Forever Remain

by Lucinda Brant

  Christopher has decided to return to England. I know I told you so in my previous letter, and my disappointment in us not having time spent alone together. But the good news is I shall follow, not immediately, but within six months. I may have to settle in Bath until such time as I can move closer. This depends on my sister and her husband, and how they take the news that their son is determined that I shall be part of his life, and thus their lives. How we will manage it all, I know not. But he does. And I suppose, given he managed to live a life within a triangle of husband, wife, and lover, he can adapt that to a life within a triangle of adoptive parents, birth mother, and their shared son!

  My life, if nothing else, is interesting.

  So this incident. It happened late last night. If it had involved anyone else but Christopher, I would have found more in it to amuse me. When it happened I was shocked, and every inch a mother. This morning, upon reflection, I found the humor in it and almost spilled my coffee when I burst into spontaneous laughter, with the image of the previous night’s escapade popping into my mind’s eye. Christopher is unscathed, and dear boy that he is, he was far more concerned about the episode’s effect on me, than any injury done the Fittleworths’ pride, or his modesty!

  Oh dear. I have just spent five minutes wiping away tears of laughter because the more I thought about it, and what you would say or do had you been in a similar situation, the more I found to amuse myself. Of course you will raise that eyebrow of yours, and the corner of your mouth, too, and say that you would never have got yourself in such a situation in the first place, but I digress… Let me tell you a little of the background to events.

  In my euphoria at having Christopher walk back into my life, all other considerations, appointments, etc. and so forth, slipped my mind. It is well I have a housekeeper who is beyond price, she is also the most marvelous cook, and her husband acts as my major domo. They are coming with us to England. I cannot live without them, or Fran, and they, mercifully, have agreed to leave behind their homeland to take care of me.

  Again I digress. So while my housekeeper remembered I was having guests to stay, I did not. So here was I, sitting down to breakfast with Christopher, and in the turret, with its views of the harbor, and a lovely cooling breeze, watching a magnificent sloop flying the flag of the Dutch Netherlands drop anchor, when I am informed that Lord and Lady Fittleworth have arrived.

  Good God! I’d forgotten all about Fanny and Fred coming to stay. Of course, at the time we had corresponded I had welcomed their visit. Fred is here in his official capacity as English consul to the Florentine court, to meet with the British Factory. A number of merchants have raised concerns on some trade and legal issues I cannot remember, and would not bore you with even if I did.

  And as I have stayed with them in Florence on numerous occasions and enjoyed their hospitality enormously, I could not say no. Though, had I known Christopher would be living with me, I would not have hesitated in the least to put them off, or to have found them a townhouse of their own (though these are scarce to rent in this quarter).

  As you are well aware, Fanny Fittleworth is not to be trusted with any man to whom she takes a fancy. She strays often, and he is a jealous husband, which is tiresome. It’s not as if their marriage was a love match! Far from it. She was only seventeen when her father sacrificed her for the sake of having his gambling debts paid by Fittleworth’s papa. You possibly know the story better than I. You are a contemporary of Fred’s. Come to think on it, were not the two of you involved in an incident in your twenties, that had the militia pounding on the door of a well-known courtesan for disturbing the peace, and the two of you escaping out an attic window and across the rooftops? The more I ponder that, the more I am convinced it was you and Fred on that rooftop.

  Regardless of Fred’s lax moral code (and I am the last to point the finger, am I not?), he expected fidelity from his wife, and never got it. Were you one of her lovers? Oh, don’t answer that! I don’t care. What I do care about is the here and now, and Fanny mistaking Christopher for my lover. Was that a chuckle I heard all the way from Constantinople?!

  That is not the worst of it. Fred thought so too. The plot thickens, because they both know Christopher as Cristoforo, having met him in Lucca when they were guests of Count di Nobili. The very same who is the husband of Christopher’s Italian countess Maddalena. And so the Fittleworths were fully appraised of Cristoforo’s role, which is why they thought we were lovers. The only good is that they never suspected he was my son.

  So here was I with the famous Cristoforo as my house guest. And Christopher, knowing the Fittleworths from Lucca, played his part so well (too well as it turned out) that he was indeed transformed into Cristoforo, and I hardly knew him. I certainly did not recognize my son. The English, even the Fittleworths who have lived abroad for many years and consider themselves cultivated and knowledgeable about foreigners, have no understanding of the social position of a cicisbeo and thus they dared to view him through their English eyes as a male prostitute engaged by women of a certain age and social standing. Do you see where this is leading?

  So to the incident.

  I have put aside my quill to drink a dish of coffee because now, as I come to write out the incident in question it has made me reflect upon my past behavior, and the behavior of my circle, in particular your cousin Augusta. Forgive me for bringing up the past but I remember you telling me that in your youth Augusta preyed (I use the word deliberately) on you, and tried to seduce you, and this when you were a boy of fifteen or sixteen, and she almost thirty. Well, Christopher may be a man of thirty, with many years’ experience of women, but the particulars are not far removed from what happened to you. So if the following narrative brings back painful memories, I ask your forgiveness. And if it makes you laugh heartily at the antics of this married couple, then laugh away. I do hope it is the latter.

