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! An
d 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
THIRTEEN
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.
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 4th 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
FOURTEEN
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.
Eternally Yours: Roxton Letters Volume 1 Page 7