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My dear Castlereagh,
Stories coming out of Vienna are consistent only to the extent that one is more alarming than the next. And much as I am inclined to discount most of what I hear, I suspect there is much to be alarmed about.
You know my thoughts on Tsar Alexander. Last spring in London he impressed me chiefly with his arrogance and stubbornness. I’m not sure which is more dangerous, but the two are a lethal combination. And this alliance he’s formed with Prussia poses a damnable problem. I have no very high opinion of Frederick William, but a Prussia that gobbles up too much territory in the middle of the Continent is a disquieting prospect. And a powerful Prussia allied to a powerful Russia doesn’t bear thinking of.
Except of course that it must be thought of. I thought Metternich recognized the dangers Russia and Prussia pose, but it sounds as though he’s spending all his time in the boudoir. Or rather the Duchess of Sagan’s boudoir. There’s surprising uniformity on this in a number of accounts (embellished by the usual salacious details). I fear in this case the rumors are close to the mark. You know Metternich had a child with Catherine Bagration a decade or more ago, don’t you? I mention this is case you find it of use. And for God’s sake, don’t be squeamish, Castlereagh. You won’t win a war with rapiers when the others have muskets.
Talleyrand could prove an ally. Obviously we can’t trust him, but he has the wit to see the threat Russia and Prussia pose. He could be a helpful counterweight.
I hope you’re finding Charles Fraser of use. I had my doubts about attaching him to your staff. He has a regrettable tendency to romanticize the claims of a lot of tiresome people (I suspect he’s agitating for self-determination for the Poles and God knows who else). But he’s a keen judge of his fellows. And his skills at breaking codes, not mention breaking and entering, are without parallel.
His wife shows surprising enterprise as well. Don’t underestimate her.
Yours, etc…
Carfax
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Melly mine,
From Charles’s latest letter to David and yours to Bel, which I’ve been privileged to read (it being all in the family, as it were), it sounds as though the negotiations Vienna have turned dangerously serious without any diminution in the amount of waltzing, masquerades, and other entertainments. I can’t help but admire the delegates’ fortitude. Have you all been taught the trick of getting by on no sleep?
London, I need hardly say, is much tamer. David was obliged to go up to Carfax Court with his father for a week. He said it wasn’t as bad as it might have been, as he and Carfax agree more about the estate and the tenants than they do about politics. And a part of David I know—and sometimes, I confess, fear—enjoys his responsibilities as the heir to the lord of the manor.
I did get a draft of Act II done in his absence. I also dined with Rachel Ford—Rachel Melchett, that is—and her new husband, my old friend and fellow playwright Guy Melchett. They are happy enough to make even the most hardened cynic believe in the possibilities of matrimony and refreshingly unchanged by Rachel’s brother’s abrupt ascension to a marquisate. When we were lingering over the port (all three of us) and Rachel’s children had gone off to bed, they made a surprising offer for me to take an ownership share in the Tavistock. It offers intriguing possibilities. A permanent home for my plays, the chance to work with people I like and admire, the opportunity to take a hand in all stages of production. I’ve been discussing the possibilities with my man of business, and I think I’ll be able to make matters work (having already refused David’s offer of assistance, which caused David to accuse me of being bloody conventional).
David has his hands full, as he and Oliver are at work on a bill to reform child labor conditions. I’ve been called in to do rewrites on the text and on their speeches. I’ve actually spent more than one afternoon at Brooks’s with them, an indication of how seriously I take the matter, as normally I avoid clubs like the plague.
You and Charles and Colin are missed.
All my love,
Simon
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Your husband is refreshingly free from the prejudices of his birth and position. Stability trumping liberty was one of my great fears for the Congress. God knows Poland deserves the freedom we—the French—never gave her. That said, I can appreciate Castlereagh’s fear about it becoming a Russian satellite. Tsar Alexander is a dangerous man. Ironic words, I know, coming from a man who served Napoleon Bonaparte. Or perhaps that puts me in a better position to see the risks. From what I observed at Tilsit, Alexander has the potential to equal Bonaparte’s ambition, but considerably less political sense. Add to that that he’s been bred up in a system which accords the sovereign absolute authority and that he comes fro a family with a history of mental instability and the risks are enough to chill even the most hardened game-player. I’ve long wondered if there isn’t some way to reach the side of Alexander that genuinely seems to believe the principles he absorbed from La Harpe, but I have yet to hit on a reliable way to do so.
While the Allies turning on each other might provide some interesting openings, to my mind the risks would far outweigh the rewards. Especially at present, when we’re in no position to take any advantage of such an opening. I appreciate your keeping me informed more than I can say.
I wonder what Adam Czartoryski makes of the situation. As a leading—perhaps the leading—Polish patriot who is also Tsar Alexander’s friend and advisor on Polish affairs, he’s in an interesting position. Not to mention the fact that he’s the former lover of Alexander’s wife. At least Alexander has men of sense like Czartoryski and Count Nesselrode about him.
Speaking of men of sense, I hear reports that Castlereagh is placing a great deal of trust and confidence in Charles. Though it’s probably too much to hope that he can persuade Castlereagh to think too far outside the box.
Take care of your family, querida.
R.
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Dearest Isobel,
We spent yesterday and well into the early hours this morning celebrating peace. That is, it was supposed to be purely a celebration of peace. That was Prince Metternich’s original vision of the events, a Peace Festival on the first anniversary of the Allied victory at Leipzig. But apparently Emperor Francis stepped in and told Field Marshal Schwarzenberg he wanted Austria’s military might on display. A message, Charles says, intended as directly for Tsar Alexander as if it had been formally delivered to his rooms at the Hofburg.
And so, on a glorious morning that felt more like midsummer than autumn, we gathered in the Prater along with most of Vienna. The Festivals Committee had a temporary bridge set up over the river, with railings made of muskets taken from the French at Leipzig, woven together with willow branches. Peace holding the remnants of war. Colin, I’m afraid, was more fascinated by the muskets and by the trophies of war and battle standards that bedecked the “Peace Tent” in which the Archbishop of Vienna celebrated High Mass.
We then moved to the Burg Gate, where the Vienna Garrison, all sixteen thousand of them, drilled past. Colin sat on Charles’s shoulders and clapped. Charles assures me he was as fascinated by uniforms as a small boy and this does not mean our son is destined for the life of a soldier. After the parade the soldiers were presented with medallions made from bits of melted-down cannons captured from the French.
We returned to the Minoritenplatz to change our dress and to put Colin (who fell asleep immediately after the day’s events) in Blanca’s care, and then the British delegation piled into carriages for the drive to the Metternichs’ summer palace on the Rennweg. Colored lights were strung everywhere and brilliant red Turkish tents were strewn about. I wore a blue gown embroidered in silver, ordered for the occasion from a modiste Dorothée Talleyrand introduced me to. All the ladies were asked to wear blue or white with silver or gold embroidery and diamonds, blue and white having been declared the “colors of peace.” I wore a laurel wreath which Blanca fashioned quite cleverly. There were numerous laurel and olive wreaths and also a profusion of diamond tiaras. The candlelight in the ballroom glittered off jewels and medals and gold and silver thread.
We danced polonaises and waltzes and Russian dances. Charles and I spent some time wandering through the gardens. Musicians were concealed behind the hedges, and we actually danced a bit of a waltz in the temple of Minerva (dangerously verging on sentimentality for us). Later the temple became the focus of an outdoor ballet. The temples of Apollo and Mars were also put to good use in the alfresco ballets and tableau vivant. In the course of the evening we saw a hot air balloon ascension.
The Duchess of Sagan had one of the best of the supper tables with a splendid view of the procedings. Princess Metternich greeted her with faultless cordiality.
Charles and I stepped back through the French windows into the ballroom late in the evening to hear Tsar Alexander, surrounded by a small crowd, tell Metternich that “you diplomats make the decisions and then we soldiers get shot up for you” or words to that effect. Distinctly unfair considering that the Tsar was in St. Petersburg when the French marched into Moscow. The Peace Festival apparently did nothing to mend the rifts beneath the surface at the Congress.
The festivities culminated in a display of fireworks, meant, Dorothée told me (I think she had it from her sister), to represent the horrors of war giving way to the triumph of peace, though the effect was a bit muddied. We then waited hours for our carriage, wrapped in our cloaks against the early morning chill, pitch torches casting their light over the crowd and the remnants of the ball, It was nearly dawn by the time returned to the Minoriitenplatz and tumbled into bed.
A far cry from our life in Spain.
Love to Oliver and the children and to you.
Mélanie
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My dear David,
No, the Congress still hasn’t officially opened, but we are steeped in enough intrigues to fill a volume of Simon’s plays. Indeed I begin to fear the Congress could dissolve in a hail of recriminations and worse without ever opening at all.
Russia wants Poland—that is, theoretically Russia wants to recreate a free Poland. But as usual with Tsar Alexander it is difficult to sort the student who absorbed liberal ideals from La Harpe from the emperor steeped in the autocratic tradition of his ancestors. The fear is that an independent Poland actually means a Russian satellite (in all of which conversations the rights of the Poles themselves are getting distinctly short shrift).
To complicate matters, Prussia has been promised the new map of the Continent will ensure it its population of 1805. If its Polish territories revert to a new Poland, it will require land from elsewhere. Prussia is making no great effort to hang onto its Polish territories. Instead, it wants Saxony. (The Congress begins to sound like the sort of romantic comedy in which everyone wants someone they can’t have). Prussia claims the King of Saxony’s support of Napoleon negates his rights as monarch, Talleyrand has been at pains to point out that supporting Bonaparte in the past is a sin on everyone’s conscience (except Britain, he concedes). Very much including Frederick William and Tsar Alexander, though I haven’t heard Talleyrand say so explicitly.
Tsar Alexander and Frederick William of Prussia, who seem inseparable these days, have apparently agreed between themselves on this solution for Poland and Saxony. The problem of course is that others do not share their views. Including the King of Saxony. But he is in a somewhat difficult negotiating position, being currently shut up in a Prussian prison. And the Russian army occupies both Prussia and Poland. Tsar Alexander’s latest threat is to unilaterally hand Saxony over to Prussia.
Which is enough to put the rest of the Congress up in arms (one can only hope not literally). Including Frederick William’s own ministers, who don’t like the idea of receiving Saxony as a gift that would put them permanently in Russia’s debt. Castlereagh received a private communiqué from von Hardenberg indicating that if Britain and Austria will stand up to Tsar Alexander over Poland, Prussia will back them provided Prussia is promised Saxony. The same letter apparently went to Metternich.
Castlereagh told me such a concession might be just what we need to assure continental tranquility. Somehow word of all this got back to the seemingly omniscient Talleyrand. He caught Castlereagh and me in the anteroom of our box at the opera and gave a very cogent lecture on the risks of creating a powerful Prussia that could pose as much a risk as Castlereagh fears from Russia.
Castlereagh listened in polite silence but remained unmoved. As to Metternich, it is not clear where he stands. His chief preoccupation at the moment seems to be losing the Duchess of Sagan to Alfred von Windisgrätz (a state of affairs Talleyrand bemoaned in our interview at the opera).
I must close, Colin will be up from his nap, and I want a few minutes with him before the usual round of evening engagements.
Mélanie send her affectionate best wishes to you and Simon, as do I.
As always,
Charles
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Another letter close on the heels of the last, but too much has happened for me to delay writing. Yesterday afternoon, only hours after I returned from my walk with Colin where I delivered my last letter to you to the courier, I was sitting in the salon with Lady Castlereagh and Eithne Smythe when an unexpected guest was announced. Tsar Alexander.
I confess I very nearly spilled my tea all over the lovely Aubusson carpet at the announcement. It was as audacious a move as it was bold. The Tsar got round the rules of etiquette that forbid a sovereign to call upon another country’s Foreign Secretary by officially paying a call upon the Foreign Secretary’s wife. He sat drank tea with us, paid Eithne and me some very pretty if overblown compliments, chatted about the latest offering at the opera and Marie Louise’s arrival at the Schönbrunn, and even made a few comments about Prince Metternich being the sort of cold fish of a man who cannot love. Then Castlereagh came in with Charles. A suitable interval later, Lady Castlereagh withdrew and indicated Eithne and I should accompany her.
The Tsar remained closeted with Castlereagh and Charles for an hour and a half. Castlereagh had Charles write up the points of the discussion afterwards and presented them to the Tsar. From what I learned from Charles while we were dressing for dinner, the chief topic of discussion seems to have been Poland. Tsar Alexander said he was mystified at Castlereagh’s resistance to the creation (re-creation) of an independent Polish state. With he claims, an enlightened constitution.
Castlereagh, of course, is concerned that such a state would be a Russian satellite. He’s also afraid an independent Poland would make Poles in other countries, including Austria, want their independence as well, which could lead to unrest rippling through the region. (Stability, Charles said rather grimly as he tied his cravat, seems to trump liberty every time at the Congress). And of course, to recreate Poland, both Prussia and Austria would have to surrender territory. And Prussia would likely want to be compensated with a good chunk of Saxony.
Charles says the Tsar made noises about the fact that his army was in occupation of Poland, which, he implied, makes his wishes a fait accompli Castlereagh pointed out—with that iron calm of his, I have no doubt—that conquest could not be held to be the basis of territorial rights.
When Charles and I returned from the opera (“Die Entfuhrung aus dem Serail”) and a stop at Princess Bagration’s salon, well past two in the morning, Castlereagh called Charles into his study. According to what Charles told me when he finally came to bed, Castlereagh spent the night drawing up a second memorandum, the gist of which is that he fears Russia’s aims regarding Poland will sew the seeds of another war. He is sending the memorandum to his chief allies— except Russia, naturally.
What happens next will be interesting to say the least. I’ll write as soon as I know more.
Keep safe.
M.
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My dear David,
I hope you’ve followed my instructions and not opened this until you’ve been at Carfax Court for two days. Because I suspect by now even your admirably equable temper is fraying and you’re longing for home. Assuming I can refer to the Albany as home. I know it’s been that for me for the past seven years.
Seven years. Even as I stare at the numbers in black ink, it’s hard to believe it’s been so long. Yet it’s also hard to remember a time I didn’t share my life with you. I still remember our first autumn in our rooms, me scribbling away at “Lost in London”, you looking about for a seat in Parliament, Charles— Well, Charles’s difficulties do overhang the memory of that time. I still curse myself for not understanding the depths of unhappiness he was in. But that’s Charles. He’s always been good at concealing things. I suspect that’s a tremendous asset in his current work. Whatever my differences with your father, I’ll always be grateful to him for what he did for Charles in those weeks. Sending him to Lisbon may have saved his life. Odd to think that without those events he wouldn’t have met Mélanie and Colin and Jessica wouldn’t have been born. When we saw him off at Portsmouth, all I was hoping is that we’d see him safe again.
I trust your meetings with your estate manager and visits to the tenants are proceeding well and that you and your father are finding some congenial topics of conversation to while away the evenings. I imagine Carfax must be consumed by the latest news from Vienna. I wonder what he thinks of Talleyrand turning the tables so adroitly on everyone. I would think he’d at least admire Talleyrand’s initiative. I can’t but do so myself, though I wish I had more faith he was still committed to the causes he once championed.
Your absence, as you pointed out, should give me plenty of time to write. Which, I suspect, means that by the time you read this I shall have frittered away far too much time.
And I can say without a doubt that I will be missing you unspeakably. I did the moment your carriage departed.
I love you, far beyond my ability to express in words.
Simon
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I take Dorothée Talleyrand’s words as a high compliment. You’re quite right, her husband wasn’t in the least help in building her self-confidence or in anything else that I can recall. Prince Talleyrand has done a number of questionable things in the course of his career. Advocating with Tsar Alexander to secure Dorothée for his nephew is high on the list in my view.
I’m sorry to hear about Wilhelmine of Sagan’s liaison with Metternich. She’s a brilliant woman and any influence she exerted on him would have been all to the good. I can’t say I’m surprised though. I saw Wilhelmine when her prior affair with von Windisgrätz was in full flower and the intensity of the bond was plain. Men in power seem to hold a certain fascination, but I never thought Metternich had the imagination to engage her interest over long.
I’m glad you formed a friendship with Dorothée. See if you can get close to Wilhelmine. She may have invaluable information about Metternich and others at the congress. She’s the sort of woman men confide their secrets to.
Tatiana Volkonsky has worked as an agent for the highest bidder for some time. Never for me, but for the British on more than once occasion, including in the Peninsula. She was Talleyrand’s creature originally and still works for him from time to time. She’s worth keeping an eye on but I shouldn’t worry about her and Charles. Whatever she was to him it’s long in the past.
I’m glad to hear Colin has the family knack for charm.
Take care of yourself, querida.
R.
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Dorothée remembers you fondly. She mentioned (quite on her own obviously) that you were one of the few people she met during her time in Paris who treated her like a rational creature and didn’t make her feel like sinking into the floor. As she tells it, she was painfully shy when first came to Paris as a bride. And it doesn’t sound as though her husband was the least help in making her gain self-confidence.
Even now I can see traces of the shyness. Particularly when I see her with her elder sisters. The Duchess of Sagan would be a difficult elder sister to live up to. Beautiful, witty, self-assured. And though I suspect she has her own demons, I doubt her younger sister sees them. Doro says they were never close. Wilhelmine is twelve years her senior, so even in Doro’s earliest memories she seemed quite grown up. But they do seem to be growing closer at the congress. Those twelve years narrow as one grows up.
Wilhelmine of Sagan hosted a dinner party recently, and Charles and I were among those invited. I was surprised, as I don’t know the duchess well, and though Charles and I have made a number of friends in Vienna, an attaché and his wife are hardly among the glittering guests a hostess is eager to capture for her table. We owed the invitation to Doro. She told me she always reverts to a schoolgirl in her sister’s presence, and she needed me to remind her she’s no longer a child.
The dinner was fascinating. Talleyrand was there with Doro of course. But for once he wasn’t the focus of attention. Nearly every time I’ve seen Wilhelmine in Vienna she’s had Prince Metternich at her side. But Metternich wasn’t at the dinner party at all. Instead, the duchess’s companion of the evening was Prince Alfred von Windisgrätz, a cavalry officer who was a colonel in a cuirassiers regiment during the war. The intimacy between him and the duchess was palpable. From something Doro said, I gather that Wilhelmine and the prince has a liaison in the past. Unless I’m losing my touch, I’d say the affair has begun again. There was an intimacy between them, not in overt actions but in ease of manner, which suggests a deep bond. I never thought to find myself feeling pity for Prince Metternich, but I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity last night. He adores the duchess. Far more, I’d hazard a guess, than she adored him, even before von Windisgrätz came back in the picture.
Intimate details which are likely to ripple through the congress. Which is why I’ve devoted so much ink to them.
Colin charmed Tsarina Elisabeth when we met her in the Prater.
Keep safe.
M.
p.s.
What do you know about Princess Tatiana Volkonsky? Titian-haired, quite lovely, widow of a Russian prince, though apparently she’s lived in Paris for some time. Charles knew her—in the Peninsula, I think. They seem on remarkably close terms.
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Bel darling,
It’s quite excruciating to have two people one cares for at odds. Like some horrible medieval torture where one is pulled in two directions. Do try to remember (though I know it’s far easier said than done) that the conflict is between your father and David and you have no place in it. I imagine David and Simon have walked a delicate balancing act with their relationship from the first. From what I’ve seen, they’ve achieved a remarkable equilibrium. Certainly there’s an understanding between them which I find myself envying. You’re right, though, that things are bound to become difficult as the years go by and David feels the weight of his position more. I think all their friends can do is be there to listen and offer our friendship and support.
We did manage some birthday cheer. My birthday was the day of a “People’s Festival” in the Augarten, once a Royal hunting field and pleasure garden but opened to the public some forty years ago. There were games and equestrian displays (the Austrians pride themselves on their horsemanship). Veterans of the war marched with a profusion of flags and trophies and fife and drum playing loudly. Charles put Colin on his shoulders, and Colin clapped with glee (he is rather more fascinated by soldiers than I would like, though I suppose it’s a bit absurd at this point to worry about one’s son becoming a soldier). The veterans were then fêted at a banquet, while we went to watch a quite wonderful performance of Austrian regional dances, followed by a fireworks display. Colin was entranced by the fireworks and not in the least bothered by the noise, but then he can sleep through cannonfire.
Tsar Alexander is charming or crude, depending upon his mood. Tsarina Elisabeth looks like a illustration of a princess in a fairy story. She has ash-blonde hair which she usually wears flowing over her shoulders, delicate features, and the sweetest smile. She also appears to be a generous, warm-hearted person. I met her once in the Prater when I had Colin with me, and she stopped her carriage to speak with us and was quite unaffected and friendly.
The Duchess of Sagan’s affair with Metternich is indeed quite open. Metternich appears completely besotted with her. But we dined at the duchess’s recently (I’ve become friends with her younger sister, Dorothée Talleyrand) and found Prince Alfred von Windisgrätz in attendance. He is a former lover of the duchess and from their behavior that evening the affair seems to have resumed or to be about to do so.
A few days later, at a ball at the Spanish Riding School, she spent a great deal of time in von Windisgrätz’s company. Metternich seemed to be constantly scanning the crowd for her. On the way back to the Minoritzenplatz, Castlereagh muttered that he hoped these developments weren’t going to distract Metternich from the work of the congress.
I don’t know the duchess as well as Dorothée, but I quite like her. She’s a woman with a keen understanding who knows her own mind.
Love to Oliver and the children,
Mélanie
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My dear David,
Thank you for the birthday wishes. I did manage some time with my family (how odd that word still sounds to me) which meant a great deal. I feel often as though my own shortcomings and my shear lack of time mean that I am failing both of them. On that day at least I didn’t feel so.
As to your other question about lying to the person with whom one shares one’s life— Yes, of course I’ve had to lie to Mélanie. And no, the bitter taste never goes away. What makes it worse is that most of the time I’m quite sure she knows I’m lying, though of course she never says so. But while the House of Commons may be a devious place, I don’t think it entails quite as much deception as the world of intelligence. And your relationship with Simon is built on a much more sturdy foundation than the life Mélanie and I are attempting to construct. I’m quite sure Simon understands your predicament.
As to your father, he’s a master manipulator, as I have good cause to know. Don’t, for God’s sake, let him play his games with you. You can steward the Carfax title and estates without having a son of your own to pass them along to. Isn’t inherited privilege one of the things we railed against in our Oxford days?
Tell Simon should be here. There’s enough conflict in an hour in round a Vienna conference table or over champagne in a diplomatic salon to drive a score of plays. A few days ago at Metternichs’ summer palace we had our first meeting of a new committee, the Committee of Eight. The Big Four have now been joined by France, Portugal, Spain, and Sweden—the other four signatories of the Treaty of Paris. Score one for Prince Talleyrand.
We managed, miraculously, to come to an agreement to open the congress on the 1st of November. The question then was who would participate in the proceedings and in what manner. Metternich presented one plan and Talleyrand another (note how quickly the outsider Talleyrand has become one of the two architects of plans for the congress). The plans were actually not that dissimilar. The chief difference was that Talleyrand’s plan excluded Murat from representing Naples in the congress. Metternich’s plan equivocated on the subject. Talleyrand has taken the stance that we should restore all “legitimate” rulers to sovereign states, and he doesn’t see the Bonapartist Murat as remotely legitimate (odd to think now that once Talleyrand too questioned inherited privilege).
Metternich’s plan won out, not surprisingly. Talleyrand agreed (he has a way of agreeing to the inevitable as though he is graciously making a concession). However, he insisted we add that the congress “shall be conducted in conformity with the principles of public law.”
The tension that followed, over what seems an innocuous enough proposal, was worthy of a dueling green. Hardenberg said there was no point in specifying that we’d act according to public law, we would do so as a matter of course. Talleyrand countered that then there could be no harm in specifying it. A knife—or a sword—could have cut the tension in the room. Castlereagh took Talleyrand aside while glares clashed across the conference table, and asked whether if the others conceded on this point, Talleyrand would afterwards “be more accommodating.” Talleyrand agreed. Though God knows what his definition of “accommodating” will be. If we had this much contention over the simple premise of acting according to the rule of law, one does rather wonder what future meetings will hold.
Mélanie and Colin seem to be settling in well. To the extent I get to see them. We spent Mélanie’s birthday at a “People’s Festival” which featured parades of veterans of the wars, acrobats, crossbowmen, and footraces, and then a balloon ascension and fireworks. Colin was entranced. At least we were able to have him with us for most of the day.
As always,
Charles
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I’ve only had a few chances to observe Prince Metternich, but I’d say you’re spot on about his tendency to lose his temper. As usual your observations are invaluable. God knows I’ve had my share of disagreements with Talleyrand through the years, but I find myself exceedingly grateful that he’s in Vienna to wreak his usual havoc on the Big Four’s efforts to turn the Continent into their own private club. And grateful to Castlereagh for understanding the dangers of completely shutting out the other countries at the congress. Grateful for Talleyrand and Castlereagh. You’ll appreciate my laughter as I write this. Odd the different positions we find ourselves in as the board shifts beneath our feet.
I always thought Dorothée Talleyrand might grow into a formidable woman if given some encouragement. I remember the last time I saw her, in her mother’s salon in Paris, flipping through the pages of a book while her husband sat surrounded by four young women, none of whom was half her equal for wit and understanding. I sat beside her and suggested she might wish to join the conversation. She said she would, if anyone was saying anything of interest. A woman after my own heart. Talleyrand may actually be a good influence on her. And I have no doubt you will be.
