And yet, the Queen had seen her immaculate propriety of behaviour with admiration, and had even pointed her out as an example to the giddy ladies who formed the Royal circle. “If a young woman in her position can so conduct herself, what ought,” etc. The rest of the little sermon may be imagined, and might have been more effective but for the Royal preacher’s own intimacy with the cool, handsome Irishman Acton who was the Neapolitan Minister of Marine, whom the wits of Naples coupled with King and Queen in the assertion that the three were hic, haec, hoc, and the King the last of them. But what did Emma care? Royalty is royalty, amuse itself how it will, and every word that fell from Marie Caroline’s lips was treasured and laid before Hamilton. She had chilled the King off effectually and the lovers laughed together over that thwarted gallantry. He was lost in admiration of the tender affection which nothing could swerve. Emma, who desired the Queen’s attentions very much more eagerly than the King’s, knew well of Her Majesty’s highly unreasonable jealousy of her consort’s diversions, and trimmed her sails accordingly. Not that they were any temptation to her. She was firmly if temperately attached to Hamilton, was less physically than intellectually sensuous, and had, moreover, a clear end before her and a tangled way to it which absorbed all her deeper interests. And as yet no prospect of success. He was wary beyond all her skill. A plotter, an adventuress she may be called by the too righteous, but would not any woman have done the same? And her heart was sincere if her brain was tortuous. She cared for her man; was grateful for benefits received although she hoped for more.
Sir William came in one day a little disquieted.
“News, my dearest child, news from England. A relation of mine, a very important relation coming out. I would have had her here in the house but—no, no, my Emma, my dear, don’t look sad. Don’t hide your face. What is she or any one compared to my beauty? You never thought I meant that. Come here!”
He drew her to his knee and she drooped her head on his shoulder.
“But, Sir William, the foreign ladies here don’t mind me. Indeed they don’t! See how they come to our evenings! And when we entertain at the Villa Emma, or anywhere, they don’t hold away. They have no objections.”
“My angel, yes.” He smoothed her hair tenderly. Never once did he fail in the gentlest kindness and even respect. “But English women, particularly English women about Queen Charlotte, have to be careful. Absurd, ridiculous, when every one knows what goes on, and when some of the women they pass by are a million times better and more beautiful than themselves! But this is a very great lady and was in attendance on the Queen for a considerable time. It is the Duchess of Argyll, my cousin by marriage. Her first husband was Duke of Hamilton. You can imagine I would give anything that she should know my jewel and see it sparkle, but ’tis impossible. She will hear your praises all over Naples—that’s my consolation—your kind heart not the least. But I wanted to prepare you for this, for I would not have it hurt you when she comes.”
“It won’t, it shan’t hurt me!” she said, smiling courageously into his eyes. “No one can have everything and I’d like to know where is the woman that has so much as me! Duchess as she is I daresay she hasn’t the quarter! No, my own Sir William, you shall go see her and then come back to our home, and I believe you’ll own there’s no place so happy for us both. What do I want with duchesses? Is she very proud?”
“As proud as a gorgeous peacock. Didn’t Bozzy, old Dr. Johnson’s Boswell, say she chilled him nearly into marble with her majesty? But, for all that, he ended by allowing there was something pleasant too—‘better be strangled by a silk rope than a hempen,’—I forget the exact words. But she’s all the prouder because she began life so poor that she and her beautiful sister, Maria, had to borrow dresses from a saucy actress before they could make any appearance in the world. Well born, all the same, granddaughters of Lord Mayo’s. Gunning was their name.”
“Oh, tell me more!” cried Emma, sparkling with interest. “I’ve heard Greville speak of the beautiful Gunnings. Were they as beautiful—as me?”
She pouted those incomparable lips into a kiss that ensured his denial.