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  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.“8 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.9

  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.10 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

  The thought of your coming home so soon makes me so happy, I don’t know what to do,” Emma gushed to her lover from Parkgate in August 1784. When she returned from the seaside, Greville allowed her to bring her daughter to live with her while he searched for another establishment for the child. Sir William left a month or so later to return to Naples before the weather turned too harsh to travel, and she waved him off, still buoyant and happy. Sir William nodded and smiled indulgently when she told him how much she was looking forward to seeing him again. Greville, he knew, was about to cast her off

  After turning Emma into the epitome of the virtuous housewife, Greville was no longer attracted to her. In fact, he had begun on a secret double life (so secret that it has never been noted). He was having an affair with Elizabeth, Lady Craven, a playwright and daring socialite who was separated from her husband. Lady Craven gave no precise dates for the affair but boasted that when Greville left his position as treasurer to the royal household, which he did in late 1783, his leisure “was bestowed on me.“1 He spent as much of his time with her as he could, leaving Emma to pose for Romney entertain Sir William, and play with her daughter. The less he saw his mistress, the less he desired her.

  Although Greville was falling out of love with Emma, he continued to feel responsible for her. He did not want to simply abandon her, as Sir Harry had done, but he could not afford to pension her off, and he knew she would make violent scenes—perhaps even in public—when he rejected her. By December, he was weary of little Emma, and he found a Mr. and Mrs. Blackburn in Manchester who would raise her with their daughters and send her to school, guaranteeing discretion for a high fee. When their maid came to collect the child in the second week of the month, Emma was devastated, and Greville was infuriated by her distress, hardening his resolve to dispose of her, even though he had no idea how to do it. At the same time, he heard that his uncle had proposed to a cultured young widow, Lady Clarges, who he thought “would suit me well.“2 She turned him down, but Greville knew he might not be so lucky next time.

  Christmas gave Greville time to think. By the beginning of 1785, he had developed an audacious plan: to send Emma to Sir William as his mistress. In one fell swoop, he would put someone else into the Palazzo Sessa to discourage canny widows and foist on his uncle the responsibility of giving Emma a pension. He prepared his mistress to obey, pressing her to read the flurry of moralizing tales that suddenly appeared in the European Magazine. As his friends wrote for the magazine, it is perhaps no coincidence that at the moment when he wanted to dispose of Emma, it began to publish tales about how Cleora was ruined because she was too fond of her own way, while Louisa was obsessed with praise and “vainly imagines that those that admire her are always her adorers.“3

  Greville wrote to Sir William from his King’s Mews house, keeping Emma ignorant about his plans. He started by grumbling about his debts, averring he had been cutting himself down to the barest necessities, “reducing every expence to enable me to have enough to exist on, and pay the interest on my debt.” At the same time, he praised Emma, extolling how she was “much improved” now that she had “none of the bad habits which giddiness and inexperience encouraged, and which bad choice of company introduced.” Now, he boasted, she “is naturally elegant, & fits herself easily to any situation.” He declared her the type of woman to stick to one man, and he was “sure she is attached to me or she would not have refused the offers which I know have been great.”

  Emma may have guessed that he was considering marriage, but she would not have expected it to alter her position, since many men retained their mistresses after tying the knot. Still unhappy about her separation from her daughter, she threw herself into working with Romney and sat for him fourteen times from early January to the beginning of March 1786. She was portrayed as a bacchante, as Leda loving her swan, and as allegorical embodiments of Nature, all typical poses of a mistress. Romney had an inkling of Greville’s plans to dispose of her, and he rushed to make as many studies of her as possible. When he made a copy of the Bacchante for himself, he removed the gauze from the bosom so her breast is half exposed. It became one of his most popular paintings, and when it finally left for Naples, there was a clamor of complaint that it had not been engraved.

