Eternally Yours: Roxton Letters Volume 1 (9 page)

You will be shocked by what I did, I know it, but dear sister, you cannot know what agony I was in! You would never do such a thing, for your confidence in your husband is so deeply rooted that I doubt you have ever entertained the notion of him ever straying, even with his eyes, and he such a great rake before he married you! And why should you have a single doubt? The fires still burn just as intensely for you and my brother—I see it when I am in your company. Such depth of feeling enthralls and nauseates me in equal measure.

But we are not talking of your marriage but mine, and my stupid fears manifesting themselves in ridiculous actions. Please, you must promise not to breathe a word of this to Roxton or to Lucian. My brother he will have a good chuckle at my expense, and my husband will think his wife is deranged. I will never hear the end of his grumbles of incredulity that I could ever question his fidelity.

This is what I did. I had Lucian followed. Yes, I set a spy on to him, day and night for a week. He could not step outside the house without this person two steps behind him. He became his shadow, and wherever he went, whatever he did, the spy he was there too.

Am I not the most wretched of wives to do this? But I tell you when the spy he reported all that he saw after just one week of being Lucian’s shadow, my mind was far from put at ease. My suspicions they were inflamed further and I fell weeping upon my couch. The spy told me that not only had my husband strayed across to the left bank, but that he visited the same house upon three separate days, and spent two hours within its walls on each of these days.

The spy he had even managed to procure the name of the owner of this house. That a man owned it did not lessen my fears. For all I knew then, this man could have been a pimp and the woman Lucian was seeing his bawd. But the story it becomes worse, and my fears justified when the spy told me that Lucian he was not the only gentleman to visit the house, and often.

So now I am thinking that it is not a mistress he has, but that he is visiting a brothel! For some reason this made me feel a little better, to think his wandering was not restricted to one woman, but then of course I reversed this notion, for if he was seeing multiple women what did that say about him and about our marriage? And oh! a thousand other impossible things that go through the mind when it is in turmoil.

Please, you must try to read this without giggling, Antonia! For I am very sure, as night follows day, that is precisely what you are doing, to think of Lucian visiting a brothel. In truth, the man could be standing outside such an establishment and have no idea as to its function.

But I have not told you the rest of this sorry tale, and why I am such an imbecile to even have one bad thought about my dear husband. But you must remember—at the time his behavior was so odd that my fears he was up to something were justified, even if those fears headed down completely the wrong alleyway!

So to clip a long tale short. This house was not a brothel. It was not even occupied by a woman of ill repute. I had the spy discover all this for me by throwing more coins at him to find a way of gaining entry to this establishment. It took him a few days more, and in those few days my headache was so bad, my apprehension so acute, that I hardly ate or slept. And do you think Lucian he noticed my deteriorating state? It took our son remarking at dinner one night why I was not eating what was put before me for his father to repeat the same question to me, and then add that if I was not partial to the slice of pheasant pie on my plate, perhaps Evelyn he would like to have it; after all, there was no point in wasting good pie. To which I threw down my napkin and stormed out of the room to a big silence from my husband and our son.

But their enormous appetites are nothing new to you. It infuriates me beyond measure that those two could eat until they burst and they would still be as thin as a rapier, when I need only glance at an éclair and my arms they are a little tighter in my silk sleeves.

But returning to Lucian’s visits to this house and my ridiculous fears. And now as I am writing this, I am starting to giggle, too. Not only with relief that my dear husband is as devoted as always, but thinking on what he was doing, and why. So now you have my permission to laugh with me. Though promise me again, you will not laugh at Lucian, or breathe a word.

So who were these men coming and going from this house, and why was my husband one of them? It turns out this house is a club, and its members pay a small annual fee, to come and go as they please, for use and upkeep of the refreshment rooms, and of course, the playing areas within the walled garden at the back of the house. The spy found all this out when he made an attempt to enter the premises and was told that the clientele was exclusive, though not limited to our kind, as most of the gentlemen are from the professions. I suspect Lucian thought that by finding a club on the other side of the river there was less likelihood of him being found out or meeting someone known to us. Well, he did not figure on having a jealous and suspicious wife wanting to know his every move!

