Too Great a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  Our talk turned serious. Nelson’s doctor was concerned about his health. It wasn’t just the failing sight in his left eye, but his constitution that was suffering as well. “He tells me my digestion ain’t good,” Nelson muttered. “Eat but the simplest of foods, avoid wine and porter—I might as well be tossed back into the nursery! And then he cautions me—in order to preserve my sight, he says—that I write as little as possible, a thing that positively cannot be done, and to sit in a darkened room for as much of the day as I can, wearing my green eyeshade! Now, I ask you, how am I to command a fleet from my cabin?”

  “You can watch your diet, y’nau? Of course I couldn’t do without wine or porter, but you’ve always been more disciplined about a thing than I.”

  “I’ve suffered the heart spasms again, too, from time to time,” he admitted sheepishly. “I hadn’t wanted to tell you, for I knew you’d worry yourself sicker than I.”

  “ ’Ave you been applying the ’ot stupes against the palpitations?”

  Nelson nodded. “And my lungs have been doing poorly as well. It’s all the fears I have for you, my love, every moment of the day—and now for Horatia as well. Perhaps my time has come.”

  I grew terribly anxious. “What do you mean? You’re not talking . . . ?”

  “No, God forbid. I wish to be with you forever, not to leave you. Perhaps it’s time to go to Bronte, to move there. The rumping I received from His Majesty still smarts. This England is a shocking place. Better to be shot by a bandit in Italy than to have your reputation stabbed in England.”

  “Do you think you are more ill-treated than I? Queen Maria Carolina’s letter recommending me to Queen Charlotte went unanswered. I am still persona non grata at court, unacceptable because of my background—as if I am the only woman in England ’oo ’as been someone’s mistress!—while the journalists and caricaturists take me to task for my absence! ’Ow dare they? Everything I ’ave done for country and Crown—all of it counts for naught with these too-nice Hanovers,” I fumed, emphasizing my H’s, “whose own brood of sons could give Hogarth’s rake a run for ’is money!”

  “And every time I raise your name, no less to praise it, they all look askance or give me the fish eye as if to wink at the reason behind it. Hypocrites, all of ’em! I shall not bear to have your name and munificence abused and traduced. To my mind, Sir William has become one of the worst offenders, for he would see you lose your reputation if it gained him his pension.”

  “Yes.” I smiled. “I ’ave already gotten quite an earful, or I suppose I should say, eyeful, of your opinion on that subject!”

  Nelson’s leave went by in a twinkling, without a truly private moment to ourselves. To be able to look yet barely to touch, let alone make love, was a torment. How we yearned for our bodies to melt together while the rest of the intrusive world disappeared for a few hours. We dreamed of a future together as a family, and it was hard to imagine that there had ever been a moment in time when Emma knew not Nelson, when she had been so foolish as to spend her heart’s credit on another. So much precious time had been lost, and there was so much catching up to do.

  By Saturday, February 28, he was back in the admiral’s cabin aboard the St. George, preparing to sail to Copenhagen. His mission was to push the Danes out of the “League of Armed Neutrality,” which was hostile to Britain.

  That very afternoon, missing me dreadfully, he wrote:Would to God I had dined alone with you. What a dessert we would have had. The time will come, and believe me, that I am, for ever, for ever, your own. . . .

  And filled to bosting with love, later in the day he added:Now, my own dear wife, for such you are in my eyes and in the face of heaven, I can give full scope to my feelings, for I daresay Oliver will faithfully deliver this letter. You know, my dearest Emma, that there is nothing in this world that I would not do for us to live together, and to have our dear little child with us. I never had a dear pledge of love till you gave me one, and you, thank God, never gave one to anyone else. I think before March is out you will either see us back, or so victorious we shall insure a glorious issue to our toils. Think what my Emma will feel at seeing return safe, perhaps with a little more fame, her own dear loving Nelson. You, my beloved Emma, and my Country, are the two dearest objects of my fond heart—a heart susceptible and true. . . . My longing for you, both person and conversation, you may readily imagine. What must be my sensations at the idea of sleeping with you! It setts me on fire, even the thoughts, much more would the reality. I am sure my love & desires are all to you, and if any woman naked were to come to me, even as I am this moment from thinking of you, I hope it might rot off if I would touch her even with my hands. No, my heart, person, and mind is in perfect union of love towards my own dear, beloved Emma—the real bosom friend of her, all hers, all Emma’s, etc.