The fact that so much of the work of the congress is occurring at social events makes me all the more grateful that you are there. But don’t forget my words of caution. The surface glitter makes Vienna that much more dangerous. If you won’t have a care for your own sake, think of your husband and your son. Whatever the limits of their knowledge of your activities, they need you. I have no right to ask you to think of me, but I will say that any ill news of you would be a blow I am not sure I would recover from.
I’m glad to hear Colin’s education continues. He gets his gift for languages from you.
Keep safe, querida.
R.
My birthday wishes to you and to Charles. I trust the events of the congress didn’t entirely prevent some acknowledgement of the occasion.
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The Big Four drafted a response to Talleyrand’s accusations that their proposed way of conducting the Congress violates the Treaty of Paris (or rather, Friedrich von Genz, the Secretary of the Congress, drafted it in their name). They presented it to Talleyrand at a party at the Duchess of Sagan’s rooms in the Palm Palace the night before last. The fact that they chose to present an official document to the head of a delegation at a social event speaks volumes about the way this Congress (which has yet to officially open) is being conducted. I suppose I shouldn’t complain, as it does put women more in the middle of things.
Metternich made a great show of presenting the protocol to Talleyrand when he could get maximum attention from the guests crushed into the duchess’s rooms. I could almost hear Charles grit his teeth. I had the impression Wilhelmine of Sagan thought her lover’s gesture was a bit too ostentatious as well, though I couldn’t swear to it. She’s an excellent diplomat herself.
Dorothée Talleyrand looked at her uncle with concern, but Talleyrand accepted the paper with typical sangfroid. I understand from Charles that Talleyrand had a response ready at the meeting of the Big Four yesterday, the general idea being that in trying to impose their plans on the Continent the Big Four were being “no better than Napoleon”. Charles says the paper was passed round the table and that Metternich and Nesselrode gave it almost insultingly little attention.
Matters appear to have degenerated from there. Metternich asked Talleyrand to withdraw the paper, Talleyrand refused and threatened to withdraw from the meetings of the Big Four and be merely a Congress delegate. Metternich then threatened to cancel the Congress entirely (he has a tendency to lose his temper). Nesselrode smoothed things over, saying they needed to move forward quickly as the Tsar would be leaving Vienna at the end of the month. Metternich said they had nothing ready to lay before the Congress if it did assemble, at which point Talleyrand graciously said he would agree to the opening of the Congress being delayed for a fortnight or three weeks. He then scribbled down his terms (a definite date for the opening of the Congress, specifics of who will be admitted to the sessions) and passed them round the table.
Charles says the meeting rather fell apart after that, with ministers taking their leave in a haphazard manner. Castlereagh lingered, and he and Charles left with Talleyrand. Castlereagh (who can be quite engaging when he chooses to make the effort) tried to convince Talleyrand to go along with the Big Four with a vague offer of British assistance in French interests. Talleyrand, Charles says, was faultlessly polite, but insisted the rule of law was his chief concern.
It’s almost as good as a play waiting to see the next developments. Or would be if it weren’t so serious.
Keep safe.
M.
p.s.
In the Prater yesterday, Colin was chattering to the ducks in German.
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Dearest Mélanie,
Happiest birthday wishes to you and Charles. I hope you found some time for a family celebration in the midst of the activities of the Congress, which sound quite overwhelming from everything we’re hearing. I don’t know how you manage. It’s fortunate you’re more intrepid about public events than I am. We’re bidden to a fête at Carlton House, and already I’m bracing myself. There’s something so exhausting about an evening of making conversation. I said as much to Simon and asked him if he found making conversation difficult, and he said, “Excruciating. But I have to do it constantly. I’m a playwright.”
Speaking of Simon, or rather of David and Simon, Mama and Papa had Oliver and me and David to dine recently, and I fear Papa gave David one of his lectures on the Need to Marry and Produce an Heir. They were closeted in his study for some time, and David had a grim look when we sat down to dinner.
I don’t think David will ever give way. He cares for Simon too much, and has too much of a sense of who his is, if that makes any sense. But there’s no denying he takes his responsibilities seriously, and this is one responsibility he’ll never be able to fulfill. I know it worries Simon. I could see it in his eyes when I took the children over to visit them a few days after the dinner.
Forgive me, I shouldn’t go on this way. But I do hate it so when Papa and David (two of the people I love best in the world) are at odds, and of course this particular topic is one I can’t discuss with many people. Thank you so much for listening, even if a correspondent you don’t have much choice about it. But I know were you were you’d be obliging enough to listen to me for hours over tea.
Do send me the latest news from Vienna. Papa seems to get dispatches from Vienna practically every day, but they aren’t the sort of thing he can share, even with his family. He did say at dinner that is was fortunate for Castlereagh he had Charles with him.
Are you an expert at the waltz now? Or were you already? Is Tsarina Elisabeth as lovely as they say? I’ll own Tsar Alexander is quite handsome, but I can’t say his manner overwhelmed me on his visit to England last summer. What about the scandalous Duchess of Sagan? Is she really openly Metternich’s mistress? So many things we do in secret in England seem to be taken quite for granted on the Continent.
Yours most affectionately,
Isobel
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My dear,
I’ll be gone by the time you read this. An early errand for Castlereagh—the sort of I can’t commit to paper—and then a damnable day of meetings. I have no doubt you’ll manage to have a very agreeable day without me, but I could wish the day’s demands didn’t call for me to be entirely gone from your side.
You’re very understanding of the peculiar madness that is the Congress or Vienna or perhaps both. I haven’t, I fear, been much of a husband of late. I often think I haven’t been much of a husband for the two-and-twenty months of our marriage. Sometimes I think some day we’ll have a more real sort of life. And at other times—last night, for instance, when we were trying to untangle the code in that scrap Belmont retrieved from the waste basket at the Austrian Chancellery—I think that this is the only life I’m fit for. I should probably apologize for dragging you into it. But it would be a bleak existence without you, not to mention Colin.
At least we have the opera tonight. And at least it’s “Marriage of Figaro”, one of your favorites, though hardly a shining example of wedded bliss. Still, I like to think I’m more a Figaro than a Count Almaviva (I certainly feel like a general factotum much of the time these days). And just hearing “Dove Sono” is enough to make it a special evening.
I shall see you tonight and endeavor to make it up to you for missing the rest of the day. I seem to have rather a long list of things I need to make up to you.
Happy Birthday, wife.
As always,
Charles
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Darling,
It’s a pity the start of the Congress has been delayed, but I confess a perverse part of me is rather pleased not to have a day of official events competing with your birthday.
Yes, I know, you’d very likely prefer to have a bevy of competing events. I learned last year that you cannot abide having a fuss made over you. Perhaps it’s silly, as you said, to give more importance to the anniversary of one’s birth than to any other day. But as I told you last year, you must indulge those close to you. There must be moments to stop and acknowledge those we care for.
Goodness knows there’s been little enough time for acknowledging anything since we came to Vienna. When we do talk it seems to be about the Congress or what’s happening behind the scenes at the Congress or what will happen when the Congress opens. It’s consumed our lives as it seems to have consumed everyone in Vienna. I can’t remember the last time we had leisure to indulge in idle conversation. Not that we’ve ever have had much leisure for that in all the time we’ve known each other.
Twenty three months. Do you realize that’s all it’s been? And it’s odd because I find it difficult to remember not knowing you, dearest. So much has happened and yet for so much of that time we’ve been reacting to the events of the world round us.
And yes, darling, I can almost hear you say it—with the world on fire, there’s no time to be thinking of one’s own petty concerns. But I think those are just the times when it’s important to say the things one can all too easily not stop to put into words.
I say this not to place any added burdens on you, but—- Thank you, Charles Fraser, for everything you’ve done for Colin and me. For making us, for better or worse a family. I think you can see what you mean to Colin when he smiles up at you. I hope you understand, without my lapsing into appalling sentimentality, what you mean to me. What you have given me already is far more than I had any right to expect when we married.
Happy birthday, darling.
M.
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My dear Charles,
Warmest birthday wishes, no less heartfelt for being written three days late. I understand the congress was to have opened on your birthday, though from various advance reports (yours in particular) I wonder if it actually did.
Do you remember the first birthday we celebrated together? Ten, I think. So often we were at school on your birthday. I still remember the year Lady Elizabeth made a surprise visit. Twelve, I think? Perhaps thirteen? She took us to the most wonderful raffish pub. The sort of place I couldn’t imagine my own mother even acknowledging existed.
I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind. But I have a number of good memories of her, and as time goes by I find I can dwell on those good memories. I hope you do as well. I hope— What else can I say, except that I’m here to listen, as always.
Little excitement to report here compared to the whirl of Vienna. Simon is hard at work on a new play. He seems happy with it over all, though I walked into the study yesterday to find him cursing fluently, with a litter of crumpled paper on the floor about him. But I’ve learned that often means he’s been particularly productive.
I dined with the parents two days ago. No worse than usual, though Father called me into his study for a tête-à-tête before dinner. The usual reminders about what I owe to my position, with rather more emphasis than usual on the part of that obligation that involves marrying and producing an heir. Needless to say I mentioned none of this part of the evening to Simon. But I could tell he suspected. Do you ever find yourself lying to Mélanie? Or not revealing the whole truth? You must have had to, because I can’t imagine you tell her the whole about your work. How on earth do you wash the bitter taste from your mouth?
I’m sorry, Charles, that was unpardonable. But then if I can’t say such things to you, who can I say them to? So much of our friendship has been built on saying things we couldn’t utter to anyone else.
Warmest regards to Mélanie and young Colin.
As always,
David
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Melly my sweet,
What on earth are you all getting up to in Vienna? From the reports we have here it sounds as though all the delegations are waltzing into the small hours every night. Is anyone actually doing any work at this congress? Yes, don’t tell me, I’m sure Charles is. Probably in the library while everyone else is waltzing. I do hope he’s managing to dance with you occasionally, though I don’t imagine you lack for partners.
In truth, judging by your letters it sounds as though as much negotiating is going on in the salons and boudoirs and ballrooms as in the council chambers, so perhaps the time on the dance floor isn’t wasted. And, as I pointed out to David over the breakfast table, women are more likely to be present in ballrooms and salons and boudoirs than in council chambers, and they’re almost bound to exert a civilizing influence.
We continue to get on pretty well here. I read through my draft of the first act last week, and all things considered I was reasonably pleased. Did some editing and embellishing and am now facing the daunting stack of blank paper that needs to become Act II.
David was summoned to dine with his parents last night. A quite family evening, which perhaps account for why he looked a bit grim when he left. Bel and Oliver were there for moral support at least. David said little on his return, but judging by his expression, I suspect Lord Carfax sat him down for a tête-à-tête. Most likely about his duties as heir to the earldom, namely to marry and produce an heir. Poor David. For all his radical convictions, he takes his responsibilities seriously. I fear this is one responsibility he simply ignores, hoping it will go away. Which of course it won’t. What that will mean for us is something I don’t care to contemplate (but at times can’t avoid).
Forgive me. I shouldn’t burden you with these matters. But at times I find myself desperately parched for a confidant, and you have been wonderfully understanding. I hope you realize that I’m equally ready to listen should you ever have the need of a confidant yoursel.
Love to Charles and Colin.
Love,
Simon
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Bel darling,
The congress may not have opened on schedule yesterday, but we still had a splendid masked ball at the Hofburg Palace last night. It filled two ballrooms and spilled over into the Spanish Riding School. Ten to twelve thousand guests according to the latest estimate I heard. Not only were counterfeit tickets apparently available, but it seems some enterprising doorkeepers resold the admission tickets they collected to the crowd wanting to attend.
The congress royalty—the Emperor Francis and Empress Maria Ludovica of Austria, Tsar Alexander and Tsarina Elisabeth of Russia and myriad kings and queens I still haven’t managed to sort out——entered to trumpet blasts, paraded round the room, and settled on a platform draped with white silk fringed with silver. Empress Maria Ludovica and Tsarina Elisabeth sat in front with the Queen of Bavaria and Tsar Alexander’s sister, Grand Duchess Catherine, behind them. Working out the precedence must have been a nightmare. To think I still find working out the seating arrangement at a dinner party a challenge.
The dancing began with a Polonaise that managed to stay quite dignified despite the numbers. Another orchestra played minuets in one of the side rooms, and of course there was plenty of waltzing.
The masks helped ease the formality and protocol, which can become as oppressive as a a July day before a thunderstorm. They also give the license for more than usual flirtation (and the usual degree of flirtation in Vienna is hardly insubstantial). I heard some quite clever though distinctly improper comments from a gentleman in Renaissance dress who I believe was a cousin of Emperor Francis, and I was obliged to take rather adroit measures to prevent a Russian equerry (the Russian delegation, unfortunately, tend to model their behavior on the Tsar’s) from cornering me in an alcove.
Charles, I need hardly say, spent most of the evening in an ante-room debating the finer points of the Saxon situation with a group of attachés from various delegations.
Oh, yes, and Charles and I went as Romeo and Juliet. A bit starry-eyed for us, perhaps, but it seemed appropriately English I had the loveliest white-and-silver gown with a ruff. Charles looked very handsome in his doublet and hose.
Love to you all. Colin was asking about Billy and Rose yesterday.
You affectionate friend,
Mélanie
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Have a care of Talleyrand. You’re quite right. He is fully capable of remembering you with crystal clarity and still giving no indication that he’d ever seen you before. His presence at the congress is the one reason I had qualms about your going to Vienna. The reason why, in many ways, I’d have far preferred it if you hadn’t. Though as you wisely pointed out it would have been extremely difficult for you not to accompany Charles. I tell myself that you’ve been in (I’ve sent you into) far more dangerous situations. I rely on your good sense. This is no time to be running unnecessary risks.
Wilhelmine of Sagan is a brilliant woman. If Metternich listens to her advice, I suspect the congress will go the better for it. Unfortunately I doubt anyone could moderate Metternich’s tendency to see any reform as the road to revolution and therefore to be avoided at all costs. To think that the man who holds such sway over what Europe will look like for years to come was a schoolboy when I was in Les Carmes prison.
Tsar Alexander is a fascinating paradox. So many good instincts and yet in so many ways he remains an autocrat. At the same time I have hopes of the affect his liberalizing impulses may have on the congress, I fear what he would do with too much power. Needless to say, because he’s been raised as lord of all he surveys, he’s particularly dangerous to any woman he takes an interest in. I expect you’ve already worked that out for yourself.
Your last missive only convinces me further that any public sessions of the congress will be purely for show, and the real work will be done by committees behind closed doors. That’s to be expected, but it’s also clear that Austria, Russia, Prussia, and Britain intend to redraw the map of Europe to suit themselves. From your description of the meeting Charles attended, it sounds as though Castlereagh is being a moderating influence, at least recognizing the need the have acquiescence of the countries whose borders are being redrawn. How very odd to find myself grateful for Castlereagh’s influence.
I shall be very curious to learn what Talleyrand does now he’s come to Vienna. He’s not one to sit idly by while decisions are made without him or to sign his name to borders drawn by others.
I’m glad to hear Colin is settling in to his new quarters.
Take care of yourself, querida.
R.
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Dearest Aunt Frances,
Prince Talleyrand asks to be remembered to you. When Charles and I met him at the opera earlier in the week, he said you and Lady Elizabeth were the two most brilliant women he had encountered during his stay in England during the Terror. I must say, even after everything I’ve heard about him, I wasn’t quite prepared for how charming he is in person. One quite forgets that there are most likely ten or twelve different agendas playing out in his mind as he simply bends over one’s hand with superb courtly grace.
He has the knack of seeming to really listen to whomever he’s talking to. In this I much prefer him to Tsar Alexander, who also has charm (though of a cruder sort), but who I always have the sense is thinking primarily about Tsar Alexander.
I walked in the Prater today with Talleyrand’s niece (or rather his nephew’s wife), Dorothée. She has a wonderful air of elegant reserve that, the more I get to know her, I believe stems from shyness. She confessed to feeling out of place in Parisian society when she first came there from her home in Courland as Edmond de Talleyrand’s bride. I told her how I felt going to Britain for the first time with Charles this summer. Kind as everyone was to me, it’s always difficult to be an outsider going into a society in which everyone has known everyone since the nursery it seems and one feels woefully ignorant of the rules, many of which are unwritten.
I think, though, that I am far more fortunate in my marriage than Dorothée. She is a scholar who loves to read and translate. Her husband’s primary interests are apparently horses (he’s a cavalry officer) and gaming. And women, I fear. I get the sense that they live quite separate lives now.
I brought Colin with us, and Dorothée was charming with him. I’m so pleased to have a new friend who genuinely enjoys children. She insisted on buying Colin and a wooden Austrian guardsman from one of the vendors in the park. It kept him happily occupied while we drank coffee (I confess I am beginning to very much enjoy coffee with whipped cream) in one of the cafés. Dorothée said spending time with Colin helped make up for missing her own two little boys, who are with her mother in France. She lost her daughter to the measles only this summer and of course is still grief-stricken. To own the truth, that’s a loss I can’t imagine ever recovering from.
I hope the autumn finds you all well. Charles and I are so looking forward to having Allie come to stay with us. There is plenty of room in the new British embassy quarters in the Minoritenplatz. Lady Castlereagh says it will be lovely to have another English lady join our party (so far there are just Lady Castlereagh, myself, and Eithne Smythe). Be sure to tell her to pack plenty of dancing slippers. We seem to waltz every night.
All my love,
Mélanie
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My dear David,
We were summoned to the Kaunitz Palace, Metternich’s residence, today for a private conference. The Big Four, but this time Talleyrand and the Spanish envoy Labrador were included as well.
It did not begin auspiciously. Talleyrand looked round the long table (he and Labrador were on time, but the rest of us had been told to gather early). I could tell he at once understood that this was far from the first time the representatives of Austria, England, Prussia, and Russia had met. He seated himself in one of the high-backed chairs and asked with his usual polite calm why he was the only member of the French embassy who had been invited to the meeting, considering that von Hardenberg had von Humboldt with him and Castlereagh had me. It was explained that von Hardenberg needed assistance because he is hard of hearing, and that Castlereagh had requested my presence because of my note taking skills and my facility with languages (Castlereagh’s French isn’t the best, and French is the common language we usually speak, can’t help but wonder what Bonaparte would think of that). Talleyrand stretched out his club foot and said that if it was a question of infirmities, all of the ministers to claim an exception on the basis on some infirmity or other.
So the meeting began with an agreement that in future Talleyrand would be welcome to bring an assistant to such conferences. I doubt Talleyrand cares the least about having an assistant with him, but he managed to adjust the balance of power through this discussion. You’d never guess he represented the defeated power at the table. Labrador, whose country was actively involved in defeating the French, remained largely silent.
Castlereagh then read a letter from Palmella, the Portuguese representative, objecting to be excluded from the Big Four’s meetings, considering that Portugal was also a signatory to the Treaty of Paris. Talleyrand and Labrador promptly suggested Palmella be included. The others responded by deciding to postpone a decision about who was to be invited to future meetings. Diplomacy by prevarication.
The tone of the meeting worsened further when Metternich handed Talleyrand a protocol detailing the Big Four’s decisions thus far. Talleyrand at once took exception to the word “allies.” Allies again whom, he wanted to know? If they were still allies against France, then he, Talleyrand, had no place here. When he was told the word had been chosen “for the sake of brevity”, he replied that “brevity should not be purchased at the price of accuracy. Talleyrand then declared that nothing that had been agreed to before the official opening of the congress on the first of October had any validity as far as he was concerned. Metternich then showed him a second protocol, which proposed dividing issues at the congress into “general” and “particular” and having all issues dealt with by committees (appointed by the Big Four, naturally) and then assembling the congress to ratify these decisions. Talleyrand said he needed more time to consider such a project, that it might end up violating the rights of states who deserved to be heard. Von Hardenberg put his hand to his ear trumpet and said he wouldn’t be dictated to by the likes of the Prince of Leyen or the Prince of Lichtenstein. At which point Castlereagh adjourned the meeting.
Not a successful day for Britain by most standards, though I find myself quite in sympathy with a good deal of what Talleyrand said (while at the same time knowing he had reasons of his own for saying it). And it’s hard not to admire his sheer brilliance as a diplomat.
No official opening of the congress tomorrow, but there is a masked ball tomorrow night. Mel has found masks for us. She takes Colin on an expedition in the city every day. And our new quarters have a glass harmonium. We’ve even managed to practice some duets.
More to follow shortly, I’m sure. I can only imagine Castlereagh is currently writing a very different account of today’s events to your father.
As always,
Charles
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We encountered Talleyrand at the opera last night. Bound to happen, and just as well to get it over with sooner rather than later. He remembered meeting Charles as a young boy when he was in exile in England during the Terror and mentioned how charming Lady Elizabeth Fraser had been, but he gave no sign of having the smallest suspicion he had ever seen me before. I would be entirely reassured, did I not suspect that Prince Talleyrand’s abilities at deception may be even greater than your own.
I quite like Talleyrand’s niece Dorothée, who is serving as his hostess. We had a very entraining conversation about Beethoven’s and Mozart’s different approaches to music drama. I think we could be friends—to the extent I can make a friend of anyone.
Neither Metternich nor Tsar Alexander did more than exchange nods and greetings with Talleyrand. Mind you, neither seemed to have politics much on his mind. Metternich could scarcely take his eyes off Dorothée’s sister, the Duchess of Sagan, and the tsar was much occupied with Princess Catherine Bagration (who was once Metternich’s mistress; one would think, given all the women in Vienna for the congress, they could avoid each other’s women—perhaps there is an element of politics in it after all). The duchess and the princess are both lodged in the Palm Palace, and there’s much gossip about the traffic on the staircases that lead to each of their rooms. One of the latest on-dits is that Metternich’s obsession with the duchess is distracting him from his duties. Though Charles pointed out on the way home from the opera that Wilhelmine of Sagan is so politically astute the time Metternich spends with her is probably more an asset to his work than a liability. Meanwhile, at the British Embassy we are considered sadly staid and conventional, with a Foreign Secretary known for his devotion to his wife.
I overheard a heated debate between two young Polish attachés over how much (or how little) Tsar Alexander could be trusted to support an independent Polish state. Both were doing a great deal of speculating. They appear to know rather less about the current state of affairs than I do as Charles’s wife. Proof of the Big Four’s success at excluding other nations from the talks thus far.
It looks less and less likely that a formal, open congress will begin on the first of October. When, if ever, it will begin is anybody’s guess (and one hears new speculation daily).
I hope this finds you safe and not sleeping on the ground.
Au revoir.
M.
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Simon darling,
Home (yes, this is beginning to feel like home, but then I’m used to changing homes frequently) from the opera. Castlereagh called Charles into conference, so I am sitting at the lovely escritoire in our room, writing by the light of an excellent wax taper (the Foreign Office don’t stint us on provisions).
The opera was Beethoven’s “Fidelio”—quite splendid. I’d seen it before, but this is a new version, two acts rather than three, which just premiered in May. A powerful piece of music. The theme of the power of conjugal love, however, was a distinct counterpoint to the events going on in the audience. Prince Metternich spent more of the evening in the Duchess of Sagan’s box than in his own. Wilhelmine of Sagan is a twice-divorced beauty who has had the wit to keep her name and her considerable fortune for herself. She is the eldest daugher of the Duke of Courland and so almost a royal personage in her own right. Princess Metternich kept her gaze on the stage or on every other box but the duchess’s. She has the look of a woman who has mastered the art of being a diplomatic wife in every sense of the word (rumor has it she faced down Marshal Junot with admirable composure when he lost his head over Metternich’s affair with his wife). But there’s a discontent about Princess Metternich’s mouth that says she’s less sanguine than her composure might indicate. Their daughter Marie, seventeen, excessively pretty, and with a gaze quite as sharp as her father’s, did glance the duchess’s box more than once.
Prince Talleyrand, newly arrived in Vienna, sat across the theatre, the picture of ancien régime splendor (one can’t but appreciate the irony) in velvet coat and knee breeches. By contrast the lady at his side was a Parisian fashion plate in an exquisitely cut French gauze and pearls that glowed brighter than the candles. Dorothée de Talleyrand-Périgord the (estranged) wife of Talleyrand’s nephew is serving as his hostess at the congress She is the Duchess of Sagan’s youngest sister, and their mother is said to be Talleyrand’s mistress.
Tsar Alexander, meanwhile, spent most of the evening in the box of Princess Catherine Bagration. Her husband died a hero’s death at Borodino, but she appears to be well-consoled. In fact, she apparently was well-consoled years before his death, as she was Metternich’s mistress over a decade ago and apparently bore him a child. She is referred to as the “naked angel” on account of the cut of her bodices. The tsar certainly seemed to have reasons to visit her box behind the fact that she is a distant cousin of his. Tsarina Elisabeth was also giving an excellent performance as a diplomatic wife, though rumor has it that, unlike Princess Metternich, the tsarina has not lacked consolation herself, for which I can only applaud her.
You see, keeping track intrigues in Vienna is quite as complicated as the plot of one of your plays.
Speaking of which, how is the new play progressing?
Love to David.
Love as always,
Mélanie
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We’re settled in new rooms on the Minoritenplatz, a lovely cobbled square lined with handsome houses. So by “rooms” I mean a 22-room suite. I actually have the chance of taking two steps without encountering three members of the British delegation. Communication should be much easier. I should also be more coherent. Colin in sleeping better. Colin’s mother is therefore also getting more sleep. I only had to get up with him one last night.
