Write and tell me about your boy, and life in the Cotswolds, and how your sight is holding up. I shall begin a new sheet and a new letter, and write as a doting father and grandfather.
Until then.
As always, your beloved friend,
Roxton
10. Charlotte, Countess of Strathsay, to the Lady Mary Cavendish
Charlotte, the Right Honorable Countess of Strathsay, Dower House, Fitzstuart Hall, via Denham, Buckinghamshire, to the Lady Mary Cavendish, Abbeywood via Bisley, Gloucestershire.
Dower House, Fitzstuart Hall, via Denham, Buckinghamshire
September, 1777
* * *
Dear Mary,
I have not heard from you in over a fortnight. I had your letter informing me of your return from Treat to Abbeywood, and that my granddaughter was again in her customary good health. I still do not understand how you could remain with Antonia while your daughter was under the care of that man whom Sir Gerald made her guardian. It is a disgrace he does not allow your child to visit with her relatives. Never mind she was unable to attend her uncle’s wedding because of a head cold. She could have been brought along after the fact, not whisked away again by him to the back of beyond.
No doubt Antonia gave you her shocking news. I hope you were able to temper your incredulity and show the proper level of decorum and did not, as I am afraid you probably did, gush about her condition. We are all happy for her, naturally. But I cannot agree with any of it. It is beyond my comprehension why a woman almost fifty would want to engage in carnal relations, least of all with a lusty man ten years her junior, who would expect to exercise his rights in the marital bed, if not nightly, then often enough that it makes my stomach churn with revulsion. Being with child at her age is not only preposterous, it is embarrassing in the extreme, as well as dangerous. She should never have permitted herself to fall pregnant. It was beyond scandalous when she, as a young girl, married a man old enough to be her father, and now to turn around and marry a man ten years her junior, is just asking for trouble. I have always maintained, and I do not doubt it is unspoken amongst our relatives, that the reason her second son suffers from the falling sickness is because his father was an old man when he was conceived, and thus his seed was too old to give Antonia a healthy child.
So you can see why I am concerned lest Antonia now be too old to give her younger husband the heir he requires. There is the worry childbirth will not be easy for her, but of greater concern is that there are children born to older mothers who are not quite right in the head. Better it be stillborn than be born at all with such an impediment. Of course if that is the case, it won’t be able to inherit, and that will be the end of the Kinross dukedom. More fool His Grace for marrying an older woman, when he should have looked to marry one ten years his junior if he wished with any confidence to supply the dukedom with an heir. But that man is not in the common way, either, is he?
Did it give you pause to feel resentful that your cousin at almost fifty is with child, when you, a woman twenty years her junior—indeed you were in your twenties for most of your marriage—was only able to produce one child in ten years, and that a female. With the birth of this child, Antonia will have supplied two dukedoms with heirs, no small feat, and only one such as she, who is blessed in everything she does, can carry off. Thank God the Roxton dukedom has a dependable and stable nobleman in the sixth duke. How a libidinous rake and an accommodating nymph produced such a son, who has a high moral code and a stolid disposition, is beyond my powers to figure. But they did, and well done them.
I am almost reconciled to your brother’s bride. The new Lady Fitzstuart has her faults, and I am not referring to her being a cripple. I am still at a loss and wonder why such a vigorous healthy handsome man as Alisdair, who could have married any woman he fancied, set his sights on a girl with a clubfoot. His bride is far too frail and fragile, and I wonder if such a waif is capable of becoming pregnant, least of all bearing healthy children. And she must, because the Strathsay earldom’s heir needs a legitimate heir. And if she can’t produce one, the fault won’t lie with your brother, will it, as he has produced a son already. And though I hate to admit it, and never would to him or to others, seeing the boy at the wedding I was reminded of Alisdair at the same age. He does have a great look of his father, so that no one could deny his paternity, though I dearly would love to do so, for propriety demands he not be acknowledged by good society. So why Roxton allowed him and his common grandparents at the ceremony still baffles me. In my opinion, the boy and his grandparents should not have been permitted into the church, but kept waiting outside with the servants where they belong, and which would have been perfectly acceptable to everyone. And did you see at the wedding breakfast how the boy brazenly came up to your brother’s bride as if they were known to one another? She was most polite and handled the situation well, which showed her good breeding, and the boy’s lack of it. I dare say I will be more reconciled to my new daughter-in-law once she is breeding and gives your brother a legitimate heir. And I do not doubt that she, as Shrewsbury’s granddaughter, will surprise us all yet and may already be with child. And I must admit looks can be deceiving, for I would have thought someone with your robust health and child-bearing hips would have birthed five children in ten years, not just the one.
