Mistress of Land and Sea: a novel about the life of Lady Emma Hamilton

By David Lawrence-Young

Meet Emma Hamilton, the sparkling society hostess who has climbed out of debilitating poverty to become England’s first celebrity as well as Nelson’s mistress. There is not a young lady in Georgian London who doesn’t want to be like her._x000D_
She comes to London to start her career as a domestic servant. She then works in the theatre and a high-class brothel where she is adopted by an aristocrat who appreciates her body and her witty personality. Learning how to act like a lady, she becomes portrait painter Romney’s favourite model. Emma’s next break is in Naples where she meets Horatio Nelson. Later he lives with her and her husband, Sir William Hamilton, in a ménage-à-trois but then her husband dies and Nelson is killed at the Battle of Trafalgar. Can Emma find another patron? Will her wit and looks save her from poverty yet again?_x000D_
This riveting, entertaining and meticulously researched novel will take you into the heart of Emma Hamilton’s seductive world. David Lawrence-Young shows how the racy but cruel Georgian society treated the rich and famous while ignoring the fate of the downtrodden poor._x000D_
_x000D_
About the Author:_x000D_
David Lawrence-Young has written over twenty historical novels which have been published in the UK, USA and Israel. He loves researching and writing about Shakespeare and quirky aspects of English history. When he is not writing, he enjoys travelling to the places which form the background to his novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Conrad Press
• Release date: Sep 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781839780981

Book preview

Mistress of Land and Sea

A novel about the life of Lady Emma Hamilton

D. Lawrence-Young

Mistress of Land and Sea

Published by The Conrad Press in the United Kingdom 2020

Tel: [phone]
www.theconradpress.com
[e-mail]

ISBN 978-1-913567-32-3

Copyright © David Lawrence-Young, 2020

The moral right of David Lawrence-Young to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

Typesetting and cover design by Charlotte Mouncey, www.bookstyle.co.uk

Cover design based on mezzotint by John Raphael Smith after George Romney’s Lady Hamilton as Nature at the Rosenwald Collection https://images.nga.gov/en/page/openaccess.html and Le Lendemain de Trafalgar by Henri Durand-Brager, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection http://collections.britishart.yale.edu/vufind/Record/3634091 both in the pubic domain.

The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley.

To my wife, Beverley, who has had to live with another fascinating woman in our house for the past eighteen months and for having borne this ménage-à-trois so well.

Also, to my hard-working and perspicacious editors, Gary Dalkin of Writing Magazine
and Marion Lupu.

Historical novels by D. Lawrence Young

Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot

Tolpuddle: A Novel of Heroism

Marlowe: Soul’d to the Devil

Will Shakespeare: Where was He?

Welcome to London, Mr Shakespeare

Of Guns and Mules

Of Guns, Revenge and Hope

Arrows Over Agincourt

Sail Away from Botany Bay

Anne of Cleves: Unbeloved

Catherine Howard: Henry’s Fifth Failure

Six Million Accusers: Catching Adolf Eichmann

Mary Norton: Soldier Girl

Two Bullets in Sarajevo

King John: Two-Time Loser

Go Spy Out the Land

Entrenched

Villains of Yore

My Jerusalem Book (Editor)

As: David L. Young

Of Plots and Passions

Communicating in English (Textbook)

The Jewish Emigrant from Britain: 1700-2000 (contrib. chapter)

Chapter One

Cheshire, England, May, 1765

‘A my! Amy! Come in, lass, and stop playing with those lumps of coal. They’ll make you even dirtier than you are already!’

‘But, mother, I want…’

‘Come in, and help me clean this hovel that we call a home.’ Mary gave her daughter Amy a broom. After Amy did her best to sweep the dirt out through the front door with the primitive broom, Mary gave her a damp rag to wipe the windows. ‘Perhaps we’ll now see what we have in here,’ she said.

‘Yes, mother, and we’ll see how dirty it is as well.’ Amy looked at the discoloured streaked walls and the grimy windows, most of which were broken and stuffed with rags. The single bed in the corner, which was supported by bricks to make up for a missing leg, was covered with a few tatty blankets. She and her mother slept in it, often huddled together trying to keep warm as the winds sweeping in from the coast did their best to freeze them. The two chairs in their cottage were even less stable than the bed and so was their only table which creaked every time anyone put anything on it.

‘That’s enough of your cheek, girl,’ Mary said, though not unkindly. ‘Now, take that pail out to the pump and fill it up. And make sure you come back with it full this time. Last time it was half-empty.’

