Eternally Yours: Roxton Letters Volume 1 (10 page)

I don’t know when was the last time you had the opportunity to visit Bess House here in Cumbria. As I have no recollection of ever setting foot this far north, and Mamma has never mentioned this place, I can only assume you have never been to the Elizabethan ancestral pile of your father’s mother, the 4
^th
Duchess of Roxton, the Lady Elizabeth Strang Leven as she was at the time she resided here. There is a portrait of her upon the wall, and another of her brother and his two closest male cousins, all fine-looking fellows but for their silly hair. All are wearing those long wigs preferred in the time of the Merry Monarch, with enough hair upon their scalps to cover the bald pates of six maidens! Such poodles. But your grandmother is a fine-looking woman, with dark eyes that hold your attention and thus make her unforgettable. If I am not much mistaken, you inherited your eyes from her.

But I am sure you are not interested in your grandmother’s eyes, or what I can tell you about the estate that you do not already read in the monthly reports sent to you by the estate’s manager. What I will remark upon, as an interested third party, is that the Dunnes keep the place in good order, though despite their slavish devotion, the topiary gardens could do with the advice of a reputable gardener, and the muscle power of a team of his men to clip the leafy structures back to their former glory. Thus, I have given permission for the Dunnes to employ such men, and also to rebuild the jetty that was burned down around the time of the rebellion of ’45, when the house was occupied by rebels and then housed the army for a time.

I request your permission to bring my family here to live. Yes, father, my family. For I am determined to make a success of my marriage. You will be pleased to read it is no longer a marriage in name only. To be sure it was an arranged union that came about in the most trying of circumstances, but since bringing Deborah here, how our marriage came about is now irrelevant to me. I hope, once she is made aware of this circumstance, my wife, too, will think it a trifle of a thing. What matters is the here and now, and the future.

I know at the time we were wed, the criteria as to Deborah’s suitability to be my bride were her lineage and her age, with no regard for her appearance, her disposition, or her intelligence. Our thoughts and feelings were disregarded as unimportant.

And yet, may I venture to state the obvious. When you married mamma, it must have been all about feelings. You married a woman who could live up to your exulted rank, and to your expectations, a woman possessed not only of great physical beauty, but whose thoughts and deeds reflected her inner beauty, and whose superior mind was in accord with yours.

I do not dwell on these matters to cause you pain but to reassure you and Mamma that despite the circumstances of our marriage, I am quite certain I, too, have found in Deborah a mate that lives up to my expectations in every way. I hope this will ease your minds. Now if only I can live up to my wife’s expectations, as a husband and as a father to our future children, I will be content. Is that how you feel with Mamma—content? It is a word I never thought to use in relation to my marriage, and yet now it is the only word I hope to use for my future with Deborah.

Which brings me to the reason for this letter. My apologies, but I cannot tell you when we will be able to travel to Paris. I would like to be able to say we are on our way. But we are not. I am not about to cut short time spent with my bride to satisfy the whims of a French lawyer, and the lies of a Farmer-General’s petulant daughter. I will come when I am ready—when we are ready.

I cannot leave here until I am confident Deborah will accept my little deception, for she still does not know who I am, and I have yet to find the right moment to confide in her—to confess to her. I hesitate to do this just yet. She needs more time to know me thoroughly and thus when I finally reveal my true nobility, will be able to judge for herself that I could never be the libidinous monster portrayed in the French newssheets by those seeking to destroy my credibility and the good name of my family.

Thus I politely decline your request that I present myself in Paris at my earliest convenience. Instead, I crave your indulgence to see that my wife and I are at a delicate stage in this the early weeks of our union. When I am confident my wife’s trust in me is complete, and I have summoned the courage to tell her the truth, only then will I leave here and return to Paris to face my accusers.

I am sorry to cause you and Mamma unwarranted anxiety, but I am confident you both understand how important this is to me, and to the future of the Roxton dukedom.

Your loving son,

Julian

F
OURTEEN

Sir Gerald Cavendish Bt., Abbey Wood via Bisley, Gloucestershire, England, to His Grace The Most Noble Duke of Roxton, Hotel Roxton, Rue St. Honoré, Paris, France.