Let me turn to more pleasant subjects than your disappointing barren state and continued widowhood, which is a constant worry for your mother. Did you manage to speak to Antonia or Roxton about suitable suitors? It is high time you seriously made the effort to find yourself a husband. You cannot remain at Abbeywood forever. It does not belong to you, and never did. You have few prospects as it is, and your looks, such as they are, will fade with every passing year. You cannot be selfish and wish this state of affairs to continue, if only to ensure your daughter has a future, even if you do not. More I will not say on the matter.
This letter will reach you as I am making preparations for my yearly sojourn to Cheltenham for my health. You did not enquire in your previous letter about my health, which I must presume was an oversight on your part, and undutiful. For I always enquire after you and Theodora, and so it is only right and proper you do the same, particularly as you know I am never well at this time of year, what with the change in seasons. My rheumatism is worse, and made worse by the move to the Dower House. It is most callous of your brother to have tossed me out of my own home so soon. So I shall stay a little longer in Cheltenham to be out of the way of the repairs and work being done to the Dower House to make it as comfortable as possible. Your brother’s bride did offer for me to remain at the Hall, but I declined. It is, after all, her home now, and I have no claim to it or anything in it. I have also declined anything of value, though she graciously said I could take whatever I felt would make the Dower House more livable. But no. None of it belongs to me, and so I shall relinquish it all
And before I forget, I do not need you to come to Cheltenham this year. Lady Fitzstuart’s brother and sister-in-law, Lord and Lady Grasby, are in Cheltenham for her health. She too is pregnant, so at least Shrewsbury can look forward to his heir having an heir to follow him. And as Lady Fitzstuart is to visit Lady Grasby with her grandfather, they have graciously offered to go out of their way to Abbeywood, though why they would want to visit that part of the world, I know not, and they will bring Theodora to me at Cheltenham. So you see, there is no need, and I am very sure, no room in their carriage, for you to come along. I have no need of you, and Theodora at age ten is old enough not to need you either.
I expect a reply to this letter at your earliest convenience. And as you have very little to occupy your time, then I expect a reply very soon, and with the news that Theodora is eager to visit with her grandmother, and that you have made it perfectly plain to her that she is coming alone, and that her new aunt will be bringing her to me, not you.
Let me know in your letter how Theodora is progressing with her deportment and dancing lessons.
With
a mother’s love,
Charlotte Strathsay
11. The [Sixth] Duke of Roxton to Mr. Martin Ellicott, Esq.
His Grace the Most Noble [6th] Duke of Roxton, Treat via Alston, Hampshire, to Mr. Martin Ellicott, Esq., Moran House, the Bath Road, Avon.
Treat
Dec. 23, 1777
* * *
Dear Martin,
I trust you have your portmanteaux packed and are merely awaiting my carriage to collect you, for after reading this short missive, you are to be brought here post haste to share in our most wonderful news and celebration.
Maman was brought to childbed earlier than expected—and on winter’s solstice night, of all nights!—and was safely delivered of a daughter. I have a sister! Mother and babe are very well indeed, and as you can imagine, the great weight of worry I have been carrying throughout her pregnancy has lifted. Why I never feel this way with Deb, except with the onset of her labor pains, I must put down to my wife’s bountiful good health and uneventful pregnancies. For which I thank God, for it seems we are destined to have a large family, and that suits us very well indeed.
