by Amanda Elyot
Thirteen
An Unexpected Proposal
But it was not to be, although Greville did relent ever so slightly, permitting us to spend the autumn months together in Edgware Road. Yet in December 1784, little Emma was packed off to Manchester, to be raised and educated by a Mr. and Mrs. Blackburn who had a modest house in Market Street Lane and two young daughters of their own. Such tears and cries filled the house for a week before her departure, an eavesdropper might have thought that one of the residents was at death’s door! Knowing that Greville’s arrangement was all for the best in the main did not relieve my anguish at the inevitable. Just as I was coming to know the child, delighting in her every new discovery, her melting smiles, even her tears—for they gave me the opportunity to dry them and kiss them away—bienséance compelled me to bid her adieu.
Sir William had departed for the Continent three months earlier and though sympathetic to my distress, he had been unable—on my behalf—to sway Greville from his plan. Our parting was more than cordial, for in his gentlemanly and diplomatic way, he tacitly promised me his protection should anything happen to my beloved Charles, or if Greville should inflict some slight upon me. Effusively, I thanked him for all his kindnesses, expressing the wish that he should not stay away too long, though I knew he had to get about the duties with which His Majesty had entrusted him. His leave had ended and his business in England been accomplished. Sir William had presented the British Museum with his wax ex-votos in June, the Dilettanti Society had voted to publish his account of the Festival of Priapus, complete with the illustrations my dear Greville had found so lewd, and he had at long last persuaded the elderly Duchess of Portland to purchase the Barberini Vase. Once again, this priceless, graceful object changed hands. I wondered if the duchess would read the same story I did in its translucent figures.
Toward the middle of 1785, unpleasant rumors swirled about, suggesting that Greville was hunting for a wife. He had been seen at the theatre with the whey-faced heiress Henrietta Middleton. Of course I confronted my lover, but he refused to countenance my hysteria. Secretly, I knew that the rumors had to be just that, as Greville’s financial situation could not permit him to afford the high cost of matrimony. I was the one who scrupulously kept his ledgers in Edgware Road, so I knew to the farthing where his money was spent. In fact, Greville had once chided me for giving a ha’penny from the household purse to a poor beggar man, and had suggested on more than one occasion that we seal up some of the cottage’s twenty windows to avoid Prime Minister Pitt’s increased taxes upon them.
But the fact that Greville no longer came to Edgware Road as often as he had done at the beginning of our arrangement added fuel to the speculative fire. He had sold his grand house in Portman Square in September and was living once more in the King’s Mews. When Greville did visit Mam and me, his presence was so welcome I practically wagged my tail upon greeting him. For all his fears that if I was out in society, my head might be turned by another, whether a vivacious buck or a moneyed decrepit, he need never have concerned himself, for I belonged to him, and him alone, body, heart, and soul. Sure, I had chafed at his system from time to time, but I was coltish then. He had all but cured me of my giddy, girlish ways and my inclination (if left unchecked) toward dissipation. I had been a fallen woman and Greville had rescued me; I vowed I would never stumble again. He had made me good and my gratitude—as well as my love for him—was limitless.
But one late-autumn afternoon, Greville summoned me into his study. “Sit, please, Emma. I have something of great moment to discuss with you. Now, don’t look like such a frightened rabbit,” he added, as my eyes welled with tears, “for this is good news indeed.”
“What is it, then?” I snuffled, reaching for a handkerchief.
“I will soon be obliged to spend a number of months in Scotland—”
“Are you off to inspect your property again?”
“Emma, it is impolite to interrupt. Yes, I will inspect my property—my uncle’s property, that is—but my interests are taking me in a new direction at present. I intend to embark upon the study of chemistry in Edinburgh. It will keep me away from you for a substantial length of time.”
“But it can’t take just a few months to learn chemistry!” I wanted to believe that my beloved Greville was telling me the truth, but the sour feeling in my gut told me something did not quite tally. “If Sir Willum was here, I could bear your absence better, for ’e is a kind and courtly companion, and ’e loves my singing so—but oh, Greville, what shall I do all alone ’ere without you? With no society to speak of, I want the opportunities to prove that I ’ave bettered myself. Such a separation for so long a duration will seem to me a total separation from you, Greville.”
