Too Great a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  I had remained mostly bedridden since baby Emma’s birth, attended by Dr. John Heaviside, who dwelt just around the corner from me in George Street, Hanover Square, as something had happened to me during the birthing. Dr. Heaviside had prescribed the insertion of a pessary to support my womb, for he had diagnosed my condition as a dropped uterus. This, he said, was causing my unbearable back pain and the pressure I was feeling every time I went to the commode. Though I could complain of illness, I could not tell my dear Nelson just what a mess I was in, for I was convinced he would have said “Damn the French!” and heeled the Victory for home. As much as I wanted to hold him in my arms forever, never did I try to keep him from his duty to king and country.

  One morning in mid-March, we received a note from Mrs. Gibson regarding my girls. They was suffering from the smallpox. I insisted on rousing myself from my sickbed to see them, for they was Nelson’s children and I could not live with my shame were I to put my health above theirs. I hired a hack and set off for Little Titchfield Street. There I found Mrs. Gibson, dabbing at her eyes, and Horatia, feverish and covered in spots. I knew that Nelson, once he learnt of it, would accuse me of disobeying his instructions that the child be vaccinated. I had asked Mrs. Gibson to see that it be done, but perhaps it was not done proper.

  “Where is baby Emma?” I whispered.

  Mrs. Gibson looked stricken. “Not fifteen minutes ago, the Lord took her for His own.” She bosted into tears. “I am so sorry, your ladyship. There was nothing to be done for her. The doctor came, but he didn’t think she’d pull through, such a weak little thing.”

  I could not rail at her. I had to believe that she’d indeed done her best and fulfilled her obligations to look after the girls as best she knew. Baby Emma, still wrapped in her blanket, was placed inside an apple crate, the box was closed, and I returned with it to Clarges Street, my mind in such a haze that I scarce remembered the drive home.

  Mam sussed up the situation immediately. “My poor gal,” she wept. “Poor Emy. The both of you.” I immediately took to my bed. “What do you want to do with ’er?” Mam asked gently.

  “Bury ’er, of course.”

  “I may be old, but I’m not daft, child. Do you want the world to know ’ow you came by that apple crate?”

  I shook my head. “But I cannot allow a child of Nelson’s to be placed in unconsecrated ground.” I thought it over. “I’d always wanted to bring little Emma—Emma Carew now—to live with us in Edgware Road, y’nau? So if we take baby Emma to St. Mary’s Church at the edge of Paddington Green, at least one of ’em will get to live there. Sort of.”

  “St. Mary’s is Papist, y’nau? Since when ’ave you developed a fancy for popery?”

  “So many years in Naples, I suppose,” I sighed.

  “And we ain’t taking baby Emma to St. Mary’s. You’re too ill to be running about. I’ll take ’er there. I don’t get out much, so it’s not likely I’ll be recognized, specially when I’m wearing heavy mourning. And I pay the priest double to lay ’er in an unmarked grave and strike everything from the parish register. There won’t be no slipups if your own mam attends to it.”

  Then I set pen to paper and imparted the news I despaired to write, telling Nelson that Horatia and I had been at death’s door; and with the heaviest of hearts, I added that baby Emma had passed through it. Truly, I wrote, when I learnt of the unhappy event, it was the saddest day I had known since Sir William’s death.

  Horatia did survive the smallpox, but after such a scare, Nelson became adamant that she be removed from Mrs. Gibson’s as soon as possible, and come to live with us at Merton.

  And Nelson, as brokenhearted as I at the death of our baby girl, and acknowledging the emotional cost of all our subterfuge, as well as the fact that his letters could be read by others before they ever reached me, assured me of my place in his affections: . . . I do not say all I wish; and which, my Dearest beloved Emma (read that whoever opens this letter and for what I care publish it to the world), your fertile imagination can readily fancy I would say, but this I can say with great truth: that I am for ever yours.

