England's Mistress: The Infamous Life of Emma Hamilton (19 page)

After indulging his guilt among Catherine's belongings, Sir William set off for England on his first visit since 1777. He hoped to release the money from Catherine's estate and sell his best vase to the Duchess of Portland, a woman celebrated for being, like him, intoxicated only by empty vases. He owed £4,000 to antique dealers and he needed money. When he arrived, he stayed in the newly built and fashionable Nerot's Hotel, close to the St. James shops and dealers, the Palace and the King's Place brothels, all far too expensive for him. London welcomed him back: the April edition of the
European Magazine
began the fanfare early by opening with a full-page engraving of him and an admiring biographical sketch.
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The king teased him about remarrying, but William was in no hurry to scour London's eligible aristocrats for a suitable wife.

Sir William was immediately enchanted by Emma and began visiting her almost daily, putting off his visit to his late wife's estates in Wales and procrastinating about meeting the Duchess of Portland. Emma received himjoyfully: she had plenty of free time and had never had such an engaging guest. Tall, thin, and very fit from trekking up Mount Vesuvius, Sir William had a sharp nose and bright, inquisitive eye. A famously stylish dresser, he set off his good looks with sumptuous suits of pink, blue, and red silks and handsome shoes with large silver buckles. Intellectual and cultured, he had a charismatic personality and a true gift for friendship. The perfect diplomat, he shied away from saying anything that might offend
or annoy, peppering his conversation with hilarious anecdotes about King Ferdinand and juicy morsels of gossip about the Neapolitan court.

Emma, cooped up in the country and pining for the gossip and glamour of high society, devoured Sir William's stories and begged him for more. She was very lonely. Early in 1783, Greville had gained the position of treasurer to the royal household, and he was often away from Edgware Row. She threw her energies into pleasing Sir William and showing herself off as accomplished. He was utterly bowled over by her: young, beautiful, obliging, fond of music, and eager to show an interest in art. Still bruised by the death of his wife, he craved female attention. He adored wasting time, and here was a lovely young woman with seemingly nothing to do but sing to him, serve him tea and cakes, and entertain him. Soon, they were giggling together in corners, flirting incessantly, and teasing each other robustly. Emma could be as bold as she pleased, for Sir William was much less easily offended than Greville. He even snatched her away for spontaneous visits to town. She dubbed him "Pliny," after the Roman scholar and vulcanologist. He called her the "Fair Tea Maker of Edgware Row."

Emma told herself that her friendliness toward him was a dutiful effort to further the connection between her lover and his uncle. But she found herself looking forward to Sir William's visits, hugging herself with pride about his admiration for her. Only a few years ago, she thought, she had been hopelessly poor, and now a wealthy envoy came all the way to Paddington simply to sing with her and listen to her jokes.

Sir William's favorite niece, vibrant Mary Hamilton, had been looking forward to his visit, expecting to be spoiled rotten. Twenty-seven-year-old Mary had only just left her position at court as third companion to the princesses. After six years of deadly dull embroidery and early nights in threadbare Windsor Castle, alleviated only when the Prince of Wales (six years her junior) had fallen passionately in love with her when she was twenty-three, she was excited to be living with friends in Piccadilly. Not rich, she was no doubt hoping that she might be able to charm Sir William into giving her a big present toward a dowry. She was acutely annoyed to find she had a rival—and a woman of dubious reputation at that. She teased her uncle mercilessly about his fascination with "Greville's mistress."
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When he began to enquire about having his own portrait of Emma made to adorn his Naples home, it was the last straw. Her uncle, she declared, was neglecting his friends in London in his frenzy to put the city's artists into competition, "painting this Woman's picture for him to take to
Naples." Sir William foisted on her the job of negotiating the sale of his vase to the duchess. To her credit, she successfully sold the vase (now in the British Museum). Hopefully, her uncle rewarded her with a present for her efforts.

Forgetting his debts, Sir William commissioned Joshua Reynolds to paint her as a bacchante, hoping that the great artist would produce a portrait that outshone Romney's. Sir Joshua's
Bacchante
was, however, a failure. Although he captured some of her infectious gaiety and replicated the exquisite detail of her gold-trimmed cashmere shawl, the fussy drapery and hair confused the lines, the face was too wide, and the finger in the mouth—a familiar erotic posture used for courtesans and actresses such as Frances Abington—made her look simpering. Sir William paid the price of thirty guineas and then in the spring of 1784 commissioned Romney to paint her as another bacchante, a more daring full-length image in which the viewer gains a side view of Emma's bosom. She wears a peach-pink dress that sets off her complexion, and he captures her from the same side as
Sensibility,
but she is running with a dog. Slim and vibrant, she smiles with delight at the viewer, her hair and dress streaming behind her. Bacchantes, according to a contemporary bestseller on music history, participated at orgies nearly naked, dancing wildly, their hair disheveled.
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No respectable woman would consent to be portrayed as a nymph in the throes of desire. Emma allowed Sir William to commission a painting of her in the most scandalous pose because she desperately desired his good opinion.

Sir William was utterly infatuated with Emma, but he considered his flirtation with her to be no more than a fun interlude, a mere holiday romance. Predicting that Greville would soon grow bored and cast her off, he did not expect to see her again after he left England.