‘But, mother,’ protested Amy, ‘I can’t carry it when it’s full. And if I do fill it, I end up spilling half of it.’

‘Ask one of the village lads to help you. When you wipe your face, you’re pretty enough.’ Mary handed her daughter a dry piece of rag. ‘Now be off with you, and don’t dawdle. I’ve got to load up the cart again with coal to take to Chester. And a sack or two of potatoes. And there’s one or two people who want a ride.’

‘Who are they?’

‘I don’t know. Just people I was told to pick up at the Hawarden crossroads. Now off you go – I’m wasting enough time as it is.’

Amy opened the flimsy door. She smelt the salty air blowing in over from the Irish Sea and heard the gulls calling as they wheeled on their endless search for food.

In half an hour she was back, the pail more or less full.

‘You see, my love,’ her mother said, ‘you can do it when you put your mind to it.’

Amy shook her head. ‘Not really, mother. I got Tom from the stable to fill the pail and carry it for me. I smiled like you said and told him he’s the strongest boy in the village.’

‘And he believed you?’

Amy pointed at the pail, almost full, standing next to the rickety table. ‘Yes, and he even took out the black beetle that fell into the water from the tap. Ugh, you know I can’t stand them. And yes,’ she added proudly, ‘I didn’t let him touch my bum as he wanted.’

‘That’s good, lass. You should always stand on your honour,’ Mary said, bending over to tie up a sack of potatoes for the journey to Chester.

What Amy had not told her mother was that she had told Tom that if he helped her again, then she would let him touch her bum.

‘Now, help me take these out to the cart,’ Mary said, ‘then I’m off to Chester to deliver them and the coal to Mr. Smithers.’

‘Can I come with you this time, mother? I haven’t been for a ride for weeks. At least since last Christmas. I promise I’ll behave myself.’

‘Well, I’ll agree this once if you sit in the back if I have another passenger. Now, run off and ask Master Jackson if he wants me to take him to Chester. If he says yes, tell him it’ll cost him sixpence or one of his chickens – and not a skinny one, either.’

Amy rushed off. Ten minutes later she was back, breathless. ‘Mother,’ she panted, ‘Master Jackson wants a ride, but only as far as Shotwick. And he said that Master Andrews won’t be coming after all. And here,’ she added, holding out her grubby hand, ‘are three pennies he gave me. He wants you to tell him when you’re ready to leave.’

Half an hour later, Mary, Amy set out for Chester. They picked up Master Jackson at the Hawarden Inn and it was clear that he wanted to make an impression on someone in Shotwick. He was wearing a white shirt, a dark brown double-breasted jacket, and beige trousers that fitted into his high black boots. He held a top hat in one hand and a silver-headed cane in the other. He looked quite a gentleman.

After he had settled himself on the seat next to her, Mary asked him, ‘Who are you going to see? Mistress Wilson?’

‘Never you mind about that, Mary Kidd,’ Master Jackson replied. ‘I’m paying you to take me to Shotwick, not to talk about my private life. And by the way, if you’re passing through Shotwick this evening, you can pick me up for another threepence.’

At first their thin brown horse was unwilling to pull the overloaded cart, but a few smart blows on its rump gave it no choice.

Rather than discuss his private affairs, Master Jackson wanted to talk about James Watts’ new steam engine, but Amy and her mother were not interested. They preferred the latest gossip surrounding the king, George III, and his skinny wife, Charlotte with her long, unpronounceable surname.

After a while, Master Jackson asked Mary whether she knew anything about Mr. James Hargreaves’ new machine that could spin cotton.

‘Spinning Jenny, he calls it. I don’t think it’s a good idea or that it’ll catch on around these parts. But if it does, I’m telling you, it’ll put all the girls out of work.’

They arrived in Shotwick and Mary guided her horse and cart into the yard by the local inn. Master Jackson muttered, ‘Thank you,’ as he alighted, only to immediately step into a muddy puddle. Amy burst out laughing as the mud covered his shiny boots and spotted his fine beige trousers. A slap on the hand from her mother stopped her laughing immediately. Mary smacked the horse’s rump with the horsewhip again and they set off on the last part of the journey to Chester, Amy now sitting next to her mother.

‘Mother,’ Amy asked as they passed though Great Saughall, ‘is it really true that my father was a drunkard like what Tom told me this morning? And was it the bottle that killed him? Anyway, how can a bottle kill you? You’ve never really told me what happened to him.’

In the past, when Amy had asked about her father, Mary had always said that she was too young to understand - that she would tell her when she was older. But now Amy was growing more insistent.