But you know, do you not, mon parrain, more than anyone else alive, that Maman’s pregnancies have been anything but uneventful.
As expected, Kinross is beside himself with happiness and relief to have his duchess out of danger, and to again be a father. And as both parents were desirous of a daughter, their greatest wish has been granted. It has worked out rather well that Kinross is a duke in the Scottish peerage, for my baby sister will one day inherit the title and be a duchess in her own right, for according to Scot’s law it is not the eldest son but the ‘heirs of my body’, thus any child, and not whether the child is male or female, which determines who is a Scottish nobleman’s heir. I know you will be as happy as we are with this most satisfactory and fitting outcome for Maman’s daughter.
Thus my baby sister begins life with the grand title of Marchioness of Leven, heir to the Duchy of Kinross, beloved by her ducal parents, sister to an English duke, and also to the son of a duke. Her life is blessed from the start. She is of robust health, cries lustily, and has a head of dark hair that reminds me of Frederick at birth.
While her nephews and nieces have yet to make her acquaintance, I know they will be just as besotted as her parents and her brothers.
Little Lady Leven is yet to receive her Christian names, as Maman and Kinross are still negotiating those between them, but I am hopeful that by the time you arrive and I am assured before the christening takes place, she will have a string of pretty names to call her own.
I shall leave this here, for I cannot wait for you to join us and meet the newest member of our family.
Love,
Julian
R xo
12. Evelyn Gaius Ffolkes, Earl of Streatham Ely, to the Lady Mary Cavendish
Evelyn Gaius Ffolkes, the Right Honorable Earl of Streatham Ely, to the Lady Mary Fitzstuart Cavendish.
[Not dated but believed to have been written some time before December 1777. A handwritten note attached to the folded parchment states: Given in person by Her Grace the Duchess of Kinross to her cousin the Lady Mary Cavendish]
* * *
My dear sweet Mary,
You will always be my first love, and the love of my life. You do know that don’t you? I have had many lovers. I even thought myself in love and tried to elope with Deb, and this before I had any knowledge she was already married to Julian, and I do love her, too. And I was married for a time to a harmless pretty creature who deserved better and who died trying to give me a child. And yet, my heart, this blackened emotionally shriveled organ, if still beats at all it beats for you and always will.
Nothing has changed since we were fourteen and we shared our first and only kiss. I wish I could have saved you from a loveless marriage to that pig swill Gerald. Aside from not marrying you, my greatest regret in life where you are concerned is not having the bravery to put you out of your misery by taking Gerald’s life. So many times did I rehearse how I would kill him, and yet, I did nothing. By the time I could, I was a prisoner in a faraway land, unable to offer you anything but prayers. That Gerald shot and killed himself is a fitting end for such a pig of a man, and as far as I was concerned, could have happened sooner. Perhaps, had he still been living when I was finally at my liberty, I would have found a way to end his miserable existence to free you.
My thoughts shock you, but they do not surprise you, do they? You have always known and forgiven me my selfishness, my self-absorbed passionate nature, and my immorality. I know I am the most selfish and immoral person I have ever encountered. In short I am not a nice person. I am hateful at times. I have no conscience and my morals are questionable. No wonder Shrewsbury recruited me! For I am an excellent spy, am I not? I have done things, horrible things, all under the blanket of doing them for King and Country. Such things would make you cry and despair of me. But I had no conscience about doing them, and would do them all again, if asked to do so. It is as well then that I have no wife or children to weep in despair at my depravity. In truth Dominique’s death in childbed was a blessing for her and our child.
My only saving grace is my music. To think I can compose music so sublime it stirs the senses leaves me in awe. That I can no longer play what I compose on the pianoforte or my viola with my usual brilliance after having lost partial digits through my nefarious activities is fitting punishment is it not?
