Eternally Yours: Roxton Letters Volume 1

by Lucinda Brant

  I have always considered my birthright a burden to be endured, and in the most arrogant of ways. I am well aware of my preeminent place in this world, and I own to being conceited and vain. I have often taken without a thought for the consequences to others, and without giving freely in return. I am by nature wary and reserved. All this you know and accept, and have never been in awe. Nor have you ever doubted my right to be as I am. You love me unconditionally, and for that alone I am blessed. You have given me a wondrous gift.

  You have always been prepared to see the good in others, first and foremost, and only want the best for them. I marvel at how you find joy in living each day to the full. To look on you, to be with you, to experience life in your company, is to be complete.

  For you alone I strive to be a better man; to live a better life; to know its joys and its pleasures; to never disappoint you; and never will I squander a single moment of the life that is left to me—with you.

  With this letter I enclose some lines of verse, with apologies to the seventeenth century poetess for taking liberties with her poem.

  You have my whole heart, my body, and my soul.

  I am eternally yours,

  Renard

  Oft I’ve conjured thee to appear

  By youth, by love, by all their powers,

  Have searched and sought thee everywhere,

  In silent groves, in lonely bowers:

  On flowery beds where lovers wishing lie,

  In sheltering woods where sighing maids

  To their assigning shepherds hie,

  And hide their blushes in the gloom of shades.

  Yet there, even there, though youth assailed,

  Where beauty prostrate lay and fortune wooed,

  My heart, insensible, to neither bowed.

  In courts I sought thee then, thy proper sphere,

  But thou in crowds were stifled there,

  Interest did all the loving business do,

  Invite the lovers and maids too.

  Thy mighty force through every part,

  What god, or human power did thee create

  In me, till now, unfacile heart?

  Yes, yes, my love, I have found thee now;

  And found to whom thou dost thy being owe,

  ’Tis thou the blushes dost impart,

  ’Tis thou that tremblest in my heart.

  I faint, I die with pleasing pain,

  My words intruding, sighing break

  When e’er I touch thy beauteous form,

  When e’er I gaze, when e’er I speak.

  Thy conscious fire is mingled with my love,

  As in the sanctified abodes

  Forevermore…

  EIGHT

  APPENDIX

  [This supplementary letter is included here, at the end of the first set of letters, and not inserted chronologically, because it was not amongst the correspondence discovered in the secret stairwell at Treat, but was always in possession of the Earls of Strathsay. It was generously offered for copying and inclusion in this volume by the Lady Violet Fitzstuart, eldest daughter of the 8th Earl of Strathsay, and sister of the present (and 9th) Earl. It adds immeasurably to understanding the earlier years of Antonia Moran before her marriage to the 5th Duke of Roxton, when she resided in Venice with her father, the esteemed physician and Professor of medicine, the Chevalier Frederick Moran. The Chevalier wrote this letter just before he died of his final illness, which left his young daughter an orphan.]

  Chevalier Frederick Moran, Moran Il Palazzo, San Marco, Venezia, to The Right Honorable Countess of Strathsay, Hanover Square, Westminster, London, England.

  Moran Il Palazzo, San Marco, Venezia

  February, 1743

  Madam,

  Undoubtedly a letter from your estranged son-in-law after an absence of communication of more than six years must come as does a bolt of lightning, unexpected and unwanted. Indeed, I have written to you upon only two previous occasions. I do not choose the word ‘correspond’ because I received nothing by way of a reply from you. And that came as no surprise to me.

  Thus, I am not in expectation of a reply to this letter. I will merely assume you are in receipt of it and, as you possibly did with my previous letters, consigned my words to the flames in your grate. However, I am in no doubt you are reading this missive, for how could you not? You are a female of shallow mind and outlook, thus all letters must be read regardless of the feelings for the correspondent—curiosity compels you.

