Forever Remain

by Lucinda Brant

  When he told me that this was the very backgammon board you and his father played on every day of your married life, I, too, was overcome, and remained speechless. He told me in a shaking voice how he would watch you both from the chaise longue, and how he often felt an intruder because when you played at backgammon you forgot everyone else and it was as if it was just the two of you in the library. But he also told me that it was you who taught him how to play. And he recalled the day he won his first game from his father, and his father’s look of incredulity that his eight-year-old son had beaten him at his own game. That memory had Henri-Antoine grinning. Though he then was incredulous himself that you had parted with this most treasured and loved item.

  But I understand why you did, and you know, do you not, Maman-Duchess, that we will cherish this as you do, and always will. Henri-Antoine has already written to thank you, and no doubt he told you I am a complete novice at the game. Though I am certain you knew this was so. We have decided that we will honor your gift by playing each evening, while having our Turkish coffee. I am very willing to learn, and Henri-Antoine is already proving a patient if exacting teacher. I have a plan to improve my game so that he will be more than a little surprised (and no doubt think it all down to his superior teaching skills). When he visits the coffee houses (which you know are denied to women) to smoke a hookah and play at backgammon with the local men, I intend to practice my game with Michel, who Henri-Antoine let slip is more than a tolerable opponent. In this way I hope to emulate his feat as an eight-year-old, and beat him at his own game—one day!

  Please thank Elsie for her recent letter enclosing her delightful watercolors of her dear little kitten Blanche, and of the loch, and the pretty purple flowers. I have placed these and her letters in a specially-bound book which I keep in my boudoir and will show her when we return home. I will write to her separately of course, but direct that letter to Crecy, so she will have that waiting for her when you arrive there at the end of the month.

  Do you recall how in my previous letter I was on a mission to find a suitable companion for her dolls? Well I have finally found her! Mlle Yvette and Signorina Simonetta are to have a new friend. I have named her Sevil, which means ‘to be loved’ in Turkish. And I know she will be. Sevil is the same size as Elsie’s other companions, and has ivory skin, dark hair, dark eyes, and a rosebud mouth. She is dressed in the costume of a female of the sultan’s harem in pantaloons, long over-jacket, and has a turban atop her hair, all in vibrant silks. Her hair is free flowing and so thick it can be arranged in all manner of styles. I have asked Betsy to fashion Sevil half a dozen similar outfits in different silks, and also to make her several pairs of matching slippers. We found tiny silver bracelets for her wrists and ankles at the markets. And I commissioned one of the woodworkers to make her a special box for her to lie in, lined in velvet, and a small clothespress for her clothing and various accessories. She also has a most wondrous miniature stringed instrument called a Tambur (we have an adult-sized one to present to Jack) which can be tuned and played if one is dexterous enough to pluck delicately at the strings. I cannot wait for Elsie and her companions to meet Sevil. Henri-Antoine says, and he is quite right, that I am as excited as if the doll were mine, for I have indeed derived great pleasure in having Sevil dressed, and in commissioning the making of her accessories.

  I had crated and shipped the second lot of silks and threads you requested, and Henri-Antoine has visited the carpet warehouse twice to see progress for himself. As the order is such a large one, he is greeted by the weavers as if their sultan has come amongst them, and as you can imagine he does not disappoint, and plays his part, as do the lads. I found a Turkish coffee service and all its pieces like the one Henri-Antoine remembers you using and he drinking from the little cups when you stayed here. He says it is similar to the travel set His Grace has at Treat. I am hopeful it will please you and Papa-Kinross. I liked it so much I bought four complete sets: One for you, one for Jack and Teddy, one for the townhouse in Park Street, and one for the house in Bath. Henri-Antoine intends to fashion a room in both houses in the Ottoman style, and has ordered what amounts to two entire rooms worth of what is necessary to replicate our private sitting room here, everything from the silk cushions, hangings, wallpapers, carpets (you see why the weavers venerate him!), low stools, couches, and even two nargiles. I am told a nargile is the same thing with a different name as the hookah Papa-Kinross brought with him from the subcontinent. Henri-Antoine insists Papa-Kinross have one for use at Leven.

  My dear husband tells me he was introduced to the pleasures of smoking from the water-pipe by His Grace in his teens, though perhaps that was not something he wished you to discover, so please do not take Papa-Kinross to task, Maman-Duchess. But such expertise as Henri-Antoine has in using a water-pipe has come in useful here. The physicians we have consulted with have provided him with a special herbal tobacco, a substitute for the usual tobacco used in the water-pipe, which they assure us will help alleviate his symptoms, if not stop the onset of a seizure.