"If I was the greatest laidy in the world I should not be happy from you," Emma wrote to Greville in 1784. Although they were often bickering, she blamed the strains in the relationship on his job at the Treasury and his uncertainty about Sir William's plans. Finally, after delaying it for a year, Sir William and Greville set off to survey the Welsh estates. Greville did not trust Emma alone in London, and he dispatched her to Cheshire with her mother to collect little Emma and then travel on to spend the summer by the sea at Abergele.

Emma met up with her daughter, now age one, at her grandmother's
house in Hawarden. Mother and daughter began to build a relationship. She also decided Abergele was too far away and “uncumfortable” and set off instead for the glamorous sea resort of Parkgate, on the west coast of England. Only a few miles from Emma's birthplace, Parkgate was a world away from grimy Ness. Visitors admired the handsome promenade of white and red houses and flocked to the elegant entertainments. More than thirty hotels graced the long seafront, and small alleys were named after roads such as Drury Lane in London to attract the urban rich. Perched on the promenade were a theater, a billiard room, several coffee shops and restaurants, a racecourse, and assembly rooms for dancing, tea drinking, and card parties. Since it was the main port for passenger boats to Ireland, most of the actors and aristocrats traveling there spent a couple of days in the town. England's elite partied in Parkgate, most recently Mrs. Fitzherbert, new wife of the Prince of Wales. The visit of sweet-natured Maria, a Catholic widow and the most controversial woman in England
after the secret marriage that had so infuriated the king that he swore she would never be Princess of Wales, meant one thing: the hoteliers put up their prices.

Engraving by Charles Knight of Romney's own copy of Lady Hamilton as a Bacchante—the painting commissioned by an admiring Sir William in 1784. Greville made his friend paint the portrait repeatedly until he judged it beautiful enough for his discerning uncle. When it was finally finished, Bacchante became one of Romney's most popular paintings and prints of the engraving were soon bestsellers.

Emma claimed she had found a cheap apartment at Mrs. Darnwood's boardinghouse, now Dover House, 16 Station Road, but its pleasant position right by the sea came at a cost. Little Emma played with Mrs. Cado-gan by the sea while her mother embarked on a stringent detoxifying and beautifying regime that was, as she confessed, a "great expense": "a shilling a day for the bathing horse and whoman and twopence a day for the dress." Bathing machines were liberally advertised in the local papers: a carriage driven by a liveried man and a horse, which had at the back a long covered tunnel so that the lady could bathe in (dark) privacy.
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It seems as if Emma had developed eczema at Edgware Row, and it was particularly painful on her knees and elbows. Greville had been repulsed by her peeling skin, so she was anxious to prove it was improving, declaring she washed her knees and elbows at least twice a day in seawater and massaged them with moisturizing cream, as well as hiring a maid to slather seaweed all over her before she went to bed.

She missed him deeply. "I am allmost broken hearted at being from you," she pined.

You don't know how much I love you & your behavier to me wen we parted was so kind, Greville, I don't know what to do, but I will make you amends by your kind behaiveir to you for I have grattude and I will show it you all as I can, so don't think of my faults Greville think of all my good & blot out all my bad, for it is all gone & berried never to come again.

When he did not reply, she stepped up her promises, pledging to become a new woman, the epitome of "evenness of temper and steadyness of mind," thanking him for his "angel like goodness."
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She begged him not to "think on my past follies" and declared that the "wild unthinking Emma" was no more.

Am I not happy abbove any of my sex, at least in my situation, does not Greville love me, or at least like me, does not he protect me, does not he provide for me, is he not a father to my child… To think of your goodness is too much.
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When she finally received a letter from him, she replied in a tumble of gratitude, rhapsodizing how little Emma "hopes you will give her an opportunity of thankingyou personally for your goodness." She had fallen in love with her small daughter and had begun to cherish hopes that the little girl might charm her lover. Greville read the letter angrily, suspecting her of trying to wheedle a place for little Emma at Edgware Row. He dashed off a furious reply, making it clear that he would decide when he would meet the toddler, if at all.

Hurt, she replied that "you have mad me unhappy by scolding me; how can you," and promised he could decide her child's future: "I will give her up to you intirely… put her there where you propose." In her next letter, she regretted she never had the "luck & prospect" of an education like her daughter's. "All my happiness now is Greville, & to think that he loves me makes a recompense for all." She promised she would be "gentle & affectionate & everything you wish me to do I will do," and declared, "I shall think myself happy to be under the seam roof with Greville." She was trying hard to be as tender, dedicated, and grateful as
The Triumph of Temper
instructed, but her effusive promises no longer had the same effect on her lover. After ten weeks away from her, Greville was no longer titillated by games of punishment and forgiveness. He was as weary of her as any collector who tires of a piece he owns.

Greville returned from Wales determined to hook an heiress. He faced a lot of competition. Contemporary newspapers were full of advertisements for "a Girl of moderate fortune, who hath the good sense and generosity to prefer a good husband to a rich one" from a "young man of liberal education" using an address at a coffeehouse for correspondence.
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As a minor aristocrat with just £500 a year, which wasn't much by their standards, and onerous debts, famous only for having a gorgeous mistress displayed in sexy poses in galleries and print shops across town, Greville was not much of a catch. Only if Sir William confirmed him as his heir could he attract the interest of wealthy women. As he wrote to his uncle, "suppose a lady of 30,000 was to marry me, the interest of her fortune would not prove equal to her pretentions" unless "your goodness should ensure me at a future period an estate which would come hereafter." Everything depended on him winning Sir William to his cause. If he wanted to grab an heiress, he would have to do it before his amorous uncle found a new wife.

CHAPTER 17
Negotiations