The Perils of Command by David Donachie Read Free Book Online Page B

William Hamilton and his wife she could not have asked for more in the way of comfort and with propinquity came a less harsh judgement of a lady with a very chequered past, a woman she had originally seen as somewhat spiteful.
    Lady Hamilton had been branded a whore in the collective mind of the British upper classes, her husband pitied more than envied for first keeping her as a mistress and then marrying a woman of her background. Some of that, Emily realised, was brought on by jealousy, for Emma Hamilton had been a rare and stunning beauty in her younger years.
    Often painted in classical poses by George Romney, Emma’s looks were known to many in the ton who had never met her but were happy to traduce her from gossip alone. Such was her attraction to portraitists that the Palazzo Sessa was filled with paintings of her by any number of famousartists who has passed through Naples, and one Madame Vigée Le Brun was near to being another resident, so often was she calling. Emma’s flaming hair was more muted now than hitherto and the purity of those looks had suffered a little from the consequences of time, but she was still a feast to a male eye and, Emily had discovered, accomplished in many ways.
    Having been coached for a decade by a succession of tutors provided by her husband, she spoke Italian, French and German, played the harpsichord with some facility and was a confidante of the Queen of Naples, an Austrian princess and the real ruler of the kingdom, her husband being a man of severely limited mentality.
    ‘If you really wish to take ship for home, Emily,’ Lady Hamilton said, the subject once more raised, ‘I would not do anything to stop you, though I will opine that my husband would be sorry to see you go.’
    That made Emily blush and drop her head, for she too was a beauty but with none of the confidence in that estate as Emma Hamilton. Sir William, the Chevalier to his wife and friends, should have been, in his seventh decade, well past the age at which to engage in seductive verbal dalliance that bordered on the risqué, but he did so frequently.
    Kindness dictated that his sallies be seen as mere raillery from a man whose manners came from a different age, for he was ever thoughtful, but much prone to the production of a blush. With his sallies he was forever causing a reddening of Emily’s pale cheeks.
    They were coaching through the city on the way to the English Garden, with Emma Hamilton acknowledging the cries of ‘Madonna’ by which she was frequentlygreeted, with Emily wondering whether to impart to her the reasons for her revived determination to return to England. She decided against it for it was not germane to what had become, if not a true friendship – Emma was not good at holding close female company – more than just acquaintance.
    At least she had the blessing of not having to face John Pearce, but that was a parting reckoned not to be of long duration. He was on a mission to some place in Dalmatia and had sworn he would not be gone long. He would certainly call into Naples on his way back to the fleet, so if she was going to take passage, and there was more than one reason for haste, she knew she had to do so soon.
    The afternoon walk in the English Garden was near to being a ritual for Emma Hamilton, only broken when she attended upon Queen Maria Carolina. She was popular in the royal palace for her ability to entertain the queen’s children and it was said, not least by her husband, that the Maria Carolina paid more attention to Emma’s advice than she did to his or that of her English First Minister, the courtier and military advisor, Sir John Acton.
    It was pleasant on what was a calm and unseasonably warm day to promenade in such a place, personally designed and planted by the Chevalier. He had laid out flower beds, planted trees native to his homeland, now maturing to provide shade, and created arbours each with its own small classical temple, ideal for semi-secret