And safely. Emma, the Ambassadress, is more inclined to magnify her office than to roll on the carpet with it. Great ladies, the truly great, do not commit such faux pas. She mused often over the unspoken lessons in demeanour of the sweet Gunning Duchess, now gone to rejoin her lost and lovely sister. Emma had studied that soft dignity to some purpose, and if the original Eve broke forth sometimes primitive and unashamed, who can blame her?
She sat one day in her room of the mirrors dressed in her white morning negligée and looked out upon the blue bay, with many thoughts of public anxiety. It was dawn, and a golden calm subdued the water into a peace so exquisite that it quieted her into a serene delight. They were to spend the day alone, and she was glad; a little tired of unceasing anxiety and the long uneasy talks with the Queen and Acton. The air was full of trouble; she hankered sometimes for the good old days when all was gaiety and gladness by the blue sea that has seen so many revellers come and flit away into the darkness for ever. And as she leaned and watched in pleasant idleness, a ship hove in sight, far-off but drawing in slowly and steadily with white sails set to catch every drift of the faint morning breeze—a great ship with yawning ports along her chequered sides, with the English ensign flying; English, therefore, and certainly a news-bearer.
She started up and caught at Sir William’s glass, steadying it against a flower-stand and kneeling while she looked. Yes—English.
Good God! Sir William must know.
He was not in his room and she sent Teresa flying all over the house to search for him. No—His Excellency was out. He had dressed and gone hastily down to the water’s edge. Then he knew—he had known before she did. She knelt down and resumed her glass. Presently, their own boat pulling off from the pier. That would be Sir William in the stern and one of the secretaries. Which, she could not be sure. Now they were nearing the big ship as she turned, rounded broadside on to the windows, and Emma, through the slid-back panes, could hear the great rattle when the mighty anchor loosed from the catheads sent blue water flying as it sought its home below. And then the thunder of the Royal salute to the flag of the Two Sicilies flying on Uovo and Nuovo. Twenty-one guns. She put her hands to her ears, laughing for pride and pleasure as the roar of the Lion sent the wild echoes flying. These Neapolitans—they should see the might of her own people at last; the floating battlements which alone stood between them and the French devils. She clapped her hands when gun after gun thundered along the Bay, and Uovo and Nuovo responded with feebler, crackling honours.
What! The Royal Barge putting out to the ship, and at this early hour! And that was the King in the stern if ever she saw him. Then that was Marie Caroline’s doing; a special honour to the ship representing the friend of the Two Sicilies. She saw her husband’s boat draw back politely, and the Royal barge gained the rope ladder first with Sir William’s hovering attendant, and the boatswain’s shrill pipe cut the morning air, and the officers gathered at the gangway, and she could see the King laboriously ascending the rope ladder, Sir William following, and a bright bugle call was heard, and then, for watchers ashore, the scene was closing unless one cared to watch the boats making off hot-foot from the shore with cargoes of fruit and vegetables very acceptable to men so long afloat as the bluejackets of the English Fleet.
Emma did not. With Teresa she made such a careful toilette as a beautiful young woman of twenty-seven would naturally achieve with hospitalities of importance to come. The Captain and all the officers on leave would be entertained at the Embassy. Indeed, the Queen might send for her any moment to discuss the news, whatever it might be. Word had already reached the Embassy that the ship was the Agamemnon—detached from the English fleet blockading Toulon. Good God! What was the news? But no one was sure, though wild rumours were flying about and nearly all the population on the quays. She lived at the window that morning, and watched the Royal barge return with all the honours, and received a messenger who came from Sir William with news that preparation must be made for the guests she expected. She was half frantic with suspense.
An hour went by. Evidently long private discussions between the Ambassador and the Captain. Good Heavens! Why couldn’t they talk as well ashore? And then again the boatswain’s piercing call, and the Embassy boat at the ladder, and Sir William clambering down slowly hand under hand, and a slight man in uniform taking the descent as to the manner born. She had heard, but could not for the life of her remember, who commanded the Agamemnon.
She hurried into the great reception room where the morning sun was darting bright rays through the jalousies, and lighting up the low broad settees, the polished tables with Sir William’s articles of virtu displayed upon them, the glassed cabinets where yet more precious treasures lurked, and the huge pottery bowls full of the glorious flowers which poured into the house summer and winter alike. A gracious setting for any woman.
Steps. Voices—Sir William’s a little excited; she knew that note! A strange voice answering. A group of uniformed men at the door, the Ambassador leading and waving the Captain to precede him.