  Despite Greville’s efforts, Sir William seemed to be oblivious to what he wanted. In March, Greville began to lay it on with a trowel. “I wish the tea-maker of Edgware Row was yours,” he wrote, outrageously promising that Sir William would find this perfect “modern piece of virtu… tolerable and even comforting.” He assured his uncle that he could dispense with her whenever he wis
hed. If Emma thought herself a burden to him, she would “give up the connexion” and not “even accept a farthing for future assistance.” He even told Sir William a “clean and comfortable woman” would suit him, adding, shockingly, that the most sensible thing for a man of such advanced age “would be to buy Love ready made.” Greville added a dash of emotional blackmail by claiming that he was so poor he would probably “be unable to provide for her at all,” leaving her destitute, conjuring the ludicrous scenario of Emma in a convent. Determined to convince his uncle, he posted a torrent of pleas, promises, and manipulations. In letter after letter, he griped about his debts, implied that his uncle would not find anyone else, appealed to his pity for her, and boasted he had reformed Emma into the perfect mistress, cheap, loyal, and sexually compliant. Never once did he mention Emma’s feelings or suggest she might miss her daughter.

  Sir William considered himself young and rather handsome, and he took exception to his nephew’s characterization of him as too old to win a new wife. But, long in the habit of not saying what he meant, he shied away from an outright refusal. “I wou’d take her most readily,” he replied, adding “I really love her and think better of her than of any one in her situation.” However, although “her exquisite beauty had frequently its effects on me,” he thought “there is a great difference between her being with you or me, for she really loves you when she cou’d only esteem and suffer me—I see so many difficulties in her coming here.” English ladies and the royal family would be offended by her presence, and “it would be fine fun for the young English Travellers to endeavour to cuckold the old Gentleman their Ambassador.” He suggested that Emma should be sent to the country, where he would provide for her until his nephew could take over again after his marriage.4 Greville refused: if Emma was in England, she would harass him with requests, embarrass him with showy behavior in public places, and probably continue posing for Romney Few families would marry their daughter to a man who had such a conspicuous mistress.

  Realizing the extent of his uncle’s resistance, Greville embarked on a different approach. He declared he wished Sir William to take Emma for only a few months. He promised he only needed a little time, more money, and freedom from his “incumbrances” to obtain the hand of a pretty, eighteen-year-old heiress, Henrietta Willoughby. Believing Greville’s luck was about to change, Sir William gave him a letter to show to Henrietta’s father in which he named his nephew as his heir. Once he believed his nephew’s marriage was in the cards, he was amenable to the idea of taking Emma for a short period of time. He was feeling lonely. English lady visitors had not proved as open to his advances as he had hoped. He wrote sadly to his niece, “What is a home without a bosom friend & companion? My Books, pictures, musick, prospect are certainly something, but the Soul to all is wanting.”

  Greville sensed his advantage and pushed it home. He promised Emma wanted only “a refined & confined life” and “would conform to your ideas.” Always obedient, “she has natural gentility & quickness to suit herself to anything, & takes easily any hint that is given with good humour.” Unlike most mistresses, “her expenses are trifling,” she did not mind when she was visited, and she occupied herself maintaining “the neatness of her person & on the good order of her house.” Greville claimed she would happily live in a remote villa and that she was so easy to please that she would prefer a “new gown or hat” to male admiration, and “if you will only let her learn music or drawing, or anything to keep her in order, she will be as happy as if you gave her every change of dissipation.” He stressed the temporary nature of the “trial.” “You will be able to have an experiment without any risque,” for if it did not turn out well, she would “have improved herself and may come home.”

  Greville’s calculating behavior was callous but not unreasonable by eighteenth-century standards. He was not abandoning her as Fetherstonhaugh had done. The only lover Lord Byron attempted to pass on to a friend was his dearest long-term companion, Teresa Guccioli. What was cowardly and cruel about Greville’s plan was his failure to explain it to Emma. He knew that if he did so, she would refuse to go to Naples.

  In the summer of 1785, Mrs. Cadogan suffered a stroke, at the age of only forty-two. Her recovery was slow, and Greville claimed he could not add to Emma’s grief by ending their relationship. Instead, in December, he lied that he had to travel on business to Scotland, and he instructed her to ask Sir William if she could holiday with him for six months while he was away. Eager to help her lover, Emma obeyed. Her careful expression suggests Greville helped her with the letter to Sir William. “As Greville is oblidged to be absent in the sumer, he has out of kindness to me offer’d, if you are agreable, for me to go to Naples for 6 or 8 months, and he will at the end of that time fetch me home.” She promised, “I shall always keep to my own room when you are better engaged or go out, and at other times I hope to have the pleasure of your company and conversation, which will be more agreeable to me than any thing in Italy.”

