Too Great a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  I raced back to the Palazzo Sessa. Sir William was wheezing terribly. I rang for Mam and after a good deal of effort we finally got him resting comfortably. “I fear, my dear, that I have inhaled too much of the sulfurous and mephitic air of Vesuvius, that I have done my lungs some little harm.”

  “Pliny, don’t be mimicking your namesake to the end,” I chided through my tears. His bowels wasn’t good, either. “You need to rest. At sixty-three years of age, you can’t be exerting yourself like a man of twenty.”

  Sir William coughed so hard, it was several moments before he could regain enough breath to speak. “Nonsense, my dear. My illness comes from a want of exertion. I have been too sedentary of late. Starting tomorrow, I will resume my regimen of regular equestrian exercise. I warrant you, ’twill be a better physick for my bowels and my lungs than any of your powders and potions.”

  He coughed himself into exhaustion and I would not leave his side until he was fast asleep. I tiptoed out of the room and found Mam sitting in a chair just beyond the doorway. “ ’E’s growing old, Mam.” A sob came unbidden from my throat and she raised a finger to her lips.

  “Husht thee naise,” she whispered. “Don’t let ’im ’ear you cry. You ’ave to be strong for ’im, y’nau?”

  “I never thought about it before; really I didn’t. ’E always said ’e’d be on the wane as I was waxing, but ’e was always so energetic that I didn’t pay ’is words any mind. I can’t lose ’im, Mam. I don’t know what I’ll do if ’e takes sick and dies. I love ’im more than my life. Sir Willum is the kindest, dearest man—where would we be without ’im?”

  He took ill again in April 1795, a few days shy of my thirtieth birthday, this time with another bout of bilious fever. I dosed him with Dr. James’s antimonial powder and he finally rallied, but his increasingly frequent lapses of health had weakened him. His elegant physique began to look frail; his healthy sunburnt complexion, sallowed.

  More and more, Sir William took to his own bedroom, where I would not be troubled by his sleepless nights when he was plagued with aches and pains and attended by dark thoughts of mortality. I was devoted to him, but I was still a young woman—just approaching the prime of life. Other women would have freely taken a lover, but for so many years I had sought to prove myself a paragon of respectability, and I still loved Sir William passionately, and owed him a debt beyond measure. My conscience would not permit me to toss all of that aside for the sake of a few moments of temporary pleasure. Nursing Sir William through his several illnesses had its effect on my body, too. Mam noticed that I had begun to put on weight. I had taken to the Italian style of cooking almost as soon as we arrived in Naples, and never thought twice about all the macaroni I consumed, for it was on the menu nearly every night. My taste for wine and Champagne—as well as my daily glass of porter—had surely left its mark as well.

  Sir William’s ailments had reduced his energy and increased his lassitude. Now that Naples was suddenly an important piece in a high-stakes game of international chess, the British ambassador’s role was more vital than it had ever been. With my husband frequently indisposed, it fell to me to assume some of his diplomatic responsibilities. He supervised me while I reviewed documents and drafted correspondence, keeping the ministers in Whitehall abreast of the political situation.

  I also became even more indispensable to Maria Carolina. By virtue of Sir William’s office, he could not be seen conversing too often with the Queen of Naples, or visiting her with great regularity, for it might be construed as collaborating in another country’s diplomacy. The actions of his wife, however, were a different story. What an odd stroke of luck it turned out to be that I had not been formally permitted to become the ambassadress! Because I was simply a common citizen, it was perfectly within the bounds of propriety for me to be a frequent companion of my dear friend Maria Carolina.

  During those months, I acted as her amanuensis as well as her confidante. She passed me state documents to translate into English and entrusted me with secret dispatches containing privileged information—aware that I would show them, or the fair copy I had made, to Sir William, who would then transmit them to the British government. Many of these dispatches were directly addressed to the king, but Her Majesty would waylay them and deliver the information into my hands before resealing the messages.