Metternich’s offices on the Ballhausplatz are now only moments away, as is the Hofburg Palace. Convenient for the delegation. Convenient also for me.
It looks as though there will be no official opening of the congress on October 1 (though I do believe the ball at the Hofburg Palace will come off). In fact, if Metternich, von Hardenbergy, and Nesselrode have anything to say about it, there won’t be any full meeting of the congress, unless perhaps at the end to ratify what they themselves have already decided. Those three have already been meeting with Castlereagh (who takes along Charles, on whom he seems to rely a great deal, despite their frequent differences of opinion, particularly over domestic policy; you would smile, I think, to see me trying to restrain Charles from offending the Foreign Secretary). Metternich apparently claimed that a full congress of all the states would turn into the sort of intrigues which have “caused the misfortunes of late years.” One can’t help but wonder (as I said to Charles when he related the exchange to me) how on earth he thinks not having an official congress will avoid those intrigues. In fact, I would think the representatives of the smaller powers are all the more likely to intrigue if left to cool their heels in Vienna’s salons rather than being occupied in official functions.
Castlereagh is concerned about the lack of a forum for the representatives of the smaller powers to at least ratify official decisions. He was outvoted at today’s meeting. There will, it seems, be no official parliament of equal states, but rather individual negotiations. With the decision making in the hands of Austria, Russia, Prussia, and Britain. There will be a Directing Committee staffed only with representatives of those four countries. The congress, Charles tells me, will be held to “exist only when the committee is in being, and is terminated when the committee dissolves itself.”
Both Charles and Castlereagh were in distinctly bad spirits when they returned to the Minoritenplatz this evening. I could read it in Charles eyes the moment he walked in and see it in the extra glass of wine he drank with dinner (not that he shows any effects from it). Tommy Belmont says it should give us more time for dancing (he does like to needle Charles; mostly Charles resists, but at times I have to intervene). Charles retorted that it may bring about more complications. It will be interesting to see how Talleyrand reacts. He’s due to arrive shortly. Somehow I can’t imagine him settling for this status quo.
I hope this finds you well, wherever you are. How naïve I was to think the end of fighting would mean the end of danger.
Keep safe.
M.
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Dearest Isobel,
We (the British delegation) are settled in our temporary embassy. These rooms were used by Mozart some thirty years ago when he was writing “Entführung.” He was courting the landlady’s daughter who later became his wife. I like to imagine Mozart and his Constanze here, and to play over bits of the opera in my head. It’s a nice distraction from the fact that the rooms, which may have provided the setting for a lovely idyll for Mozart and Constanze, are ridiculously cramped for Lord and Lady Castlereagh and a staff of fourteen. Castlereagh, who is nothing is not efficient, is already looking for new lodgings.
Meanwhile, I escape the stacks of bandboxes and portmanteaux and spend as much time exploring Vienna as possible. Colin is fascinated by the sounds and colors. One can’t go from one street corner to the next with out seeing the uniforms of at least five different countries. Charles was able to get away for a bit yesterday afternoon, and we spent a delightful few hours in the Prater and sat outside at a café taking in the breathtaking trees and the breathtaking multitude of languages spoken round us. There are all sorts of cafés and restaurants in the Prater, as well as gambling rooms and dance halls. A number of the buildings are built in the style of Chinese pavilions or Swiss Chalets or Indian kiosks, which quite fascinates Colin.
Lady Castlereagh is in raptures over the shops. Every bit the equal of the West End, she says. She managed to get Castlereagh away from his papers yesterday for a tour of the city—hence my ability to whisk Charles off. She told her husband he would think better for the exercise, and his face relaxed into a smile and he told her he dared say she was right, she usually was. Castlereagh can be a bit forbidding, but it is quite charming to watch him with his wife. Lady Castlereagh is all kindness to me, and so understanding about my toting Colin about. “It livens things up to have a little one here,” she tells me, “and it’s a good distraction when the gentlemen are working too hard.” Fortunately Colin continues an intrepid traveler, so he isn’t too much of a distraction.
Castlereagh’s half-brother, Charles Stewart, is another matter entirely. You were quite right to warn me about him. I’ve already had to avoid his wandering hands on more than one occasion. So different from the Charles Stuart in Lisbon, who is also an appreciator of female charms but never goes beyond the line. At least not with an unwilling lady. Despite my best evasive action, Stewart managed to pinch me while I was helping Lady Castlereagh at the tea urn after dinner last night. I had to grab my own Charles by the wrist, or I swear he would have planted Stewart a facer.
I must close, Lady Castlereagh and I are going to look at possible new rooms (a twenty-two room suite, sheer bliss).
Our warmest greetings to Oliver and the children and your brother and Simon.
Yours most affectionately,
Mélanie
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My dear David,
Vienna is a beautiful city. At least I think it is, based on the bits and pieces I glimpsed when we clattered into town yesterday and what I’ve seen since following Castlereagh on errands. Our esteemed Foreign Secretary, I need hardly tell you, is not given to pausing the appreciate the beauties of the city of dreams. I don’t think he’s stopped working since the moment we left London, except possibly to sleep (and even if he manages to sleep, I’m sure he puts his dreams to good use). My chief image of him from our journey is bent over his traveling desk, even across the roughest terrain. A distinct contrast to Charles Stuart. Also a contrast in that while he can be quite charming in a drawing room, I’ve never seen him look with amorous interest at any woman but his wife.
It’s interesting working for Castlereagh directly after so many years of reading his dispatches. One can’t help but admire his industry and the breadth of his knowledge. But when the conversation turns to domestic unrest, I’ve had to bite my tongue hard more than once not to make a distinctly undiplomatic remark. Mélanie actually kicked me under the inn parlor dining table a few nights ago when the talk turned to the Clearances in Scotland.
At the moment, however, Castlereagh’s chief concern is that the “Big Four” at the congress (Russia, Austria, Prussia, and us) will try to decide matters in private conference. Castlereagh doesn’t quarrel with control over the decision process, but he thinks the other states in Vienna should at least ratify the decision. It is after all, more or less what was promised in the Treaty of Paris and everyone is expecting to see an actual congress, not a lot of close doors with private meetings going on behind them. And then there’s the fact that the Continent would be much more agreeable in the future if these various other states went along with whatever decisions are made here, and one does tend to go along more with decisions one has had a hand in making.
Here at least I find myself much more in agreement with my superior. We’re to meet tomorrow (unofficially) with Metternich, Nesselrode, and von Hardenberg, and I suspect I may be the one trying to keep Castlereagh from losing his temper. In particular, Castlereagh thinks it folly not to include France. Though if anyone thinks it will be possible to accomplish anything at the congress without Talleyrand getting wind of it, they must be suffering from delusions.
Mel sends her love. She’s taken Colin to the Prater. She’s already done a remarkable job of making our cramped quarters seem like home (but then for most of our marriage, cramped quarters have been home).
As always,
Charles
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Mélanie darling,
Charles is right. You’re much too hard on yourself—which Charles should recognize, because as you say he’s much the same himself. It does get easier. One doesn’t completely stop worrying of course, but the children begin to understand more as they get older. Bella and Crispin are quite good now about “Mummy has a rehearsal” or “it’s the week before we open, but we’ll do something really splendid on Monday.” And they’ll explain to Amy or at least try to. Even when they get cross, which of course they do at times (last week there was one night I was supposed to be able to leave early and take Bella shopping, but I ended up at the theatre until the early hours of the morning because the pulley system in the theatre wasn’t behaving itself), it’s easier to talk things through with them. And one does stop worrying quite so much, because one can see them growing up happy, and that’s really what matters, isn’t it?
The first night went quite well, if I do say so myself. Five bows, and the audience went quite wild over Simon—they insisted on his taking a bow and called him back twice. He claims not to care, but of course he does (and truly, how could he not). Good notices in the papers the next day as well.
We had the most delightful first night party in a suite of private rooms in our hotel. I let the children stay up for it, which earned me a great deal of credit for delayed shopping expedition and various other real or imagined ills. Bella and Crispin were still chattering when I put them to bed, though Amy fell asleep on a settee (insisting she could stay up as long as anyone even as her eyes drifted closed). She didn’t so much as open her eyes when Richard carried her upstairs.
Manon did splendidly. She has a knack for bringing a character to life (which must have served her as an artist’s model). She had a cluster of gentlemen round her at the first night party. It’s too early for her to think of forming another attachment (her feelings for Mr. Soro ran very deep), but the attention does her good. Brandon was particularly assiduous about bringing her glasses of champagne and quite zealous about fending off any gentlemen he thought were going too far. Perhaps that account for how remarkably sweet-tempered he’s been lately.
I’m looking forward to a bit more time to explore Edinburgh now. It’s a quite lovely city and the people have been most welcoming. But it will be good to be back in London with our friends.
All my love,
Cecily
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Dearest Cecily,
Simon sends the most splendid reports of rehearsals in Edinburgh. By the time this reaches you, you’ll have had your first night. I do wish we could be there to see you triumph in a new city. I want to have a dinner party for all of you when we get back so we can hear all the news.
I’m so glad you took Manon with you. I’m sure the change of scene is good for her (I imagine Edinburgh’s cafés stir some memories of the Left Bank, in a good way). It was a stroke of genius giving her a part in the play. She was quite impressive in the early rehearsals I saw before you left.
Simon also says the children are settling in well and enjoying the city, particularly Edinburgh Castle, which Colin adores. In fact, I will confess to a few moments of panic watching him cheerfully scramble along the battlements (and I count myself a sanguine mother—Bel says I don’t bat an eyelash at things that would stand her hair on end).
Children are much on my mind at the moment. My own that is. I was late returning from a meeting on women’s education a few days ago. I was speaking on the benefits of girls learning to read and the wonderful advantages it gives them in life—as mothers, in managing a household in employment, in working with their husbands, in enriching the imagination. There were a gratifying number of questions afterwards, and of course I didn’t want to cut things short. So I was over an hour late returning home, with the children waiting for me to take them out. Jessica was having a tantrum when I walked into the nursery (whoever says young children aren’t aware of the passage of time hasn’t met my daughter, she’s a little clock), and Colin had gone quiet and sulky the way he does. Laura had offered to take them to the park, but Colin insisted on waiting for me. And because I had to get back to dress for dinner at Emily Cowper’s before the Castlereaghs’ musicale, we only had time to go to Berkeley Square, not the park. Colin and Jessica perked up in the fresh air, but we could barely stay out an our hour, even with Blanca doing some of her quick wizardry on my hair (I’m calling it a Mercury knot, for the speed of execution) and Charles fastening my necklace for me in the carriage. Jessica was fussing again when we went in to say goodnight to them before we left. Laura said it was just that she was tired, but I’m sure the delay had something to do with it, and I swear I could feel Colin’s reproachful eyes following me all the way down the stairs.
I thought you’d understand better than anyone. You juggle rehearsals and performances and social engagements with admirable aplomb I know you say your children get cross sometimes when you’re late or can’t be where they want you to be (Rachel Melchett says the same thing, particularly about Alec), yet your children seem delightfully happy and you manage to spend a great deal of time with them. Does it get easier? Or does one simply stop worrying as much? Charles says I’m being too hard on myself, which is rather hysterical coming from someone as hard on himself as he is. He talked a lot of determined nonsense in the carriage on the way to the Cowpers’, so I could tell the children being moody bothered him as well.
On a pleasanter note, today we’re both (Charles and I) taking them to the Tower to see the animals in the Royal Exchange, so all seems to be forgiven. Children really are miraculously forgiving, and goodness knows our two have put up with a great deal from us already in their short lives.
Love to Richard and the children and Manon.
And love to you,
Mélanie
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Darling Simon,
It’s a gray, mizzling May morning. Berowne climbed halfway up the breakfast parlor curtains (I detached him, with a few extra pulled threads in the chintz, which looked pristine only in October). Colin and Jessica fell to arguing over their wooden castle (Colin was trying to arrange a siege, Jessica just wanted to put the knights in and out of the castle walls). We could all do with a brisk walk in the park or at least an outing in Berkeley Square if the weather would cooperate.
I must say, though, there’s something peculiarly lovely about the gray sky against the green of the plane trees and the cobblestones glistening with rain drops and the wonderfully fresh scent of the air when the rain lets up. Perhaps I’m coming to feel at home in London. You told me I would eventually. You do have a rather annoying way of being right about things, dear Simon.
Otherwise we all continue well. Charles, as I daresay David has told you, is preparing to speak on reform of the debt laws. I think it’s quite a good speech (though I’m not entirely disinterested, as I did play a role in writing it). I must say, I’ve long since learned not to expect rationality from the criminal justice system, but there’s particularly bizarre about imprisoning people until they can pay off their debts when the fact of being locked up makes it impossible for them to earn money. It puts the debtor in an uncomfortably helpless position and puts a dreadful burden on their friends and family. I wouldn’t have thought anything could make me prouder of Charles and you and David and Oliver, but I was so touched by the story of how you all pooled your resources to get your tutor Hodgins released from the Marshalsea. I wish I could shared the conversations with all of you in coffee houses and taverns in those days.
David misses you dreadfully. I expect I don’t need to tell you that. For that matter, we all miss you dreadfully (Jessica keeps asking for you whenever David comes to the house). But we all firmly believe that the more people who see your plays the better.
Give Cecily and the children my love.
All my love,
Melly
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My dear David,
I may regret my cheerful words tomorrow, but so far rehearsals are off to quite a decent start. Cecily and Brandon are settling in nicely. Working with the Edinburgh actors seems to be helping them find new things in characters. There’s a young actor in the Edinburgh company, Jamie Ramsay, whose talent is equaled by his determination to prove himself. Which means he goes about with more than a bit of chip on his shoulder. He and Brandon have come to verbal fisticuffs more than once. This afternoon, Ramsay declared that my dialogue didn’t make any sense because the characters talked at cross purposes and didn’t listen to each other. Brandon piped up that that’s precisely what people do in real life, and a good actor could carry it off. I must say, I quite enjoyed hearing Brandon defending me (once I stopped staring in shock).
It’s a handsome theatre but different from the Tavistock of course, and a few feet can play merry hell with a set design. We’re still trying to work out how to make the sliding panels work in Act II.
Cecily’s children are enraptured by Edinburgh Castle. They also quite like Holyrood, though it doesn’t have as many good places to scamper. They repeat a new piece of Scottish history every time I see them, each generally bloodier than the last.
Brilliant of Charles to use Hodgins’s story to frame his speech on the debt laws. Quiet as he can seem, Charles always had a healthy sense of theatricality. It’s one reason I always thought he’d make a good politician, back when we were sitting in a coffee house after our visit to old Hodgins. At least I like to think so looking back, and it may even be true.
I miss you as well. Need you ask it?
All my love,
Simon
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My dear Simon,
I trust rehearsals are off to a good start. Not that your plays don’t deserve the widest audience possible, and not that I don’t wish to share them with the good people of Scotland, but I find myself wishing that Edinburgh were as close to London as Roehampton or that we weren’t in the midst of a Parliamentary session. London is not the same without you (I’m sure they’re saying the same at the Tavistock, though I imagine one of two actors may be finding rehearsals easier without your incisive comments).
Charles and Mélanie said it as well when I dined with them last night. It was just the three of us and Bel and Oliver, but it was a bit of an odd conversation, with no one to make sardonic quips about the shortcomings of the Whig party and the parliamentary system or to needle us to go farther.
Charles is introducing a bill to reform the debt laws. I don’t know that it will go anywhere, but God knows it’s a topic that needs to be addressed, and I think it will get him considerable attention, within our own ranks and across the aisle. He’s framed the speech with the story of Hodgins, our classic tutor who ended up in the Marshalsea. In fact, bits of the speech sound distinctly like things Charles said in the coffee house after our visits to Hodgins. I think it was after one of those declamations that you said he had the makings of an actor or a barrister or a politician. As usual you were quite right. I can’t be more pleased than that he decided to return to Britain and stand for Parliament. I had my doubts last summer, as you know, but whatever worries I had (we had) about the advisability of his returning home seem to have proved quite unfounded. You were the one who said one has to face the past at some point. As is so often the case, you were quite right.
Give Cecily my love. How are the children settling into Edinburgh?
I miss you.
Always,
David
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“Nothing more dangerous than the usual” doesn’t reassure me in the least, given your usual activities. I worry more than I used to. I don’t know whether it’s being away from active danger or having children. I do try not to be a smothering, worrying sort of mother. Only yesterday Colin and Billy Lydgate decided to climb the plane trees in the Berkeley Square garden. I was admiring their prowess, when Isobel Lydgate arrived and said it nearly made her faint. I managed to calm her down (and didn’t let her know that this isn’t the first time the boys have undertaken such an adventure). Jessica was watching with great interest from her baby carriage. I have a feeling she’s going to be even more adventurous than Colin.
Still, there’s no denying having little ones dependent on one brings all one’s protective instincts to the fore. Instincts I didn’t even know I had.
You’re right about Charles. He’s exceptionally good at playing a role, and I’ve seen the guilt afterwards. Guilt at behavior that is far more mild than my daily activities. Because while Charles is far more familiar with betrayal than he would care to admit (what agent isn’t), he would never do to me (or to any woman to whom he happened to be married) what I’ve done to him. What I daily do to him. Dance round it and ignore it as you will (and I do manage to ignore it a shocking amount of the time), there’s no denying that every moment I spend with him is a lie. Pouring coffee, passing the Morning Chronicle back and forth over the breakfast dishes, walking with the children, talking through his speeches, entertaining his friends who’ve become my friends. A sin of omission rather than commission, perhaps, but a sin nonetheless.
Oh, dear, am I becoming terribly British talking about sin?
I don’t want you to think I dwell on it overly much. The truth is I don’t dwell on it nearly enough. If I did, I’d go mad. But it creeps up on me sometimes, and of course there’s no one I can tell. Which is part of the loneliness. That’s when I reach for pen and ink and summon up the remembrance of old codes and find myself pouring out my thoughts to you.
You’ve always been splendid at listening.
Keep safe.
M.
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Forgive the delayed reply. I’ve had an eventful few weeks. Nothing more dangerous than the usual, but I’ve moved about a good deal, and it took a bit of time for your letter to reach me.
As I’ve often remarked in the past, I think you’re being too hard on yourself. It’s perfectly natural not to want your children to be claimed by a world in which you will always be something of an outsider. With you and Charles as parents, I venture to say there’s a good chance they won’t be. Charles may be a British gentleman, but he’s been ill at ease with the role since boyhood. Not a comfortable state of affairs, perhaps, but there’s something to be said for not belonging. I may be flattering myself, or seeking to justify my own lot in life, but I think being an outsider gives one a certain perspective.
As you said, not belonging is a great advantage in our work. It allows us to slip into one role after another. After all, to be really successful at playing a role, one has to be able to view the world from the perspective of that persona. Charles is also very good at playing roles. Rather better than he gives himself credit for. He’s more given to qualms of conscience than either you or I, and the thought of deception makes him uncomfortable. I remember him drinking far more than he usual does at an embassy party in Lisbon years ago, long before you met him. I think he’d just come back from his first mission. He looked much as he did as a boy when he knew his mother was going to miss Edgar’s birthday but wasn’t supposed to tell Edgar until Lady Elizabeth broke the news. We played a game of chess in the library at the embassy party in Lisbon (he managed to defeat me, despite being on his fifth glass of claret). It was only later that it occurred to me that while he’d been suffering qualms of conscience, I’d been deceiving him the whole time and barely suffered a twinge. Of course my own conscience is so deeply buried I can barely claim a nodding acquaintance with it.
Were Charles really at ease as a British gentleman, I doubt he’d have been feeling qualms of conscience at all. He’d have been secure in the knowledge that whatever he’d done he’d done for king and country. I don’t think you need fear he’ll ever do that.
You may be lonely, querida, but you aren’t alone.
R.
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Dear Gelly,
As promised, an account of Aunt Frances’s ball last night.
The house looked beautiful. The Midsummer Night’s Dream theme worked wonderfully from the moment one stepped into the house, through an archway of branches. The branches were hung with candles in glass holders and crystals which sparkled magically in the candlelight. Vines were twined round the stair-rail and there was another archway at the entrance to the drawing room, which was given over to dancing. Pedestals at either end of the room held vases filled with more branches hung with candles and crystals. The supper room had a more marshy feel, with reeds in glass bowls for the centerpieces and seafoam draping.
Lady Frances looked like Titiania in black lace over midnight blue satin and her sapphire earrings and a few stray leaves twined in her hair. It was definitely a theme that leant itself to one’s choice of gown. Bel wore forest green crêpe over a pale green slip and Allie wore chestnut silk and peridots. Aspasia was in moss green gauze embroidered with silver acorns (she has the most exquisite taste in clothes now that she isn’t dressing as a governess; it makes me want to offer Laura a new wardrobe, though I fear she’d be offended). I wore a smoky purple crêpe lisse with a rather daringly draped skirt and an antique gold bandeau.
As to gossip—Val spent supper flirting rather madly with Caro Lamb. She came alone because William didn’t want to leave Lady Melbourne’s sickroom. I heard a bit of grumbling that Caro shouldn’t have come at all, but given that I can’t imagine her presence in the sickroom would have given either Lady Melbourne or Caro herself much comfort, one can scarcely blame her. Emily stayed with her mother as well. Lord Palmerston seemed quite at sea—no Emily flirting with other men to give him fits of jealousy, no Emily to flirt with himself. Even dancing attendance upon other women seemed to lose its appeal without Emily there to react to it. He ended up spending a good deal of the evening in the library talking electoral reform with Charles and David and Oliver.
Lord Granville took me into supper, and we had quite a lively discussion about prison reform (yes, I know, not precisely ball supper conversation, which is precisely why I found it so refreshing). Simon and Allie joined us and the talk turned to Frankenstein. Simon and Allie have both read it as well, and none of us are quite sure what we think of it, save that it is definitely a book that lingers in one’s mind.
Charles and I stayed to drink whisky and talk over the ball with Aunt Frances and Allie and Geoff. It was past four when Charles and I returned home, tiptoeing down the corridor so as not to wake Laura and the children.
The more uncomfortable gossip from last autumn seems to have quite died down. A relief, of course, though I can’t help but feel a pang that those unfortunate events should so quickly have faded from public thought. Which is silly, as when they were a focus of attention, all we could do was take evasive action.
I must close, Bel and I are taking the children to the park. I can only add that the one thing sadly missing at last night’s entertainment was having you and Andrew there.
Love,
Mélanie
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My dear Charles
Aspasia’s and my thanks to you and Mélanie for another wonderful evening. I saw Val at Boodle’s this afternoon and told him I couldn’t imagine a more convivial evening than quiet dinner with good friends. He looked at me as though I was sickening with something (I confess I said it partly to provoke that reaction, but that makes it no less true). I’m still looking for the source of Simon’s “unclasp the tables of their thoughts” quote (in fact, Spasy and I fell asleep debating it, which would shock Val even more).
With everything we’ve said to each other in the past nine months, I don’t believe I’ve ever said thank you. Oh, I believe (I trust) I thanked you for hosting the wedding, for your and Mélanie’s kindness to Aspasia, for putting up with Val. For a number of details but not for the sum total. For your friendship and support through what has been the most difficult nine months of my life thus far.
And the damnable thing is that at the end of it all I’m happy. Happier than I ever thought to be. So happy I’m bloody terrified and sometimes sick with guilt. I haven’t said that to anyone else. I don’t think I could say it to anyone but you (and even then it’s more easily written than said). My family smashed to bits and somehow I’m married to the woman I love instead of drunk in a tavern or passed out in the bed of someone who’s name I can’t remember or lying in a ditch with my neck broken.
To think I used to think that marriage would be the end of freedom and adventure when instead it’s just the beginning (I tried to say that to Val too, and I think he was too confused even to roll his eyes). Not that there aren’t still moments when it’s hard to remember that I owe a share in my life to someone else. That I should consult with her before I accept an engagement or decide to dine out or to go down to the country or a thousand other trivial things I used to take for granted.
I don’t think I’ve managed to bungle too badly so far, though. Spasy seems happy. She worries a bit more than I’d like about having a child. Not that I don’t want children as well, but I think it bothers her more than me. The devil of it is, beyond the fact that she wants children herself, I’m afraid (in fact, I’m damn well certain) that she thinks she owes them to me. Horrible thought. It’s the one place where I can’t seem to reach her. Do you ever feel that way with Mélanie?
Rather a long letter when I simply meant to convey my thanks. But then you’ve always been damnably generous about listening. And I’ve always known I could count on your understanding.
As ever,
Quen
p.s.
The scribbling that passes for a poem is attached for your amusement. Only because Aspasia mentioned it and you asked.
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How the devil do you always know precisely what to say? Without ever giving easy answers. I daresay there are myriad layers of loneliness I have yet to experience. But I think I do understand that people of our sort will always be lonely. Because we can’t be truthful, and because we’ll never really belong anywhere. We’ve lived in too many different worlds to ever claim one as home. You’re right that Charles’s world is a world I’ll never belong in. That would be the case even if there was no deception between us, I think. I only have to look at other émigrée wives, like Sylvie St. Ives to understand that. Or those like Oliver Lydgate who’ve married into the British aristocracy. Or someone like Simon Tanner who simply refuses to accept the rules of his beloved’s world.
I don’t think I’ve truly belonged anywhere since my father died. It’s difficult to remember, but I think I felt I belonged in the theatre company. Traveling carriages with bandboxes that smelled of greasepaint and crowded dressing rooms and smoking footlights were my whole world for my first fifteen years. Of course actors in a sense don’t belong anywhere except at the theatre.