  To the flames you may put my letters, but you will have my words on your conscience forevermore. Of that I have not a shred of doubt. But let me satisfy your curiosity as to why the husband of your daughter and the father of your only grandchild would bother to waste ink writing to you—you, Madam, who failed to provide an ounce of motherly affection or love for your daughter or mine.

  I write as a courtesy, nothing more. For while you may not have the decency to acknowledge your own flesh and blood, honor forbids me falling into the gutter to join you.

  I have it on authority your son is a decent man, and so it seems your two children received their sense of honor and depth of feeling from their father. If not for the fact my wife had your flaming red mane, and my daughter has inherited your exceptional physical beauty, I would have doubts you brought forth children via your birth canal, and not via a warming pan introduced into your bed!

  I wrote to you on the joyous birth of our first and only child, a daughter, Antonia Diane. She was so wanted and her birth eagerly awaited. She has never disappointed. She is a blessing and has been a joy from the moment of her first cries. And what she has inherited in beauty she has ten times in intelligence, curiosity and compassion. Call it an eccentricity of my own intelligence, but I have always decried the stupidity of not allowing a superior intelligence to reach its full potential through study at our universities, regardless of family circumstance or gender. Antonia would have made an excellent scholar and no doubt followed in her father’s footsteps and become a physician, had she been allowed to fulfill her intellectual potential. I have taught her as best I can, and employed tutors as if she were in fact my male heir, and she has exceeded my expectations. She can speak, read and write in Latin, Greek, French and Italian, as well as English. She is a voracious reader, and as inquisitive. And all this at just fifteen years old! I wish I had been granted more time on this earth to bear witness to her as a woman. But I digress upon a subject that is of no interest to you.

  Did you, Madam, offer one ounce of praise or of welcome upon your granddaughter’s birth? Did you even enquire after the welfare of your only daughter after a long and tedious labor? Not a drop of ink from your quill did you spare, heartless creature!

  The only other time you have had the privilege of seeing my handwriting was to learn of your daughter’s death in childbirth. My dear sweet Jane did her best to give me a son, only for her and the child to die in the attempt. I did not even have the consolation of holding my dead infant son in my arms. I wept for both, but most bitterly and long for the untimely demise of the love of my life at the tender age of only two-and-twenty. I have missed her every day since her passing. And my daughter has grown up without benefit of a mother’s love and devotion. You would have seen my tears mingled with the ink in the letter I sent informing you of her death, and not one word of consolation, not one ounce of compassion, nor of understanding and shared grief could you spare us.

  So why do I attempt to shake your conscience into action upon this occasion? Because, Madam, I am dying. I do not want or ask for your sympathy. I am in pain, yet I do not fear death. Death will release me from earthly feeling and reunite me with my wife and son. But I shall resist my demise with every fiber of my being until I am certain my daughter’s future is secure. Antonia will be left an orphan, and I am certain it will be before her sixteenth birthday. She will be alone in the world, but for her grandfather—your estranged husband, you, and your son—her uncle.

  To Antonia you are all strangers, and beca
use you are devoid of maternal feeling, Madam, she would be better off were I to consign her guardianship to the rag-and-bone man at the steps of our villa!

  While I have every faith her grandfather would come to her aid, he is old and frail, and I am also told he will exit the world before I do. And thus I have reached out a hand to one who I know will do his duty as Head of his family, the family to which my daughter belongs, and take it upon himself to be executor of my last will and testament. I speak of His Grace the most Noble Duke of Roxton, your cousin.

  And with the Duke as executor, I have made your son, Theophilus Fitzstuart, the 2nd Earl of Strathsay (for he will soon inherit the title), my daughter’s guardian until her twenty-first birthday, whereupon she will inherit my considerable estate.

  You must be wondering why I confide such mundane and, to you, unnecessary details. Because I forbid you to interfere in my daughter’s future in any way. You have not made an attempt to enquire about her in my lifetime, so do not make an attempt to ingratiate yourself into her life once I am gone. I know you better than you think—if you thought there could be a way of using my daughter as a weapon against your estranged husband, you would do so.