  One day, we learnt for certain that the queen was being deceived by her husband. A courier brought the King of Naples a private letter from the King of Spain, and the queen contrived to steal it from Ferdinand’s pocket. Her hands trembled as she handed me the revealing letter from King Charles of Spain. “Don’t let anything smudge it or he will know it has been read.”

  “I’ll be as quick as I can and give it right to Sir Willum,” I promised her.

  “I only beg of him not to compromise me. Je vous prie, miledi.”

  What a frenzy of activity thus ensued! The letter was in cipher and I raced against time to translate it out of code before it had to be returned to the queen, for she was playing a dangerous game. Her name was never to be connected in any way to these packets and political intrigues, for spies abounded, just waiting to catch her in a misstep.

  When I decoded the stolen letter, I found it to contain the King of Spain’s intention to withdraw from the coalition, and join the French against England! Advance warning of Spain’s plans would give the English time to send a fleet to Gibraltar and strike a resounding blow against the unsuspecting dons. I immediately dispatched a messenger to the British foreign secretary, Lord Grenville. To ensure the necessary precautions it cost me four hundred pounds from my privy purse. For three days and nights I did not sleep, nor scarcely ate a morsel, and no sooner had I bidden adieu to our courier than I had to host a supper for an assembly of three hundred guests. Never had I been so fagged, but never more exhilarated. I imagined myself heralded by my native country and my adopted one as a true heroine!

  On October 5, Spain—newly allied with France—declared war on England. A treaty was entered into between Naples and France. The Neapolitans naively rejoiced in the streets with music, dancing, and fireworks.

  All of the Mediterranean ports were now under the control of either France or Spain, preventing their common enemy—the English—from watering and revictualing their ships. With no friendly harbor, the British fleet began their evacuation from the region, and we in Naples held our breath. “It is all a matter of time now,” Maria Carolina told me. “Boney’s army has taken Rome, and he is waiting for the opportune moment to strike at Naples, dethrone us, and declare the Two Sicilies a republic state under the dominion of France.”

  One day a packet arrived containing a silver locket, dated and inscribed, With appreciative thanks to Lady Hamilton. Horatio Nelson . Though I’d often thought of him with the fondest memories, I had not seen him since we were so swiftly disembarked from the Agamemnon back in September 1793. Whatever was the little captain thanking me for?

  Twenty-six

  I Am of Some Little Service to My Country

  As if there wasn’t enough to occupy us, what with the leek breath of the French republican army down our necks, we suddenly found ourselves preparing for a royal wedding and entertaining the English poetess Cornelia Knight and her ailing mother, who had fled the Papal States, fearing the worst from Napoleon.

  The nuptial ceremonies for Francis, the twenty-year-old crown prince of the Two Sicilies, and his cousin Clementina, daughter of Emperor Leopold II of Austria, went on for days. Full court dress was mandated for each event, and never had I seen such a display of gowns and jewels, of color and tinsel. Never had so much pomade greased so many powdered coiffures. Not even at the opera gala nights did so much scent hang heavily upon the air.

  I wish I had been able to be a better hostess to the Knight women, but the truth was, I was already done in upon their arrival. After the royal wedding I collapsed in a state of exhaustion, suffering from a high fever. I was blistered and cupped, and blooded nine times in as many days
.

  “My poor dear,” soothed Sir William when we found a rare moment of total privacy. “Look at you.” He smoothed my hair off my forehead. “You’ll always be a beauty, but this business of late is exacting its toll. On both of us, in point of fact.” My husband sighed and looked away, as was his wont when there was domestic unpleasantness to be discussed. “Emma, I will be honest with you. My estates in Pembroke are not measuring up as I had expected—perhaps leaving Greville in charge of making improvements on the property was not my finest decision, but that’s another tale for another time. I had thought to retire on their income, but I fear that may never meet my expectations. If I could be assured of a government pension of two thousand pounds a year, I would tender my credentials to King George and we could return home to a comfortable existence at a pace that better suits a man in my time of life.”