I hadn’t thought of it before, but perhaps it’s not belonging anywhere that lefts people like you and me do what we do. If we were truly anchored to people and a place and a set of rules, I expect we wouldn’t be nearly so adept at playing roles.
At times a part of me quite relishes being an outsider. I don’t think I’d ever want to belong to a world so much that I couldn’t see beyond the limits of its rules. Charles can see beyond the limits to a quite amazing degree. But at his heart he’s still a British gentleman to the core (though he would probably deny it). I don’t think that’s something one can ever lose or that someone who isn’t born to that world can ever gain. Oliver said something of the sort to me once, couched in more elegant language. You can marry into that world and be accepted (you can even be admired for your exotic differentness, as I seem to be at the moment). But you’ll never really belong.
Colin and Jessica belong. As Frasers (yes, I know the irony), they’re unquestionably accepted. And yet they haven’t had the proper British-nursery early childhood that Charles had (thank God, as Charles, Edgar, and Gisèle seem to have been shockingly neglected, at least in terms of parental affection). Colin still talks in a mix of English, Spanish, and French with the occasional Viennese German thrown in, and even Jessica asks for lait instead of milk.
I don’t want my children to be lonely. But part of me fiercely, desperately doesn’t want them to be wholly claimed by this world that’s at odds with so much I believe in. Selfishness? Or a desire to pass something of myself on to my children? Or even the sense that they’ll be better people for having a wider perspective? Probably a mix of all three.
Thank you for listening.
Keep safe.
M.
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If either of us were remotely sensible or prudent, querida, we’d be entirely different people.
If you’d entirely lost track of yourself, you’d have brushed past Michael the footman without a thought. I don’t think you’ll ever lose track of yourself and the things you believe in. Which is precisely why I told you you’d be lonely.
Loneliness is a complicated creature, with as many layers as the gowns of the last century. I think perhaps the surface layer peels away with time, and one discovers additional layers beneath. I may not be a quick learner, but being more than a quarter-century your senior, I’ve probably discovered a few more of those layers.
Playing a role is lonely by its very nature. So is leaving one world for another or living between two worlds, and knowing one doesn’t truly belong to either. You’d think I’d be used to by now. Half-Spanish, half-Irish, a Republican with an aristocratic background, a revolutionary who serves an Emperor, a man who fights for religious tolerance with no religious belief of my own. But I’m still struck at the oddest times by the sense that I’m an outsider. It can come over me in a Left Bank café or a duchesss’s ballroom or a Spanish village or on a field of battle. I’ve learned to do my best to ignore, like the twinge of an old wound.
You have too keen an understanding to expect it go away, which of course it doesn’t. The fact that it hasn’t doesn’t mean anything is lacking in you or in your husband. Simply being desperately in love doesn’t give one a sense of belonging or reconcile conflicting views or take away the loneliness. But it may make the loneliness easier to bear.
I told you that day after Waterloo that you’d made a difficult choice. I didn’t tell you you’d made the wrong one. I certainly didn’t think it. Then or now.
Take care of yourself.
R
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I know, I know. As always, the sensible, prudent thing would be not to write at all. But when have I ever been sensible or prudent? You know that better than anyone. You warned me, on that day after Waterloo that I’ll never forget, that I’d be lonely. I don’t think I fully grasped what you meant. Not then. Not for months after. I was too caught up in my determination to walk away. But of course (how abysmally slow can I be?) people like us can’t walk away from deception. The lies may shift and change, but deceiving—lying—is part and parcel of who we are.
No, nothing’s happened to set me off. Nothing particularly dire, that is. I haven’t made an inadvertent slip, Charles hasn’t looked at me with undue suspicion. The English ton haven’t tumbled to the truth and turned on me. Rather the reverse in fact. I gave a dinner party recently. Not a family dinner nor a gathering of friends, though there were friends and family present. A political dinner party, with Tories and Whigs both represented. Which of course caused me the attendant anxiety (and it doesn’t do any good to point out that I’ve faced worse crises, Charles did the same thing, and though I freely admit there are more important things to think about than seating arrangements, when one is working on a seating arrangement it commands one’s full attention).
To own the truth, I rather enjoyed the whole process. You know I’ve always like a challenge. It was only later, when the last of the guests had gone home and Charles and I were taking our candles to go upstairs, that I looked over at Michael (he’s our footman), standing there patiently in the hall, and realized what I’ve become. A politician’s wife. A British gentleman’s wife. I used to have to remind myself not to apologize to the servants for the social charade of the roles we play. Now the role seems all too natural. I’m shockingly at home in this world that was once so alien.
I think perhaps that’s the loneliness you were talking about. What could be lonelier than fearing one’s lost track of oneself?
Keep safe.
M.
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My dear R.,
Mélanie gave a dinner party a fortnight or so ago. A political dinner party. Not the first she’s given, but one of the first since they’ve move into the Berkeley Square house, and the first with quite such an impressive guest list. The Cowpers, the Granvilles, Palmerston, Johnny Russell, Arabella Winslow. Not the most difficult guest list to navigate but a lot of political power in that beautifully replastered dining room. And from both parties, though Palmerston and Granville are thankfully two of the least objectionable Tory specimens one can find. Still, there are inherent complications in mixing Whigs and Tories, not the mention the complications of entertaining a couple and wife’s lover. Lord Cowper is such a complacent husband it takes a good deal of the challenge out of it, but Palmerston is inclined to brooding and jealousy. Not over Lord Cowper, generally over some other man Emily decides to flirt with.
Mélanie carried the whole thing off with amazing aplomb. I know she was nervous because she admitted as much to me when she brought the children over to see Chloe the day before, but one would never have guessed it looking at her. She seems to know just what to do and say. She can talk parliamentary reform with Johnny Russell, put shy young Susan Lydgate at her ease, listen to Lord Cowper rhapsodize about his new horse, and switch between politics and children in a way that delighted both Emily and Harriet Granville. She seemed quite different from the woman who sat on the floor building block towers with Colin and Chloe the day. She’s adept at switching from role to role, but she wears her social armor so effortlessly one scarcely knows it’s there. I suspect she’d have made a brilliant actresss.
Charles doesn’t quite have her social ease, but he seems much more comfortable as a host than I’d have thought possible a few years ago. He was clearly making an effort because the party was important to Mélanie. And Mélanie I know is determined to be the sort of hostess who’ll be an asset to Charles’s career. Even a cynic who’s seen as much of the world as I have finds it endearing.
All of which is a roundabout way of saying that your son is one of those rare mortals who’s happy in his marriage. Which I suspect pleases you as much as it does me.
As ever,
Fanny
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Just a few words, scrawled on a page torn from a notebook filled with staging ideas. We’re taking a break while the stagehands set up the rehearsal version of the set for Act II. It’s going well overall. Cecily is quite brilliant. Brandon has all the fire as usual but needs to work on the nuances. You know how I deplore clichés. You’d think I’d be happy to ignore today entirely. But somehow I could not let the day pass without writing to you. I should be able to come up with a clever epigram, but all I can think to say is that I could not imagine my life without you.
S.
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Darling, darling Andrew,
Valentine’s day and I have a sweetheart. Not only that I have a husband. And they happen to be the same person. What could be more splendid?
With all my heart (and everything else besides),
Gelly
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Beloved,
Val (whom I encountered while purchasing the enclosed token) informed me that I once said that one day a year was four-and-twenty hours too long to devote to trite and tedious expressions of love. Perhaps that would be true if they were trite and tedious. But a day is not nearly long enough to tell my wife, with unvarnished sincerity, that every moment I spend with her reminds me that she is the most precious thing in the world to me.
Happy Valentine’s Day, wife.
Quen
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Sweetheart,
So odd I always thought to set aside a day specifically for lovers. As though words spoken and tokens exchanged one day a year could atone for misdeeds the other 364. I suppose the true romantic would say that every day should be St. Valentine’s Day. To which I suspect my sensible wife would reply that that would leave shockingly little time for life’s other responsibilities (I can almost hear you frame the words). I think you might even say that one day a year is quite enough for wearing one’s heart of one’s sleeve.
God knows, I’d be inclined to agree with you. Except—
There’s so much we haven’t said. So much I haven’t said. Perhaps we never will put some of it into words. Perhaps that’s as well—much as I believe in the power of words, some feelings defy the ability of language to give shape to them.
So often, especially these days, I look at you and think you know. This morning, on a holiday I’ve often so often scoffed at, it occurred to me I should put at least some of it into words.
You mean the world to me.
Charles
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Dearest Mélanie,
I don’t know whether it will make you feel better or worse when I confess that seating arrangements still give me a wretched headache. I would put Emily and Palmerston together. Goodness they’re fully capable of having quarreled since I saw them looking so cozy at the Lievens’ last week, but I think it’s reasonably safe. And it isn’t as though you have Poodle Byng or anyone else on the guest lists who is likely to put Palmerston into a cloud of jealousy. Put Quen beside you—he’s the heir to a marquisate, and if he’s next to you he’ll free to hold hands with Aspasia (and Johnny Russell, as a duke’s son, actually takes precedence over Granville). Yes, put Lady Frances and Harriet on either side of Charles. Neither of them are the sort to make a fuss about it, but it shows a nice appreciation of social etiquette on your part.
I’d be perfectly happy next to anyone, and Oliver will make himself agreeable wherever you put him (my mother says he’s the best of her sons-in-laws in that she can seat him next to anyone, of any background or political stripe, and count on him to be charming). Susan’s still a bit shy in company but much more at ease than when she first came to stay with us after the holidays. She’ll do admirably beside anyone. Johnny’s closest to her in age, and I know would be kind to her. I think you can count on Simon to behave himself. For one thing, he won’t talk across the table at a formal dinner. Why don’t you put him beside Laura? She has exquisite company manners, but I expect she’ll be more comfortable with him. And Simon will make an effort to draw her out and put her at her ease, which will distract him from any temptation to argue with any of the Tories.
You’re doing admirably! I can’t imagine you letting Charles down in this—or in anything else.
I’ll come round in the afternoon as we discussed and dress at your house. We can drink a glass of champagne before the guests arrive. I find that always helps.
Love,
Bel
p.s.
Have you settled on the seafoam gauze with the black embroidery? It’s so pretty and strikes just the right note. I still can’t decide between the blue crêpe over sarcenet and the French grey silk.
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Bel darling,
Help! I am in dire need of advice about the guest list below for tomorrow’s dinner. Who can’t be seated beside whom? Who will be mortally offended if they aren’t seated beside a particular person? What unwritten rules as I forgetting
Lady Cowper
Lord Cowper
Lord Palmerston
Lord John Russell
Lady Frances
Bel
Oliver
Susan
David
Simon
Quen
Aspasia
Lord Granville
Lady Granville
Lady Winslow
Laura
Charles
Mélanie
Is this one of those times when I should seat Emily Cowper beside Lord Palmerston or one of those times when it would be wiser not to do so? Quen and Aspasia have been married not quite six months, so I think they still be seated beside each other, which I suspect if what they’d prefer (the last time we dined with them, they held hands beneath the tablecloth). Lord Cowper should sit on my left, I believe. And on my right—Quen or Granville (both marquesses’ sons)? And Lady Granville and Aunt Frances (both dukes’s daughters) on either side of Charles? Do you care who you sit beside? I’m not sure where to put Laura. She’s faultlessly polite about rounding out the table, but I don’t think she’s over fond of formal dinners. Do you think Simon will start arguing politics with Palmerston or Granville if they’re too near? I don’t mind, but it makes David nervous.
I have this dread of failing woefully as a politician’s wife and letting Charles down. Charles says it doesn’t matter. I know differently. With all he’s given me, I confess I want quite desperately not to fail him in this.
With love, your over-anxious friend,
Mélanie
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Dearest Aunt Frances,
I know how you deplore clichés, but I must confess that I am a deliriously happy bride. I do apologize for not having anything more interesting to write. I know how you love a good scandal. But all I can think to write is the sort of romantic twaddle that’s been said in endless lending library novels—I’m the luckiest woman in the world, no one could possibly be as happy as we are, what did I do to deserve this, I never knew what love was. Only of course those words that used to make me roll my eyes now ring like sterling against crystal because they don’t describe characters in a book who seem impossibly perfect, they describe me and the man who somehow managed to fall in love with me.
Yes, I know. A month married and you’re already worrying about my sanity. Never fear. Our carriage got stuck in the mud on our wedding journey, and I got a prosaic amount of mud on my skirt when I insisted on helping Andrew and McCloud try to push it. And we’ve already had one row, settling in at the lodge, because Andrew didn’t want me to bring Mama’s china over from the main house, and I said it’s perfectly ridiculous, Charles told me to use whatever I like, and it’s sill for it to go unused eight tenths of the year—there are over twelve hundred pieces in the china room for heaven’s sake. Andrew said he couldn’t change the rules simply because Charles is my brother, and I retorted that it was Charles who changed the rules, and if he was going to get up on his high horse every time he was reminded that I’m a Fraser, we were going to have a tedious number of quarrels. It ended up with both of us apologizing and rather a lot of kissing and then rather a lot of more than kissing.
Speaking of which—I can’t thank you enough for your frank advice and willingness to answer all my pre-wedding questions (not to mention all my questions growing up). Not that Andrew doesn’t know a great deal (he really is most deliciously skilled in these matters), but it has been so much more agreeable and easier that I came into this with my own share of information, if not experience. Though you must forgive me another romantic cliché when I say that I quite agree that it is one of life’s most delightful activities, but I really can’t imagine doing it with anyone else.
Is London lively in the New Year? I don’t miss the parties, but I do miss you. Kiss Chloe for me.
Your deliriously happy niece,
Gisèle
p.s.
Mama’s china was delivered to the lodge this morning.
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My dear Charles,
I quite agree with you that the reading of the treaty with Spain for the prevention of traffic in slaves provides an excellent opportunity to speak further on the subject of the slavery in general. And that while it is all very well to pat ourselves on the back for work to end trafficking in slaves, the continued, legitimized existence of slavery in British colonies is enough to make the blood boil. I actually found myself nodding my head last night at Brooks’s to remarks about an orderly transition and “preparing those currently in servitude for eventual emancipation.” It was, I confess with shame, only as I was walking home that I thought “Good God, what preparation does any of us need to be treated as human being?”
I cherish scant hopes of a Whig majority at the next election, but like you I hope we will at least increase our numbers. Grey, I think, will make a good leader. Yes, I know, he’s not entirely to your liking, but for God’s sake, Charles, no one entirely to your liking would have a prayer of getting elected to any sort of major office.
At least, I think, we may all count on keeping our seats at the next General Election. I am reminded once more—though no one in the family is so ill bred as to actually voice it—of how much I owe to my father-in-law. Carfax may disagree with everything I stand for, but far worse than anything I may say in the house would be the same of my losing my seat. Family pride does achieve some goals, it seems.
By God, it is good to be back at work.
Until tomorrow.
Oliver
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Bel darling,
Twelfth Night last night. The Drummonds and Mr. McGann and Mrs. Thirle came to dinner. We sang “The Wind and the Rain” and all the other songs from “Twelfth Nigh” round the pianoforte after dinner. Colin and Chloe and the young Drummonds put on a play about that combined bits of “Twelfth Night” (a ship wreck, twins) with bits of “Winter’s Tale” (a lost princess, feuding countries) and “Much Ado” (lovers who fight verbal duels) and bits wholly out of their own imagination (a pirate princess, Chloe’s invention I’m sure—she played it superbly). Simon narrated and he and I worked with them on the staging, though the invention was purely theirs. They even worked Jessica into a scene as the pirate princess’s missing baby sister. The rest of the time I went to considerable effort to present Jessica was toddling into the midst of the makeshift stage. She obviously has a love of the footlights.
Andrew and Gelly sent a lovely note with Twelfth Night greetings, very thoughtful of them in the midst of their honeymoon I must say.
We’ll be back in London in another fortnight, weather permitting. The time at Dunmykel has been good for all of us, Charles in particular. I’m still coming to understand just how much Dunmykel—the place and the people as well as the house—means to him. But at the same time I know he’s eager to get back to London and the House. He’s been working on drafts of speeches for weeks. I know he’s sent some of them to Oliver and he and David have retreated to the library with plentiful ink and blank paper (not to mention sherry) on more than one occasion. And yes, more often than not I’ve joined them as well. Charles isn’t the only one who misses the excitement of the political world.
I’m thinking of giving a party (perhaps a musical evening?) in early March—before the season really gets underway and London is full of matchmaking mothers (will we ever be like that? Tell me we won’t, dearest). What do you think? You’ll be have to help me with the guest list, as Charles is still no earthly good when it comes to sorting out the social quagmire of political entertainments.
Warmest wishes to the Lydagtes’. I hope your visit is going well.
Love,
Mélanie
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Bel darling,
A few months ago, Charles asked me why we latch onto marriage as the only happy ending possible. I said perhaps it’s because it gives one hope for the future. If one does it for the right reason. “It” being not so much the ceremony of marriage or the events of the marriage bed as the bond itself, which has little to do with marriage lines or ceremonies or legal contracts or even perhaps what happens between two people in bed.
In any case, Gisèle and Andrew went through the ceremony last night. And it did really seem like—no, not a happy ending. Having been married myself for over four years now, I can’t imagine how anyone could think of marriage as the end of anything. No, t seemed like a beginning. And a wonderfully hopeful beginning. Gelly looked radiant. Charles gave her away, and I couldn’t help but think of him doing to same for Jessica (hopefully in more than twenty years’ time).
Happy New Year, dearest.
Mélanie
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Dear Minny,
I had a new white dress with a dark green sash (Gelly chose the color) and a bouquet with pine sprigs. Two weddings in less than six months. Both were in the old drawing room. This time we had a fire going in the fireplace and all the ladies were wearing shawls. The walls don’t look as gold with the winter light and the carpet looks whiter. But Gelly and Andrew looked very happy, just like Quen and Miss Newland did. (Quen kissed Miss Newland; it was Gelly who kissed Andrew; he turned sort of pink, but he kissed her back).
We drank champagne afterwards, and Mama gave me a sip. I stayed up until a whole half hour after midnight, even if my eyes did close while Charles was carrying me upstairs.
How late did you stay up?
Love,
Chloe
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Dearest Billy,
It really was quite a lovely wedding. Something about the glow on Gisèle’s face transcended any of the comments I would normally make about maudlin sentimentality. The toasts were refreshingly free of the more nauseating type of wedding comments (I rather think combining the wedding with New Year’s Eve helped). Stephen and Alice Drumond were the first across the threshold just after midnight (there’s nothing like a proper Hogmanay in Scotland). Chloe stayed up to see the New Year in and looked quite adorable (which I may at least say to you) in her bridesmaid dress.
I miss you.
Happy New Year, my love.
Fanny
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Cressy darling,
What a change a year brings. I saw 1817 in in the schoolroom with Chloe. Lady Frances and Gisèle and Judith came in with sweetmeats before they left for a ball. Chloe fell asleep shortly after ten, and I sat up reading and scarcely noticed the clock strike midnight. This year I was in a room full of candlelight and laughter and the pop of champagne corks and the clink of glasses, and a man with whom I’m desperately in love and to whom I happen to be married kissed me at midnight.
Desperately. Listen to me. I didn’t think such words were even in my vocabulary.
New Year wishes to you all,
Spasy
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Brother mine,
No, I’m not languishing in jail nor stretched out with a broken neck nor facing the jealous husband of some lady whose name escapes my mind across a stretch of green. I have the devil of a head, but otherwise I came through into the New Year more or less intact. I trust you and your bride did as well.
Yours,
Val
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Father,
Your nephew was married yesterday. Perhaps at some point you can convey to Aunt Georgiana how happy he seemed. Happy and nervous, but having through the ceremony myself not so very long ago, I can empathize with the nerves.
I trust the New Year finds you well. Aspasia sends her best wishes. As do I.
Quen
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My dear Oliver,
I trust the New Year finds you all well, and that the New Year visit to your family was less of a strain than the Christmas visit to Bel’s. I confess that six months ago, I’d have had laughed with bitter disbelief at the idea that we’d be seeing the New Year in at Dunmykel with many of the same people who were here over the summer. But as it turns out it was a good place to be—partly because of my responsibilities here, but not just that. As Gelly said to me the night before her wedding, it’s home for better or worse. I was afraid we might have lost that, but in some ways it feels like home more now than ever. Partly due to my wife’s influence. Partly to not running from things.
Let me know what you think of the enclosed speech.
C.
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My dear R.,
I wish you could have been here last night. Laughable, I know, for any number of reasons. But I think your throat would have caught as mine did. Gisèle looked so very much like Elizabeth. And I think you’d have known what it meant to me to see Elizabeth’s daughter married (and happy) in the old drawing room, by the pianoforte Bess so often played (Mélanie played it last night—Mozart, quite lovely). And to see Charles looking at home in a way he hasn’t at Dunmykel in years (if ever, come to think of it). They opened the house on Boxing Day. Chloe and Colin helped hand out boxes. Very handsome boxes, I must say, but even more than the boxes it was the sense of camaraderie between the family and the guests that was remarkable. Quite a chance from the mood among the Dunmykel tenants six months ago.
You’d be proud of him.
Happy New Year.
Fanny
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My darling,
I can scarcely believe we’ll be married in only a few days. Even now, I stare at that word in wonder as I write it. I never thought to be this happy. I’m quite sure I don’t deserve it. And yet somehow I’m not in the least regretful. I want to seize everything life has to offer with both hands, and my only terror is that it will somehow be snatched away from me.
Happy Christmas, beloved.
Andrew
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My dear idiot,
Of course I don’t deserve such happiness either. And of course I’m not in the least regretful. How could I be? How could one turn one’s back on such happiness? I suppose it’s one of those paradoxes of love that I adore your nobility, and yet it fills me with cold terror.
Merry Christmas, my love.
When did I last say that I can’t wait to be your wife?
G.
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Dearest Billy,
We had a remarkably cheerful Christmas, all things considered. The wedding preparations help. Nothing like an excuse to look the to the future. And so much has been said these past months that any maudlin outbursts over the spiced wine would be have been shockingly derivative. Though I’d swear both Charles’s and Quen’s eyes welled up more than once, notably over Christmas Eve toasts and when we all gathered about the coffee urn in the old drawing room Christmas morning. Oddly enough, the ghost I felt most keenly wasn’t Evie or Honoria or Kenneth but Elizabeth. A bittersweet memory. Of course shes have been saddened by the tragedy of the last months. Even the loss of Kenneth, I like to think. But she’d have been quite happy, I’m sure, to see Gisèle on the verge of such a promising match, and Charles settling into marriage and fatherhood and politics and running Dunmykel. She’d have been less pleased by the forced conviviality between Charles and Edgar, but she’d have been the first to say one can’t have everything.
Chloe’s favorite present was the wooden horse you sent.
I miss you.
Love,
Fanny
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Sweetheart,
I wanted to give you this away from everyone else. Not that a gift can possibly convey what you mean to me or what you’ve done or what you’ve put up with these past months. But I hope it at least shows some measure of appreciation.
C.
p.s.
Where the devil did you find a first edition of Ludlow?
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Happy Christmas darling,
You have the most uncanny ability to read my mind. When it comes to far more than garnet and diamond earrings, but that doesn’t make the earrings any less perfection.
Do you know it actually feels as though we’re home? I never thought to say that, let alone in this of all years.
With all my heart and more,
M.
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Querida,
Whatever my opinion of the Christmas holidays, good wishes from you can never be less than welcome. You’re talents at staging theatricals have always been superb, and if you feel like an interloper, I doubt anyone notices it. After all, to quote your favorite playwright, all the world’s a stage.
My birthday wishes to Jessica. Colin obviously takes after you in his good sense. Felicitations to Charles’s sister—with you involved, I have no doubt the wedding will come off as near to perfection as if possible.
Happy Christmas.
R.
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Sweetheart,
Four years. It seems at once too long and too short a span of time to measure our marriage. I told you on our first anniversary that our wedding was etched in my memory, and it still is, so vividly it might have been yesterday. And yet I can scarcely remember the man I was before I met you. I told David the day after our marriage that I was “not as I had been.” I didn’t have the least idea how very true that was or would prove to be. Or when I do remember my life before you, as this summer at Dunmykel, I’m reminded with the force of a hammer blow, of how fortunate I am in the transformation.
You’ve put up with a lot the first four years of our marriage. I hope the future affords me the time and space to show you how very much you mean to me.
C.
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Darling,
Hard to be believe a year ago we were in Paris, wondering every day when Jessica would make her appearance. I woke this morning thinking I couldn’t imagine not being married to you. “As boundless as the sea.” I’m not sure I fully grasped the meaning when I first had the quote engraved for you. I think I do now.
Love,
M.
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Dunmykel
15 December 1817
My dear Bel,
Have you forgiven me yet for abandoning you to a Christmas at Carfax Court? I thought the holiday might go more easily with us out of the way, but when I mentioned that to Simon, he said we draw the fire, and with us gone it has to go somewhere else. Were Christmases ever easy? I can’t remember an easy one, to be honest, going back to the nursery.
It it’s any comfort, my announcement to our parents that I would not be at Carfax Court for Christmas because was going to Dunmykel for Gisèle Fraser’s wedding was greeted with a number of comments about weddings and desirability of marriage, in particular for those who stand heir to a title and estate. I listened with all the patience I could muster. Simon fortunately wasn’t in the room.
