This also was Emma’s opinion on receiving the letter and discussing it with Nelson, and a little more peace was accorded the old man now so near his end. He died in April, 1803, in the presence of Emma and Nelson, and she immediately made the sacrifice of cutting off her beautiful hair and wearing it à la Titus in the fashionable mourning style of the period draped with a huge black veil which served a few months later for the renewed Attitudes.

In so far as the black veil represented mourning there was still more occasion for it when Sir William’s will was read, and her attitude then might very naturally be one of dejection. Greville had conquered. An annuity of £800 a year, to include provision for her mother, was all that was left for his “dear wife Emma.” An enamel of Emma to Nelson, and Greville as residuary legatee. And eight hundred pounds a year to Emma now was less than eight hundred pence would have been in the days of Edgware Row.

CHAPTER XXVII
SUNSET

The Immortals, the lesser gods, watch their prey at leisure and, one would say, with ironic amusement. The angels may weep but it is certain they laugh.

Emma’s plans were nearing fruition, and, again granting the initial error, were they so unnatural? Her husband was gone; that chapter finally closed; and every hope for the future grew nearer and more dazzling. If any untoward fate were to remove Tom Tit, she herself would succeed her and life at Merton and in London be all her heart’s desire with Nelson and the little “adopted” Horatia, and, if Lady Nelson unkindly persisted in living, there was at the worst the sunny dukedom of Bronte in lovely Sicily; and there she knew it had long been Nelson’s wish to retire and live in peace among his own vineyards with his Santa Emma and his Horatia. The simple kindly people there would take them unquestioning. Marie Caroline could not do less than spread a protecting wing over them and life might drift away like a dream and Nelson be blessed as he never had been blessed yet. Of course, London would be her choice, with the opera singers coming and going, and the gay old Duke of Queensberry who was so much attached to her that she had even visions of a legacy there also if the friendship continued. But after all, the old Castello of Maniace in Bronte could be filled with guests, and Italy had its pleasures and—many dimly agreeable things ran through her brain in those days of freedom. She was really not pinched for money at the moment. Nelson allowed her £100 a month for the housekeeping at Merton, and with that and Sir William’s annuity she might have managed well but for—a large but—her own incorrigible extravagance and incapacity for saying no either to herself or to any one else. How could she do without a little house in London?—and there was a charming one in a charming neighbourhood, Clarges Street, out of Piccadilly. She must have that. And the expenses would be smaller at Merton because the French were at their old game and Nelson was again ordered to sea—to the Mediterranean, to Naples, where he would see her adored Marie Caroline and remind her of her Emma; for indeed it appeared as if that ungrateful Majesty were forgetting her steadily but surely. Possibly the Queen felt that her friend’s services had been well paid with £30,000 worth of diamonds and other Royal gifts and such Royal condescensions as fall to the lot of few blacksmiths’ daughters.

Yes, it all promised exceedingly well, and Emma found her widow’s cap, if so the black veil could be described, “le vrai bonnet de la liberté.”

Greville was troublesome certainly. He was cold and sharp. He no longer cared to hide his dislike and he hurried her out of the Piccadilly house in a way which any self-respecting widow would resent. Still, she remembered the past with a certain tenderness, and he had had his uses. The “little Emma,” now a young woman, had been edged off to a situation abroad without any certain knowledge as to her parentage, and was heard of no more. He might be useful also in her endless petitions to the Government for a pension as a reward for her own services in the matter of victualling the British Fleet before the Battle of the Nile. But that unfortunately fell flat. There was a prejudice against her in high places which she could never understand. Against Nelson also, though he was the darling of the people—who had alas! no pensions to bestow. But he would win fresh honours, prize money, rewards, in this commission and then all would be well.

His love letters were always as passionate as the first he had ever written her. He would scarcely allow himself any recreation ashore in the lovely Mediterranean lands lest she should be jealous of the dark-eyed signoras. She had no anxieties there. Indeed, she might enjoy herself in perfect security in London with old Q. (as they called him) and his revellers, and Emma was the first and gayest of them all. She had her admirers, and Nelson wrote, with a jest which stings a little:

“Never mind the great Bashaw at the Priory. He be damned! If he was single and had a mind to marry you he could only make you a Marchioness but, as he is situated and I situated, I can make you a Duchess, and, if it pleases God, that time may arrive—Amen, Amen!”

An odd invocation, but cheering to Emma.