  After such a wildly romantic, passionate, even erotic letter, how could I possibly ever tell Nelson that I’d had a child before? It would forever remain the only secret between us.

  Thirty-seven

  Copenhagen

  I worship, nay, adore you, and if you was single & I found you under a hedge, I would instantly marry you, Nelson wrote on March 6, followed later by:I shall soon return and then we shall take our fill of love. No, we can never be satiated. . . . The sight of my heaven-given wife will make me a happy father and you a mother.

  Now that we were in England, it seemed harder than ever to be the consort of a hero—to have to share him with king and country—yet he should not have been Nelson if those were not as dear a priority to him as myself and Horatia. He panicked when he learnt that her wet nurse had taken ill, and consequently had made our daughter sick as well. The woman must be replaced!

  Pray write and promise me you shan’t catch cold, I scrawled. I do hope it will not take long for you to talk some sense into the Danes, that you may return to me with all dispatch. How can the man who bestowed our Maltese Crosses be so foolish as to truck with the French when he has had the pleasure of meeting the great Nelson?

  Under pressure from Russia, Denmark was denying England access to the Baltic and it was imperative for Britain that these waters remain open to His Majesty’s Navy, as well as to our merchantmen. The Russians had been seizing every British vessel in the area—ostensibly under orders from Czar Paul. The Frenchies had been known to smuggle arms and other war materials aboard neutral nations’ merchant vessels sailing in the Baltic, and England had asserted its right to inspect these so-called neutral ships for such contraband. The Danes, along with the other League nations—Sweden, Russia, and Prussia—refused to comply, and King George wanted an explanation for it.

  My “simple sailor” wrote a poem for me a few days before the Baltic fleet was set to weigh anchor.

  LORD NELSON TO HIS GUARDIAN ANGEL

  From my best cable tho’ I’m forced to part,

  I leave my anchor in my angel’s heart.

  Love, like a pilot, shall the pledge defend,

  And for a prong his happiest quiver lend.

  In all my life, no one had ever written a poem for me! I was touched beyond all measure. I had been immortalized in oils by Europe’s finest portraitists, and Papa Haydn had composed lieder in my honor, but this tender and heartfelt quatrain from my own dear matchless Nelson, my soul’s heart, was far grander to me than all the professional artists’ tributes. I replied in verse as well:ANSWER OF LORD NELSON’S GUARDIAN ANGEL

  Go where you list, each thought of Emma’s soul

  Shall follow you from Indus to the Pole:

  East, West, North, South, our minds shall never part;

  Your Angel’s loadstone shall be Nelson’s heart.

  Farewell! and o’er the wide, wide sea

  Bright glory’s course pursue,

  And adverse winds to love and me

  Prove fair to fame and you.

  And when the dreaded hour of battle’s nigh,

  Your Angel’s heart, which trembles at a sigh,

  By your superior dang
er bolder grown,

  Shall dauntless place itself before your own.

  Happy, thrice happy, should her fond heart prove—

  A shield to Valour, Constancy, and Love.

  As if Nelson didn’t have enough to occupy his mind as he prepared for action, an unnecessary distraction arrived from an unexpected county. Francis Oliver, who had been one of Sir William’s private secretaries in Naples, now performed those duties for Nelson. Oliver, looking to change professions, had asked Nelson for a recommendation to a writership in the East India Company, which Nelson was prepared to provide until he discovered that there was a consideration for such things, the customary sum being one thousand pounds. Recognizing that this exorbitant figure amounted to no less than a bribe to some nabob at the East India Company, Nelson refused to submit the recommendation. Enraged and embittered, Oliver threatened to ruin him; yet to my astonishment, he remained in Nelson’s employ.

