the portfolio of sketches that Sir William Hamilton had spread before him.
“Won’t they change shape in my ’ands if I ’old ’em too long?”
“Good God, Emma!”
“Well, they’re made of wax, ain’t they?” I grinned impishly and placed the two phalluses into the velvet-lined chest.
“Greville, I love you because you are my flesh and blood, but you can be an abominable prig.”
My protector inclined his head in my direction while I poured their tea. “Under the present circumstances, Uncle, I cannot pretend to be your kindred spirit in all things antiquarian.”
“It’s not like I’ve never seen a cock before, my love,” I said gaily, bestowing a gentle kiss on Greville’s forehead.
“You two suit like a pair of candlesticks,” Greville grumbled. “Go ahead, then, Uncle, and enlighten Emma about the Festival of Priapus. My aunt dies and all my uncle can think of is to immerse himself in pagan pornography. And for God’s sake, Vesuvius has burnt you to a crisp! For all your silks and brocades and your Order of the Bath, you’re as nut-brown as a peasant.”
“And you, my dear nephew, are as pale as parchment. It would do your health a world of good to enjoy a sunny day. Lud knows they’re rare enough in Albion!”
What a rare specimen of humanity was this man! His princely bearing was impressive enough, but never had I encountered an older man of the upper crust—not among the titled oglers at Mrs. Kelly’s, and certainly not among Uppark Harry’s set—who comported himself as befitting his rank, yet treated me with the utmost respect and never looked down his nose at me. William Hamilton, envoy extraordinary and ambassador plenipotentiary to the Court of the Two Sicilies—the man who called King George his foster brother, because they had shared a wet nurse—raised his teacup to me as if in a toast. “I’ll have you know, Mrs. Hart, that the ex-votos, as they are called, represent a slice of ancient history that will henceforth be relegated to obsolescence. I amassed these artifacts at the final pagan Festival of Priapus—”
“Who the devil is that?”
“Priapus—the phallic Roman god of gardens, viniculture, sailors, and fishermen. Later this year, I intend to present them, with my notes and sketches, to the Society of Dilettanti—”
“You’re saying they worship cocks?” I interrupted, unable to suppress a blush. “Then again, I daresay there are sillier things to venerate.”
“Emma,” warned Greville.
“Let her alone, Charles. Mrs. Hart is a charming creature, all the more entertaining for her spirited curiosity. As you seek to elevate her aesthetics, I can only express the hope that she will chip away by degrees at your asceticism. It will do the both of you a good turn.”
Through pursed lips Greville said, “And this is what you were doing while your beloved Catherine was dying.”
“My dear nephew, until the world as we know it is radically altered, there is nothing a man can do to stop the progress of the Grim Reaper. My studies of the Priapic cult relieved my agitated mind from the pain of watching the woman to whom I had been married for nearly a quarter century being carried off in a matter of weeks by a putrid fever. She left me last August. One can stew in one’s grief or one can immerse oneself up to the chin in the business of living. It is my philosophy to embrace the latter.”
On the twenty
-third of February 1783, Sir William buried Lady Hamilton, née Catherine Barlow, in the family crypt at Slebach, in Wales. She had been embalmed upon her death, and the ambassador had convinced a Swedish sea captain to bring her body to England with the proviso that the coffin be boxed within a crate labeling its contents as a statue, to allay the sailors’ superstition about carrying a corpse on shipboard.
“And in spite of all my philosophy”—Sir William paused to dab at a tear or two that had suddenly overtaken him—“I miss the woman. Catherine found the Neapolitans coarse and vulgar, and assiduously avoided the court life there, leaving me to attend the gala nights alone. I confess I had believed she sometimes cared as little for my society as she did for the boisterous Italians’. It weren’t until she was in her final days that she revealed the depth of her love for me. Like many a man of our stamp and set, I was no stranger to the numerous—though discreet—delights to be enjoyed in the arms of an amour tendre. Had I known all along that Catherine’s affections went so far beyond those of duty and respect—” Sir William was too much the diplomat to give voice to his unexpressed conclusion. Evidently, despite his lengthy marriage, Sir William had been quite the accomplished debaucher in his day.
“It is true that after Catherine’s death I was casting about from pillar to post for a while, but at bottom, Charles, I am very much a creature of the Enlightenment. My study of antiquities has kept me constantly mindful of the perpetual fluctuation of every thing. To a humanist such as myself, the whole art is, really, to live all the days of our life to the fullest! There is nothing to be gained from either dwelling in the past or planning for the hereafter. Catherine was forty-four when the fever took her. I turned fifty-two December last. And should I live to a thousand, damme if I won’t grab on to the next nine hundred and forty-eight left to me!”