  Greville enclosed Emma’s appeal with a letter reminding Sir William how cheap she was to keep, asking his uncle to pay for the journey, and emphasizing that when he married, his “first concern will be to provide for her, whether she is with you or not.” Emma believed she would be staying with William as a guest, but Greville portrayed her as a sex object, describing her in a way that would be more suitable to an advertisement for a prostitute in Harris’s List: “a cleanlier, sweeter bedfellow does not exist.”

  William sent £50 for the journey and a welcoming letter to Emma. Since the roads were impassable in winter, March was the earliest she could travel. Excited by the success of his plan, Greville was happy to humor Emma throughout Christmas and New Year’s. She busied herself packing dresses for spring and summer, warm outfits for the journey, and guidebooks. Her winter dresses and hats remained in the wardrobe for when she returned. Greville’s friend, the painter Gavin Hamilton, kindly offered to escort mother and daughter to Rome. Everything was falling into place. Greville wrote happily that he had “cleared Emma and myself of everything connected to our establishment.” It had taken him two years, but Emma was finally off his hands.

  Emma was nearly twenty-one, and the passions and demons that would drive her far were firmly in place. Her childhood had made her ambitious, hungry for the limelight and afraid of rejection, always insecure and driven by a desire to please and win praise. Greville’s strictures kept her on edge, aware that her position depended on correct behavior. Energy, kindness, and enthusiasm were her best features, an egomania born of insecurity the worst. When Emma later summarized her friend Lord Bristol as “very entertaining & dashes at every thing, nor does he mind King or Queen when he is inclined to show his talents,” she described herself. Like many energetic, attention-seeking, and gregarious party lovers, she could be unreliable, tardy, and thoughtless. She had great self-confidence but little self-knowledge. Emma was a terrible judge of character, which made her generous but always vulnerable to exploitation. Often slightly tense, she was exciting but never relaxing company, and she threw herself into frenetic social activity to escape the low spirits that engulfed her when she felt alone.

  Sir William was taking (in Greville’s words) the “prettiest woman… in London,” already famous for her beauty and her scandalous past. In her absence, prints of her as Magdalens, bacchantes, and goddesses circulated, and the legends about her grew. Everyone knew she was leaving. As the World newspaper tittered at the time of her departure, any of the “dozen portraits” of Emma by Romney “might have gone abroad with Sir W. Hamilton and answered his purposes full as well as the piece he has taken with him, a piece more cumbrous and changeable than any of the foregoing.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Torn by Different Passions

  After wishing a tearful good-bye to Greville, Emma set off for Naples with her mother and Gavin Hamilton on March 13, 1786. The trio traveled in a southeasterly direction through France, attempting to avoid the unrest that was beginning to overtake
the country. As they scrimped along in hired coaches to eke out Sir William’s gift of £50, English aristocrats swished past them in glossy, brand-new carriages equipped with maids, doctors, cartloads of furniture, and hampers of food and drink. Emma’s party had only minimal comforts, and they feared the ordeal of crossing the Alps. Carriages had to be dismantled and carried over in pieces, while their inhabitants were bumped over the peaks in an “Alp Machine,” a sedan chair attached by ropes to poles carried by two to four porters. Worried about her mother’s weak state of health, Emma probably paid out to take a boat up the Rhone from Marseille to Geneva. Once they reached Switzerland, they could relax. Sir William’s servant was waiting for them at Geneva, ready to whisk them into one of his master’s most stylish carriages, equipped with a full purse to take care of their needs.

  Eighteenth-century travelers dreaded southern Italy. James Boswell declared his bones almost broken by the roads. Henry Ellis, famous for attempting the Northwest Passage, grumbled he would rather circumnavigate the globe than travel from Rome to Naples. Horrified by the grubby hotels, most English rode straight from Rome, stopping only to change horses, a drive that took about twenty-five hours, arriving in Naples in the middle of the night. Hopefully, Emma also did so, sparing her mother the grimy hotel where, according to one traveler, the rooms shuddered to draughts while the windows were covered only with splintered, broken shutters, through which the rain splattered onto the beds.1 Unlike all the aristocrats, however, Emma had lived in slums and was used to rough lodging. After Geneva, she was able to devote her attention to the most important matter: making herself look beautiful for Sir William.