  The fleet hoisted sail on March 12. My heart was breaking, for every time Nelson was charged with engaging the enemy, I despaired that he would never return to me. It was too much to bear. I poured out my heart in another poem, sending it to Nelson that morning.

  Silent grief and sad forebodings

  (Lest I ne’er should see him more),

  Fill my heart, when gallant Nelson

  Hoists Blue Peter at the fore.

  On his Pendant anxious gazing,

  Fill with tears (mine eyes run o’er)

  At each change of wind I tremble

  While Blue Peter’s at the fore.

  All the live-long day I wander,

  Sighing on the sea-beat shore;

  But my sighs are all unheeded,

  When Blue Peter’s at the fore.

  For when duty calls my hero

  To far seas, where cannons roar,

  Nelson (love and Emma leaving),

  Hoists Blue Peter at the fore.

  Oft he kiss’d my lips at parting,

  And at every kiss he swore,

  Nought could force him from my bosom,

  Save Blue Peter at the fore.

  Oh, that I might with my Nelson,

  Sail the wide world o’er and o’er,

  Never should I then with sorrow,

  See Blue Peter at the fore.

  But (ah me!) his ship’s unmooring;

  Nelson’s last boat rows from shore,

  Every sail is set and swelling,

  And Blue Peter’s seen no more.

  At Copenhagen, Nelson proved himself a hero once again. Though the battle on April 2 lasted several bloody hours, and our losses of both men and ships were enormous, they would have been far greater and significantly more devastating if Nelson had obeyed Sir Hyde Parker’s orders to discontinue the engagement. My lover knew that if they had attempted retreat on Hyde Parker’s signals, the wind and the water would not have been in their favor and the men would likely have ended up caught upon the shoals, sitting ducks for the Danes. Nelson saw better than his commander-in-chief that victory was nearly theirs, and he could not allow his men to become cannon fodder whilst he had it in his power to win the day, despite his superior’s signals.

  One of Nelson’s officers asked him, had he not seen the C-inC’s signal? “You know, Foley,” Nelson replied, “I have only one eye; I have a right to be blind sometimes.” He raised his spyglass to his right eye and turned toward the flagship, HMS London. “I really do not see the signal!” he added. “Leave off action?! Damme if I do!” Then several other captains followed Nelson’s lead, enabling the British to gain the upper hand.

  Nelson then managed to convince the proud Danes to agree to an armistice.

  I received as a warrior all the praises which could gratify the ambitions of the bravest man, and the thanks of the nation, from the King downwards for my humanity in saving the town from destruction. Nelson is a warrior, but will not be a butcher. I am sure, could you have seen the adoration and respect you would have cried for joy; there are no honours can be conferred equal to this.

  But here in London, there were no illuminations of public buildings after news of the victory reached our ears. The City formally voted its thanks to His Majesty’s Army and Navy in Egypt, but there was no mention of the Danish defeat, and in fact the daily newspapers accorded greater prominence than usual to the lists of those killed and wounded at Copenhagen. The Admiralty awarded only the paltriest of prize money for the Danish ships and no medals were struck to commemorate the victory.

  Good news and bad news tumbled upon one another like so many rocks in a landslide. The government agreed to grant Sir William’s pension, but the sum would be only twelve hundred pounds, rather than the two thousand per annum that was the customary sum for retiring ministers. However, our heavy disappointment was somewhat relieved when the wonderful news arrived that the best of William’s vases had turned up in London! By some twist of fate those crates had never been placed aboard the Colossus. They had been found aboard the Serapis when she docked in London in October 1800, and had been left forgotten in a quayside warehouse. Sir William was overjoyed to see his old friends, as he called them, but their reunion was rather brief; he could not afford to keep them when he was so deeply in debt. Dismayed, he put them on the block.

  Nelson was still in the Baltic when the Christie’s sale of Sir William’s paintings took place. My lover had commissioned his prize agent, Alexander Davison, to bid in his behalf on the portrait of me as St. Cecilia. As Nelson was not a wealthy man, he had authorized Davison to go no higher than three hundred pounds for it, but he could not bear to see me “sold,” especially by my own husband. And “if it had been three hundred drops of blood, I would cheerfully have parted with it,” Nelson assured me.