  To cheer me, he sent me charming birthday presents from Sardinia—a Spanish comb and an unusual pair of gloves with a muff made from the golden beards of mussel shells. He also enclosed a banknote, and sent gifts for Horatia as well: a pretty gold watch set with seed pearls around the case to wear on Sundays and special occasions, and a pendant. Horatia had once asked him for a dog, but Nelson had written to me saying he could not possibly have promised her such a thing, as they had no dogs on board his ships. However, he settled the matter as he might have done a dispute between two of his men: he sent his little daughter a delicate openwork medallion of a greyhound on a golden chain.

  Once again, I tried to rouse my spirits by surrounding myself with life. Nelson’s sister-in-law Sarah Nelson and I had become close over the past couple of years. I called her “my jewel,” and she had become something of a confidante, though there were certain secrets she was never to know, for she did love to talk—incessantly, in fact, and at stunning velocity. Sarah suspected the truth about Horatia’s parentage long before anyone else did, for being an observant sort (or at least the sort who gives a thought to anyone beyond himself—unlike her husband, the reverend), she had noticed the child’s resemblance to Nelson when we was all at Merton over Christmas in 1803. After Sir William’s death, she offered to entertain us at their rectory in Canterbury whenever I chose. I did enjoy their company, though her husband was rather a prig, and he constantly leered at me. The hypocritical William Nelson was appalled when I proposed a champagne-drinking contest one night. But my heart was broke when invitations would arrive for some rout or ball addressed to Dr. Nelson and his family with “but not Lady Hamilton” written across them.

  “You know we want you, dear,” Sarah insisted. But I had my pride, and I packed my things and returned to London, where I was more than appreciated. I wrote to Nelson, much amused, that I had received offers of marriage from the second son of a viscount, and from an earl. “But my being, body and soul, heart and mind, so completely belongs to you, that I cannot even spare a look for another.”

  As far as expenditures at Merton went, there were so many projects I planned for our dear farm, and I was eager that everything should be in place for Nelson’s next homecoming. However, my beloved cautioned against my opening my own purse against the improvements, nor to spend my money “to please a pack of fools,” for he was certain that my bountiful nature was abused by all and sundry and I was too naive to know when I was being taken advantage of. Yet what else could I do?

  Following several months of negotiations, our neighbor Mr. Axe was convinced to sell Nelson his lands. After the small matter of the exchange of eight thousand pounds, Paradise Merton became an estate comprising 115 acres. Nelson had borrowed the entire sum, getting half from Alexander Davison and the other half from his brother-in-law, the handsome adventurer and entrepreneur George Matcham, out of Katty’s marriage portion.

  Once again the tradesmen descended upon Merton Place. Modern water closets were to be installed, and the wooden doors that opened onto the garden and our raised “quarterdeck” would be replaced with glass ones, in order to bring in as much light as possible. There was to be plenty of nursery space added as well. I wished Merton to be more than a paradise for lovers; it should be a true family home, where Nelson would never have a care in the world.

  We would improve the kitchen with the addition of a Rumford stove, which had fitted ovens for cooking and baking, a water boiler with its own tap, and plenty of shelves, enabling more than one thing to cook at a time. The hearth was to be much increased in size so that the hotplates could be heated by a flue running from the chimney, conveying hot gases to the fire. Mam, for one, was overjoyed. Our perpetual entertaining would be so much easier from now on!

  A modern washhouse was to be built behind the servants’ quarters. I had an icehouse erected in the garden, and ordered the const
ruction of a brewery on the property that we might make our own beer, though we would still bring in stout, as well as all our wines, from London. We could soon rely on our own vegetables as well. In short, dear Merton was becoming a county squire’s idyll.

  Having not heard from Nelson in some weeks, I despaired. Where was he that he could not dispatch a letter? Was all well? In October, I sent a note to Davison, sharing with him the depth and breadth of my love for Nelson, for I could not keep my emotions locked away any longer, and I knew that Davison was not only aware of our situation but sympathetic to it. I was miserable. How ridiculous it all was that Nelson should still be wedded to a woman he did not love, whilst he and I should suffer so. I would have settled for dying in two hours if I could have been Nelson’s wife for one. How I wished with every fiber of my being that our love could be completely out in the open. Priggish Admiralty! Damn the hypocrisy of society! Had not Nelson done enough for his country that they should let him love in peace?!