Speaking of heirs to estates, Charles is starting to seem quite at home running Dunmykel. The tenants already seem in much better spirits than in the summer—part of it I suspect is simply hope of a better future, but part is the reforms he and Andrew have already instituted. Dunmykel may not have transformed physically, like the Berkeley Square house, but it seems a very different place from six months ago.
Love to everyone,
David
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Dunmykel
17 December 1817
My dear Jessica,
I always think it a pity that a first birthday has such significance and yet the recipient of all that attention can’t remember the occasion. I think you enjoyed your day. You devoured your iced cake with every sign of enthusiasm (you’re very fond of chocolate, at least at the age of one). Your brother wanted to know if he made as much of a mess on his first birthday. Your mother and I assured him that he did. I think the stuffed cat that your mother had her modiste make up was your favorite present.
Despite a great deal of attention and a shortened nap, you remained quite cheerful all day. Your Aunt Gisèle was heard to say at one point, while holding you on her lap, that she’d never much seen the point of babies but that she was beginning to think she wouldn’t mind one herself in due time. Her fiancé looked pleased.
I wonder how many years it will be before you can read this? Not many, I suspect, as you show every sign of being as precocious as your brother. I hope then, and always, you understand how much joy you bring to your mother and me.
Love,
Charles
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My dear Val,
What is it about this time of year that brings on bouts of family feeling? I find myself worrying about your being alone, which from a perspective not blurred by a rose-tinted holiday lens is quite laughable, as I’m quite sure you aren’t remotely alone, even to sleep (perhaps especially to sleep). Yet I can’t rid myself of the notion that we should all be together this time of year. Particularly this year. Yes, I know. If we were together we would feel Honoria’s and Evie’s absence even more keenly. Perhaps this was the most sensible course. I hope Father’s finding some comfort among his cronies and you’re doing the same in Sussex. And as I told Aspasia this evening, I’m glad we’re here. Thirle and I had a good talk last night. He went to see Aunt Georgiana. A difficult visit, but it seems to have helped him come to terms with last summer’s revelations. Or begin to terms with them. He’s a man I’m happy to call cousin.
Aspasia sends her greetings. Matrimony continues to be a delight that you would find nauseating.
Your brother, who misses you,
Quen
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Happy Solstice. I know you don’t take overmuch stock in the holiday season, anymore than I did before I was surrounded by family and traditions and greenery and spiced wine and ribbon-wrapped packages. But I can’t let the old year fade into the new without sending you greetings. We’re at Dunmykel, where Charless\’s sister is shortly to be married. Which means that I am overseeing holiday celebrations and then a wedding in a house that could house a small village. I still feel like an interloper half the time, but the staff (to my own surprise) appear to take me seriously. It helps if I think of it like staging a play.
Jessica turned one on the 17th. Colin was very good about a party not focused on him (and I think rather enjoyed feelings of grown-up superiority and she demolished a small cake with her fingers and tore open presents).
Keep safe.
M.
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My dear R.,
Gisèle is going to be married. To Andrew Thirle, the steward at Dunmykel. Yes, a nice blow for republicanism which you should appreciate, and a mild scandal to add spice to the season as we head into the holidays. But oddly enough, I think you’re the only person who will understand what this means to me. Perhaps because I think you and I are the only two people who came remotely close to understanding Elizabeth and what this would mean to Elizabeth. At least I’d like to think it would make Elizabeth happy. Not that I subscribe to the maudlin notion, so sadly prevalent in some novels, that solution to all problems and the cure to all ills. The neatly tied bow that tidies away past hurts, mends character flaws, and smoothes the way to a perfect future. But I do think Gisèle and Andrew stand a quite decent chance of being happy, He’s a very decent young man. And Gisèle has grown up a great deal in the past months (in fact she’s been forced to grow up more quickly than I would have wishes, much as I may have claimed I wish she would learn some adult self-control in the past). Andrew seems to bring out the best in Gelly, and from what I can tell he loves her for who is, which is always a receipt for a successful marriage. Not that I have much knowledge of what makes for a successful marriage except as a distant observer.
The wedding will be at Dunmykel , over the holidays. We had the usual family drama over the plans. Judith claimed Scotland was much too cold and far away at this time of year and why couldn’t Gisèle be married at St. George’s Hanover Square like a normal person. To which Gisèle replied when had anyone in this family ever done anything remotely like a normal person, and Judith retorted that that was precisely the problem with the lot of us. I must say, it was rather a relief to have them quarreling again. Everyone s been on such painfully good behavior since last summer. Judith husband intervened. I’m not precisely sure what he said, but they will be at the wedding, and Judith and Gisèle had their heads together over wedding plans in the drawing room last night. Cedric surprised everyone by saying he and Maria would make the trip to Dunmykel. When Gisèle heard she muttered “oh, dear, do they have to?” and then quickly apologized to me and said of course she was glad. I’m rather glad myself, though, as I told her, I quite understand her qualms. I’ll do my best to persuade him he doesn’t need to make a toast at the wedding breakfast.
Charles is going to give Gisèle away and stand up with Andrew. He and Gelly are on better terms than I ever dared hope for (they even talk about Kenneth, I think, which is all to the good). Charles and Edgar are another matter, but one can’t have everything. Edgar and Lydia will be at the wedding at least. Edgar has a very strong sense of what is owed to the family.
Mélanie is making the wedding preparations with Gisèle. She’s starting to seem quite comfortable with her role as mistress of Dunmykel. She still asks me a number of questions, but I think it’s more for form’s sake now.
Thank you for indulging me in all this prattle. I’m home I haven’t bored you. And though I know you don’t take much stock in the holiday season, I hope it brings you some cheer.
Love,
Fanny
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Dearest Charles,
It’s the oddest thing. I’m happy. I know everyone who’s newly betrothed says they’re the happiest man or woman on earth. It’s a dreadful cliché, but I don’t think I’ve really expected to be happy for years and years. Well, not since Mama died, to be blunt. Oh, sometimes I was more content than others. But most of the time I was fearfully discontented and has a tiresome habit of taking it out on those about me, as you know all too well. And that state of affairs seemed so ordinary, I didn’t really question it.
I can write this to you, because I have a feeling you were in much the same condition for years. Not that you took your blue devils out on others, but I don’t think you were happy or had any expectation of happiness. That’s part of why you left for the Peninsula, isn’t it? Because you were so unhappy yourself you didn’t see how you could make anyone else happy. I can see that now, though at the time, I confess it simply felt as though one more person was deserting me. Which of course added to my discontent, which I proceeded to take out on everyone about me.
The thing is, if I can read you at all (and I am your sister, however many years we’ve spent apart), I don’t think you feel that way any more. That happiness isn’t possible, I mean. I know the past months have been unspeakably beastly, but you don’t have that bleak look in your eyes anymore.
I think Mélanie’s a good part of the reason you’re happy, just as Andrew is for me. Though perhaps putting too great a burden on both of them. Whatever poets say, no one can really ensure another’s happiness. I think we both had to work out how to be happy on our own terms. If we hadn’t, I rather suspect we’d have only made Andrew and Mélanie miserable.
When I told Aunt Frances I was happy, she smiled, and then she looked away. I have the strongest suspicion there were tears in her eyes, though you know Aunt Frances never cries.
Your deliriously happy sister,
Gisèle
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My dear Andrew,
I hope you don’t wait to receive this letter before declaring yourself to my sister (of whom I daily expect to receive intelligence that she’s run off to Scotland and carried you off at gunpoint). But knowing your punctilious sense of honor (which has always been rather more finely honed than my own), I suspect you will wait until I give my official permission. Leaving aside for the moment my qualms about the appropriateness of a brother having any sort of control over his sister’s future and happiness—yes, of course you have my permission. I gave it to you months ago at Dunmykel, and I’ve been doing my best to encourage you to grasp happiness ever since.
Because I truly do believe you and Gisèle stand a very decent chance of being ridiculously happy together. And whatever qualms I may have about laws that put me in control of my sister’s future, her happiness means a great deal to me.
I told you once (or more than once as I recall), with all the emphatic conviction of an undergraduate, that I didn’t expect to find love. Subsequent events have proven me wrong, though it took me far longer than it should have done to acknowledge that fact. As I told Mel when I received your letter (which she had sent round to me at Brooks’s), I seem to have entirely lost my carefully constructed cynicism. And even at my most cynical, I knew you had considerably more aptitude for happiness than I did myself.
I can’t imagine a man I’d rather have for a brother-in-law, or a man with whom Gelly could be happier.
Welcome to the family.
As ever,
Charles
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My dear R.,
Charles’s wife gave a ball last night. In the Berkeley Square house. The redone Berkeley Square house. In a short time, she’s managed to quite transform it. The wallcoverings are different (the small salon is the most beautiful sea green), she’s opened up some walls and changed some of the mouldings. But it’s more than that. She’s hung a framed drawing of Colin’s (of the family cat) between a Fragonard and a Boucher (I’m so glad they didn’t get rid of Kenneth’s collection; I can quite see the temptation, but it would have been a tragedy to lose so much beauty, whoever collected it; besides, to you I can confess that I am at times grateful for the memories they evoke). You walk into the house now and smell that wonderful cinnamony potpourri and know you’re in a home. Before it wasn’t a home, it was a showplace. Because exquisite as Elizabeth’s taste was, we both know she never really felt at home anywhere.
Everyone at the ball seemed to note the transformation. Mélanie has the instincts of a superb hostess. Everything seems a bit casual and effortless, in that way that anyone who’s ever entertained knows has weeks of planning and carefully made lists behind it. I heard nothing but praise (how novel in a London drawing room). It was difficult for her when the first came to Britain, I know. London society is appallingly hard on outsiders (so ridiculous considering we’d be impossibly inbred and boring without new blood). But now she bids fair to be the toast of the beau monde. Lady Winchester had the impertinence to say to me last spring that it was a pity Charles hadn’t married an English girl who could an asset to his career. It’s quite clear now that Mélanie will make a superb wife for an M.P.
As to Charles—who I know is the real reason you’re reading this—he looked happy last night. My one qualm about their decision to keep the Berkeley Square House was that Charles was doing it to prove he could (which would be so like him–he takes after you in so very many ways.). But he looked remarkably at home last night. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him quite so at ease at an entertainment. When I left, I turned back to see him and Mélanie in the hall talking leave of their guests. Charles had his hand at Mélanie’s waist and his head tilted toward her. Comfort was written in every line of his body. Not a word I’m used to associating with my nephew.
I hope you’re looking after yourself and finding some comfort of your own.
Love,
Fanny
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Bel darling,
Colin had a nightmare last night. Laura came and got us (it’s so odd, when we lived in lodgings I could always hear the children when they cried at night). He’d stopped crying by the time Charles and I went in. He was sitting bolt upright in bed. He burrowed into me and didn’t want to let go for the longest time.
He didn’t want to talk about what he’d been dreaming about, but finally Charles got him to explain a little of it. He seems to have dreamed that someone killed me. Not really surprising, given the events of the summer. In fact, both Colin and Chloe took everything that happened at Dunmykel so matter-of-factly that I’d been concerned they were bottling everything up and we were bound to have a reaction. And now that we have one, as Charles pointed out to me when Colin finally fell asleep again and we returned to our bedchamber, I’m fretting because of the reaction.
Does parenting ever get easier? Do you ever simply know you’ve made the right decision and not go over everything five hundred times? All things considered, Charles said to me, as we sat in bed waiting for dawn, because neither of us could get back to sleep, Colin seems to have remarkably few scars considering what he’s been through in his thus far in his three years. Which, as I replied is reassuring but doesn’t speak well to our abilities to protect our children. Dear God, the things Colin saw after Waterloo when our house was full of wounded soldiers. Though I truly believe he’d have been more upset if we’d tried to keep him out of the way. I still remember him sitting on the floor (we had wounded soldiers on pallets all round the hall, because we quickly ran out of beds) beside a young ensign who’d lost his arm, rolling a top back and forth. The truth is, as Charles said last night, you can’t really protect your children from life, however much you might want to. You have to give them skills to cope with it. It’s just that Colin’s seen rather more of life than I would have wished in his first three years.
I’m glad we’re moving into the new house. I think a fresh start will be good for all of us. (Provided Charles really does see the house as new, and not an echo of the past; he says he does, but then of course he would).
Onto more cheerful and prosaic matters, do you want to take the children to the park later? The day looks to be fine. It would be good for Colin to see friends. And I’m in desperate need of consultation about the flowers for the ball (what was I thinking having one so soon after we move in?).
Love,
Mélanie
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Dearest Cressy,
I write to you from my escritoire in the morning room. How odd. I’ve never had a piece of furniture to my name, let alone a house. Governesses of necessity are migratory creatures. I would always put out the brush and comb with my initials that Mama and Papa gave me for my eighteenth birthday, and the framed watercolor your did of our house in Oxford, but other than that I was careful never to make too much of an imprint on the room I was allotted by my employers. Many of my rooms were quite Spartan—though I have to say my bedchamber at Lady Frances’s was quite delightful, with the most wonderfully frivolous Cerulean blue wallpaper. Still, it never felt as though it was properly mine.
Quen says he finds it odd to have a house too. Large as Glenister House is, it’s his father’s. He told me to make my own decisions, but he took a surprising interest in the hangings and wallpaper choices. So that odd as it seems to have a house, it really does feel like our house.
And of course a house requires staff to run it. Lady Frances and Mélanie Fraser helped me interview and engage them. We have Mrs. Wilkins, the cook, Gordon, the butler (formerly a footman at Lady Frances’s), Mary Beth and Sallie, the housemaids, Edward, the footman, and Alice, the kitchen maid. They’re all very pleasant and hardworking, and they all treat me with the utmost respect. But I confess to feeling a bit of an interloper whenever I ask them to do something. After all, three scant months ago I was in service myself.
Mélanie Fraser says she’s still getting used to having a staff herself. Most of the time she’s been married to Charles they lived in lodgings with only a maid and valet. Of course, her parents were a come and comtesse, so she must have been used to servants as a child, but she never has the air of taking it for granted the way everyone in Quen’s world does. I don’t think I will ever take it for granted. In fact, I should be quite disappointed in myself if I ever did.
We want all of you to come stay with us as soon as possible, so we can show you London. Quen is already talking about taking the children to Astley’s Amphitheatre and the Tower (the White Tower is a favorite of his since boyhood; I’ve already climbed the stairs twice with him and Chloe). And we can go to the theatre and perhaps an opera, walk in the park, visit the museums, go to silk and china warehouses– London is indeed a feast for the senses.
I miss you!
Love to everyone,
Aspasia
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My dear David,
A draft of my speech in response to the report of the Select Committee of Climbing Boys is enclosed. Mel and I were working on it much of the night (with the sustaining aid of a glass of whisky or two). At one point a debate over the rival merits of “outrage” and “crime” had our voices raised so loudly I was afraid the servants would hear. At another, we were having such trouble reading our own much-crossed handwriting that we ended up convulsed with laughter on the study sofa.
When we copying out the final draft, I was heard to mutter that at times I despaired of making any real change in the lives of these poor boys (some not so very much older than Colin) and to question the hours we had put into crafting the speech. Mel reminded me of the night I first won election to the House last spring. She said I’d been drunk on hope (though as I recall there was whisky involved that night as well). Which in turn reminded me of what she said to me when I first decided to stand for Parliament—that something has to imagined before it can achieved, that change often begins with a voice in the wilderness, pointing out what’s possible.
I don’t believe I’ve ever thank you properly for encouraging me (at times bullying me) to stand for Parliament. Whatever the frustrations, the chance to give voice to an imagined future and attempt to achieve it is well worth it.
As always,
Charles
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Melly my sweet,
Surely you know me enough to realize it would take something far more—I hesitate to even come up with a word? extreme?—than this for me to find it inappropriate. In fact, I can’t really think if a question that it would inappropriate for friend to ask another. Whether or not I’d feel compelled to answer is another question entirely.
But in this case– I have no experience of the institution of marriage, nor am I ever like to do so. But I do have experience of co-habiting. Of course, I suspect that what works for people who co-habit is as different as the people who do so. And I only have experience of doing so with one person. But I will say that David and I have separate rooms purely for appearances. The extra bedchamber is useful after the occasional disagreement, but really the sofa in the drawing room or study would serve as well.
Charles isn’t David of course. On the other hand, Charles—as you and I have often discussed–is if anything less ruled by the conventions of the world he was raised in than David is. And though I have little experience of Charles’s sleeping habits (barring a few drunken undergraduate nights in which we all collapsed in each other’s rooms), I think I know him enough to say that if he preferred not to share a bedchamber with you he’d have found a way to do so long since. If not on the Peninsula, in Vienna or certainly Brussels (where you had a whole house) or Paris.
Besides– Good God, Melly, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Case closed I think.
Love,
Simon
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Dear Simon,
I write to you in need of advice. Forgive me if the question seems wildly inappropriate. The thing is, I can’t think of who I else I could ask it of at all. You at least will not read this letter and decide I’ve taken leave of my senses. I know you that well. And you’ve known Charles for years, so—
You see. I’m prevaricating. Very unlike me. But then it’s also unlike me to be unsure what to do.
We are at the point with the Berkeley Square House where I need to decide who goes where. That is, who sleeps where. I need hardly tell you that the nursery will not be tucked away out of sight in the upper reaches of the house, as they were in Charles’s childhood. Somehow I’m going to arrange all of us on the second floor. Mr. Fraser and Lady Elizabeth had separate bedchambers and dressing rooms. I will of course completely redo those rooms—change the call coverings and mouldings. But everyone expects that Charles and I will occupy them. Which would be the first time Charles and I have not shared a bedchamber since our marriage.
Yes, I know it’s decidedly odd (and I know it cause raised brows among those who are aware of the arrangement). It began out of sheer necessity—there was only one bedchamber in Charles’s lodgings in Lisbon. We might have managed separate rooms in Vienna or Brussels or Paris, but space was still in short supply. The same in South Audley Street. All of those have been temporary lodgings. This is the first time we’ve had a home of our own, arranged to our own liking. And I’m not entirely sure what Charles’s liking is. For my own, part I would have a distinctly difficult time learning to sleep alone again Having that ocean of linen and coverlet to myself seems shockingly cold and lonely. I think Charles feels the same. Or perhaps I would just like to think he feels the same. Perhaps he would like the peace and privacy of his own bedchamber.
Of course being Charles he hasn’t said a word about it. He’s much too preoccupied with Parliament and plans for Dunmykel to give much thought to sleep let alone to where we sleep (though he did write me a birthday letter yesterday that brought tears to my eyes (don’t let it get about) and left the most beautiful pair or garnet earrings on my pillow). If I put the question to him directly, I suspect I’ll get a blank stare followed by whatever he thinks is the answer I prefer to hear.
You’re the only person I could think to turn to with the problem. You’ve known Charles far longer than I have. And you have a knack for understanding people. Your advice would be much appreciated.
Love,
Melly
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Sweetheart,
Difficult to believe that only a year ago we were in Paris. Jessica was a kick against the palm of my hand. Colin hadn’t begun to read. My closest contact with Parliament was accounts in the British papers and letters from David and Oliver (frequently seething with frustration). We lived in lodgings where books were tumbling off the shelves and threatening to spill out the door, and my shaving soap kept encroaching on your face powder. I still had to send reports to Carfax and Castlereagh.
Some things are unchanged. You looked impossibly beautiful, with your hair unpinned and Colin’s jammy fingerprints on your collar. You were helping me write (a report for Stuart, not a speech, but no less of a contribution). I had been trying for five days to work out how I could possibly equal all the wonderful ways you had acknowledged my birthday. (Which gets more difficult every year—how am I to equal a first edition Ludlow? As to other things that occurred on my birthday, with the candle doused—there are still limits to what I can put in writing).
You were no less precious to me a year ago, but I was considerably less adept at saying it (though I confess to still being sadly clumsy—give me time). Whenever I walk into the Berkeley Square house and see the latest progress, I marvel at your ability to transform a building. But your ability to transform people is, I think, even more remarkable.
Happy birthday, my darling.
With so much of my heart that none is left to protest,
Charles
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Darling,
I’ve been trying for days to figure out what to what to write to you today. Yes, I know, normally I’m not at a loss for words, but there’s nothing so daunting as the sense that an occasion calls for something deeply profound or delightfully witty. Or preferably the two together.
You, I suspect, would retort that it’s merely a day like any other. But I can’t see it that way. The result, no doubt, of the wonderful fuss my parents always made over birthdays. A like any other, perhaps, but a day we choose to set apart. To mark the passage of time. And even more important, to celebrate you.
I can hear you groaning even as I dip my pen in the inkpot. There’s no help for it, Charles. You’re quite splendid at marking my birthday and the children’s (well, Colin’s to date and I presume Jessica’s starting next year). You have to put up with me making today about you. I know I promised no foolish speeches. You can at least concede me a foolish letter.
You’ve accomplished so very many things in not so very many years. You matter, far more than I think you know, to so very many different people. Parliamentary representative, colleague, friend, brother, father, husband, lover (those last two to the same person, just to make sure I’m using words with scrupulous accuracy, dearest).
I only hope you’re half as proud of yourself as I am of you.
Happy thirtieth birthday, darling.
With all my heart,
Mélanie
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Darling Simon,
We’re going to keep the Berkeley Square House. It was Charles’s suggestion. I was scrupulously careful to say nothing, and I tried to school my expression. But he’s all too good at reading my feelings. I’m sure he did so here.
And now that I have what I secretly wanted, I’m perversely racked by guilt. Yes, I know. Singularly unhelpful. Of course I immediately said, “are you quite sure?” but I’m afraid he saw the reaction on my face before I got the words out. And he said, “Yes, of course, or I wouldn’t have said it.” Then he added, “We can be happy here,” and “sometimes it’s better to face the past than running from it.” Which is a rather more direct statement of feeling than one usually gets from Charles. In fact, I was startled into seizing his hand and squeezing it rather foolishly. Only I can’t help but feel that a good wife wouldn’t want her husband to have to face the past. But then it would do no good at all for Charles to think I was trying to protect him.
Marriage is so dreadfully complicated. Do you find yourself doing this with David? Trying to decode what he says and framing your own words in a sort of cipher?
Of course the part of me that doesn’t feel guilty is already planning what I’m going to do with the house. After so many years of living in lodgings, I can get positively drunk on the thought of wallpaper patterns and plaster textures and archway mouldings. And how the house will look filled with flowers and candlelight, with guests thronging the entrance hall.
Colin and Jessica love the square. Well, Colin says he loves it and Jessica smiles and giggles when we take her there. She’s already practicing walking on the grass. Jessica’s and Colin’s reactions would be enough to convince both Charles and me, whatever the tangle of our personal feelings. Berowne tugged free of his lead yesterday and raced up one of the plane trees. Then he sat there and meowed—he couldn’t figure out how to turn round and go down, or he didn’t want to try, so Charles climbed up and carried him down. Colin watched with great interest and wanted to know if Charles climbed the trees when he was a boy. Charles got one of those looks he gets when he wants to explain something to Colin without lying. Finally admitted that yes he did, occasionally (he didn’t add that the occasionally part was because he wasn’t in London often), but when he was rather older than Colin. Colin nodded, solemn-faced. I expect we have another year or so before he tries tree climbing himself. All bets are off with Jessica, though. I already suspect she has a more reckless streak than her brother.
How’s the new play coming? I’m so glad you’re writing.
Love,
Melly
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My dear David,
Mélanie and I walked through the Berkeley Square house yesterday. To you, if to no one else save possibly Mel, I can admit how much I’d been dreading doing so. As so often happens, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I anticipated. The rooms contain not ghosts but holland-covered furniture. And if at times the sight of Father’s Cellini paperweight or the spot on the wall where Mother smashed her scent bottle (which I’m always convinced I can still see, though of course the room’s been replastered long since) threw me back in time, I only had to look at Mel to come back to the present.
And it was clear what Mel thought of the house. Scrupulously as she tried to keep her thoughts and feelings to herself, I could see her eyes widen at the proportions of the rooms, the mouldings and plasterwork, the early autumn light slanting through the windows. We were standing by the first-floor windows looking out at the square garden and there must have been four or five different groups of children and nursemaids—rolling hoops, tossing a ball, playing with a puppy. Mel didn’t say how rare it is for a London house to look out on a leafy expanse of green rather than a narrow street. Or what it would mean to Colin and Jessica to be only steps away from the square.
We’re going to keep the house. I wouldn’t be much of a father or a husband if I gave up a house in which my wife and children could be so happy simply because of old ghosts that should have been laid long since. If I hadn’t already been convinced that was the right decision, the look on Mel’s face when I suggested it would have decided me. She’s already talking about knocking down walls and replastering and choosing new hangings. The house she says, with one of those looks of hers that see so much, will be quite unrecognizable by the time we move in.
You and Simon will have to be our first guests when we move in. We can toast new beginnings.
As always,
Charles
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Beloved,
Has it really been less than a month? I can’t seem to remember a time I wasn’t married to you. And yet at the same time I’m more than half afraid I’ve imagined the whole. I woke up last night and reached for you, and when I only felt a cold expanse of linent, I thought, “Well, this is it. I should have known it couldn’t be real. I should have known she was much too sensible to risk herself with me. Happy endings are the stuff of fairy tales, and I stopped believing in them at the age of three. Or possibly even before that.”