  Taking a mighty loss on their value, but with little choice in the matter, Sir William netted only some sixty-five hundred pounds from the Christie’s auction, buying back some of his own lots when they failed to meet the reserve. He managed to secure another four thousand pounds from a private sale of the antique vases from the Serapis. Yet we were still quite constrained financially. In Naples and Palermo we had been accustomed to a lavish lifestyle, one we could not easily relinquish. Expectations ran high for those in our position, and appearances had to be maintained. By the end of April, Sir William had managed to raise enough to settle his six-thousand-pound debt with his bankers, Ross & Ogilvie, but not enough to satisfy his Italian creditors as well, if we were to live better than paupers.

  Meanwhile, Mam took off for a visit to Hawarden, with the intention of stopping in Manchester to look in on Emma Carew. “Send me every particular about ’ow I am to proceed about the little girl,” she instructed me.

  “She’s not little anymore, Mam, y’nau? She’s now a young lady of nineteen—older’n I was when I brought ’er into this world. See that she is well and ’ealthy. Give ’er these ribands and this reticule that she might dress ’erself up a bit—though don’t tell ’er they’re from me. I don’t know whether she ’as cause to own any indulgences and fripperies, and a young girl deserves ’em to pretty ’erself.”

  “And if she asks me about ’er own mam? Emy, gal, the subject’s bound to come up. She knows I’m your mam, y’nau?”

  I sought my handkerchief to blot away the falling tears. “It’s too late. She’s been settled for so long now, ’as a life she’s accustomed to. . . . I’d want ’er to be proud of ’er mam, ’oo she is and all, but I can never think on ‘little Emma’ and not think on ’ow she came to be, in the first place. That girl’s mam was a wild and giddy girl ’erself, not the woman who is now Lady ’Amilton.”

  Mam and I held each other tightly. “Emy, I’ve never been ashamed of you, no matter what kind of scrapes you got yourself into. You’ve got the biggest ’eart in all of England. And what I’m reckoning is that little Emma would excuse all, if you could only give the girl the chance, by forgiving yourself. What’s done is done, gal, and it all ’appened a long time ago. Now, husht thee naise, and dry your tears.”
/>
  Thirty-eight

  The Countryside Beckons

  I did try to see my other daughter as much as propriety would permit under the circumstances. When Sir William was out at a meeting, or hobnobbing at one of his societies, I would have Mrs. Gibson bring Horatia to me at 23 Piccadilly. We had carefully scheduled these arrangements to avoid unpleasant embarrassments, but one day Sir William, having developed a raging headache while at the Dilettanti Society, came home sooner than expected. He climbed the stairs to greet me in my rooms, only to find me holding Horatia and endeavoring to make her laugh by pulling a series of silly faces, while a stranger, seated in the corner, looked on.

  Sir William remained in the doorway, observing for some moments the odd little domestic scene unfolding before his eyes. “I appear to have arrived at an inconvenient time for you, my dear,” he said stiffly. He blinked away the moisture in his eyes and, without another word, quit the room. I felt dreadful over it, but to say something to him would have made the situation even more awkward and agonizing for the both of us. To discuss it was to acknowledge the unpleasant reality of the thing, and after that, there could be no hiding our heads in the polite safety of the sand.

  Mrs. Gibson rose immediately. “I expect it’s time for us to be going, your ladyship.” I handed off Horatia to her. “You’ll be in touch with me, of course, when you want me to bring her again.” She dropped a slight curtsy and I gave her a guinea for her extra pains.

  Nelson’s service in the Baltic did not go entirely unrecognized. In May, he was made a viscount, and took the title “Viscount Nelson of the Nile and of Burnham Thorpe,” the seat of his birth, although if he had been commander-in-chief of the Baltic fleet, and not Sir Hyde Parker, I am certain his victory at Copenhagen would have gained him an earldom. However, the new title brought with it no financial recompense. My hero’s pension woes were in the same sort of boat as Sir William’s. So he remained at sea, now the commander-in-chief of a special squadron charged with defending the Channel coast, though miserable to be once again separated from all he held dear.