“I am very much aware that you find Edgware Row a lonely place from time to time—”
“Not ‘from time to time,’ ” I blarted, interrupting him again, “but whenever you’re away. Which is more than ‘from time to time’!” I could not bear the thought of losing him.
“I am not about to indulge in semantics with you, Emma—”
“How can I indulge in—when I don’t even know what that is?” I replied, hurt to the core.
“What I have been endeavoring to tell you is that I think a change of scene might benefit you in every way. As you are fond of Sir William, and as he appears not unamenable to the pleasure of your company, I propose that you and your mother journey to Naples, where my uncle will provide a modest lodging for the both of you, no less comfortable than what you have enjoyed at Edgware Row. He will see to it that your instruction in voice and music is continued, and in Naples you will be able to avail yourself of the finest masters. Sir William will also arrange for you to be tutored in Italian so that you may communicate with the servants.”
My lip trembled. “And ’ow long is this ’oliday to be?”
“Six to eight months. You will start off next March. It is a very pretty climate, Emma, with much to recommend it.”
I considered the proposal for several moments. “But Naples, without you, will be no more tolerable than Edgware Road.”
“Please don’t cry, Emma. I offer you—my uncle and I offer you—a shining opportunity to enjoy a charming holiday and improve your education tenfold. Certainly you have derived much pleasure from Sir William’s companionship.”
“But not without you! Without you, ’ow shall I bear it! No! I shall not stir a foot if I am to go alone.”
“With your mother, of course, which is not quite what I would call—”
“Alone. Without you, I am alone, and that’s that!” In a display of temper and tears, I fled the room.
It took several more conversations, many of them fraught with sighs, weeping, and lengthy negotiations, before I finally acquiesced. On December 3, 1785, I composed a letter to Sir William, which in truth was mostly dictated by Greville. It was franked and posted, setting in motion our plans to embark for the Continent. The following March 13, in possession of new linen, a new dress, and a smart bonnet, courtesy of my beloved Greville, I bade him—and Edgware Road—a tearful farewell. From that moment, I lived for October, and the opportunity to step into his arms again.
Bacchante
1786-1791
Fourteen
Nasty Surprises
On my twenty-first birthday, April 26, 1786, I entered the city of Naples. I confess that my initial view was a disappointing one. Sir William’s head footman, Vincenzo, who had traveled with us since Geneva, apologized for the squalor that surrounded the round towers of the Porta Capuana, the portal though which we passed into the city.
“There’s more costermongers and balladeers than in Whitechapel!” Mam exclaimed, for every square foot of space was taken up by a vendor’s stall or a street singer, peddling their wares.
“I think they’re singing for the sheer joy of doing it, Mam, as they don’t seem to have a care about making a penny off it. Lud, look how colorful everything is! Even the people! Can you imagine weari
ng a red skirt with a yellow petticoat about London and not be taken for a doxy?”
“Don’t look there, Emy!” Mam warned, reaching over to shield my eyes, but she was too late.
“When did you get so proper?” I quizzed, and immediately my eyes became moist, thinking of my darling Greville. “It ain’t like I never saw a naked man before—though I confess I’ve never seen so many at once—and not so many brown ones.”
“The sun,” Vincenzo began to explain. “Of course when you live out of doors in a climate such as this . . .”
“They live out ’ere? On the streets?”
“It is the way of the lazzaroni, signora. Our underclass. Many of them sleep along the quayside and out on the mole that stretches into the bay. They receive free bread from His Majesty, and thus feel no compunction to work for it. They loaf about the piers, catching fish when they are hungry, entertaining the pedestrians if they are talented, and going about as nature made them, with their straw sun hats and their many tattoos their only adornments, for the Neapolitan heat is exceedingly forte—strong, you say in English. And the English are surprised to see them without their shirts and breeches, but I assure you that here in Naples, the Italians never wink an eye. Wink? Is correct?”