So what is this club in a house on the left bank with a high-walled garden that requires upkeep and has an exclusive membership, where only men are permitted to enter, and, I dare say, the only female within fifty yards, is the maid cleaning the cups from the table?

It is a Boules club! Boules! Antonia!
Boules
. As Father Michael is my confessor, I tell you the truth when I say Lucian is spending two hours of his day three times a week in playing at boules with lawyers and physicians, and the like!
Mon Dieu
! Of all the things for him to be doing, and what I thought he was doing, he is doing nothing more than playing
boules
.

Oh, Antonia, when the spy he told me this, I burst into such tears of joy and incredulity that my women thought I was having some sort of fit. My stays were too tight and I could not breathe from laughing with relief. My headache was gone in an instant and I was up off my couch and demanding a bath and my best gown, so that I could look my best for when Lucian he returned later that day. I even sent down to the kitchen to prepare his favorite dish of garlic fowl.

I will not bore you with the details of my dear husband spending his time playing at boules in such a secretive manner. He has such a competitive nature where games are concerned, and I am sure it is only this nature that made him an expert swordsman. And again you must say nothing of this to Roxton, who will surely tease my dear husband, if not in so many words, but enough for Lucian to wonder how he came to know of his little secret.

So now you have wiped your eyes dry of tears of mirth, I lay the blame for my poor health and unfounded suspicions during this episode, and Lucian’s obsession for boules, at your dainty feet, dearest sister. It is, after all, all your fault! For why does Lucian practice and practice his bowling? Because of some ridiculous wager between the two of you! No doubt said by you as a throw-away comment and instantly forgotten, but taken up by Lucian as a challenge and one he is determined to win. No matter it is for the sum of ten pounds—what is that to both of you? It is the winning that matters to Lucian. Of course, I told him that he is bound to beat you at this game, which made him very happy. But in truth I do not believe it, because you are the better player, and because Lucian, I think, does not see as well as he pretends, and thus everything past his outstretched arm is blurry. So he has convinced himself he can win, and no one else.

So now that you know I am a foolish woman to think my marriage it was ever in jeopardy of being unhappy, and that I am no longer haunted by unfounded fears, I must tell you that my headache has returned, and perhaps even worse than before, and that what, rather
who
, brought it back with alarming rapidity is my son!

As a mother of sons, my dearest sister, only you can share the worry I have about my darling boy. From the moment of his birth until this morning, every day of his life has been my constant joy and my daily concern. Fathers have concern, too, but they do not worry as we do, and sometimes I wonder if they even think about their children from one week to the next!

Today I am worried that Evelyn he does not show the slightest inclination for the usual masculine pursuits that any boy his age should. He hates physical exertion of any sort, though he is not such a bad swordsman. So his father says. And Lucian should know, he being the premier swordsman in his day. He says that what Evelyn does not exert himself in movement, he does so in placement of his rapier. And it is in this way he is able to best his opponent. Apparently, this placement it is not such an easy thing to do, and that Roxton he was good at such skill. Lucian tells me not to worry, that Evelyn will hold his own if it comes to a duel, or if he is set upon by a pack of ruffians, he may find himself beaten up, but they won’t best him with a sword.

That is supposed to give me peace of mind?

And he does not join the hunt, or shoot, or place a wager on any of the animal baiting as all young men his age do. He prefers to haunt chamber orchestras, operas and musical gatherings, taking with him his violin. He often will go to the Tuileries when there are the stalls, and so the greatest number of people parading about, people that
we know
. He sets up his little lectern with his sheets of music, and plays for the common man, as if he is a beggar and not the nephew of a duke. Why? What is the purpose of drawing attention to himself in this way, Antonia? Why does he shame himself in such a fashion? Does he care nothing for his family name? His ancient relatives? That his mamma, daughter of a marquis, granddaughter of a duke, and sister of a duke—and not just any duke, but Roxton—is mortified that her son is performing in public in this way? Does he care nothing for my feelings, my shame?