Abbey Wood via Bisley, Gloucestershire, England

February, 1770

My Lord Duke,

It is with grave concern that I report the most unfortunate news. I trust that upon reading this letter you will not think badly of your correspondent, for I am merely the messenger, and as such, am as disappointed, nay, furious, with my sister—if I can indeed still call her that after her appalling lack of manners and finer feelings—as must you be upon reading this missive.

I am most saddened to tell you, my lord Duke, that no amount of persuasion on my part will see my sister leave her house in Bath and journey to Paris to take her rightful place at the side of her esteemed husband. I spent many hours endeavoring to press upon her the duty she owes to your family, but in vain. She stubbornly will not see any argument but her own. Upon my third visit in as many days she barred me entrance to her house. Me! Her brother, denied access by her servants. I am very sure you must be as horrified as was I at such a circumstance, and to think these menials had the audacity to turn the key in the lock against me, and leave me standing in the street awaiting a reply. The impudence of such an action almost made me turn heel and walk away. But then I remembered the greater need, that of your son, Lord Alston, to have his wife join him in Paris, to show family unity at this most unsettling of times. Thus I waited upon the pavement a good five minutes, being stared at by a number of persons going about their business, for my sister to allow me entry. Imagine my disgust when told, by shouts coming through the door, no less, that permission was refused and there was nothing to add to my conversation of the previous two visits.

I then called upon Deborah’s physician, in the hopes Dr. Medlow would prove more reasonable, and answer the mystery as to the illness being suffered by my sister. The man would tell me nothing other than my sister was indeed ill. He had the impudence to add that it would be best for her health and well-being if I stayed away from Milsom Street! I can well imagine your look of disgust, dear Duke, to read that a member of the medical fraternity had the audacity to offer advice to a baronet! I threatened to have Medlow struck off the register. I made him aware of just who he was defying—in truth you, Your Grace. But nothing would move him to utter one syllable more than what he had already told me. And he bid me good day!

When I had visited Deborah upon those two occasions and was permitted into her presence, she remained prostrate on her couch, and did not give me the courtesy of a welcome, and barely opened one eye to take in my person. It was as if even this small flicker of recognition were too much for her to bear, for she promptly pushed a handkerchief to her mouth and turned her face into the cushion, with all the drama to the action worthy of Mrs. Woffington!

I am of the opinion that it is all a ruse to bide her time while she consults an attorney sympathetic to her cause in seeking a separation from her husband. For that is what she intends, Your Grace. I am still in a state of shock at the thought! It is beyond my comprehension to understand why she would want to distance herself from such an illustrious family. No amount of persuasion on my part, in particular in reinforcing the happy news that one day she will be a duchess, and not just any duchess but the Duchess of Roxton, received from her nothing more than a groan, as if the very notion gave her physical pain. I then told her in no uncertain terms that even to initiate such proceedings will lead to her ruin, and in so doing, she will ruin the good name of Cavendish, and give the Roxton Dukedom unwarranted attention. To which she merely proceeded to turn her face away altogether and muffled unintelligibly into her cushion, which her lady’s maid interpreted as a wish for me to leave her mistress alone with her suffering.

I beg Your Grace to believe me that while she is my sister, my loyalty is and always will be to you and your family. I dare to seek your forgiveness for my sister’s outrageous behavior. I trust her unconscionable behavior will in no way reflect upon my person and my loyalty, and that the invitation your dear duchess extended to my wife and me, to join you in Paris for the marriage celebration of the French Dauphin to the Austrian Princess Marie Antoinette, remains a welcome one.

Lady Mary and I look forward to joining you and the dear Duchess in the spring.

Your most obedient and humble servant,

Gerald Cavendish Bt.

F
IFTEEN

Mme la Duchesse d’Roxton, Hotel Roxton, Rue St. Honoré, Paris, France, to Mr. Martin Ellicott, Esq., Moran House, the Bath Road, Avon, England.

Hotel Roxton, Rue St. Honoré, Paris

March, 1770

Dearest Martin, I am counting the days until you join us. I am being selfish and wish you were here now, before the rest of the family come, so we could have you all to ourselves for a few days at least. But I hope that will still happen, when the others they all go away at the end of the Parisian celebrations for the marriage of
Le Roi’
s grandson to his Austrian princess.