The buildings in the center of the city were as tightly packed as those in any impoverished London quarter, and nearly as gloomy; and the streets, paved with square-shaped stones made of the dark Vesuvian lava, were as narrow as a lane in Southwark or Soho. But the nearer we drew to the Bay of Naples, the sweeter and more fragrant the air and the larger and prettier the houses—painted in the pale cream, peach, and rose colors of refreshing ices and terraced into the hillside, their flat roofs and balconied facades dripping with lush and vibrant bougainvillea. Looking at them made me thirsty.
We passed the vast and imposing Castel Nuovo and the Palazzo Reale, the royal residence, and turned into the Vico di Cappella Vecchia di Santa Maria, a narrow way not much larger than an alley. Passing under an old Roman porta, we entered a larger courtyard, where the horses were halted and Vincenzo alighted from the carriage to help us descend.
“This way, signore,” he said, gesturing toward a vaulted passageway, just as another carriage, bearing an impressive emblem and driven by a fully liveried coachman, rumbled into the outer courtyard. I waited to see who would step out of this most elegant conveyance—Sir William, perhaps? But the passenger was a tall and slender woman, attired like a man in breeches and surcoat, a riding crop tucked under her arm.
“This way, signore,” Vincenzo repeated. “Andiamo, per favore.”
I hadn’t a notion of what he’d just said to Mam and me, but his meaning was clear enough, and hastening to follow him, I employed the only word I had learnt in his tongue, mimicking perfectly the Italian pronunciation. “Grazie, Vincenzo.”
The head footman beamed, displaying a shoddy set of choppers. I believe I had made a friend for life.
“Aspettate! You wait. Here.” We had passed through the inner courtyard and entered the Palazzo Sessa, a grand three-story residence with a gleaming white facade: England’s embassy and the home of Sir William, His Britannic Majesty’s ambassador. Vincenzo seated us in an antechamber, graceful, and rich in detail. White plaster pilasters, decorated with a raised motif of painted ivy, lent the room the air of a most elegant conservatory.
“Look, Emy, gal, you can see the ocean from ’ere! Imagine sea bathing in that, eh?”
“That is the Bay of Naples, Signora Cadogan,” Vincenzo corrected politely. “Is it not the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?”
The waves looked like diamonds dancing on azure silk. I walked to the window in as stately a manner as I could muster, having just spent several hours in a cramped and stuffy carriage, and found that I could not pull my gaze from the view. “ ’Oo was that woman we saw in the courtyard?” I asked Vincenzo as coolly as possible. I felt a fillip in my stomach.
“The one descending His Excellency’s coach?”
“Yes, of course. The one dressed in gentlemen’s apparel.”
“Ah, sì. That is Signora—Mrs.—Damer. An Englishwoman. She is an artist. A sculptress.”
“Mrs. Damer? Then she is married?”
“She is a widow, Signora Hart. Her husband . . . he—” Vincenzo put his fingers to his temple as if to pantomime a pistol. “Bang.” He cleared his throat in an obvious display of discomfort. “She will pack her things and leave the late Lady Hamilton’s rooms by the end of the day, I assure you.”
“Did not Sir Willum expect us?” What call had I to feel a glimmer of jealousy that this strange woman, mannish, odd, and unconventional, had been residing under Sir William’s roof, sleeping in her ladyship’s boudoir (if not elsewhere as well), and freely granted the use of one of his carriages—I, who had been thinking all afternoon about how I would have liked my precious Greville to have been at my side so that we might have shared the excitement of reaching this exotic new city on my birthday? “Where is Sir Willum, Vincenzo?” I admit I had expected him to greet us on the doorstep with open arms.
“I believe he is bidding his farewell to Mrs. Damer. It should not take long, I assure you.” He made a courtly little bow first to me and then to Mam before leaving the room. “Pazienza, signora e signora.”
Vincenzo brought us a pot of excellent coffee and some almond-flavored biscuits that damn near broke my teeth. Mam decided to dunk hers in the steaming coffee to soften it. “Can you imagine that a man who lives like this serves stale biscuits?” I whispered to Mam in amazement.