  Know this—I have written to his lordship and given your husband my full support should there be any dispute as regards my daughter’s guardianship and her inheritance. Under no circumstances are you to involve yourself.

  My one concession to you, call it a parting gift, is that I have not poisoned my daughter’s mind against you. She remains ignorant of your reprehensible behavior and I hope always will. I did this for her benefit, not yours, and permitted her to grow up with the fairytale that she was possessed of kind and loving grandparents and a loving uncle, all of whom care about her welfare—albeit from the distance of English shores. You possibly scoff at my stupidity, but make no mistake. I have every faith in my daughter’s intelligence. Five minutes in your company, Madam, and she will undoubtedly form her own opinion of you that will faithfully mirror mine! She is no fool. You would do well to remember that, should you ever meet.

  I know we shall never meet again. My conscience and my life are without blemish and thus I am destined for Heaven. I am very sure my eternity and yours are set for different paths.

  Your ladyship’s son-in-law,

  Chevalier Frederick Moran

  FAMILY TREE

  If your eReader does not support enlarging this image, view the Noble Satyr family tree at lucindabrant.com

  MIDNIGHT MARRIAGE LETTERS

  MIDNIGHT MARRIAGE LETTERS

  9. Estée, Lady Vallentine, to Lucian, Lord Vallentine

  10. Mr. Martin Ellicott, Esq., to His Grace The Most Noble Duke of Roxton

  11. Mr. Martin Ellicott, Esq., to His Grace The Most Noble Duke of Roxton

  12. Mme Vallentine to Mme la Duchesse d’Roxton

  13. The Most Honorable Marquess of Alston to His Grace The Most Noble Duke of Roxton

  14. Sir Gerald Cavendish to His Grace The Most Noble Duke of Roxton

  15. Mme la Duchesse d’Roxton to Mr. Martin Ellicott, Esq.

  16. The Most Honorable Marquess of Alston to Mr. Martin Ellicott, Esq.

  Midnight Marriage Family Tree

  NINE

  Estée, Lady Vallentine, Hesham House, Hanover Square, London, to Lucian, Lord Vallentine, Ffolkes Abbey, Ely, Essex.

  Hesham House, Hanover Square, London

  August, 1761

  Lucian, you must return to London at once! We need you—Roxton needs you.

  Something… something utterly shocking has happened. I can hardly bring myself to write. I have been shaking all over these past three hours, and only now have mastered the tremors and my tears, so that I can finally dip my quill in ink and scratch the parchment without dropping great blobs of black all over the page. In truth, this is my third attempt at writing to you, and if it were not for the courier kicking his heels in the courtyard, his horse saddled and waiting, he ready to ride posthaste to you, I would give up the attempt, and throw myself back on my couch.

  But write I must, and tell you a little of what occurred so you will not worry on your return journey. But most importantly, so you will not come blustering in here, slamming doors and shouting, demanding all sorts of nonsense, not least of which that our son be thrashed for his part in an incident almost beyond imagining, that has left me, his dearest mamma, bereft of speech and not able to look at him without bursting into fresh tears for his part in this wickedness.

  Of course I know they are but mere boys and were stupidly intoxicated, and that he and his friend Robert had no part in the shocking deed perpetrated late last night… But they did nothing—nothing—to stop it either, so my brother has every right to think them equally as guilty. So you must come and speak to these boys and find out the truth of the matter. Know that they have come to no harm, but are detained, under house arrest (the shame of it all!), on pain of punishment if they dare try to leave the house without first giving a full account of their actions, and what they witnessed, to M’sieur le Duc.

  But my poor brother is in no fit state to interview them. Thus our dearest boy and his school friend will at least have some hours or days! to sleep off their drunkenness. I pray then they will be able to give a better account of themselves to you. But your first duty must be to Roxton. Evelyn you can interrogate later. And it would not do him a harm either for those boys to spend time alone with their thoughts and to think through their deplorable inaction.