‘Yes, my love,’ Mary said at last, holding the reins loosely. ‘I suppose it was the bottle that killed your father. Not the bottle itself, girl, but the drink in it.’

‘How did it kill him? Did he fall into the river and drown - like what happened to Master Jones?’

‘No, Amy. I never found out what really happened, except that someone found him dead after he’d spent an evening in a tavern. That’s the truth of it, lass, and that’s all I know.’

‘Oh,’ Amy said quietly. ‘And are you going to marry someone else, like my friend Margaret’s mother did?’

‘No, my love. I don’t think so. I don’t know anyone with any money, and marrying a poor man is a waste of time.’ She looked at her daughter. ‘Whatever you do, Amy, don’t marry a poor man. They’re more trouble than they’re worth. Just you remember that.’

‘Yes, mother,’ replied Amy, wondering who she would marry.

Her thoughts of her future were disturbed by her mother tapping her on the shoulder.

‘Look, Amy, Chester. We’ve arrived. It’s the first time you’ve been here since you were a little girl.’

Amy pointed to a large building with a high tower.

‘Look, mother,’ the wide-eyed girl called out as they entered the town though the Watergate. ‘Is that the cathedral? It must go up to heaven.’

‘No, Amy. That’s the Guildhall. And, to the left of it, that’s Phoenix Tower. They say King Charles stood up there and watched his army being defeated by Oliver Cromwell over a hundred years ago.’

Mary stopped the cart for a moment so Amy could have a proper look. So many tall buildings. Not like Hawarden with its labourers’ low, round-roofed cottages. Even the largest building in the centre of the village was only two floors high.

And so many people and horses. What a noise and commotion, and how exciting!

Amy suddenly tugged her mother’s sleeve. ‘Look at those people over there! Look at their clothes, and that carriage. They must be very rich.’

‘They are,’ a young man passing by their cart said. ‘That’s Sir William Hungerford and his wife, Emma. They must be on their way to the Guildhall. There’s an important meeting there today.’ He smiled at Amy as he walked away.

‘Oh, I’d love to be rich like that,’ Amy said. ‘Just look at her gown. It’s so beautiful. And that carriage. Oh, I wonder what it’s like to ride in a carriage like that. I’m sure it’s better than riding in an old cart like this.’

‘Well, maybe one day my dear you will ride in such a carriage and wear dresses like Lady Hungerford. But, in the meantime, we have some errands to do.’

Amy nodded and pointed to yet another tall building. ‘Mother, what’s that building? Is that the cathedral?’

‘Yes, Amy and it’s seven hundred years old.’

The girl gasped. ‘Can we go in?’

‘First I must take these two sacks of coal to Mr. Smithers and these vegetables to his brother, then we’ll go to the cathedral. And after that, we’ll go to the market. I want to see if I can find a cheap cut of meat. After that I think it’ll be time to head back again. We don’t want to go home in the dark, do we? And don’t forget, we have to pick up Master Jackson at Shotwick.’

‘Do we have to? I don’t like him. He tried to put his hand on me.’

‘Yes, we do have to. He’s going to pay me three more pennies. And just push his hands off if he tries that again. Amy, I need his three pennies and that’s it.’ And, saying that, Mary flicked her whip and guided the horse in the direction of Eastgate Street.

Twenty minutes later a burly Mr. Smithers easily unloaded his sacks of coal off the cart and paid Mary.

‘Here, and while I’m at it,’ he said, handing some more money to Mary, ‘I’ll pay you for those potatoes and give them to my brother.’

The horse seemed happy as the heavy sacks were unloaded. It shook its head and from then on, its clip-clop step was lighter and faster.

Mary bought a sugar-stick for Amy and they set off for the cathedral. After a quick meal and a glass of weak ale, Mary found the cut of meat she was after and they set off back to pick up Master Jackson at Shotwick and then home.

By the time Master Jackson clambered aboard, Amy had covered herself with an old blanket, under which she lay and mused about Lady Emma Hungerford and her beautiful royal blue hat and gown. She was fast asleep by the time Mary guided the horse onto the grassy patch by their cottage.

*

Most of the time Amy’s life was uneventful. She would spend her days playing and chatting with her friends or helping her mother and her grandmother with chores.

The monotony was broken three times a year when fairs were held in Hawarden. Amy, her mother and grandparents would wander around among the stalls selling cakes and gingerbread, trinkets and posies. They watched the puppet plays and listened to the itinerant musicians and buskers who seemed to be everywhere. Sniffing scornfully, Mary’s mother and grandparents would point to the drunken sots lying in muddy ditches at the side of the fairground as examples of what could happen to someone who took to the bottle.