Presently, the doors to the antechamber were thrown open and an uncharacteristically flustered Sir William entered the room, apologizing profusely for the delay. “The time—I—,” he began distractedly, and, upon greeting me, became even more disconcerted. “Mrs. Hart—and good afternoon, Mrs. Cadogan—Mrs. Hart, you are even lovelier than the image of you that is imprinted upon my memory . . . and of course the bacchante, Romney’s bacchante—well, I daresay it’s my bacchante, as I am the owner of the portrait. I look at you every day, but I had scarce dared to dream that the original would be standing before me—under my roof, I mean. . . . Damme! Mrs. Hart, please forgive me; a man of fifty-five, and I suddenly feel like a giddy schoolboy. I am keenly aware that you once referred to me as the ‘most juvenile man’ you ever knew, but perhaps you may wish to reconsider the remark as an intended compliment. Now, I understand it is your birthday today. May I be the first to say buon compleanno? I trust you had a pleasant journey?”
Mam and I exchanged a glance, and off I went on every detail of our long excursion, omitting nothing, including the bedbugs at the posting inns, despite Mam’s frantic waving of her hand.
Sir William seemed much amused by both my verisimilitude and my vivacity. “Evidently, you did not arrive fatigued. And I hope the weather held?”
“Is the sky always this blue?” I wondered aloud.
“On most days. Quite a change from an English sky—if you can even glimpse it through the London miasma! I should caution you, it may take several days before you become accustomed to the Neapolitan climate. It can, on occasion, be unpredictable—we live in an active volcanic region of course—but in the main, particularly in the spring and summer months, the word that comes to mind is ‘sultry.’ Once you become acclimated, you will begin to comprehend the Neapolitan tendency toward indolence, even among our foreign visitors.”
“Well, we’ve already gotten a gander at Neapolitan nekkidness,” Mam said, bosting into a laugh.
“You will find that everything in Naples is substantially more . . . voluptuous . . . than back home in England,” Sir William added. “From the manners and pursuits to the opera and the wine. Our Lachryma Christi—the ‘tears of Christ’—is heavier and sweeter than we are used to imbibing; to the northern palate it is often thought too like a syrup.”
Mam furrowed her brow. “Don’t people drink gin, then?”
Sir William laughed. “As His Britannic Majesty’s envoy I am mo
re or less obliged to entertain every English man and woman who set foot in Naples, from the dignitary to the scholar to the curiosity seeker, and like as not, they are forever requesting me to procure some local extravagance and send it back to England to await their eventual arrival. Naturally, the better-mannered of the lot wish to thank their host with a modest gift, something that will remind him of home, perhaps.”
“I think ’e’s saying it won’t be too ’ard to arrange, Mam,” I whispered loudly.
“I have settled it so that you will have two lady’s maids to help you both. Giulia and Laura. They will unpack your trunks and get you settled in your rooms. You have nothing to do here but enjoy yourselves.”
Our holiday commenced with a tour of the spacious Palazzo Sessa. Sir William’s private study was crammed from floor to ceiling with paintings and curiosities, so much so that there was scarcely an inch of space left for anything more. My feet was getting tired from standing as he lovingly described each of several items from his numerous Wunderkabinetts, one more dear to him than the last.
“ ’Ave you ever seen such a deal of bric-a-brac?” Mam whispered to me. “And he treats each one of ’is things as if it were ’is child. Pity the poor soul ’oo ’as to come in ’ere with a dustrag.”
The cornices around the walls of the study were inscribed with various homilies that Sir William considered precepts for his life. One in particular puzzled me. Sir William translated La mia patria è dove mi trovo bene as “My homeland is where I feel at home.”
“Seems to me you’re even more at ’ome ’ere,” I remarked. “Even in the past ’alf hour you’ve seemed ’appier than you ever was in London.”
Sir William smiled warmly. “I attach no shame in admitting that I do love my collections. I could spend many hours at a time—and do—in this room. This is where I usually breakfast. I find that beginning my day in the chamber where I derive such comfort and satisfaction, being surrounded by my dearest possessions, makes for a more amiable remainder of the time.”