  So, what happened is this.

  I was woken in the middle of the night by Fran, who in turn had been woken by my majordomo Carlo. And he in turn was woken by the noise coming from Christopher’s bedchamber, of a woman and man in heated argument. At first we all thought it was Christopher, why wouldn’t we? But then as we huddled in the passageway listening, it became apparent there was a third voice, much calmer than the other two, and that this was the voice of reason, and it belonged to Christopher.

  Calling it a heated argument is putting it mildly. It was, in truth, a screaming match. She screaming at him and he growling back at her, all sorts of recriminations past, present, and future. Thank God my servants know little English, and even fewer foul words in our language. Though I was surprised that Fran, who I am very sure has never seen a man naked, least of all let one touch her virginal thighs, knew exactly what was being implied. So when the woman screamed that he was the “piss-proud owner of a lobcock so underwhelming she needed her spectacles to find it”, my Fran turned white and her knees gave way. Carlo caught her before she fell to the floor (he did not manage to catch her a second time, and I will allow you to guess when that happened).

  As you can imagine, I could have listened to this exchange all night for it was vastly entertaining. But then something awakened my mother hen instincts when I remembered this melodramatic squabble was taking place in my son’s bedchamber. And you will be proud of me, because I then barged into his room without a second thought, and full of moral outrage, determined to rescue Christopher by ending the argument and sending the couple scurrying back to their own beds. Carlo, Sylvia, Fran, and the house porter followed close at my back. But I was only a few steps across the threshold when I came to an abrupt halt, which sent those behind me scrambling to a stop themselves and crashing into each other to avoid crashing into me. At the time, I had no idea, and I am very sure to an observer it would have been highly amusing indeed.

  But the sight that presented itself in that room was enough for me to forget all other considerations.

  Illuminated in the candlelight was Christopher in all hi
s glory, sitting on the edge of his mattress, naked but for a handful of sheet strategically pressed between his thighs, and standing either side of him, Fanny and Fred Fittleworth, he in his nightgown and nightcap, and she half dressed, with her chemise falling off one shoulder. They were hurling accusations and insults at each other across my son’s bare head.

  To say I was in shock is an understatement. But it was when Christopher lifted his chin and his gaze locked on mine that I knew none of this drama was of his making. And when he gave an embarrassed half smile and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, it was not as Cristoforo, but as my son. That was all it took for my feet to become unstuck and I bustled forward, determined to end this high drama. But before I could utter a syllable to make my presence known, Fanny tugged the sheet out of Christopher’s hand and began to climb up onto the bed, demanding her husband leave the room, that he no longer had her permission to be a spectator to her lovemaking with Cristoforo.

  I heard a thud behind me. Later I learned it was Fran, who at the sight of Christopher standing in all his glory before he quickly cupped himself from view, fainted and fell, and Carlo failed to catch her. In my rage, I was oblivious to what was happening behind me. All I cared about was extracting Christopher from the Fittleworth fiasco, and so I went straight up to Fanny, and this will make you chuckle, I grabbed her by the hair and pulled her off the bed, she yelping and in no position to do anything but as she was told or be in more pain.

  In an about-face, Fred came to his wife’s defense and demanded I unhand her, which I did, but not until they were both well away from my son, who as soon as he was free of the couple scrambled to wrap the sheet about his body from chest to thighs.

  I was in such a rage I could not recall precisely what I said to them. Christopher later told me. I reprimanded them for their disgraceful behavior and threatened to have them both thrown in the canal, and their belongings along with them, if they dared to trespass into my son’s room again. Indeed, I said my son without a second thought as to whether Christopher would want me to publicly own to the connection. Though the dear boy did assure me that under the circumstances, he was very pleased I did. Is it not amazing, Roxton, how we as parents are quick to jump to our child’s defense, no matter their age. It must be an instinctive response. I also told the Fittleworths that my son (there I go again!) was deserving of their respect, and they would treat him as a gentleman, which he was, and that was how he was always treated by members of the Tuscan aristocracy. And that if Fred wished to remain as consul and to have good relations with his Italian counterparts, he and Fanny had best forget this night ever happened, would not mention it to a living soul, and that if I heard one whisper about it, I would personally write to the Count di Nobili, who would see their disrespect and gossip as a personal affront to him and his wife, who had accorded Christopher the greatest respect while he lived as a member of their household. I then sent them off to bed with the directive that in the morning they would have the pleasure of meeting my son Christopher.

  They slunk off, but not before both muttered apologies to Christopher and to me. I then shooed everyone else from the room, and when Christopher and I were alone, all the pent-up anger and outrage got the better of me and I burst into tears. For which he said he did not blame me, he felt like crying himself, which instantly made me feel better.

  The next morning at breakfast, Christopher volunteered his side of the night’s events. He had been sound asleep when something, he was not sure what, woke him, and when he sat bolt upright in bed, it was to find the Fittleworths standing side by side and peering down at him in the candlelight. Half asleep, he wondered if he were having a nightmare. That they were smiling at him only strengthened this belief. Then Fanny got into bed beside him without invitation to do so, saying she wished to avail herself of his services, and that she was sure he wouldn’t mind if her husband remained to be a spectator. Christopher was about to disappoint them both, when apparently Fanny got the shock of her life when Fred said he had not come to watch at all, and fully intended to be a participant. To which Fanny was appalled, and the argument escalated from there.