  On that score, he had a most severe attack two weeks ago, which I believe was brought on by the lack of proper recuperation from a seizure the previous week. And it is all because he insisted on accompanying me to the textile markets during the heat of the day. I had arranged for my lady’s maid Niven and Betsy to go with me, and as you know I never step out of our compound without two of the lads as our escort. I have gone alone in this manner to the markets on several occasions, but Henri-Antoine was determined and intractable that this time he would come with me. I knew his stubbornness was not only because he was still feeling unwell, but because it had become a point of male pride for him to be my escort. This was because Sir Jonas Wetherby (I told you about the scholar of Oriental languages attached to the embassy in a previous letter), dared to make an unguarded remark under the influence of too much spirits to Henri-Antoine at the Occidental Club, and before others. Sir Jonas dared to suggest that His Lordship was cavalier in allowing such a beauty (me) to roam about Constantinople’s streets without her husband’s protection. That while I had my lady’s maid and liveried servants with me, they were no substitute for a young bride having her husband’s arm. That a husband was the best and only signal to the locals that here is a female who is not only carefully nurtured, and of the highest possible rank within her own society, but she is to be treated with the utmost respect, and not to be trifled with by the local men.

  I do not know what angered Henri-Antoine the most: To be lectured to about his want of manners as a gentleman, his seeming neglect as a husband, or that Sir Jonas would have the impertinence to suggest the locals would ever dare ‘trifle’ with His Lordship’s wife. All of these, is my guess. No matter that Sir Jonas is quite a stupid man, for all his abilities as a translator. He may be good at his job, but he must lack basic comprehension skills, for anyone with a modicum of understanding would not make such an unguarded remark to a social superior, and never to a new husband, and most definitely not to His Lordship.

  I have no idea what Henri-Antoine said by way of reply, only that the sting in Sir Jonas’s words led to him getting out of bed well before he should have. A day spent enjoying the cool waters of our plunge pool and the use of the nargile would have served him better. But I realized there was no use offering up this suggestion when his male pride had taken a battering. And so he came with me. To shorten a sorry story, this second attack was most severe and required that the lads spirit him away down a darkened alley, and there we remained until the attack subsided, and his sedan chair could be fetched to carry him home. He was put back to bed where he remained for four days.

  It is the worst attack since our stay in Padua. And while I am all sympathy for his suffering I did tell him it served him to rights for not staying abed until he was fully recovered. I also stated that I refuse to leave our compound again under any circumstance, barring invasion by the Russians, if he could not offer me the assurance he would rest until he was well. And i
f he did not understand me then perhaps I should call in Sir Jonas to translate my words into a language he not only understood, but which was simple enough for him to comprehend. My dear husband informed me he had already ordered the servants to bar Sir Jonas from admittance to our house, so he would not have to suffer that fool again. He grumbled some more but soon apologized. His accompanying look of affected contrition (though I believe he was truly sorry) was such that I burst into giggles. This had him grinning in response, and all was forgiven, though he refused to forgive Sir Jonas. Which I said was reasonable, and we kissed and made up. Maman-Duchess this is the only disagreement we have had in our first year of marriage.

  As to possible invasion by the Russians, I know the situation in the Crimea has been reported in the English newssheets, and you must be worried lest this war between the Turks and the Russians arrives here in Constantinople. Henri-Antoine says the coffee houses are full of nothing else but talk of war, that it will be soon, for the Sultan cannot allow Catherine to take what does not belong to her. This state of affairs, with the threat of war imminent and all that entails for a nation facing invasion, means we have already made arrangements to leave here and return home as soon as possible. All our belongings that are not absolutely necessary for our day-to-day existence have been crated, and these with the sedan chairs and carriages are already at the docks ready to be loaded aboard ship. We leave in a week’s time, under sail, so that we return to England with all speed. It is not only the coming of war that motivates us but because we have been away long enough now, and because of Teddy’s most wonderful and longed-for news!

  We are both so thrilled and excited that Teddy and Jack are finally to become parents. We have been expecting this for some months now, and dared not to hope against hope it would be sooner rather than later. I know Teddy was grateful not to fall pregnant almost at once, but with the passing of months, a hint of apprehension had crept into her letters that she had not already done so. And just as I received her letter expressing this apprehension another arrived almost the very next day with news of her pregnancy and the baby due in the new year, around the time of her baby sister’s second birthday, which would be a lovely double celebration for both families. We are so looking forward to being home for the birth, and to take on the role of doting godparents.

  Which brings me to answer the question you asked in the letter previous to the one you just sent, about my health. Naturally Henri-Antoine is fully apprised, but you are the only other to whom I will confide. Perhaps one day I may tell Teddy, but at the present time she must focus on her own health and her baby.

  I did allow myself to submit to a physical examination, and by one of the most learned and respected midwives in this city. She has delivered more babies than any male physician here. My interpreter assured me that even the women of the Sultan’s harem trust her with their lives, and with their fertility. I would never have permitted a male, no matter how learned, to examine me in this most intimate of ways, but I felt exceedingly comfortable in her presence and with her manner. And while I know Henri-Antoine is not at all bothered at the prospect of us remaining childless, and says so with such confidence that I believe him, he also says, and I know you will take this in the right manner, that my barren state is a blessing in disguise, because he has no wish to bring a child into the world who suffers his affliction. And I would be lying to you if I said I did not agree with him. Yet there are times, not very often, when I allow my reasoning to scatter and I daydream of possibilities. So with this in mind, and to have peace of mind, I permitted the midwife to examine me.