  . . . I am anxious and agitated to see Him. I never shall be well till I do see him, the disappointment would kill me. I love him, I adore him, my mind and soul is now transported with the thoughts of that Blessed Extatic moment when I shall see Him, embrace Him. Ours is not a common, dull love. It may be a sin to love, I say it might have been a sin when I was another’s but I had then more merit in trying to suppress it. I am now Free and I must sin on and love Him more than ever, it is a crime worth going to Hell for. May God only spare Him and send Him safe back. I shall be at Merton till I see him as He particularly wishes our first meeting should be there. . . .

  Forty-two

  Paradise Regained

  Nelson was unwell again. He was suffering from a rheumatic fever and he wrote that he could feel the blood rushing up the left side of his head like water through a pipe. He’d been coughing so violently that he’d hacked up a ball of phlegm that he vowed had been the size of his fist. Night sweats and intense pains in his side rendered him sleepless. The shipboard physician had told him that the wound he had sustained during the Battle of Cape St. Vincent was a hernia. If God in His mercy sees fit to send me home, I hope He won’t mind if His poor Nelson chuses a less active means of service in future. What would you say, my dearest Emma, if I was to tell you that I’ve been thinking it would not be such a bad thing if I was to go into the Admiralty?

  I was overjoyed. If the Admiralty would have him, Nelson would remain by my side forever and we could indeed live our dream at Merton Place. But my pragmatic side told me that Nelson and the Admiralty would take to each other as well as oil does to water: they would never meld without a great deal of stirring.

  At least I had a bit of good news to share with him. Lord Melville had spoken to Prime Minister Pitt about my pension, suggesting the figure of five hundred pounds a year. It was less than half Sir William’s pension, but I was up to my arse in bills and anything at all would have been a boon. The upkeep of homes in town and country, entertainment at both, travel expenses, Horatia’s care, my wardrobe and jewelry, presents to Nelson’s family and my own—all greatly exceeded Sir William’s annuity of eight hundred pounds and Nelson’s gift to me of twelve hundred pounds a year.

  Nelson, who in April was promoted to vice admiral of the white, already had his hands full, though even during the ugly business of war, he was able to spare a loving thought for me, pining for him at home. On March 16, he wrote from the Victory: Your resemblance is never absent from my mind, and my own dearest Emma I hope very soon that I shall embrace the substantial heart of you instead of the ideal, that will I am sure give us both real pleasure and exquisite happiness. But duty interrupted this most felicitous reverie. On March 29, in heavy fog, the French fleet slipped through the British blockade at Toulon and headed for the West Indies. As he set his fleet on a course for Gibraltar to chase down the French, Nelson wrote to me of his concerns for Horatia. First, he would make good on his intention to settle an annuity on Mrs. Gibson provided she had nothing more to do with Horatia, either directly or indirectly, nor was she to speak to anyone about her ever having cared for the child. Further, he was instructing Haslewood to hold four thousand pounds in trust for Horatia, in an account that would be beyond my reach. Had he hit me with a full broadside, I should not have been so wounded. I was cut to the quick. Not to trust me! It was as if to accuse me outright of squandering our daughter’s inheritance!

  Beside myself, I sat down to reply in anger to his letter, but found my ire melting by the moment. I responded with a poem instead.

  I think I have not lost my heart,

  Since I with truth can swear,

  At every moment of my life,

  I feel my Nelson there.

  If from thine Emma’s breast her heart

  Were stolen or thrown away,

  Where, where should she my Nelson’s love

  Record each happy day?

  If from thine Emma’s breast her heart

  Were stolen or thrown away,

  Where, where should she engrave, my Love,

  Each tender word you say?