  “But Sir Willum, they need us here. You can’t be thinking of going home now! If we leave ’Er Majesty, there’s no one left to keep the kingdom from falling to the Frenchies. The queen don’t even trust Acton anymore; you and I are the only ones who speak proper English and can intercede for Naples with our government. And if we can keep the Two Sicilies allied with England, or neutral at the very least, Farmer George will assuredly give you more than a pension. ’E’ll give you a parade!”

  I could not confess it to my husband, but I thrived in all the attention, admiration, and approbation I was receiving—for my singing, for my Attitudes, as a hostess, and as a diplomat. In Naples I had been smitten with the English maladie du pays, that the farther you go from your homeland, the less you regret leaving it. After all, what kind of life had I left behind in London? I could endure a fever and a little blooding to remain an important personage within the center of Neapolitan activity. Though debilitating, what an honor it was that a European monarch daily reminded me—once-grubby little Emy Lyon—how vital I had become to her kingdom!

  Sir William, however, had spent nearly half his life as His Britannic Majesty’s envoy to Naples, and he was fatigued of the whole business of diplomacy. It saddened me to see my husband aging so much in so short a space of time. He was now content to potter about his vast collections of virtu all day, sometimes appearing more worried for their security than for the safety of the Neapolitans. His increasing infirmities, as well as his natural inclination toward an English version of Neapolitan indolence, left him with little taste for the exigencies now demanded of him.

  But he did derive delight—we both did—in the news of England’s outstanding victory against the Spanish fleet in what would soon come to be known as the Battle of Cape St. Vincent. On February 14, 1797, in the waters off the Portuguese coast, our fleet engaged the dons, routing them soundly and scuttling their mission to escort a sizable merchant fleet to Cádiz.

  The hero of the hour, we learned, was the commander of the seventy-four-gun Captain—our old friend Nelson—who was told soon after the battle ended that due to coincidence rather than any show of valor at Cape St. Vincent, he had been promoted to rear admiral of the blue.

  “Listen to our brave and gallant friend,” said Sir William, perusing Nelson’s letter announcing the good news. “ ‘I realized in the heat of the conflict that my commander’s sudden decision to flout the rules of engagement through a new deployment of his vessels was the right one, but had come too late. The dons tremendously outgunned us. My ship was the second to last in the line of thirteen. How could I wait patiently for my turn to engage, while my comrades got blown out of the water due to a poor tactical decision? I thus took it upon myself to reinterpret Jervis’s command to tack. If I had carried out my commander’s orders, as issued, it would not mean victory, but would instead have spelt a lost opportunity, both bloody and ignominious, for His Majesty’s Navy—’ ”

  “But what exactly was it ’e did to win?” I interrupted. “It’s like ’e’s dropped one shoe and I’m on pins and needles till the other one hits the carpet!”

  “Wait. . . .” Sir William shuffled though the pages of Nelson’s lengthy letter. “Eureka! ‘I wore my ship,’ Nelson writes, ‘turning her away from the wind, rather than into it, taking a shortcut past the other British ships ahead of me, to engage the first three vessels in the Spanish van.’ Imagine that!” Sir William began to rearrange the breakfast things on the table, in an attempt to re-create Nelson’s maneuvers.

  Gallant Nelson and his crew had ensured an English victory, boarding and taking two of the dons’ largest warships. I could just envision him, sword in hand, cutlass in his teeth like a corsair, dropping from a rope onto the burning deck of our unsuspecting enemies, leaping from one captive ship to the other, and subduing thousands of Spanish sailors without shedding a single drop of blood. I imagined their captains hailing him for his clemency, which a lesser man than Nelson would never have granted them. I wanted to write to old King George and ask him to name my diminutive hero commander of the fleet.

  “Raw animal courage,” said Nelson’s superior, Admiral Jervis, of his performance at Cape St. Vincent, words that struck a chord in my rather patriotic—and somewhat besotted—breast. Yet my partisan heart leapt into my mouth when I read in Nelson’s letter that in the thick of battle he’d been knocked sideways by a blow to the abdomen, caused by a flying lump of wood. Would that I might fly to him and nurse his wound! Yet there was some consolation, he wrote:I would I could mask the swelling with the sash that will accompany my Order of the Bath, such distinction which His Majesty accorded me, in recognition of my contribution to England’s glorious victory. It pleases me to think that Sir William and I will now have something in common.