But I lie. I have another saving grace. Surrendering you to a better man.
I could make you a countess, give you whatever your heart desires, and you and I could flit about society in our silks and perfume, everyone in awe of us, and we would be happy, for a time. But you deserve more than what I can provide. You deserve a man worthy of you. And so you will marry your handsome squire and be blissfully happy, my dearest Mary.
Christopher Bryce is everything I am not. The only thing we share in common is that we love you body and soul. He is honest, moral, brave, truthful, honorable, and I see that he loves you with all his heart. I would not let you marry a lesser man. He will make you an excellent husband, and be an exemplary father to your daughter Theodora, and to the children you will give him. And you will bear his children, of that I am convinced. You both deserve one another, and I wish you every happiness.
Please, dearest Mary, do not cry for me, worry for me, or think of me at all. Live your life with your squire. Light a candle on my birthday if you so wish, but that is all you are to do. I shall live my life as best I can, and in the selfish way I have done for so many years now that it is the only way I know how to live, or want to live. There was a moment of madness when I thought I might be able to settle, to live as you do, as my peers do. But that is not to be. Do not think I will ever forget you, or my family ties. But I shall continue my interest from afar. Will we see each other again? Of course, my darling. But I cannot say when, or under what circumstances. I hope it is before I am old and stooped and of no use to anyone.
Do give my regards to Silvanus (your squire will know what I mean, and I do mean it with affection).
I kiss your fingertips and what love I have to give is yours, always.
Eve
13. Mr. Christopher Bryce to the [Sixth] Duke of Roxton
Mr. Christopher Bryce, Brycecomb Hall via Stroud, Gloucestershire, to His Grace the Most Noble [6th] Duke of Roxton, Treat via Alston, Hampshire.
Brycecomb Hall via Stroud, Gloucestershire
July 8, 1778
* * *
My dear Duke—Roxton,
The Lady Mary has delivered me a son and heir. A rather curt announcement that in no way expresses how I am feeling at this moment, and no doubt will continue to feel for the foreseeable future. I never expected, though I had always hoped, to become a father, just as I never expected but dreamed of one day marrying your cousin. That both have now come to pass has me as dazed as the day you shook my hand and welcomed me into the family, and acknowledged me as kin to your de
arest wife. That seems a lifetime ago but less than twelve months has passed. And if I may be so bold as to add that since that first visit to Treat, I have come to know you better (indeed I did not really know you at all before then, did I?), so that it seems, to me at least, we have been friends all our lives. I hope that you feel as I do.
Forgive me. I have had little sleep over the past three days since my son made his entrance into the world, so that I do not doubt I am wasting ink in writing down the ramblings that are swirling about in my head. I know my news is not news to you at all, for I sent a short missive to Her Grace your mother announcing our new arrival just hours after his birth. Yet I wanted to write to you privately, under separate cover, to share my thoughts, as a new father, with one who so generously shared his wisdom with me on becoming a father, and most importantly, on how I was to conduct myself during my wife’s labor, should she wish me to be with her at such a time.
She did indeed want me with her, which filled me with a mixture of relief and terror. But I am proud to report I remained beside my dearest Mary throughout the entire ordeal, following your advice to the letter. And thanks to your sage counsel, I managed to keep my tongue between my lips until asked to speak, accepted in silence the verbal abuse my dearest wife threw at me when she was in the most pain, and offered encouragement when it was safe to do so.
I do not mind telling you, and perhaps this attitude will change over time, but I do not think I could go through such a traumatic episode again with the same stoicism. I am a coward when it comes to seeing my dearest heart in such distress. Yet what mighty creatures females are to be able to endure the pain and torment of childbirth to deliver us new precious life. Did I shed a tear? Most definitely. And I tell only you because you were generous in confiding in me that you have done so at the births of all your children.
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