Eternally Yours: Roxton Letters Volume 1 (12 page)

While your mother is possessed of a fine intelligence and is able to converse, argue and declaim on all manner of intellectual subjects usually deemed beyond the capability of her fair sex, she is utterly weak-minded when it comes to matters of the heart. I am supremely grateful for her emotional weakness. Feelings to her are everything, and I, who was raised to sublimate sentiment for the greater good of my venerable position as peer of this realm, am thankful every day that she loves unconditionally and feels so fiercely and so deeply.

But that is no consolation to you, who upon my passing will be left to deal with an inconsolable grieving widow. And because your mother feels every emotion with such intensity, she will be excessively fragile in mind. This, of course, will affect you and your family in every way imaginable.

I wish it were not so for your sake. But for mine, I cannot but be ever thankful that she came into my life when she did. We have been together more years than she has lived without me. Since her eighteenth birthday she has known no other life, no other companion, than me. I have selfishly kept her with me, always. Neither of us would have had it any other way. But for her, who was so young when we wed, it has meant that despite having an independent will and a keen mind, she has never been required to be emotionally self-sufficient. Though, up until my illness, I would not have considered this at all necessary to our lives, because I cannot conceive of life without her.

To my great relief and her everlasting sadness my terminal illness means I will never have to live without her.

But she must live without me. Do you understand, Julian? She must LIVE. She must go on living, and for many, many years. You are not the man who can make her see that, so do not try to do so. I pray there is one such out there who is worthy, worthy of her, and who can make her see that life is worth living after all.

You must not allow the responsibility of your mother and her grief to be a millstone about your neck. You are to live, too—for your wife and your children, those born and those yet to come. I know you and Deborah and your family will have long, happy and fulfilling lives, and that fills me with joy. You have allowed me a peaceable passing, one of contentment, and without a worry for the future. That is a fine gift for a proud parent.

Do not despair, my dearest boy. I go to a better place, where I will be welcomed and reunited with my dearest parents. And when God wills it, your mother will join me. I hold to that, and it is a great comfort.

I love you.

Your dearest Papa

E
IGHTEEN

Roxton to Antonia—his last letter

[Believed to have been written some months before his death in 1774]

My love, for too long have I put off the writing of this letter. For too long have I fooled myself that perhaps I would never need to. For too long have I permitted myself to accept as true, as you have never waived in your belief, that I am M’sieur le Duc d’Roxton. As if my ancient nobility was somehow armor that made me, at least in your eyes, indestructible. Ah, my love, self-delusion is ever bittersweet.

But I shall be ever grateful to whatever alignment of the stars brought you—my radiant elfin beauty—into my life. Since the day we wed you must know that I have been your devoted servant. Never did I give another thought to the years that separated us in age. You are my wife, my constant companion, my only love, and I am, and have always been, utterly in love with you.

Each day with you has been lived as a year, each hour as a day. I wanted our life together to last for a thousand lifetimes, to spend as many hours in your joyous company as was possible. You who have not only been the love of my life, but a most wonderful mother to our sons—two fine gentlemen who are a daily source of pride and wonder. I never thought I would be a father, and to such sons, but they are yours, and I see you in them every day. In their mannerisms, in their beauty, and in their hearts and minds. But for all the time I have spent in their company, and in the company of our family and friends, it is the time alone with you that I cherish most. Those precious hours when there were just the two of us, in the library or in our bed half-asleep, me waking with the dawn, you sleeping contentedly in my arms, persuaded me that perhaps our time together could stretch on without end.

Our yearly visits to Swan Island had me almost convinced of this. If there is a paradise on earth, we found it on that island, did we not,
mignonne
? We had such carefree, happy times there. It allowed us to create the blissful illusion we had all the time in the world, and the world was ours.

I always thought that with you by my side anything was possible, and for the longest time everything was.

That I am soon to join my parents has brought the difference in our ages into sharp relief, and the pain of being separated from you is acute. I feel it beyond words. It is much more terrible than any physical discomfort I have suffered. That is as nothing. The sense of loss of being without you was so devastating that for one selfish moment I wished we were closer in age so that I might know the wait for you to join me would be a short one.

But the moment passed, and I realize that with you I have experienced such joy, such unconditional love and devotion that my life is blessed beyond what most men experience in a lifetime, or ten men in ten lifetimes. And so I go willingly and contented beyond this mortal existence to meet my maker, there to await you to join me. For me it will be but a blink of an eye, but for you…

Writing this letter is the most difficult task I have ever undertaken. Not because I have any difficulty in expressing my feelings for you, or what you mean to me, or how you have enriched my life in so many ways, but because I know what you must endure after I leave you.

This will not help ease your suffering, but I tell you this because I must. Perhaps, as the days pass into years, you will find some comfort in these words.

The irony is that with the coming of death, one spends one’s remaining time reflecting on life! And life for me truly began the day I carried you into my house on the Rue St. Honoré with a bullet in your shoulder. Until the moment you were shot by that rogue, I had lived life, and well, but I had never realized that the life I was leading was emotionally mundane. I had ever engaged my feelings in only the most superficial of ways. You, my darling dear, opened my eyes to this startling state of affairs in a single moment, when I thought I might forever have lost you, and with it the opportunity to acquaint myself better with you. Even then, at that moment when I placed you on the sofa and we waited for the physician, there was a flicker of something more, something unsettling that I was not prepared to acknowledge for the longest time, but which you, despite your tender years, knew beyond doubt was love at first sight. I can laugh about it now, and shake my head at your indefatigability to believe we were meant to be together, and my stubborn refusal to know that my heart beat faster in your presence because I was in love with you.