  The outcome was not as I expected. The examination itself was more discomforting to my dignity than anything else, and when she had finished she was smiling, so I took that as a good sign. Through the interpreter she told me I was indeed female, which made me wonder if something was lost in the translation because how could I be anything else, until it was explained to me (and perhaps you are aware of this, but I most certainly was not) that there are women in this world—and this shocked me, though I do not disbelieve her—who may have every outward appearance of being a female, but who are devoid of the reproductive organs necessary to conceive and bear children. I would be lying if I told you this did not greatly unsettle me. Yet, after the examination she was able to assure me that I am indeed in possession of a womb. So in theory at least, I can grow a child within me. But she did add that my womb is small for a female my age and even for one who has never had children. She said this may account for my lack of menses. And it is her learned opinion that for me conception may just be a matter of time. She said as I am young I have many years, indeed decades, of hope left to me.

  To be frank, Maman-Duchess, we do not want to spend decades in hope, and so we will put this new-found knowledge aside and return to living our lives. I mean to live each day as I have every other day since my marriage, and that is as a loving wife, companion, and helpmate to your son, whom you know, as surely as the sun rises every morning, I love with every fiber of my being. And we shall concentrate on the great task we have ahead of us in making the Fournier Foundation not only our legacy, but Monseigneur’s and the family’s legacy, too.

  This will make you chuckle. The midwife prescribed me a herbal medicinal concoction which she says is an aid to fertility. I have no notion if it will be beneficial in the way it is intended or not, but Henri-Antoine insists I at least try it. Secretly, I think he is pleased to not be the only one taking concoctions that taste foul, and which with the best of intentions we tell him to endure for his health. So we take our medicine like good children, together, both resisting the urge to pull a face, not wanting to be the first to give in, and doing our best to appear unaffected by the foul taste. Neither of us wants to be the first to grab for the tumbler of punch within reach to wash out our mouths. So we make the effort not to look at each other while taking our medicine, particularly when the servants are with us. But if we are alone and we dare to glance up and our eyes meet, we lose all sense of decorum and burst into giggles, and sometimes so hard we momentarily stop breathing. We fall about on the cushions, eyes watering. One time a servant entered while we were in this silly state and thought we had both been poisoned, threw the tray in the air and ran out of the room screaming. This only made us laugh harder, particularly when Michel dared to glare at us with a mixture of exasperation and delight, like a parent wishing to scold his children but unable to do so because they are enjoying themselves too much. For his benefit and to save his sanity, we came to our senses and tried our best to appear contrite, though the tears of laughter were still running down our cheeks.

  Have you ever seen Henri-Antoine giggling so hard he must hold his sides? It is a joy to behold and a privilege, for you know how stern he is with himself and how in control when he is under the public eye. Did his father ever giggle when alone with you, I wonder? You of course do not have to answer me, Maman-Duchess, for I think he must have at least chuckled and perhaps laughed hard enough in your company to bring tears to his eyes. I thought you would like to know this about your son.

  I must away to supper. We are having it on the rooftop, now the sun has set. And because it is so hot, we will take a midnight swim in the plunge pool, and there float and look up at the twinkling night sky. Our time away and our stay here have been magical, but we are both eager to return home, to you, and to our family, to begin this next chapter of our lives, together.

  With love,

  Lisa

  Lady Henri-Antoine Hesham

  I write my married name with such wonder, pride, and joy.

  xo

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  SALT BRIDE

  A Georgian Historical Romance

  When the Earl of
Salt Hendon marries squire’s daughter Jane Despard, Society is aghast. But Jane and Lord Salt share a secret past of heartache and mistrust. Four years on, they are forced into a marriage neither wants; the Earl to honor a dying man’s wish; Jane to save her stepbrother from financial ruin. Beautiful inside and out, the patient and ever optimistic Jane believes love conquers all; the Earl will take some convincing. Enter Diana St. John, who has been living in a fool’s paradise believing she would be the next Countess of Salt Hendon. She will go to extreme lengths, even murder, to hold the Earl’s attention. Can the newlyweds overcome past prejudices and sinister opposition to fall in love all over again?

  LONDON, ENGLAND, 1763

  “Tom, do I have a dowry?” Jane asked her stepbrother, turning away from a window being hit hard with rain.

  Tom Allenby glanced uneasily at his mother, who was pouring him out a second dish of Bohea tea. “Dowry? Of course you have a dowry, Jane.”

  Jane wasn’t so sure. When her father disowned her four years ago, he cut her off without a penny.

  “What is the amount?”

  Tom blinked. His discomfort increased. “Amount?”

  “Ten thousand pounds,” Lady Despard stated, a sulky glance at her stepdaughter. Annoyance showed itself in the rough way she handled the slices of seedy cake onto small blue-and-white Worcester porcelain plates. “Though why Tom feels the need to provide you with a dowry when you’re marrying the richest man in Wiltshire, I’ll never fathom. To a moneybags nobleman, ten thousand is but a drop in the Bristol River.”