The most exciting part of the fairs was when they saw the May Fair or Harvest Queens crowned then paraded around the village in carts decorated with brightly-coloured ribbons.

‘Oh, aren’t they beautiful,’ Amy called out, clapping her hands together. ‘I hope one day I’ll be as lovely, and everyone will look at me and it’ll be such fun.’

‘Well, don’t you think like that, my girl,’ her grandfather said. ‘You never know what happens to young girls after their ride around the village. When the sun goes down and…’

‘Hush your mouth, old man,’ grandmother said, slapping her husband’s wrinkled hand. ‘Amy doesn’t have to hear dirty stories at her age. She’ll hear ’em soon enough without your help.’ Turning to Amy, she smiled. ‘You’re a good girl, aren’t you, lass? You don’t want to listen to your grandfather’s dirty old stories, do you?’

‘No, grandmother,’ Amy replied, but wondered what her grandfather had wanted to say about the May Fair and Harvest Queens.

‘You’ll be a servant girl like all of the others,’ grandmother continued. ‘Quiet and hardworking. That’s the path you should choose. D’you hear me?’ she asked. ‘Working for a lord or a fine gentlewoman.’

‘Yes, grandmother.’ Amy bowed her head but hoped that life would offer her something more than becoming just another servant in someone else’s household.

*

Shortly after she was twelve years old and had been to the latest fair, Amy and her friends were standing around chatting. She was surprised to see her mother running into the yard and shoo her friends away as if they were stray cats. Her mother then told her to come and sit down next to her on a nearby log.

‘Listen, my love, I’ve got some important news.’

‘What? Who’s died?’ Usually, in Hawarden, important news was connected with someone dying, whether as a result of alcohol, accidents, the pox or other sicknesses. A few - not many - died of old age.

‘No-one’s died. Not this time. But listen, I’ve managed to find you a place of work. You’re going to be a maid for Doctor Thomas. Now what d’you think about that?’

‘The doctor?’

‘Yes, Amy. You start next week and you’ll live and sleep at his house near the church. Now isn’t that grand news?’

‘Yes, let me go and tell my friends.’

She had a job. And what a job! With the doctor in his fine house. What could be better than that? She kissed her mother on her cheek and rushed off to spread the good news.

‘Huh! Don’t look so pleased with yourself,’ said Lizzie, the blacksmith’s daughter, disparagingly. ‘I’ve heard about him. He’ll work you to the bone.’

‘That’s right,’ her older sister added. ‘You’ll be the lowest of the low. The new girls always get all the dirtiest jobs.’

‘Aye,’ Janet, a miner’s daughter, said. ‘You’ll spend all your time down on your knees, scrubbing floors and the like. Cleaning windows and polishing candlesticks as well. That’s what happened to the last new girl the doctor had. She upped and ran away to London.’

‘Well,’ Amy said, defiantly. ‘At least I’ll be eating better than at home. And I’ll wear a nice uniform.’

‘Don’t fool yourself, Amy Kidd,’ Jane scoffed. ‘They’ll give you the scraps they won’t give the dog and you’ll be wearing rags like you are now. Don’t think they’re going to waste good food and clean clothes on you, because they won’t.’

‘That’s right,’ Lizzie agreed. ‘It doesn’t make sense, does it? To give you nice clean clothes only for them to get dirty. No, Amy, that’s how the rich stay rich. If they do spend any money, they spend it on themselves. So forget good food and nice uniforms. It’s not going to be. You’ll see.’

Chapter Two

On her first day at the doctor’s house, Amy asked where her bed was.

‘Oh, a bed,’ said the chief kitchen maid. ‘Her ladyship wants a bed, does she? Well, forget about that, young lady. You’ll sleep wherever you can find some room down here. That’ll be your bed. Nearest the hearth will be the best. And d’you know why? Because that’s the first thing you’re going to have to deal with in the mornings. Clean it out and get it ready for the day. Huh! A bed, indeed!’

‘But what about blankets?’

‘There’s a blanket or two in the corner you can use,’ the maid replied, pointing to a pile of rags.

Amy was near to tears, but she was not going to reveal her misery to the other servants. ‘But I thought …’

‘What did you think, girl? That you were going to have your own bed in your own room? Well, think again and count yourself lucky. There’s many a girl out there who’d love to come and work for the doctor.’

‘But…’

‘But nothing, girl. Now get on before I throw you out and find someone else instead. Believe me, that won’t be hard. Fetch me two pails of water, and make sure you don’t spill any. And have these copper pots over there on the table scrubbed and shiny. I want them as bright as a mirror.’