  No! I have not been drinking, or taking too many James’s Powders. I grant I have not slept all night, and am exhausted from being in attendance on Antonia, but I cannot close my eyes, which are dry of tears because I see the nightmare of last night as vividly as if it were happening all over again. I screamed, I know I did. And it is my screams that still ring in my ears. That poor sweet darling girl did not so much as whimper until her pains they began. I believe she was in shock; is still in shock that such a monstrous act was perpetrated upon her, and in her condition! Oh, Lucian! She was so very brave!

  And so you must return here with all haste, and not stop until you are in his house, and can help my brother with the unspeakable reality that his son and heir is a monster. A monster, I tell you! And others will attest to this sad fact, so I am not the only one who thinks so.

  It is dawn and the morning sky is streaked red. That is not such a good omen, is it, to think the new little one’s first day in this world will be full of storms, when this birth, so longed for and so anticipated, should have been joyous, wondrous, an event most worthy of the noble parents, and yet, it has turned into a catastrophe of a magnitude most shocking.

  It is as if one son he has run mad and in his place is this puny but perfectly formed little bundle of bittersweet joy. For all that, he is very much alive, determined in fact, to remain on this earth and not ascend into Heaven. His cries are lusty and demanding and he has taken to the wet nurse’s breast with gusto. So that must say something for his will to live and gives us hope that he will one day thrive.

  Yes, Lucian, Antonia has given my brother a second son. But she is too weak to feed her infant. She is almost too weak to live. She has lost a great deal of blood, and her spirits they are so low that the physicians have advised Roxton that even if she manages to rally physically, her poor mental state may see her decline further. But we—Roxton and I, her maid Gabrielle, and those who love and know her best—put our faith in her strength of personality and great will to live. She would never willingly leave Roxton in this way, and she could never abandon her newborn son.

  And so the new little one, as I told you, has been given to a wet nurse, a sturdy young wench who has no history of drinking or carousing, and has just the sort of disposition needed to care for a premature newborn of an ailing mother. She will stay by Antonia’s side, despite the physician’s advice the Duchess needs rest and no distraction. But Antonia wants to be near her newborn son, to see him for herself and hold him between feedings, even though she can barely h
old up her head, and needs assistance to drink from a pap cup.

  Roxton agrees the infant remain within the sickroom, and this despite the physician advising him in private that there is a chance his newborn son will not live out the week, and the devastating effect this will have on Antonia were she to witness him taking his last little breaths and then expiring in front her! Oh, Lucian, just the mere thought of such a horrendous circumstance, after all they have been through—the babies they have lost before this one—to have a second son and then to lose him within the blink of an eye, it makes my heart break.

  I tell you, Lucian, my brother has aged ten years in ten hours! You will not know him I think. I am certain his hair is turning white before my eyes, and his eyes, they are full of such sadness. Forgive me the splotches. I did not think I had tears enough left to shed. But there you are!

  Lucian, oh Lucian, what has become of us? Why has our world been turned upside down in this way? How could that boy do this to his mother? What demons are in his head? Between you and me, I cannot but help recall the incident with the Vicomte d’Ambert, wherein he attacked Antonia and almost killed her when she was pregnant with Alston. And now this! Sixteen years on and that infant in the womb turns around and does the very same thing to his own sweet mother? It is beyond belief! My brother must surely wonder what blood runs in his veins to have produced such monstrous offspring. But I will say no more about it, and you would do well to burn this letter before your return. My fears in that direction I pray nightly are wholly unfounded and some other explanation can be found, but what that could be, is beyond me!

  I have not had the heart to broach the subject with Roxton, and with Antonia unable to rally after a most traumatic labor, he has not been a minute away from her side, not even to visit Alston, who remains locked up in his rooms, refused all contact with family or servant.