  I wished I could have let him know how much it pleased Sir William and Lady Hamilton as well.

  Although we were disappointed not to receive another word from Nelson for the rest of the year, Admiral Jervis, made Lord St. Vincent after the resounding naval victory, sent me a letter addressed to “The Patroness of the British Navy.” In response to Queen Maria Carolina’s repeated petitions to King George—which I had helped prepare—asking for a fleet to protect her kingdom from the French, he was “sending a knight of superior prowess” to determine the reason behind the Frenchies’ increasing armaments in Toulon and in other Mediterranean ports. St. Vincent had placed Horatio Nelson in command of a squadron to be plucked from the rest of the Mediterranean fleet and dispatched to Naples. How thrilled we were that Nelson would return!

  At six o’clock one morning in June, Sir William and I were awakened by a shout from the servants that there were foreigners on our doorstep. We struggled to get into our clothes as fast as we could. Could the French have arrived and be demanding the head of the British ambassador?

  Our visitors turned out to be two captains from His Majesty’s Navy, Thomas Troubridge and Thomas Masterman Hardy. Arriving in the Mutine, they had been deputized by Nelson to call upon Sir William on a matter of the most urgent importance.

  I sat with the two men in Sir William’s library, while Troubridge, a pear-shaped man of about forty years, disclosed the nature of their errand. “It boils down to this,” Troubridge said, running a hand through his thick shock of lightly powdered hair. His sunburnt complexion grew more ruddy as he became anxious to impress upon Sir William the import of the situation. “Nelson has been given orders to chase down the French fleet in the Mediterranean. But we’re running out of fresh food and water, and all of the Mediterranean ports are closed to us. This puts the squadron in a bit of a bind, as I’m sure you can appreciate, Your Excellency. Nelson has charged me with asking you to intercede with Acton and the king.”

  Sir William gazed at him intently. “Tell me exactly what it is you require. I need details, man, before I can take the thing any further.”

  Hardy, whose name well defined his appearance, took up the cause. “An official document signed by King Ferdinand asking the governor of Syracuse to allow the English squadron to revictual and water there.”

  “You realize of course that this will take a good deal of p
ersuading, gentlemen. Opening the Syracusan port to your ships is in direct violation of the treaty that the Two Sicilies signed with France. I’m sure you know that King Ferdinand’s elder brother occupies the Spanish throne, and as such is allied with the French.”

  Troubridge raised a bushy eyebrow. “I am well aware of that, sir, as is Nelson. But the Frenchies are a tricky lot. Nelson’s tied himself in knots trying to fathom their intentions. He now thinks their Mediterranean fleet may be headed in the opposite direction—possibly for Egypt—which, if they gained control there, would lay Boney’s route to the East wide open. The Corsican bastard—pardon my language, your ladyship—intends to conquer the world, but by gad, we shall not let the devil take England with him. We stopped his allies at Cape St. Vincent, and Nelson will not rest, nor none of us, neither, until we’ve put a stop to ’em. Which brings me back to the text of my errand. Watering and victualling the British squadron. It must be done, man!”

  “Don’t you worry, gents. We’ll do everything we can,” I assured them. “Emma Hamilton don’t take no for an answer!”

  Neapolitan indolence was difficult to rouse, however, even in the most pressing of circumstances. Although Sir William took the naval officers’ request to Acton’s house that morning, Acton and the king harangued over the particulars, and whether they should skirt the treaty at all, as the Two Sicilies dared not risk a blemish on its neutrality with the French republican army at our northern border.

  When the dust settled, Nelson had not secured the royal mandate he had requested. Instead, Acton—through his deputies—gave him a ministerial order detailing further instruction that contained not a word about watering and restocking.