‘Amy, scrub the kitchen table,’ an older servant said when she had done with the pots. ‘It’s still dirty. And when you’ve finished doing that, scrub the floor by the stove. It’s as black as soot.’

*

For the next few months, Amy crawled out every morning at the crack of dawn from wherever she had slept under her pile of rags and blankets, her body weary and bones aching as she set about her first task of the day – cleaning out the kitchen hearth and laying a new fire. This meant raking out the old ashes, some of which were still hot, then bringing in the wood and coal from the outside store to set a good fire burning. This had to be ready for the cook and the other kitchen servants who came an hour later to carry out their own duties.

Only when the fire had caught and was burning well could she attend to her next chores. These usually included bringing in more wood and coal, scrubbing any floor or pot that another servant had not dealt with, and washing some of the older and rougher clothes, usually in cold water.

‘Of course, we’re not going to give you any of the finer ones to wash,’ Mistress Runcorn, the old washerwoman said. ‘You might tear them or make holes in them.’

‘But I won’t, I promise,’ Amy protested. ‘I’ll be most gentle with them.’

‘Huh! That’s what the last girl said. And now, lass, you’re sleeping on the clothes and things she ruined. Think on that.’

‘Please show me how to wash them,’ Amy said, trying to show that she was willing to learn.

‘Waste of time, girl. By the time I’ve taught you a few things, you’ll have run away to London like the last girl or have burned your hands so badly that I’ll have to throw you out. Run upstairs and clean out the chamber pots. At least you won’t be able to make holes in them.’

‘That’s right,’ added the chief kitchen maid. ‘And do it quickly. It’s already late. We can’t stand around here gossiping.’

To the chief kitchen maid, any time was late and any talk in the kitchen had to be gossip.

Amy would trudge upstairs, and after knocking on various doors and waiting for the replies, would be allowed to enter the rooms of the doctor and his family and take out the stinking chamber pots and empty them. Although not the most difficult chore, it always fell to the newest servant. Amy hoped and prayed that over the next few months a new girl would come so that she could pass this and several other demeaning tasks on to her.

After she had finished with the chamber pots, she would return to the basement and start on any pots and pans that needed scouring – ‘and make sure they’re as shiny as new,’ she would be reminded every time. ‘The doctor and his wife don’t want to eat bits of food left behind in them, do they? And, when you’ve finished, I want you to throw out the slops. You can give them to the pigs; they’ll enjoy them. Now get moving, girl. No hanging around. We don’t have all day.’

If Amy protested that she was hungry, the answer was invariably: ‘Too bad. You can eat later. You’ve got your work to get on with; and there’s lots of it.’

Amy would continue her daily round of chores, hating every minute but knowing that her mother needed her wages, however little they were. At night she would fall into her rough bed by the hearth thankful that she had not cut or burned herself that day and that she hadn’t been groped by one of the men servants.

The first time it had happened it had been a complete surprise. None of the other servants had warned her about the wandering hands of Brown, the under-butler. She had heard of such stories from the older girls in the village but had never thought that it would happen to her.

It was late one evening when she was alone in the kitchen standing by the table cleaning and polishing a couple of copper pots. Suddenly she heard heavy breathing behind her and a pair of hands grabbed her waist, then clamped themselves on her budding breasts.

‘Ooh, there’s not much here, is there?’ a coarse voice said. ‘I was hoping that with your pretty face you’d have bigger tits.’ And, with that, the under-butler yanked up Amy’s skirt.

‘Well, let’s see what your bum’s like. Ah, that’s better.’ He breathed down her neck and tried to force his fingers between Amy’s tightly closed thighs. ‘Come on, lass, open ’em up and let me feel what you’ve got down there.’

‘No, no,’ Amy hissed and violently turned away from her panting attacker.

‘Well, have it your own way,’ the under-butler said. ‘At least this time. You’re lucky, girl, I’ve got something to do before the doctor calls me again. But fear not,’ he said as he straightened his clothes to leave, ‘I’ll have you another day. I always have my way with the new girls. Just ask the others. They’ll tell you.’

From that day on, whenever Amy was alone in the kitchen in the evening, finishing the day’s chores, she would always make sure that she was standing or sitting close to a wall or cupboard.

Her strategy paid off and the loathsome under-butler gave up, instead choosing to grope one of the other kitchen staff, who seemed to enjoy the feel of his flattering words and long fingers. Even so, Amy wondered how long it would be before he came down to the kitchen at night when she was in her