  Where, where should Emma treasure up

  Her Nelson’s smiles and sighs,

  Where mark with joy each secret look

  Of love from Nelson’s eyes?

  Then do not rob me of my heart,

  Unless you first forsake it;

  And then so wretched it would be,

  Despair alone would take it.

  There was no more talk of the arrangements for Horatia’s annuity. In a calmer mood I realized that perhaps Nelson did have sound reason for his actions, for he never did a thing in his life—even his “spontaneous” maneuvers during a battle—that he had not fully thought through.

  Frustrated by the incompetence of a fellow admiral who had let the Frenchies slip right past his fleet near Gibraltar—necessitating Nelson’s mad chase across the Atlantic to the West Indies—he expressed the most vehement wish to be sent home. He immediately added—with further fury—that Whitehall would not let him return. Then, his anger vented, and his undying love vowed to me and to Horatia, he fell frighteningly silent.

  Meanwhile, I tried to quiet my nerves. As ever when I was under extreme anxiety, my rashes returned; in late July I took a brief sea-bathing excursion, for that was the only cure that availed. I had just come home from a week or so away and was going through the correspondence that had mounted during my departure when I came across a letter from Emma Carew, saying she had reason to believe that she was a relation of mine; as she was coming down to London in August and understood that I was often to be found at Merton entertaining both friends and family, might she call upon me?

  My pen was poised to compose a reply, but I hesitated. What should I say? Would it be better to see her after all these years, or tell a white lie and apologize that I would be unable to receive her, as I planned to be visiting in Norfolk or Canterbury then? A splash of ink spread across the page.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.” A soft, though unfamiliar, voice startled me. Another splotch dropped from my quill.

  I turned to discover a pleasant-looking young woman, tall, with ash-blond hair and unremarkable features. “Can I ’elp you?”

  “I hope so,” she replied with a shy smile. Her speech was good, with just the slightest hint of Mancunian. “My name is Emma Carew.”

  My hands quivered, my jaw trembled, and it took all my nerve to steady myself from the shock.

  “Did you not get my letter, then? I had written to you more than a week ago, but when I had no answer, I took the liberty of coming down here on the chance you might be receiving.”

  “I—I just opened your letter,” I stammered, “and was about to send you a reply. I’m just lately back from sea bathing at Ramsgate, you see, and”—I indicated a stack of papers—“I’ve only just begun to peruse the correspondence that awaited my return.”

  An odd look crossed “little Emma’s” face. “Sea bathing. I see.”

  Oh, dear God! Without thinking, I had to
uched upon a memory that ’twas best left buried. I changed the subject. “Well . . . of course you are welcome to stay ’ere, especially as you have come all this way from . . . ?”

  “From Manchester. I am a governess up there. Does Mrs. Cadogan reside here as well? It was she who told me—”

  “Told you what?”

  “That we were related, of course.”

  I let this sink in. “Perhaps a cousin to the Connor side of the family?” I suggested, my countenance open and placid. “Or maybe the Lyons? Or is it the Kidds? My gammer was a Kidd.” Mam could never have mentioned to Emma that the girl was my daughter . . . could she? “Mrs. Cadogan is out back, I believe. Allow me to fetch her. I am sure she will be delighted to learn of your arrival.”

  My outward show was all politesse; inwardly, I was in utter turmoil. I found Mam on her hands and knees in the kitchen garden digging up turnips. “Mam, Emma Carew has just arrived. Tell me, and tell me true: did you plan this?”

  Mam rose unsteadily. Why she insisted on rooting about the garden at her age and with her bad hip taxed all common sense. “No, Emy, gal, I didn’t. Though it might be time to think about telling the child the truth now that she’s all grown.”

  “She says ’twas you as told her we was kin. What exactly was it you told ’er about the nature of our relations?”

  “I said she was a distant cousin—of mine—which makes ’er once more removed from you. ’Twould make ’er kin to the Kidds when all is said and done, as far as the fiction is concerned. We are taking ’er in, I ’ope.”