I broke out in a cold sweat. It think it was only my narrow, unfamiliar bed that reminded me I was in Richmond, and there was a logic explanation for why my wife was at home, not beside me. Even then, I don’t know that I’d have really believed it if my memories of you—of what we share—weren’t so very vivid. I can imagine a lot, but I don’t think I could dream up the wonder of what’s between us. So much bloody lost these past months, and somehow at the end of it I’ve got you. I suppose that proves none of us get what we deserve.
I asked Charles if there was ever a point at which one took one’s wife for granted. He said if there was, he’d yet to reach it. I certainly can’t imagine ever doing so. Odd that I used to think of marriage as stultifying when I find it so wonderfully full of possibilities.
I’ve sorted things out with the staff here. I’ll be back in London time to dine with you.
With all my heart,
Quen
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My dear Charles,
I saw her. My—no, not my mother. To call her that seems wrong in so many ways. Not just because it’s an insult to the woman who raised me, but because fundamentally it isn’t true. I know who my mother is.
But I saw Georgiana Mortimer. She sent me a letter through Lord Glenister asking if I would be willing to meet her. We met at a posting inn on the outskirts of Ramsgate. One of those innocuous, half-timbered affairs that inevitably seem to be called The White Hart. We dined in a private parlor, though neither of us took more than few bites of the cold collation spread before us.
She looks like Miss Mortimer. Evie. Which shouldn’t be a surprise, but as a bit of blow to the gut in the wake of recent events. We talked rather in circles, avoiding direct confrontation with certain matters which simply cannot be voiced. She wanted to know about my childhood, about my education, about my life now. We spent a long time on trivial details like village cricket matches and the classics prize at university, but perhaps those were the best things to discuss. She showed a genuine interest in the plans for Dunmykel tenants that I worked on with Mrs. Fraser—Mélanie—this summer.
To own the truth, I can’t remember when I’ve felt so awkward. I kept feeling as though I should say I was sorry all of this has happened, but the truth is, I’m not in the least sorry I was born. A good thing perhaps. There’ve been one or two times in my life I’ve felt to the contrary. When I left, she told me she was proud of me. Oddly enough, my own mother said the same thing when I returned home.
Other than that, I’ve little to report, save that spirits continue to be good among the tenants. It was amazing what hope for the future will do for people. Now we have to make sure we live up to the promise of that hope.
Give my regards to Mélanie. Tell young Colin I hope he’s keeping up his practice with a cricket bat. And tell Gelly—no, I don’t think there’s any message for Gelly that I can safely give her brother. Save that I miss her.
Yours,
Andrew
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Home again.
How odd—I wrote that (and put it into code) before I realized that I referred to South Audley Street and London as home. I can’t remember the last time I thought of any place as home. The wagons we traveled in, perhaps, when I was a little girl. Paris, in a way, because it was home to Papá. Do you think of Ireland as home? I realize it’s something we’ve never discussed. Home wasn’t really a word in my vocabulary.
And now it is, simply based on the practicalities of my life. I doubt that I will ever feel British, but London and Scotland are where I will live for the foreseeable future and raise my children. I have obligations to the staff and tenants at Dunmykel, and the staff we have here. (Yes, I know, staff didn’t used to be in my vocabulary either). Charles and I are going to look at the Berkeley Square house tomorrow. I thought he’d have already made plans to sell it, but he says he wants us both to look at it first. Which, I confess, touched me more than I’d have thought possible. One way or another, we need a house. Not somewhere we let for the span of a few months. For the children’s sake. And for mine too, perhaps. Not only my vocabulary but how I define words in that vocabulary is constantly changing.
As to how we are all faring since we returned to the world of the beau monde—I am putting to use every lessen you ever taught me about how to nod and smile and stick to a simple story. We may see this through yet. And you have my gratitude.
I hope this finds you well wherever you are.
Keep safe
M.
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Dear Charles,
I couldn’t sleep. Even with the candle doused everything’s so different. I can hear wheels and horse hoofs on the cobblestones. The air feels heavy—maybe it’s the soot? Or not being able to smell the sea? Or the walls not being granite? I keep telling myself that these are precisely the smells and sounds I grew up with. But that was Before. Do you think that way now? Before and After? At Dunmykel, I’d got used to the fact that everything had changed. Not that it was any less horrible, but it was part of the fabric of life somehow. Now we’re back to London, back to our usual life, only nothing’s usual at all. It’s as though being here throws everything into relief. Honoria. Father. Evie. Tommy Belmont.
So I little a candle and went to my writing desk and started writing to you. I’ll carry the letter round myself in the morning, but some things are easier said in a letter than face to face. Do you find it hard to be back in London? Or are you so used to your life being anything but normal that you scarcely notice? It gets easier, doesn’t it? The pretending? You’re quite right that the trick is telling as much of the truth as possible as not volunteering information. But the questions are exhausting. You can tell everyone’s sure there’s more to the story, though I doubt anyone guesses at anything close to the truth.
And of course I miss Andrew. Desperately. That can’t surprise you, and you’re much too sophisticated for it to shock you, even if you are my brother. I know you said to give him time, and he’ll come round, and it sort of worked when I could see him every day, but now that he’s practically at the other end of Britain, my mind keeps conjuring ways I could lose him. And all because he wants to give me time to know my own mind. Ironic, isn’t it? I suppose I should be noble, like Andrew is, and tell myself that if there’s any chance he will change his mind it’s all for the best that we’re waiting. But I’m not noble in the least. The lowering truth is I want Andrew any way I can get him.
Did you feel that way about Mélanie? I’m sure you wanted to give her time to know her own mind, that’s the sort of person you are. Or perhaps you fell in love with her after you married her. I used to think you didn’t love her at all, and then I realized how wrong I was. And of course it isn’t any of my business in the least, but somehow marriage and how people make it work is very much on my mind these days.
I’ll see you in the morning. And I may or may not bring this letter.
Love,
Gelly
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You’re right, it would have been far more prudent for you not to have written, but I confess that I am glad that you did. I knew coming to Britain would be difficult, but I had no idea the ghosts we’d be confronting. And that was before the events of the past few weeks. I thought I was inured to horror and far too jaded to be shocked. I supposed it should be a sort of obscure relief to discover that neither is the case.
Nor is Charles as numbed to feeling as he frequently leads others—including his wife—to believe. It seems criminally wrong to say any good has come of recent events, but Charles and I are closer than we’ve been. Closer than I ever dared hope we would be.
Looking at what I just wrote it sounds a bit like something out a lending library novel. I very nearly crossed the words out. But I find I can’t. I have Charles’s trust in a way I never thought I would. Which of course makes the thought of him learning the truth that much more terrifying. Is it only fear of loss that makes us realize how precious something is?
I once told you that I didn’t know how long I could go on playing this role. My greatest fear now is that my masquerade will end. And I know I’ll be far more fortunate than I deserve if I live with that fear for the rest of my life.
Talking of masquerades, you’d be quite amused, I think, to see my efforts to learn to be mistress of Dunmykel. Memorizing your codes is nothing compared to learning the names of the Fraser family’s china patterns. I often do quite well for nine-tenths of the day, and then I have to bite back hysterical laughter because the idea that I could ever call a castle home is utterly mad. But then my life has been mad for years. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.
Keep safe, wherever you are.
M.
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My dear Mrs. Moreton,
I trust you fill forgive my presumption in writing. I know that we have never been introduced, though I confess I feel as though I know you. I know about your garden and your prized roses, about the challenges your husband faced drawing up Mr. Beckworth’s will, about Timothy’s hopes of a scholarship to Cambridge, about Diana’s sketches of Italian marbles which caused a stir at the village féte, about Phoebe’s progress in Latin. You must pardon my interest. I can’t help but think of your family as an extension of my own. Your sister is the most important thing in the world to me, and we are to be married on the 22nd.
I know Aspasia has written to you of our plans. I suspect she has also confided other details to you though the years, which may not have given you the most favorable opinion of me. Will you believe that I am not as I have been? That whatever the mistakes of my past, my feelings for your sister are real, and perhaps the one thing I am proud of in my misspent life. I don’t deserve her in the least, but I shall do everything in my power to make her happy.
We are to be married at Dunmykel, in Perthshire, the home of my childhood friend Charles Fraser. The wedding will be small, with old friends and my father and brother in attendance. It would mean a great deal to both Aspasia and me if you and your family could be present. I hope the enclosed travel arrangements I have made for you and your husband and children will be agreeable. I am also arranging for your parents and your sister Hypatia and her family to join us.
You devoted almost-brother,
Quentin
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Allie darling,
Charles returned to Dunmykel last night. It’s such a relief to have him back. Are you surprised to have me write that? A number of things have changed these past weeks and not all of them for ill. I don’t think I properly understood, you see. That Charles was every bit as confused by Mama’s death as I was. He seemed so fearfully grown up at the time. But I now know that nineteen isn’t nearly as grown up as one might think. And that rather than life seeming simpler as one grows older, it seems all the more complicated and confusing. Not that I’m not perfectly grown up enough for—
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Charles didn’t actually kiss Mélanie in front of everyone when he walked in to the old drawing room last night (the way Quen did with Aspasia). But he did lift her hand to his lips. And the way he looked at her—I’m sure he can’t have had the least notion of how it appeared, because if he did my brother would never let his guard down so. Then he got down on the floor and played blocks and knights with the children. He’s very good father. He was always a quite decent older brother. I can admit that now (and yes, I know you always tried to remind me of it).
Charles and Mélanie are closeted with Andrew in the study now, talking about the estate. Which brings me back to the point I was making above. About being more grown up than some people will admit. Because while I may not have my life entirely sorted out, I know perfectly well what I want in one regard.
I know, I know. After everything Andrew’s been through, I should be patient. But I don’t think it’s his own feelings that are holding him back. In fact, he let down his guard with me the most when he was most distressed. He seems better now (and of course I’m grateful for it), but he also seems more determined to hold me at a distance. And I’m not a patient girl. Not a patient woman, that is.
Your loving but impatient cousin,
Gisèle
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Sweetheart,
Truth is an elusive thing. When I dined with Edgar the night before I left London, he said, “it’s horrible, but at least we know the truth.” Leaving aside the fact that I didn’t tell Edgar the whole of the truth, as I know it, I’m not at all sure we do. Know the truth, that is. And I’ not just talking about the Elsinore League, about which I’m certain we’ve barely uncovered the first layer of a truth that was twisting and complicated as the Fraser family history. But do we really know the truth of what drove Evie? Or Honoria? We can piece together a picture bits and pieces from things they revealed or things others revealed about them. But I don’t think that picture can ever be entirely accurate. When it comes to Father, I can’t even come up with a coherent outline.
I can’t help but think that we very likely no all too little about the truth of what drives even those closest to us. Events like those of the past weeks force us to look beneath the surface. As long as life runs in calmer waters, we are happy to glide along the surface and never think to look into the depths. I suspect I’ve been far too ready to take the surface for granted where you’re concerned. The fact that you take everything so cheerfully in stride and are equal to any situation doesn’t mean that are coming to Britain has been easy on you. I don’t think I’ve fully appreciated just how difficult it’s been.
Nor, I think, have I fully appreciated the man Quen is or the man he’s grown into. I’ve written to tell him how pleased I am that he and Miss Newland plan to marry at Dunmykel. The house needs happy memories.
As for McGann, ask him to tell you about the Catullus he helped me translate (talk about motivation to learn Latin). And, believe me, the Old Tower episode wasn’t nearly as hair-raising as Andrew and Stephen have made it sound.
Tell Colin how pleased I am with the picture of the Drummonds’ puppies—it sits propped on my night-table as a reminder of home. Pleased as I am to hear of Jessica’a progress, I hope I don’t miss another milestone. Kiss the children for me. I’ll have to wait to kiss you myself until I return home.
Sweet dreams, wife.
Charles
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My dear Charles,
I was so very sorry to hear of Kenneth Fraser’s death. I can’t claim to have known him well, or to have been much in sympathy with him on any number of issues. But one always feels a pang, I think, on the hearing of the loss of someone with whose life one’s own has intersected. And in particular, I am saddened to think of you and Edgar and Gisèle. I am aware that your relationship with Kenneth was not a comfortable one. But I don’t think losing a parent is ever easy, even when one has not been close. Perhaps especially in that case. Unspoken words can reverberate very loud across a grave. It’s perhaps as well to remember that even in life some words would probably never be spoken, some issues never addressed. I hope you will forgive my impertinence in saying that from what I observed, you have absolutely nothing to reproach yourself with on your side of the equation in your relationship with Kenneth.
I realize this also means Dunmykel will be yours. Whatever my view on inherited wealth, the estate couldn’t be in better hands. I think I knew your mother enough to say with confidence that she’d be pleased.
My best wishes to Mélanie and young Colin and the new baby.
Yours truly,
O’Roarke
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Forgive me for writing. Not for the first time in my life, prudence has given way to impulse. I have just learned of Kenneth Fraser’s death (and some details about the manner of his death). I’ve written to Charles. I can guess at something of what this must mean for him, and consequently for you. People so often have a tiresome habit of withdrawing just at the time they most need the support of those close to them. I hope that isn’t the case, but if it is, no one could be better than you at coping with the situation. The fact that I have no doubt that you are equal to the task doesn’t lessen my regret that you are faced with it. It’s appalling that you should both have to go through this so close on recent events.
It goes without saying that if I can render you any assistance, you have only to ask (yes, I know, it’s laughable to think that that would be the case, but you must allow me the comfort of at least saying it).
Take care of yourself and your family, querida.
R.
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Dearest Fanny,
Thank you for writing. That was generous indeed (though you’ve always been a generous woman). My condolences. I can’t honestly say that the news of Kenneth’s death fills me with grief (not that I’d ever rejoice in the death of any fellow creature, given the wanton amount of it I’ve seen in my life). But I can guess what Kenneth’s death meant to you, and I suspect few others have understood enough to offer their sympathies. Having conflicted feelings about a person doesn’t make losing that person any easier. Quite the reverse, in fact.
I’m more relieved than I can express by your account of how Charles has handled the whole situation. Not that I don’t have the utmost faith in his strength and abilities, but given the events of nine years ago, I suspect I will never completely cease to worry. One never does, I suppose, no matter how adult children become..
Marriage and fatherhood seem to be good for him. I was hoping that would prove to be the case. From what I’ve seen of her, Mélanie is an excellent match for him. All too often two people with such keen understandings might drive each other to distraction, but Mélanie, I think, has the wit not to make emotional demands while at the same time she won’t let Charles sink into isolation. And whatever else Charles may be thinking or feeling, I’m quite sure he won’t ever fail Mélanie or their children.
How’s Gisèle taken it? I know she and Kenneth weren’t particularly close, but it can’t have been easy, and I know how you’ve worried about her. She’s young to have gone through so much. I’d remember that if she takes after Elizabeth in other ways that concern you, she also has Elizabeth’s strength.
Take care of yourself, my dear.
As always,
Raoul
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My dear R.,
I hope this letter reaches you. I’ve had reports of you variously in Madrid, Dublin, and Buenos Aires, and some vague rumors about Paris or Provence which were difficult to sort out. Still, one way or another, my letters have always seemed to find you through the years. At least when it’s mattered most.
Kenneth is dead. I thought you’d want to know. I thought, laughable as it may seem, that you had a right to know.
When I say Kenneth is dead, it would be more accurate to say Kenneth was killed. Someone bashed his head in at Dunmykel, at the base of the stairs in the Old Tower. We were all at Dunmykel at the time you see. A house party to celebrate Kenneth’s betrothal to Honoria Talbot. Yes, the betrothal was a surprise in and of itself. But that was the least of it. Before Kenneth was killed, Honoria was found strangled in Kenneth’s bed. The circumstances are still a bit murky, but suffice it to say the obvious explanation doesn’t appear to be the true one. And though the people who have no doubt have wanted do to bash Kenneth’s head in through the years probably add up to a list as long as Don Giovanni’s conquests (including, I’m sure, both you and me at times), we still aren’t entirely sure who was responsible.
Charles is the closest to knowing the truth. Charles was charged with investigating both murders. An intolerable burden, perhaps, but I doubt he’d have been able to leave the matter alone in any case. Which brings us to what is no doubt your chief question and my chief reason for writing. Of course Charles has had a beastly time of it. But you need have no fear of a revival of the old trouble. (You can imagine, I think, the concern I felt on that score). In fact, I’m inclined to think he’s come through it stronger. By which I don’t mean more inclined to bottle up all feeling but rather quite the opposite.
A great deal of it is Mélanie. She’s proving a match for Charles in more ways that one. The investigation certainly showed that she has talents beyond even what I realized. I can’t help but wonder at the extent of what both she and Charles got up to on the Peninsula. But what’s more to the point, there’s something quite different in the way Charles looks at her now. Or perhaps he’s always looked at her this way, it’s just that he’s less guarded about it. He’s gone after to see Edgar and tell him about Kenneth. He didn’t precisely kiss Mélanie goodbye in public before he left, but he did brush his fingers against her cheek in a way I never thought to see him do.
People, as you remarked to me years ago, never cease to surprise one. For good or ill.
As always,
Frances
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Cressy darling,
I advise you to sit down before you read further.
Have you done so? Forgive the melodrama, dearest, but there is no way this news can come as other than a surprise.
I am going to be married.
No, though my hand is admittedly sadly shaky at this moment, you did not misread those words. Lord Quentin has asked me to be his wife, and I have accepted.
At this point you are probably thinking Quen has gone mad, or I have, or both. That may well be the case, but such undoubtedly sane people as Lady Frances, Lord Worsely, and Charles and Mélanie Fraser could verify the truth of our betrothal.
Betrothal. It still seems odd to see the word penned in my own erratic hand. I can well imagine the things that will be said when the news becomes public. Those who don’t discount the story as wild rumor will no doubt say I entrapped Quen, perhaps that I came here with that very end in mind. You at least I hope will believe me when I say had no such thought when I arrived at Dunmykel. I could also say that, knowing the house party was bound to be awkward, I hoped to see Quen as little as possible. But that last would not be wholly true. I did certainly tell myself that the sensible course would be for us to keep our distance. But a part of me knew that was nonsense. A part of me craved a bow or a word, a meeting of glances or a brush of finger tips, the way one parched craves even the scent of water. No matter how much I may have insisted I had got over him, I never did. I’m quite sure you knew that.
Quen, on the other hand, I was sure would have grown beyond me. He has indeed grown up, and did so even more in the course of the past few days (the difficult events of which must wait for another letter). But—what was between us once is still there. And Quen’s feelings for me have apparently only changed in that rather than attempting resume our liaison, he asked me to marry him.
Of course I resisted. Of course I told him I couldn’t let him ruin his life. Of course I didn’t protest nearly as much as I should have done. Because, looking into his eyes, all reason falls away, and I truly believe him when he says this can work.
Now, with Quen gone to visit his father, and nothing but his signet ring hastily pushed on my finger to remind me of the betrothal, my thoughts veer from guilt to fear to the sort of giddy joy I should be long past at my age and a thousand other places in between. Lady Frances and Mrs. Fraser have been nothing but kind. Lady Frances said that only the fact that was one of the few marriages she actually thought had a reasonable chance of success made her view losing Chloe’s governess with anything approaching equanimity. Mrs. Fraser told me happiness can come in unexpected places, and she’s learned not to walk away from it. Which I don’t think I could, even if I wished to.
Your delirious sister, who is far happier than she has any right to be,
Aspasia
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Dearest Allie,
What is it about midsummer nights? Is it the insidious influence of Shakespeare? Or is there something in the air that makes perfectly sane people stare like mooncalfs at someone they haven’t a chance in a thousand of being happy with. Not that I rate any couple’s chance of being happy much beyond the wedding journey or even the cutting of the requisite cake from Gunter’s (of course your marriage is an exception, but then I never remember you or Geoff behaving the least like a mooncalf). But midsummer madness does seem to provoke particularly appalling choices. Only think of Father and Honoria.
And then Charles—who is many irritating things, but who at least seemed to possess the virtue of being resolutely unromantic—stared at Honoria across Grandmama’s Limòges all through dinner. I thought he’d escaped her toils. Why now of all times? Is it because she’s going to marry Father? What is it about the allure of the unattainable? Not that he looked like a man in love, precisely—Charles never does—but he certainly was focused on her, in a way he’s usually only focused on a white paper or the notes for a speech.
And Evie—practical, organized Evie—seems to have a tendre for Quen. I don’t think one can call it midsummer madness, either. I’m afraid it’s been going on for some time. I suppose in some ways it’s not surprising—there’s nothing wrong with the way Quen looks (quite the reverse, especially if one likes the brooding, Byronish type), and his understanding is rather alarmingly acute. But I can’t imagine him actually making a woman happy. Not for more than a night. Evie deserves better. What is it that makes even the most sensible of us yearn after the unattainable?
Speaking of yearning after the unattainable, I told you Honoria actually seemed to be trying to flirt with Simon, didn’t I? Right under David’s nose, though plenty of people flirt with other people’s spouses in front of them, so that’s not surprising. Father didn’t seem to notice or didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps he knows better than to see Simon as a threat. Or perhaps it’s the way he expects Honoria to go on. I wonder if he expects her to be faithful?
And then there’s Val, who insisted on kissing me yesterday when we were walking down the hollyhock walk. Well, to be fair, I did tilt my face up. I wanted to see what it would be like, and if it would make certain memories go away. It was agreeable enough but hardly swoon-inducing.
Oh, and I did see Andrew yesterday. But I had myself admirably in hand. That’s one madness that’s over. I have no intention of letting Oberon or Puck lay the juice of any flowers on my eyes, thank you very much.
More tomorrow, my candle’s burning down.
Love always,
Gelly
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My dear Bel,
I still can’t make sense of it. I hoped actually spending time under the roof, I’d be able to see why. Why Honoria accepted Kenneth Fraser. Why Kenneth Fraser decided to marry again after all these years and chose his best friend’s daughter. Not to mention the girl who almost married his son. I can’t talk to Charles about it, of course. Not that last bit. Which is hard, because there’s so little Charles and I haven’t been able to discuss freely since we were at Harrow. But whatever passed between him and Honoria in Lisbon six years ago, how close he came to offering for her, why in the end he didn’t—that’s something we’ve never been able to discuss. And certainly not now with Mélanie here.
It has to be hard for Mélanie. She seems perfectly at ease and she certainly doesn’t cling to Charles. Simon says she’s an excellent actress, and that she’s having a beastly time of it. As usual in such situations, I suspect Simon is very close to the mark.
As to Honoria and Kenneth—neither gives any sign of being desperately in love. Kenneth’s eyes rest on Honoria with pride more than affection. Simon says Kenneth’s a collector of fine things, and his choice of Honoria fits perfectly with his Fragonard and Boule and Renaissance bronzes. But why now? And as for Honoria she appears more interested in Dunmykel than in its master. Simon hasn’t actually said it, but I suspect he’d claim that there lies the explanation of Honoria’s choice. I don’t like to think it of her, but even were it true, if she wanted to be mistress of a great house there are scores of men she could have accepted through the years.
I wish I knew her better. I wish Father had insisted she spend more time with us growing up. I wish I could ask her straight out, as I would you. She’s a grown woman (as Simon reminded me last night and can make her own choices, but I want to make sure she’s happy. I can hear both Simon and Charles—no one can ensure anyone else’s happiness. But I can’t simply stand by and watch her make a mistake. It’s a heavy burden acting in place of a guardian—I begin to have a glimmer of understanding of the strains of being a parent.
My best to Oliver. Hug the children for me.
Love,
David
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Cecy my sweet,
I cannot tell you how much your letter relieved my mind. Yes, I know, such an admission doesn’t accord with the pose of worldly sophistication I show the world, but with you I know I may be my humdrum self. I send you my fervent thanks, as do Charles and Mélanie and David. It means the world to all of us to know that Manon is safe and that the children seem to be bringing her out of herself. I pride myself on being able to think myself into another’s skin, but I confess that I find it difficult to imagine what she must have gone through on losing Soro.
I’m relived, too, that Jack hasn’t seen anyone suspicious in the vicinity. But take care he doesn’t let down his guard. We still don’t know precisely what and whom were are dealing with (Charles and Mélanie don’t know either, though I imagine though know more than they’ve let on to David and me), but we know they’re lethal.
The dangers here in Scotland are of a subtler sort. I veer between being grateful for my unexpected inclusion in the party, so that David doesn’t have to go through this alone, and a craven wish that I could have stayed in London with a clear conscience. In the general run of things, I quite enjoy observing the foibles of my fellows, but because this is David’s family, the follies exposed cut a bit too close to home. Unfortunately, I now have a suspicion of why I was included in the invitation. Honoria Talbot has an overconfidence in her own charms, coupled with a lack of understanding of who I am and what I owe to David. Not to mention simple good taste and good manners.
You could have cut the tension in the air at dinner with a butter knife. Or possibly with a soup spoon. Gisèle Fraser was hanging upon Val Talbot’s lips in a way that was as much literal as metaphorical (I can’t make out what she sees in him, she’s always struck me as a sensible girl beneath the nineteen-year-old drama). Lord Quentin was in earnest conversation with his claret glass most of the evening, though he looked up long enough to offer a few, surprisingly cogent comments on The Steward’s Stratagem (earning a frown from his cousin Honoria for talking across the table). Charles, as often, seems to be see more than is humanly possible, while at the same time being singularly blind in certain directions. Such as properly seeing his own wife. Of course it would help if Mélanie weren’t so very good at not letting him see what she’s feeling.
Time, I fear, must untangle this, not I. I’m just trying to keep my head above water.
Love to Jack and the children.