No one but Monseigneur knows me better than you, my dearest friend. And so when I tell you that only a sennight ago our cherished hope-filled wish once again came to naught, you understand how this has left me inconsolable. I was convinced that this little one would hold on to life and grow, and we would be blessed with an infant at the beginning of the autumn. But sadly it was not to be and I lost this
bébé
at eleven weeks.

This time we told no one I was
enceinte
. Only my women knew, as they would, and we prayed for what must now surely be the impossible. We had planned to tell Julian, had the
bébé
grown past the first months. I did not confide in Estée or in Vallentine, only you. For do you remember me telling you about their reaction to the news when I was pregnant less than two years ago? I was stunned to hear them both say M’sieur le Duc was too old to be a new Papa, Estée even daring to suggest that at our age we should not be fornicating at all! She used the word
indecent
.
Incroyable
! I do not care to know what goes on in the privacy of their bedchamber, and therefore what goes on in mine is none of their business either. Although, you will think me naughty, but not unlike me, when I tell you I replied to Estée that for us every night it is as if the honeymoon it has never ended. My poor sister she almost fainted and fell off the chaise at that! And I admit I laughed, and so did Renard when I told him of my taunt later that evening.

My sons they are the world to me and perhaps a little more so now with this latest miscarriage. They are far apart in age—the eldest so wanted and celebrated, the youngest wanted just as much and such a long time in coming, that they console me after the heartbreak of five little ones (and now a sixth) taken from us before they were barely formed, and for reasons only God knows. Not as my grandmother would have it, and so it seems also Estée is of the same opinion, because of the age disparity between Renard and me. An absurd and spiteful theory. Is it wrong of me to wish she had lived long enough to see the birth of Henri-Antoine? Just so I could spite her? No! That is an awful thing to wish and you must forgive me. I am still grieving and not altogether myself. I promise I will be mended by the time you arrive, because you always make me feel better.

A letter from me would not be the same, would it not, without talk of my little boy and his seizures. He worries us constantly. Not only because of his monthly, sometimes weekly, seizures, which send his thin little body rigid, his dark eyes wide, and me into heart palpitations, because I wonder if this will be the one in which his breathing it stops altogether! But Dr. Bailey remains confident that with age and skillful management, the seizures will lessen in frequency and severity. We can only take his word for it.

M’sieur le Duc, as you know, is not one for public displays of emotion, and so he hides well how greatly Henri-Antoine’s affliction affects him. As ever he is calm and in control, which has taken a lifetime’s practice, though I know inside he is falling apart. I truly believe that it is Renard’s voice which has a calming effect on our son. I am not imagining it when I say that while there is the same severity, the episode it does not last as long when he speaks so soothingly to Henri-Antoine. Dr. Bailey is of this same opinion.

So while I wring my hands and pace out of sight of my dearest little one, there is M’sieur le Duc sitting by his side, holding his son’s fingers, and stroking his smooth brow with a cool hand. And all the while he is talking to him in a gentle tone, and in English, which for some unknown reason deepens his already deep voice. To hear him speak in such a soothing manner swells my heart and brings tears to my eyes. Henri-Antoine has never said to either of us that he hears what his Papa says to him, only that he knows his Papa is there with him. I do not know the half of what Renard says to him, not because I do not understand his English, but because I am so overwrought I can barely think at all. But do you know, Martin, M’sieur le Duc’s voice has the same effect on me, and soon I, too, am calmer.

We, Henri-Antoine and I, listen to the stories of Renard’s boyhood, when he and Vallentine were very naughty at Eton, or the time on the Grand Tour when they raced camels along the banks of the Nile; or when they took the Mont Cenis pass, carried by the Marrons, who are the local villagers, in special chairs, and were so intent on racing each other in the snow, that the Marrons lost their footing from running and they all almost went over the side of the mountain pass and tumbled to their deaths. And all this he tells Henri-Antoine in a voice as if it is an everyday occurrence. And what breaks my heart is that he ends these tales with the same wish every time—that when Henri-Antoine he is older he will do the same naughty things with his best friend, and nothing will make his Papa happier than to read his letters of their naughtiness.