I am still in love with you, and my heart still does beat faster when you enter a room, see me and smile as if it is the first time we have seen each other in a very long time, when in fact it was only an hour earlier that we parted at the dinner table. And when you rush straight up to me in a cloud of silks and soft perfume to press yourself against me, chin tilted up to receive a kiss you know I cannot refuse you, regardless of who is in the room, my heart not only beats faster, it sings with the joy of knowing you love me so very much.

You who have always understood me, accepted me as I am, and loved me unconditionally, and so fiercely that now, even as I write this, my hand shakes with overwhelming emotion. How is it that you alone were able to see beyond my arrogance to the man who wanted—no,
needed
—the love and loyalty of an honest woman, who could provide him a safe haven, a home. You know I do not speak of bricks and mortar, but of the heart—your heart, my darling, where I have lived a most happy and contented man, nourished by the love you have for me, for over a quarter of a century.

And now the time is almost upon us for me to leave you—there I have said it in ink—and still I am in denial. My body, such as it is, tells me to let go, to give myself up to the inevitable so that I can be at peace. I know I will then cross to a better place, that I will see my father who was lost to me when I was only twelve years old, and my mother, a most devoted and loving parent whom I also lost too early, and mourned deeply.

Yet, my mind wants me to hold on, and tries to convince me that even one more day with you by my side is worth the eternity that awaits me with my loved ones. I will hold on with all the strength I can muster—for you. So that you will have one fewer day to grieve. So that you will not suffer the desolation and unimaginable grief of us being parted on this earth.

You do not say it. We do not discuss it. It is as if by maintaining our silence it will go away of its own accord. But I see it reflected in your lovely eyes—oh, how I worship those sparkling emerald-green jewels—when you think me distracted or resting. I have always enjoyed watching you in conversation, how you have this wonderful effect on others. A light comes into their eyes, they smile, and they feel better for just having spent time in your company. And that, too, fills my heart with joy. You have always had a gift for making others happy and at ease, and when they take their leave of you I see they have a greater sense of self-worth.

How can I tell you not to grieve? I know you will. A love such as ours does not end here nor should it be denied. Were I in your position I would have been inconsolable, demented with grief, and unable to live with any sense of the ordinary, long ago. And yet you have done your utmost to ensure our life carries on as usual, for me, and for our sons and our family, and you have done this for three interminably long years. For that alone I prostrate myself at your feet, humbled by your strength of character and forbearance.

What I ask of you, my most precious darling, is that when I close my eyes for the final time you use that strength of character to continue to live. How am I to wait for you knowing you live in misery and despair all because my infirmity and age took me from you before you were ready for me to leave you? You know I will be waiting for you to join me, that once you do we will have eternity together. So these few short years apart will be as nothing. So do not waste them in grieving for me. You must live for our sons and our grandchildren, all of whom need you.

And when you can shed no more tears, I want you to open your thoughts to the possibility of loving and being loved by another. And though this foolish old satyr is gripped by an unreasonable jealousy at the mere thought of his beauty in the arms of another, I urge you to take a lover. You, my heart’s delight, are a sensual creature deserving of every attention an attentive lover can provide. I even dare to hope you may find another to love. Someone who will cherish you and laugh with you. Someone with whom you can snuggle up under the covers and lie content.

For your own sake, my dearest darling, please live and love as we lived and loved, surrounded by our family and friends, and you the center of it all.

I will not say
adieu
but
au revoir
. I shall have your favorite chaise ready, the pieces in place on the backgammon board between us, and there I will sit, resplendent in black velvet and silk, twirling my quizzing glass, waiting patiently for you to join me—forever.

Renard

N
INETEEN

Antonia Roxton Diary entry.

[Editors’ note: diary entries sporadic for several months, thus this entry is not dated. Roxton marriage conducted in February 1746, so this entry made in February 1776]

Our thirtieth wedding anniversary

Today is our 30
^th
wedding anniversary and it only seems it was yesterday I first spied you fencing in the Princes Courtyard at Versailles, stripped to your shirtsleeves, which was most scandalous indeed. Oh, but I could not take my eyes off you and I knew then, as the sun rises each morning, that we were meant to be together for the rest of our lives. Yes, you smile and nod your agreement, but there was a time when you were as skeptical as everyone else, but I will not hold that against you! Have I not always said that one must listen to the heart? It is a most determined organ, and where love is concerned the heart will win out every time against the mind. The arguments of others mean nothing, for was it not Boileau who said that the proof of the pudding is in the eating? And what a most wondrously tasty pudding our marriage it makes!

I had my ladies lay out the gown
a la Turque
that you like me in best, in the soft shell pink silk embroidered in gold thread, and with the matching silk slippers that have the little gold tassels. I wore it to the Ottoman Ambassador’s ball and you said you feared I might be snatched away for his harem, and that perhaps you would forbid me wearing such a fetching outfit in public. I pretended to be cross that you had discovered my plan to infiltrate the Ambassador’s harem and learn what the women they do there all day locked away from male company. I remember also at the ball you dared to direct your quizzing glass at the Ambassador when he was enquiring of me about our visit to Constantinople.

You stared His Excellency up and down as if the poor man did indeed wish to kidnap me! I had to stop myself from giggling because he became very nervous to be so inspected through your magnified eye, and his forehead it began to bead with sweat. But that could also have been a circumstance of his heavy silk turban that Vallentine said made the Ambassador look like a loaf of bread with an overlarge crust. I still do not understand how people they are so intimidated by you, when me I see that you are one big tease, and I just want to giggle behind my fan! I think you, M’sieur le Duc, missed your calling, and should have been upon the stage. Though, you have always commanded an audience without the need for a theater to stage your performance, have you not?