Always,
Simon
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Allie darling,
How I wish you were here. How fortunate you are to have escaped our current purgatory! It speaks volumes for the advantages of being a married woman and not required to go where bidden at one’s family’s directive. But then I suppose one is required to go where one’s husband bids. Not that Geoffrey would ever require you to go anywhere. Which I suppose speaks to the advantages of marriage in those rare instances when one’s husband proves as agreeable after the wedding ceremony as before. If only there were an easy way to predict.
And yes, I know, Aunt Frances said I might remain in London with you. So I really have no cause to complain. Believe me, I wish at least a dozen times a day that I had remained in London. But this is my family, for better or worse (even if was my parent (putative parents?) not I who swore the vows). I’m not one to think much about the Fraser family honor (there at least I’m far more like Charles than Edgar) but it seems churlish somehow to cut and run. Of course plenty of those present have no one but themselves to blame if they don’t like their current circumstances, but then there are people like poor Evie, who didn’t create the situation at all and as usual is bearing the brunt of it.
It’s so odd. Seeing Honoria seated next to Father. Watching them walk together through Mama’s gardens. Knowing she’ll soon be mistress of Dunmykel. It’s only a place, but– Sometimes the thought of her as mistress here makes me so angry I want to punch my fist through something. There I’ve said. It. Singularly unhelpful, I know. But it would be so satisfying.
Charles is doing and saying everything that is proper (as always), but one can tell he isn’t happy about the betrothal. He has that remote look he gets that says whatever he’s thinking or feeling is too private to share with anyone. He even looks at Mélanie that way. I wonder if she minds. I’d find it excessively disagreeable in my own husband, but perhaps she’s satisfied with whatever she’s getting from their marriage. Goodness knows most husband I know don’t share their innermost thoughts with their wives. And I suspect most of the wives would find it excessively disagreeable if they did so.
David is being even more faultlessly polite than Charles, but he looks a bit ill. It’s a treat having Simon here. I wonder whose idea it was to invite him? Honoria actually seemed to be trying to flirt with him last night. No, truly, don’t laugh. She danced with him and had him turn the pages of her music. Maybe she thinks he’s the one man she could flirt with who wouldn’t make Father jealous.
And yes, I did dance with Val. But I’m not—Allie, you do know I’m not that foolish, don’t you?
Write soon. Love to Geoff and Claudia.
Your always affectionate,
Gelly
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My dear Cressida,
I leave for Scotland as soon as the bags can be packed. We’re bidden to a house party at Dunmykel, the Fraser family home in Perthshire. Bidden is an odd choice of word, for in general Lady Frances is not a woman to be bidden anywhere, particularly when the delights of the Season are still in full swing. But in this case, even she was quick to heed the invitation. Her brother-in-law, Kenneth Fraser, has announced his betrothal. Scarcely surprising, you might say He’s been a widower since Lady Frances’s sister died ten years ago. But his choice of future wife makes the situation fraught to say the least. It is none other than my former charge, Honoria Talbot.
Yes, the house party at Dunmykel is to celebrate the betrothal. Yes, both families will be present. Yes, that means Lord Glenister and both his sons will be present along with Honoria and Evie. But you need have no fears on my account, Cressy dear. I shall spend my time in the nursery with Chloe. If I bring her into the drawing room after dinner, I’ll sit quietly in the corner or perhaps converse with Mrs. Charles Fraser (who has the wonderful tolerance of an outsider) or with Evie. There is no need for me to exchange a word—let alone anything else—with the gentlemen of the party. I may not be able to claim to be sensible, but I have certainly recovered from the madness I was once so foolish as to give way to. Nor can I imagine the gentleman in question would have any desire to renew an entanglement he no doubt laughs at himself for having ever taken remotely seriously. Assuming he remembers it at all. I know you have the best of husbands, but you must realize that some gentlemen treat this matters as lightly as the choosing of a hat. So do some ladies for that matter. I often think I would do well if I could emulate Lady Frances’s example. But then that would be easier done if I also have her freedom, which alas is not a governess’s lot. Still, you may rest assured that even in the unlikely event I were to be given the opportunity, I shall not repeat the sins of my past. And if I may feel a twinge of regret—well, regret can be a welcome reminder that one is alive.
Love to everyone. Kiss the children for me.
Your affectionate sister,
Aspasia
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Dearest Harriet,
Honoria Talbot is betrothed. To a Fraser. No, not Charles—obviously. Nor the also very much married Edgar. No doubt you are searching your memory of the Fraser genealogy for what distant cousin might have caught Honoria’s attentions. But the answer lies in a direction at once more and less obvious. It’s—I hope you are sitting down when you read this–Kenneth.
Yes. I know. And yet he’s been widowed for nearly a decade. He’s scarcely the first widower in his sixth decade to remarry to a girl some twenty years younger. In a certain light it’s a quite unexceptionable match. And yet only if one squints enough to ignore the fact that a few years ago everyone expected her to marry his son.
Lord Glenister announced the betrothal at a ball at Glenister House. Honoria looked as serenely lovely as always. Kenneth looked like a collector who’s made a superb acquisition. Charles looked like carved ice. Or perhaps granite. I heard him mumur something friend and unexceptionable to his father and Honoria. His young wife was watching him with that sort of gaze a woman has when she’s trying to look after her husband without letting him know she’s doing so. I wonder how much she knows, poor thing.
Gisèle ran off the dance floor. Val Talbot didn’t run after her, though he’d been sticking to her like glue (including on the dance floor) all evening. Lady Frances went after her instead. I don’t know what she said, but Gisèle came back in the ballroom and actually spoke civilly to her father and Honoria. Which is more than Val and Quen did. They both left the ballroom as soon as the announcement. David went up and felicitated the couple quite properly. Lord and Lady Carfax gave an excellent impression of being pleased with the match, but though Carfax must have given his consent, I can’t imagine they’re overjoyed. I’m sure they had hopes of Honoria and David, especially after Charles married elsewhere. Simon Tanner wisely kept his distance from the events.
So much to report and yet so many unanswered questions. As I said to Harry last night, what on earth do you think possessed her?
Your affectionate and flummoxed friend,
Emily
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Dearest Mélanie,
Ameila hit Billy this evening. Actually hit him. Not badly—he howled, but he plainly wasn’t hurt. And I must confess he’d been particularly beastly. She was playing with her paper dolls in a corner of the drawing room, and he snatched them up without any provocation I could see and ripped them to pieces. I could quite see her side of it. All the same, one cannot condone one’s children hitting each other.
Oliver was at the House, of course. He still hasn’t returned, so I haven’t been able to tell him what happened. I sent Amelia up to the nursery with Ellen and calmed Billy down and pointed out that he shouldn’t have torn her paper dolls. When I got Billy tucked in bed, I had a talk with Amelia. She said Billy had been horrid. I couldn’t deny it, but I said hitting was no way to solve differences. To which Amelia said, “then why do men fight duels?” I told her dueling was an excessively silly way to settle differences and her father and uncles would never do something so ridiculous (which I hope and pray is true). I finally had both Amelia and Billy settled when Rose woke up with a nightmare. Even with Ellen’s help, it was all I could do to get to get with my sanity at least partially intact.
Do come round tomorrow. I’m in crying need of an afternoon with a friend. Besides, Honoria wanted me to go to a china warehouse, and I told her I had a previous engagement with you. Yes, I can be quite shockingly deceitful, a dreadful example for my children if they knew, but I don’t think I could bear an afternoon of Honoria’s sweetly reasonable advice. I own to an uncharitable thought that when she has children of her own she’ll see how very difficult it can be. Bring Colin and Jessica and perhaps we can take all the children to Bayswater Tea Gardens.
Yours most affectionately,
Isobel
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My dear David,
I won’t comment on your speech of last week. I may find your politics by turns laughably naïve dangerously destabilizing, but there I must confess that there is nothing in being a Whig that per say is incompatible with being the future Earl Carfax. I cannot deny that more than one prior Earl Carfax has adhered to the Whig party, and while I may not find a great deal to admire in them, they all managed to preserve the Carfax name and fortune (even to add to them). And they all perpetuated the family name.
There lies the important point. You may flirt with dangerous ideas. You may associate with bohemians. But you as the prospective 9th Earl Carfax, you have a duty to see that there is an 10th Earl Carfax to follow after you.
I’m not asking you to give up all your present activities or associations. Marriage can be a pragmatic arrangement. Indeed, dear as your mother is to me, I am not sure but what pragmatism is best in these matters. The right woman would understand what was due to her position as Viscountess Worsley and the future Countess Carfax. A number of women would be very happy to do their duty by you and the family and then go their own way and allow you to go yours. You might profit by the example of your friend Charles Fraser. You must know better than to believe the more romanticized versions of his marriage. Underneath the admittedly ravishing surface, Mélanie Fraser is a sensible woman. She knows what she’s gained from her marriage, and she knows better than to make demands on her husband.
I daresay it won’t come as a surprise to you that your mother and I had hopes for you and Honoria. Some might have laughed at me for thinking you could snare such a diamond of the first water, but Honoria’s is a young man who knows what is important in life. If it weren’t for her unfortunate infatuation with Charles—
But there’s little to be gained from dwelling upon the past. You’ve always understood duty, David. You know what needs to be done.
Yours, etc…
Carfax
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My dear Louisa,
I begin to feel rather old. Yes, dearest, I know. Trust me, I wouldn’t admit it to anyone but you. I daresay it will pass. I profoundly hope so. I’m sure having a third child marry hasn’t helped, even if she if absurdly young. And before you say anything, yes, I know we thought we were frightfully grown up at that age (frightfully being the operative word in retrospect). I wasn’t so very much older than I married Dacre-Hammond. Not that that’s much recommendation of anything. Yet I actually think Judith and Tinsley stand a decent chance of being happy. Perhaps I’m growing soft, but though I would never call myself a romantic, I must confess that Allie and Geoffrey seem to be getting on remarkably well, whatever anyone may say about the age difference. Perhaps the younger members of our family is making more sensible choices.
Which brings me to Charles. For all the raised brows and whispers behind fans, I hold that he’s made a very sensible choice of wife. And he genuinely seems to like her, which is so much more important than we often realize. Whether or not he’ll let himself love her is another matter entirely. What’s that? You say I don’t believe in love. Darling, that’s nonsense, I’ve always believed in. I may not believe it can last. But there’s always the hope, isn’t there?
Returning to Charles and Mélanie, I’m also quite sure he doesn’t appreciate how difficult it is for her to make her way in society. Charles has a way of turning a blind eye to society—very idealistic of him, but society remains, and it’s much easier for a man of his birth and background to ignore it than for a newcomer like Mélanie to do so. I’m doing my best to help her, but though she’s quite charming, she holds herself a bit aloof. I’m not at all sure I know her. But then after nearly thirty years I’m sometimes not at all sure I know Charles either.
All eyes were on them at the Lievens’ last week. Mélanie managed to give a skillfully performance of a woman who was quite unaware of the attention Charles retired to the library for most of the evening. An evening also distinguished by Kenneth Fraser and Glenister very nearly coming to blows. I’m not precisely sure why. Kenneth danced with Honoria, but there must be more to it. Perhaps something to do with the Elsinore League. I can’t help but think back to our visit to Dunmykel all those years ago, and our speculation about the League’s true nature…
I must go. I’ve promised Chloe a story, and I’m trying to do a better job of keeping my promises.
Yours as always,
Frances
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Dear, provoking Quen,
I meant to say this to you in person this morning, but the door of your bedchamber was still firmly closed when I left to go to a silk warehouse with Gisèle and Lady Frances and Mrs. Fraser (and I suspect remained so long after we left). I was afraid you’d be off to your club or Tattersall’s or some or other far more disreputable place I probably don’t even know the name of by the time we get back.
Do remember Honoria’s musicale this evening. And yes, I can almost hear you saying that you remember it perfectly well and that’s precisely why you’ve accepted another engagement. But do pray remember that it isn’t just Honoria’s entertainment. It’s a family event. You’ve scarcely shown your face at a Glenister House entertainment in weeks. You’ve scarcely shown your face at any sort of family event except Judith’s wedding, and that’s only our family by extension Uncle Frederick may not admit it, but I know he’d be happy to see you in an appearance. And life is so much more agreeable when the two of you aren’t completely at loggerheads.
As to Honoria, you know she provokes me as much as much as anyone, but she’s been having a beastly time of it with Charles back with his war bride and everyone looking at her to see how she’s taking it. I’m not quite sure what happened at the Lievens’ three nights ago, but she’s seemed distressed ever since.
The various Frasers will be there tonight. Gisèle’s going to sing, and ten to one when she’s not singing she’ll sit beside Val and hold his hand under fan. There’s no one I’d rather have join the family than Gisèle, but—
You needn’t stay long. But do put in an appearance. It would mean a great deal to me.
Your devoted cousin who knows full well she can be tiresome,
Evie
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My dear Glenister,
I hesitated over whether or not to even dignify your words last night in the Lievens’ library with a response. But as I know to my sorrow that your memory has always been tiresomely tenacious, even when in your cups, I decided that some reply was perhaps called for. I trust that the clear light of day and the return of sobriety (despite the devil of a head you must be suffering from) have made you realize the absurdity of your words last night. I danced one waltz with a charming young woman of three-and-twenty. That she happens to be the niece and ward of my oldest friend only makes the dance all the more unexceptionable. Do you imagine I would fly into a temper should you dance with Gisèle? For that matter, I have refrained my flying into a temper over your son dancing with Gisèle more than once, and closely enough to set tongues wagging. Were it not for our friendship, I would not be so forbearing.
Your accusation that Honoria only danced with me to make Charles jealous is perhaps something Honoria herself could best answer (though I wouldn’t advise you to put the question to her). Charles appeared to have his head together with Worsley and Lydgate and Brougham at the time (no doubt plotting an attack on magistrates who protect property rights or some such thing). He didn’t appear much interested in what his own wife was doing either (including dancing with you at one point, as I recall). My son has always shown a lamentable lack of interest in the fair sex. So much so that I have at times wondered if he and Worsley share more than political ideals. No doubt my daughter-in-law could enlighten us further, but I confess Charles’s private life is of very little interest to me. I will say that I think Honoria has a very fortunate escape when Charles chose his foreign bride. He’d never have been the man Honoria wanted.
As to your inquiry about my intentions, why should you suppose that I have any? Surely we are both still of an age where we may indulge in a dance simply for the enjoyment of it. If I did have intentions—or were I too develop them—I hope that on reflection you will credit me with being enough the gentleman to know what is due to an unmarried girl of good family.
We have shared a great deal, Glenister. A great deal which I presume you would not wish me to commit to paper. It would be folly for this to come between us now.
Yours, etc…
Fraser
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My dear Cressida,
Judith’s wedding went off beautifully enough to satisfy even Judith. St. George’s, Hanover Square, with Gisèle and Chloe and her particular friends as bridesmaids and half the ton in attendance. The guests included the Prince Regent and two royal dukes (all of whom, I believe, Judith thinks are good candidates for her actual father, and knowing Lady Frances I suspect she may be right), Princess Charlotte (who is rumored to be enceinte) and Prince Leopold, the Melbournes, the Cowpers, both William and George Lamb and their Carolines, the Lydgates, the Granvilles, the Warwicks, the Hollands, the young Duke of Devonshire, Lord Worsley and Mr. Tanner, the Glensister House family– Listen to me, I sound like the society pages. This is what twenty years as a governess to the daughters of the Upper Ten Thousand dos to one. Please believe your sister is still a more rational creature than I at times sound.
Lord Tinsley looked very handsome and very nervous as Judith came down the aisle toward him. The nervousness does him credit in my eyes, for I believe it means he takes the married state seriously and genuinely wishes to make a success of it. The look in his eyes when he took Judith’s hand also speaks volumes as to how he feels about his bride. And Judith, for all her delight in the trappings of the wedding, is undeniably head over heels in love with her new husband. That, I think, is what reconciled Lady Frances to Judith marrying so young, That, and the fact that, as she confided to me one evening when we had a glass of sherry after sitting up into the small hours writing out cards of invitation for the wedding, “Tinsley’s understanding is far superior to Dacre-Hammond’s.”
The wedding breakfast was at Lady Frances’s, quite flawless as are all her entertainments, with a cake from Gunter’s and superb champagne. Judith prevailed upon Charles Fraser to sit down at the pianoforte and there was informal dancing in the drawing room. Gisèle danced twice with Lord Valentine. She’s been showing a rather worrisome interest in him these past weeks (and worse, it seems to be reciprocated). I know Lady Frances is concerned at the effect Judith marrying so young may have on Gisèle. For all Gisèle claims not to be interested in marriage, I’m quite sure Judith marrying before she did herself brought her up short. I suspect Gisèle’s flirtation with Lord Valentine is a reaction to the events of last winter. I pray it is so. I have lain awake more than once wondering if I should warn Lady Frances, but I can’t do so without breaking a number of confidences. And putting myself in a distinctly awkward situation. The question of how much my own cowardice figures in the equation is what keeps me tossing and turning.
I doubt Honoria Talbot was best-pleased either to be at just the sort of perfect wedding I expect she envisions for herself, with the bride a girl five years her junior. Not to mention Charles Fraser being back in London with a wife and children. Seeing him, it’s difficult to imagine two people less well-suited for each other. It’s always possible, of course, that he’d have been the making of Honoria, but I think it’s more likely she’d have been the ruin of him. I feel sorry for his wife. I heard fragments of at least five different whispered conversations about her. She can’t have been unaware, but she did an excellent job of pretending to be oblivious. She’s quite skilled at navigating the social waters, and then she settled down in an alcove during and nursed her baby. Charles brought her a plate of food, which goes to show he isn’t quite as oblivious to his wife as Gisèle makes out.
Honoria and I had an unavoidable encounter by the refreshment table when I’d taken Chloe to get an ice. Honoria greeted me very civilly, but we only exchanged a few words. Evie came and sat with me with me for a quarter hour and asked after you and the rest of the family by name. Lord Quentin only slipped into St. George’s at the last minute and only came briefly to the breakfast, which is perhaps as well, for a number of reasons.
Love to Richard and the children.
Your affectionate sister,
Aspasia
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My dear Castlereagh,
I was obliged to come down here late last night (an unexpected visitor I needed to meet) and so was unable to wait on you this morning. Charles Fraser’s speech against the suppression of Seditious Publications was, I am compelled to confess, impressive. I’ve always known he had a good speaking style—that much is apparent even over the port after dinner—but I hadn’t heard him address a crowd since a rather alarming visit to an Oxford coffeehouse where he and my son and their friends were holding forth in their undergraduate days. Charles may seem aloof in personal matters (as I heard my niece Honoria lamenting with a mock sigh only yesterday), but as a speaker he has an uncommon talent for engaging both the emotion and the intellect. He can quote Tom Paine and actually make the man sound sensible. Dangerous that. Charles is going to be challenge in the House, in more ways than one.
I begin to wish we could have kept Charles in Intelligence longer. Not that he wasn’t a challenge there, particularly of late. There’s nothing more aggravating than agents who question the reasons for their orders. Still, we knew where he was, we could direct him to a certain extent, and he didn’t have as wide an audience, so it was easier to contain the damage. And there’s no denying his skills are missed. I’ve never seen a code breaker to equal him. (Speaking of which, what precisely have you got Belmont up to in Paris? I’ve heard some vague reports that make me suspect I don’t know the whole).
I fear Charles is likely to turn my son and son-in-law’s attentions more to matters abroad. Not that there isn’t plenty of damage they can do domestically. The last thing we need to is to encourage the rabble by undoing the necessary measures that have finally been passed.
Thanks to his wife, he’s going to be a social influence as well. As a bachelor, I doubt he’d have entertained much or even gone about in society a great deal, but Mélanie will see to it that that side of his career is managed well. Sidmouth told me only this week that he thought Charles’s marriage would prove a liability for a young politician, but I doubt that will be the case in the long run. Mélanie will undoubtedly have a difficult time making her way in London society, but she has a knack for winning over most gentlemen she meets. The ladies are a bit slower to come round (there’s still the inevitable gossip), but I think they will eventually. My daughter worries about Charles and Mélanie—Bel has a kind heart—but I rather suspect that by autumn they’ll be the most fashionable young Whig couple in London. I begin to wish Charles had married Honoria. It might have made him easier to control.
Kenneth Fraser has a lot to answer for. With proper guidance, Charles could have been a son a man would be proud of.
Your, etc…
Carfax
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Dearest Harriet,
I saw them last night. Charles Fraser and his wife. Lady Frances gave a ball to welcome them to London. I must say Mélanie Fraser dresses superbly—that was plain when they were here two and a half years ago, and now one can tell she’s had all her gowns made in Paris. They certainly don’t hang about each other unbecomingly. Charles danced the first dance with her, then spent a good portion of the evening in the library with David Mallinson and Oliver Lydgate and Gideon Carne and some others. Harry went in at one point and told me they were discussing Habeas Corpus. Mélanie Fraser danced a number of dances in her husband’s absence and didn’t seem in the least concerned. Nor did Charles look the least bit jealous when he returned to the ballroom late in the evening to find his wife surrounded by a throng of admirers. So the whole idea that she someone how seduced and bewitched him and addled his reason is nonsensical. Not that I ever gave much credence to it. The whole idea of Charles Fraser being bewitched by anyone is patently absurd. If there’s one thing that man is not it’s a besotted fool. She’s certainly done very well for herself to have escaped Spain (which cannot be at all a comfortable place to live just now( and married a man so comfortably situated, but who can blame her. A girl with no family and fortune must look out for herself. She has a very elegant manner—a touch informal but doesn’t put herself forward disagreeably. And she does seem genuinely fond her children. I’ve seen her in the park with them several times.
Gisèle Fraser, by the way, danced two waltzes with Val Talbot (rather closer than I would care to see Minny dancing with anyone when she’s of an age to dance). I think they would have danced a third time had Evie not gone up and pulled her cousin away. Such a sensible girl, Evie Mortimer. Honoria didn’t look best pleased either. Of course, I suspect she found the whole occasion of the ball uncomfortable, but to her credit she behaved beautifully. She went to talk to Charles and his wife as soon as she arrived. She didn’t linger overly long, but she appeared to say everything that is proper, just as she always does. I wonder if she’s more likely to marry now that Charles is definitely taken. She’d make an excellent match for Fred—just the sort of wife a diplomat needs.
Quen put in an appearance late. For Charles’s sake, I suspect, Quen’s always been fond of him. He danced once with Evie and once with Mélanie Fraser. Kenneth Fraser also did not stay long, though he did dance with his daughter-in-law. Lord Cowper says he heard Mr. Fraser murmur that he’d never expected his son to do so well for himself. Every time I sigh over my own family, I remind myself that I could have been born a Fraser. Or a Talbot.
Yours most affectionately,
Emily
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Gelly darling,
How provoking that you are in Brighton just now. Do prevail upon Lady Frances to return to London soon. It is shockingly poor-spirited of me, I suspect, but I really am in rather desperate need of a friend just now. Val got into some sort of scrape while he was staying at the Wiltons’. I don’t know the details, but I do know that whatever happened it drove him to write to Quen. Quen pretended to great unconcern and then slipped out of the house( at an hour at which he usually hasn’t even put in an appearance in the breakfast parlor). He’s still deluded enough to think I don’t realize he went straight to Hoare’s and withdrew whatever absurd sum was required to extricate Val. I very nearly told him not to be a silly goose (how on earth does he think I’d manage to get anything done if I didn’t know what was going on under our own roof?). But Honoria shot him one of her more deviously effective darts last night when we were waiting for the carriage to go to the Cowpers’. So I decided that if Quen is comforted by his pose of rakish unconcern, who am I to unmask him. Goodness knows I understand the need for comfort.
Honoria, as you predicted, isn’t at all pleased at the prospect of Charles’s return to Britain. Not that’s she’s said anything, mind, beyond a lift of her brows and a comment that you can never tell how people will change. But I can tell she’s cross. She made a comment about being on the shelf that was so brittle I thought the air would shatter like glass, and she actually snapped at one of the housemaids this morning because the coffee had gone cold, which isn’t at all like her. Mind you, it can’t be very pleasant. Charles, that is, not the coffee. Not that anyone with a shred of sense could call Honoria even remotely close to being on the shelf, But with Charles settled in London with his family, people are bound to make comments about Honoria still being unattached.
I can’t help but feel for Mélanie Fraser. She’s bound to be the focus of a great deal of attention and not al of it pleasant. People can be so unthinkingly unkind. As to Charles, I for one will be very glad to have him home. He’s been gone far too long. He always was a steadying influence on Quen, and one can only hope some of that may rub off on Val as well. Yes, I know your sentiments, Gelly, but he is your brother. Do try to keep an open mind. Surely you’ll enjoy seeing your nephew and your new little niece. Colin was so delightful on their visit three years ago, and I was much struck by how good both Charles and Mélanie were with him. I only hope whatever sort of talk there is, it doesn’t touch the children. But then I imagine Charles and Mélanie are good at shielding them.
All my love,
Evie
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Dearest Bel,
Thank you for your kind letter and offers of help. Settling children in a new home does present its own particular challenges (though Colin has known nothing but change of lodgings in his short life thus far; not the ideal of a well-regulated nursery perhaps, but it has made him a wonderful intrepid traveler; Jessica has done quite well on shorter journeys, so I am hopeful that she takes after her brother). We have an excellent governess in Laura Dudley, who thankfully is very willing to return to Britain with us. Not only does she have the education to teach the children everything from mathematics to classics when the time comes, she isn’t averse to baby napkins, and she has a happy talent for putting up with the vagaries of Charles’s and my lives.