I demanded Lucian order his son to stop putting on these shameful public displays, to counsel him about what he owes his name, and how these public performances make his dear mamma take to her bed. And what does Lucian do? He does not do as I ask. He does not tell Evelyn that he is shaming himself and his family, and more importantly endangering his mamma’s health! I can hardly bring myself to ink it here what he did do, but I will, for you. Instead, Lucian he asks Evelyn how much money the public threw into his cap, and if there is enough coinage to buy a good bottle of wine. And then they laugh about it together like two naughty children. Which infuriates me more than anything! And not one word of caution to his son passes Lucian’s lips. It is mortifying in the extreme.

And do not get me started on Evelyn and females, because there is nothing to say!

I ask myself why he does not debauch and chase women and be as a man? Which is the normal behavior for our sons at such an age, is it not? Why, while you are in England, he Alston is getting for himself a reputation in the salons for his penchant for a particular Opera dancer—or is she a singer? No matter. What matters is, he is getting a reputation! Which is as it should be for the son of a duke. But the only reputation my son is gaining is as a suspected
petit maître
! I tell you, Antonia, I am mortified, and secretly devastated if it be true because I will never have grandchildren. And I must have grandchildren, for what is left to us in old age if we do not have little ones to worry ourselves over?

Can life be so cruel to me? Can Evelyn be so cruel to his mamma as to prefer his own kind to that of sharing his couch with a woman? Of course Lucian says my head it is full of unfounded fears and nonsense, and that I should stop listening to the gossip at Julie Charmond’s salons. He says he has it on the best authority that our son is a regular visitor to a particular brothel not far from here that caters exclusively to noblemen. I told him I did not believe that for a moment and for me to believe it I must have proof. Lucian of course has no proof, and he stormed out of my morning toilette, grumbling about his word not being good enough and his face all flushed.

Now, thinking back on that conversation, I believe that this best authority is himself! And that his reaction of storming out of my boudoir was perhaps because Lucian, too, engaged a spy, and to watch our son. And this because he, like me, was worried that his son might not care for women in that way. But discovering our son visits a brothel catering to noblemen who desire women has made Lucian less concerned about Evelyn’s predilections, but too embarrassed to tell me how he discovered this information, and what I would think of him setting a person to spy on our son.

Mon Dieu
, but my family are all imbeciles in our own ways, and again I am giggling thinking about our silliness.

Antonia, I cannot continue to write another stroke. My head it is splitting, this time from laughter, which also makes me weak. But it should please you I am,
we all are
, very happy. But missing you and the family.

All my love and kisses to Henri-Antoine, to Roxton, and to you, my dearest sister. Please hurry home.

Yours devotedly,

Estée

T
HIRTEEN

The Most Honorable Marquess of Alston, Bess House, Lake Windermere, Cumbria, England, to His Grace The Most Noble Duke of Roxton, Hotel Roxton, Rue St. Honoré, Paris, France

Bess House, Lake Windermere, Cumbria, England

November, 1769

Dearest Papa, I trust this short missive finds you and Mamma in your customary good health, and Harry in better health than your last letter, in which you reported he had suffered two seizures in two weeks.

That was before Jack Cavendish went to stay with you, and I trust that with his best friend for company, he is not worn thin. Jack is a lively boy but also good-natured, as you have no doubt already discovered. I have every faith in him lifting Harry’s spirits, and perhaps diverting him enough from his illness to enjoy just being a boy, and less the introspective invalid. Please give him a kiss and my love. Tell him his big brother has been practicing his archery skills, so that when I come to Paris, he will get his chance to increase his lead against me. I believe he has three bull’s-eyes to my one.