  I don’t need to tell you that, had this not involved Christopher, I would have found it very amusing indeed to think Fanny was shocked by Fred’s behavior and that he was shocked by hers. And when Christopher, who was now wide awake, and trying to be an intermediary for both husband and wife, was emphatic that he was not a body for hire in any capacity, neither of them believed him and this was the only fact upon which the couple agreed. And as they continued to argue, Christopher gave up any hope of a reconciliation and was hopeful their rage would soon burn itself out, when into his room I burst, along with my contingent of servant witnesses to the spectacle.

  Should it surprise you to know that the Fittleworths cut their stay short by a week, and only remained a day and a night before they were off back to Florence? As they were both contrite and nothing else was said about that evening, we parted on civil terms, and Fanny took me aside and apologized for their behavior, adding that I was an exceedingly lucky woman to have such a handsome and caring son. I would have believed her sincere, except she winked and smiled at me in a way that now I am convinced that what she truly believes is that Christopher is indeed my lover and that I called him my son as a ruse to get them away from him! And do you know, Roxton, I simply do not care any more. I am reconciled with my son, and this incident if it has done anything, it has brought us closer together. I am off back to England as soon as Christopher sends word for me to follow him, and the Fannies and the Freds are unimportant to my future, and to Christopher’s.

  Give my love to Antonia, and if you do see Fred when next in Florence, I beg your discretion, though you have my permission to niggle him in that way you have that will see him squirm, but not know exactly why for.

  All my love,

  Kate

  9. The [Fifth] Duke of Roxton to Kate, Lady Paget

  His Grace the Most Noble [5th] Duke of Roxton, Treat via Alston, Hampshire, to Kate, Lady Paget, Brycecomb Hall via Stroud, Cotswolds, Gloucestershire.

  Treat

  February, 1772

  * * *

  Kate, dear friend, are you sitting up in bed, or on your chaise longue? Whatever you are doing, wherever you are reading this, please do sit, for I have news to impart that will shock you. I do not want you taking a fall, or collapsing and hurting yourself.

  Do you know what I have discovered? I am not infallible! You laugh heartily, but it is true that I am shocked by this. Indeed, I am not so lamebrained as to suppose that I ever truly was, but I did try to convince myself, if only so I could extend my earthly existence to remain here with Antonia, and with my boys, for as long as was physically possible.

  Kate, I am dying. I have cancer. I do not know how much time is left to me. My physicians can only make guesses and predictions. Some are more morose than others. Some try to offer hope, when there is none. All look at me with concern for their own fine necks.

  I kept it from Antonia for as long as I was able. But she knew. She said nothing and carried on, and still does, as if I will live into my nineties and beyond! It is not that she does not believe it is the truth, she just won’t accept that I will die. You see—and I know you will snort with incredulous amusement at this—she does think me infallible. She always has. I intend to forever remain so, for as long as it is humanly possibly for me to maintain my dignity, all for her.

  For how many years have we known one another? Thirty? Forty? For a handful of those years we were lovers, and I shall always cherish that time we spent together, just as I cherish our friendship. Antonia has always known—I keep no secrets from her—ironic for one of my disposition, who is secretive, close, and rarely demonstrative in public, to be unable to keep a single thought from her, nor do I want to. She sits curled in her favorite chair as I write this at my desk in the library, knowing I am writing to you, that I am slowly dying, and yet she never lets on to me or the family that she is crumblin
g inside to think she will not grow old with me; that I will leave her well before either of us is ready to be parted from the other.

  As for you, my dear friend, my mind is easy, and I can leave you knowing you are being well cared for by your son. It pleases me beyond words that you and he are reconciled, and that he sent for you to live with him. I know how immeasurable was your loss when he was torn, literally, from your breast, as a suckling infant, and you were forced to return to society and leave him with your sister to raise.

  And I ask your forgiveness for not having a full measure of your grief and loss at the time. Though I tried to be a good listener, to give you comfort and some diversion as your lover, and to offer you hope for the future (did I not foretell that one day you would be reunited with your son, and that he would know that you are in truth his mother?). Until I became a father myself, and held that most precious new life in my hands, a life Antonia and I created together, I had no true idea of what it would be like to have that all taken away from me. My heart ached, and I felt a stab of acute pain as I watched my infant son taking nourishment from his mother, to think you had to give up your infant at three months of age. Kate, please, forgive me my lack of understanding for your loss. If I could bow before you and kiss your feet, I would do so.

  I won’t write more here, but leave news and gossip for another more cheerful letter. And, Kate, let us not mention this cancer again. Let us carry on as we have always done, corresponding, exchanging gossip, and chuckling at the stupidity of others, while maintaining the façade that we will both be doing just this in ten, twenty, nay, thirty years hence. Believe me, that will make me feel a hundred times better than any words of comfort you could provide.