I may engage a baby nurse for Jessica when we are settled in our house in London (how wonderful and terrifying to think of actually having a house after all these years in lodgings!). If you could keep an eye out for someone suitable, I would be most grateful. It needn’t be someone with a great deal of experience. In fact, in some ways it would be an advantage if this were her first position. I confess that, for better or ill, I prefer to be the one making the decisions in my children’s lives. If we had a nurse who was used to ruling over the nursery domain, I would likely driver her mad with my constant visits and insistence on taking the children out for this or that reason. For that matter, Charles is quite used to breakfasting with the children and stopping in to read with Colin or play with Jessica. And since I’m nursing Jessica myself, I take her out with me a great deal (thank goodness for nursing bodices).
As to the rest of the staff, any suggestions you can make would be most welcome. I am still, I can confess to you, adjusting to the thought of actually running a household (Charles and I, the children, Addison, Blanca, Miss Dudley, and the odd housemaid scarcely seem to qualify for so lofty a term as household). The knowledge that I may rely upon your advice helps me remain sanguine. That, and the fact that I have so many books to box up, there’s scarcely time to worry.
Colin is so looking forward to playing with Billy and Rose and Elinor. He talks about them nearly every day.
Charles sends his love (or would if we were home—he’s at the embassy meeting with Stuart and Tommy Belmont—but in this at least I know I may speak for him with confidence).
Your grateful friend,
Mélanie
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My dear Val,
I found your letter most amusing. What on earth makes you think I might have a spare five hundred pounds lying about? Father makes us the same allowance, last I head. To do him justice he doesn’t stint (I suppose his own youth gave him an appreciation for the cost of wine and women and living up to the Talbot name). I can usually manage to get by until quarter day without too many creditors on my heel, But in case it’s skipped your notice, I’m not exactly known for my frugality (just ask Honoria—I’m sure she’d be delighted to give you a lecture on my failings in that area). Even three sheets to the wind I notice the quality of my liquor. My mistresses are every bit as demanding as yours. I haven’t yet mastered the knack of always winning at the table. And though Phipps despairs of the way I treat my clothes, I still tend to start out with a good pair of boots and a well cut coat.
What the devil have you got up to—in the country, at this time of year–that requires such a sum with such urgency? How deep is the play at Wiltons’ houseparty? How many former mistresses are you having to fob off with expensive trinkets?
Yes, I know, I’m not a very good brother. But then I never have been. I daresay Charles Fraser would pull Edgar out of a scrape. But then I don’t know that Edgar would get into this sort of scarpe, though he is fond of roulette. He’s coming back to Britain by the way. Charles that is. Evie had a letter from Gisèle just before she returned to town. Honoria has a look on her face as though she’s in a play that isn’t proceeding according to the script. I doubt Charles knows what a lucky escape he had. Lucky devil. His wife ought to liven things up. No, don’t get any ideas—I doubt you’d have a chance, I can’t judge her fidelity, but from what little I saw of her she looks like a woman of taste and sense.
Little else to report here. Evie sends her love. I’ve managed not to see Father or Honoria for more than five minutes at a time these past two days, which suits all of us very agreeably. The joys of family life.
You ever disobligingly brother,
Quen
p.s.
I hope you appreciate that I went to Hoare’s at an ungodly hour this morning to withdraw the enclosed. There were discreetly raised brows about my need for five hundred pounds.
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Dearest Evie,
Charles is coming home. Back that is. I wonder if even thinks of Britain as his home anymore? It’s not that it’s much in the Fraser family style to call anywhere home, and goodness know he’s been gone long enough. I was quite convinced he’d never come back at all. With all the Royalists and Ultra-Royalists and Bonapartists and Republicans one hears about in Paris alone, it seems there’d be enough to keep him occupied for years to come. But he’s left the diplomatic service (which he was once so eager to join he fairly flew out of the country) and he’s taking a seat in Parliament. David’s influence. Charles is going to stand in a by-election. I wonder where they’ll live? He can’t very well take Mélanie and the children to the Albany, but I can’t imagine him bringing them to the Berkeley Square house (I wonder what Father would say if he tried?). I expect they’ll stay with us for time at Aunt Frances’s and then I suppose they’ll hire a house of their own. I wonder what Mélanie will think of London living here instead of just making a visit. I imagine it will seem rather flat after Paris and Vienna, but she’s bound to have scores of gentlemen hanging about her—that sort of exotic foreign type always does, and I imagine she’ll find that agreeable because it’s not as though Charles seems to dance attendance upon her. Perhaps she’ll take a lover (assuming she hasn’t done so already).
Honoria won’t like it in the least, which is some small consolation. I wonder if it will make her any more likely to get married herself. It has to be a bit of a facer, having Charles about with a wife in tow when she’s still very much single. I wonder whom she might choose? I don’t think even Honoria will bring Hart up to scratch and there aren’t a lot of other ducal alternatives. I was afraid Lord Sheriton might succumb last season, but apparently he was too sensible, which is a good thing as he’s always seemed a thoroughly nice man. I should think it must be beginning to wear on her. I’m already feeling distinctly world-weary going into my second season and she’s embarking on her fifth.
Oh, dear, Evie, I didn’t mean it that way. You’re much too sweet ever to become world weary. And so enviably sweet-tempered you stand a chance of actually being happy in marriage, which I seriously doubt I ever shall be. And I’m not sure Honoria could let down her guard long enough to be happy.
Speaking of marriage, the latest on dit in the scandal sheets is that Quen’s embarked on a liaison with Cecily Summers. Judith was whispering to me about it in the drawing room the night before last. Miss Newland frowned at us and looked unusually distressed. She isn’t so straitlaced in general, but Chloe was handing round the tea, and it isn’t the sort of thing one would want her to hear (though growing up in this family it’s the mildest sort of gossip). I own I was a bit distressed myself. When Simon took me backstage to meet Mrs. Summers last autumn, Mr. Summers and children were there. She had the youngest on her lap and the oldest two were building a fort out of the dressing room sofa. Mr. Summers was leaning against the dressing table, looking at his wife in a way that was distinctly heart-melting. Not that that’s any guarantee of anything, as I’ve good cause to know, But when I saw Simon at Allie and Dr. Blackwell’s last night, he told me not to believe everything I read and added that Cecily was as true to her vows as he was to the vows he’d never actually made. Sometimes one has to positively decode the things Simon says, but I do think that means it’s all a hum, which is a relief. Quen must have someone else in keeping.
Write soon. Do let me know how Honoria reacts to the news about Charles.
Love always,
Gelly
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Darling,
It goes without saying that I’m mad to write this letter. No matter how clever the code, there’s no way I can be sure that you couldn’t decipher it. Sooner or later. Not that I’m not perfectly confident of my own abilities, but I also have the utmost appreciation for yours. And of course I’ll never be able to show it to you freely, not without first telling you a number of things which would have to be said in person and which I strongly suspect would result in your having no desire to converse with me—let alone do anything else—ever again. Which would be the sensible course of action on your part. Which if I were a true friend, I would counsel you to do. Unless I can possibly– My God, Charles, I don’t believe I could have made a worse mull of our lives if I’d actively set out to do so.
And yet I have to tell someone. I have to commit the words to paper, even if the paper is promptly burned, and you never have a chance to see it. Something as important as today (important to me, that is, though absurdly insignificant in the grand scheme of things) deserves to be acknowledged. And you’re the only person I can properly tell it to. Which makes no sense at all, because you don’t really know me. Or so I thought. Until– Darling, I don’t think you even noticed it at all. I think it slid right by you along with all the other agreeable moments of the morning. That’s the thing about moments like this—for one person they can reverberate like a Beethoven chord while someone else can be standing right beside them completely unaware. You were busy keeping Colin balanced on your shoulders and talking about the tides and showing us the rocks you used to climb out on as a boy. I was concentrating on my footing and enjoying the sand squishing round my toes and looking at the sunlight on the water, and then– I don’t even remember what made me look at you at just that moment. You were watching me watch the sea. Watching me that way you do when you’re trying to gauge my reaction and not impose any thoughts of your own. And I realized– How did you do it, Charles? How did you come to know me so well? How did I let it happen?
I can’t even find the proper words for it. They’re not in my vocabulary. I’m not supposed to be capable of feeling this way. Even if things were different between us, even if I could find the words to frame my thoughts, I’m not sure that I’d have any right to repeat them to you. It seems like an intolerable demand. And we’ve always been so good at not making demands on each other. If there’s one way in which I’ve kept true to the promises I’ve made you it’s that.
I sit here pretending to sketch. Everything seems sharper, more vivid. The sun-warmed stones of the terrace. The salt bite in the air. The blue of the sea. Those purple flowers—hollyhocks?—in the garden. I can see you, holding Colin up to look at the sundial. In few more minutes you’ll come up the stairs to the terrace. I need to banish this morning to some quiet corner of my mind, box it up, make it go away.
I can’t. It echoes in my mind like notes of music that won’t be forgotten.
As strange as the thing I know not.
Mélanie.
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Not easy, is it? I’d say I should have prepared you better, but that would be insulting your abilities, and in any case I don’t think there can be any preparation for such circumstances. I don’t know which was more difficult, Madrid or now Paris. I very nearly came to blows yesterday, attempting to separate a young sprig of the British aristocracy, fresh from his studies at Oxford or Cambridge (probably packed off to Paris by his family after he was sent down), and a veteran of the Russian campaign, not so very much the elder in calendar years but centuries the senior in experience. I was able to bring the young undergraduate (Trenor is his name) to account because, ironically enough, he recognized me as a friend of his father’s.
Paris is crawling with British. If it’s any consolation, difficult as you may be finding London, you would have had a great many more members of the ton to cope with a few months ago, before Bonaparte’s abdication made the Continent free for travel again. Rather surprisingly, I have entrée nearly everywhere. I am constantly being congratulated on my work with the guerrilleros, which apparently eclipses any uncomfortable memories of my work in Ireland and Paris. Emily Cowper (who looks so startlingly like her mother it takes me back a good twenty years, though she seems considerably more sweet-tempered than Lady Melbourne ever was) was only too happy to listen to stories about the Peninsula last night and in turn disclosed some interesting facts learned from her diplomat brother. Talleyrand paid me the compliment of trying to glean information about the British from me last night over a hand of écarté (I’m sure he’d be the first to laugh at the joke were I able to tell it him). Convenient that my cover continues to work so well, but more than once it’s taken all my willpower not to choke on my champagne. I don’t know whether not lament my sad loss of self-command or to be relieved that I am not so wholly given over to cynicism that I have lost the power to be angry.
Keep safe, querida. There’ll be work enough once you’re in Vienna. The best thing you can do now is gather your strength, and it does no harm to let yourself indulge in a holiday. God knows you’ve been too long without one, and will be again in the future, I suspect.
As to Colin, I’m sure he’ll learn the complexities behind cheap symbols soon enough. He has you to teach him. And Charles, if it comes to that.
For what it’s worth, I miss you too.
R.
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There are a shocking number of Bourbon flags and white cockades about. Odd how a simple symbol can have such power. Given how physically ill I felt yesterday at the sight of a cheap reproduction of a Bourbon flag pressed into my son’s eager, I have a whole new appreciation for the value placed on the Carevalo Ring. Who knows what emotions an object with its history might stir?
That was yesterday afternoon (we were walking in Hyde Park with Isobel Lydgate and her children and Aline Dacre-Hammond, and Isobel bought the flags for the children from a man who said he had lost his arm at Talavera). Yesterday evening, we attended a fête at Carlton House in honor of Wellington. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so many fleurs de lys. We went through Carlton House (quite impressive enough on its own terms) into a muslin-draped hall commissioned from Nash for the event. Two bands played from a temple in the center of the room (I assume it was supposed to be a temple—it looked vaguely Greek) masked by a profusion of flowers. It was diffiult to see over the feathered headdresses and the medals and jewels in the candlelight quite blinded one. It was what the Lady Frances calls “a sad crush,” which gave me an excellent excuse for feeling suffocated,
Charles saw that I felt ill at ease (he is all too good at reading me) and took me down a covered walk to our supper tent. Over the champagne, David Mallinson explained the transparency on the wall of the tent, an allegory for The Overthrow of Tyranny by the Allied Powers. Charles murmured that given the debts of the war (not to mention the Regent’s personal debts) the whole evening might be held to be an allegory for a number of things. Not to mention the irony of certain people talking about Tyranny, Simon Tanner added, at which point I’m quite sure David kicked him under the table.
I’m sorry. I’m babbling on when I really don’t have anything of substance to report. It was past six before we returned to Lady Frances’s house, but I couldn’t sleep. I’m writing this by the nursery window in the gray light of early morning. The truth is, I feel shockingly alone. I had begun to think of Simon and Lady Frances as friends before we even set foot in Britain. David is wonderfully kind, I quite like Isobel and Aline, and I think Gisèle and I might become friends, save for the fact that I’m Charles’s wife (I don’t know that I will ever sort through the tangle of Fraser family relationships). But none of them could have the least notion of what I was thinking or feeling this evening (thank goodness, or I’d be woefully lacking in rudimentary abilities). Even Charles can’t know, of course. The better he gets at reading me, the more care I take to make sure the barriers are firmly in place.
I’ve never felt I belonged anywhere in particular but neither have I ever felt such an exile. Colin said “London” quite clearly when I went in to kiss him goodnight before we left for Carlton House. I was so excited to hear him say a new word. And then I thought how odd it was that he said “London” before he said “Paris.”
I miss you.
M.
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My dear David,
It’s over, as I’m sure you’ll know by the time you receive this letter. Bonaparte has abdicated. If the news had reached Wellington and Soult sooner, we’d have been spared a bloody engagement (weather delayed the battle, but not long enough). The fighting at Toulouse and Bayonne took the lives of more of our men than the French, though it allowed Wellington’s forces to press forward. Which in the end proved irrelevant, because hostilities have now ceased.
Tutford Minor—do you remember him? two years behind us at Harrow—lost an arm in the aftermath at Bayonne. Edgar came through unscathed. For the first time in years, I’ll be able to not feel constant fear for my brother’s safety. To lose so many lives when to all intents and purposes peace had been made in Paris is a sickening end to the war. Yet the fact remains that it has ended. I confess to still being a bit drunk on the news. So many years, so many lives lost on both—or perhaps I should say all—sides, so much senseless violence and wanton destruction, so much damage to the country we were supposed to be helping. When I learned of Napoleon’s abdication, I actually caught Mélanie in my arms and spun her round in a circle. She looked as me though I’d gone a bit mad, though as always she was understanding of my idiocy.
The end of a war, of course, means that if anything there’s more for diplomats to do. It looks as though we’ll be off for Paris with Wellington shortly, but then I suspect we’ll be back to Spain (God knows I would like very much to be part of something constructive on the Peninsula). But I hope before the summer is out, I will be able to bring Mélanie and Colin to Britain for a lengthy visit. It’s past time my wife and son saw the places and in particular the people who have been important in my life. Colin by the way continues to be a thoroughly intrepid traveler. He can sleep anywhere—a carriage jostling over a rocky stretch of road, a basket at the end of the table during a dinner party, his mother’s arms during a military review or a musical evening. Mélanie said last week, when we had returned from an expedition that proved a bit more adventurous than expected, that adapting to our unsettled life has made Colin a remarkably easy child, and we should remember that if we ever have another. Then she got an odd look on her face, one of those moments when I can’t read her. Another child is something we’ve never talked about, save that I’ve told her the decision is hers. For myself—no , I don’t think I’d best go into that now, even with you.
Tell me how the news of the abdications has been received at Brooks’s. And tell Simon to send us some more pages.
As always,
Charles
(original in code)
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Charles is off on a mission. Early yesterday morning. He didn’t tell me before he left because he was under the strictest orders (from Wellington, who sent him on the mission) not to breathe a word to anyone including his wife. He left me a letter apologizing for keeping secrets from me. The irony is priceless. No doubt I will be able to appreciate it when I get past the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. (No, don’t worry, I haven’t gone soft, but one must acknowledge one’s feelings from time to time. As you’ve often said, all the training in the world can’t make them go away, and if one ignores them completely they can come back to bite at the most inconvenient of times).
Charles took his pistol with him and his picklocks and hair dye and his full makeup kit. Probably for use on the journey to wherever he’s going. He must have stopped and changed his clothes soon after he left, because he obviously departed in his riding dress and his greatcoat.
Tommy Belmont came round to see me last night. As best I can make out from things he left slip (he’s a good agent but flirtation and a good bottle of cognac loosen his tongue), Charles has been sent to liaison with a contact behind French lines, across the Adour. I can’t tell you who, except that Tommy said Charles was probably drinking his share of cognac, better than the bottle we were sharing he’d dare swear, and that some allies had more creature comforts to offer than others. Which leads me to suspect the source Charles went to deal with may be one of Soult’s officers. Someone, no doubt, who has calculated the odds and is betting against Bonaparte. None of which narrows the field a great deal. I’ll do my best to discover more.
Caroline Durward and I took the children for a walk this morning, despite the weather (thank God for a friend who also goes mad cooped up indoors for too long). Caro said she wasn’t going to be so foolish as to tell me not to worry, but that during a lull in the fighting there was naturally less danger. Which also tallies with Charles having been sent behind the lines.
Colin waved goodbye to her and Emily when we left by the way. The first time I’ve seen him do that.
Keep safe, Raoul. I have enough to worry about.
M.
Southern France
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Mel,
One must be grateful for small mercies, I suppose. At least we saw the New Year in together, as a family, even though the fates (or rather my superiors) conspire to separate us so early in the year.
Yes, as I suspect you deduced upon waking (long before finding this note in your dressing case), I’ve been sent on another errand. I only learned of it late yesterday. from Wellington himself. I was under strict instructions not to breathe a word of it to anyone before I left “not even that lovely, deucedly clever wife of yours.” I can’t tell you how close I came to disobeying orders. Not necessarily an unusual impulse for me (as Carfax, Castelreagh, Stuart, and Wellington would all be quick to say). But the impulse, I flatter myself, has always been coolly rational, born of intellectual quibbles (or raging disagreements) with what I was being asked to do. I’ve never known such a purely emotional (odd word) rebellion at an action I was ordered to take.
On reflection, I decided that in a lodging house, particularly in an enemy country, there is always some small risk of being overheard. And, perhaps more important, that I would rather spend last night with you and Colin ignoring what the morning was to bring.
Can you forgive me? In a marriage of course there are always secrets that each partner keeps to him or herself, and I flatter myself that we’ve been better than mos at understanding that. You’ve never pried when it comes to my work, though you’ve helped me immeasurably with it. I hope it goes without saying that I trust you as I trust few other people on this earth, though perhaps this is a good time to actually put the words down in pen and ink. Still, I can’t rid myself of the sense that, much as Portia accuses Brutus, to take you to bed last night without admitting what the morning was to bring was some sort of violation of what should be between us.
I’ll be back with you as soon as I can.
Kiss Colin for me.
Charles
p.s.
When did you realize I was gone? What gave it away? The cool sheet? The whiff of recently extinguished candle in the air? My dressing case being in not quite the same position it had last night? Or were you actually awake the whole time and simply flattering me by pretending to sleep through my departure? Somehow I suspect the latter.
South Audley Street
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Billy, my love,
Another year. We saw the old year out and the new in at Charles and Mélanie’s. The worst of the ghosts seem to have been put to rest or at least accepted at Christmas, and we were all easier, I think. Mélanie has a delightful way of making such evenings seem elegant and yet wonderfully lacking in ceremony (it doesn’t hurt that they keep a wonderful cellar; nothing guarantees the success of a party so well as really fine champagne, I often think). Father quite entered into the spirit of the celebrations. Despite pretending to be uninterested in such things, he’s enough of a Scot to take Hogmanay seriously. He actually joined in singing round the pianoforte, which I can’t remember him doing since Elizabeth was there to play the piano. He seemed a bit startled at the presence of those still in the nursery, but he took it quite in stride and even observed that it might have been a good thing to have Bess and Marjorie and me about more at evening parties. Chloe and Colin both stayed awake until midnight. Jessica insisted she wanted to as well. Wisely, Charles and Mélanie didn’t banish her to the nursery. She fell asleep in Mélanie’s lap just after ten and slept on the drawing room sofa until we took all the children up to the nursery after midnight.
Quen and Aspasia were the first across the threshold after midnight. Always a good omen for the new year when the first visitor is a handsome young man I think (even if I have known him since he was in shortcoats and he happens to be devastatingly in love with his wife and my own feelings are distinctly engaged elsewhere, as you know very well). And they came bearing an excellent bottle of whisky, surely a fortuitous new year gift.
Isobel was a bit quiet. She said her mind was on her ball on the 6th, but I couldn’t help but wonder if it was something more. Oliver went over and kissed her cheek at midnight, but other than that they weren’t much in each other’s company. David on the other hand seemed more at ease than I’ve seen him in some time. Simon clapped him on the back at midnight, and David squeezed his hand, which is a greater demonstration of affection that he’ll generally permit himself in public. Gisèle and Andrew embraced without a qualm. Or rather, Gisèle embraced Andrew, who didn’t seem to have the least objection. Charles kissed Mélanie full on the lips when the clock struck, which I don’t believe I’d ever seen him do in public before. The whole sad business with Colin seems to have given my nephew a new sense of his priorities.
The only thing lacking, of course, was that I did not have anyone to kiss myself. In prior years I’d have found someone to make do with, but somehow that no longer seems appropriate or even desirable. Who would have thought I so shockingly give way to sentiment?
Happy New Year, dearest. I hope the start of 1821 finds us together.
Yours, as you well know,
Frances
Carfax Court
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Melly, my love,
I hope the evening finds you warm and happy. I know today could not but be tinged by recent events, but I know you and Charles will have done your best to make it happy for the children, and I hope you’ll have found a measure of happiness yourselves. I’m not much of a believer in holiday miracles, but I do have great faith in your ability to create happiness. I’ve thought about you a good deal today, as I know have David and Bel and Oliver.
Christmas at Carfax Court was surprisingly uneventful. Oliver and I caught the children having a banister-sliding contest and managed to divert the attention before Lady Carfax found out. Lucinda got me to explain the bawdier passages in “Measure for Measure” after one two many cups of spiced wine on Christmas Eve. David and I managed a walk on our own on Christmas Day. Bel seems a bit preoccupied but perhaps that’s because her ball is less than a fortnight away. And she always looks a bit frayed about the edges round Lady Carfax and her sisters. It was Oliver who actually made a reference to Peterloo over the breakfast dishes one morning. Lord Carfax merely raised his brows, and Lady Carfax made haste to smooth the conversational waters, with a look that said she couldn’t think what had become of her agreeable son-in-law. I held my tongue, though it probably helped that David kicked me under the table. Shocking victory of affection and loyalty over principles.
All our love,
Simon
Berkeley Square
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My dear David,
We got through Christmas rather better than I expected. It meant a great deal to see the children tugging loose ribbons and opening boxes with unfettered glee, even if there were moments when I know they too were aware of the ways in which this year is markedly different. We could all not but be aware of it, but in the end everyone was happy to be together, which counts for a lot. Mel, I need hardly say, has a genius for creating warmth. Gisèle cried once, when we’d come back to Berkeley Square for dinner, and she and I were alone in the library. I think it was the house and the memories—we were only in Berkeley Square for a handful of Christmases as children, but sometimes the oddest things can set one off. And to you, if to no one else, I can confess I did not entirely get through the day dry-eyed myself, though no one but Mel saw.
As always,
Charles
Berkeley Square
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Simon darling,
Colin and Jessica helped us distribute Christmas boxes and baskets this morning and we had a breakfast party before the staff departed to see their families or friends if their families are too far away. Much holiday cheer and good humor, but I can’t help but be aware that if we’d gone to Dunmykel, they could have had Christmas Day off instead of waiting until Boxing Day. Of course then the Dunmykel staff would have had to work on Christmas (Stephen and Alice Drummond are hosting the Boxing Day party for the staff and tenants at Dunmykel). Do you know, there was a time when I could get by quite well without such a large staff. Of course, then we lived in lodgings, and I’d never have dreamed of having a Christmas dinner with more than twenty at table.
Colin and Jessica got quite into the spirit of delivering Christmas boxes this afternoon. Jessica didn’t say a word about keeping any of the toys for herself (not that she didn’t get quite enough of her own yesterday), though she did say that she didn’t think gloves were a very exciting present. It was Colin who told her not all children had gloves readily available. I’m quite sure he was thinking about Meg Simmons and her son he told us about who died. As much as he’s been able to talk to us, there’s so much still unsaid.
We dined at Rules with Gisèle and Andrew, Allie and Geoff, Aunt Frances and the Duke and Chloe, and Mr. Roth and his sister and sons. A new tradition, I think. We could use some new traditions.
Love,
Mel
p.s.
Addison has taken Blanca to meet his parents for the first time. Charles and I are studiously pretending to know a great deal less than we do.
Carfax Court
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Dearest Mélanie,
Back to London tomorrow, thank God. Though if we don’t find the led soldier Billy has managed to lose and the hat for Rose’s new doll, I’m not sure we’ll be able to leave, at least not without hysterical screams the whole of the drive. You are coming to help me go over the decoration for the ball, aren’t you?
In haste,
Bel
28 December 1819
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My dear Charles,
I’m still of two minds about whether or not I should send this. I know I may well be the last person on earth you wish to hear from just now. But I cannot but be aware that this can’t be the easiest of holiday seasons for you. Perhaps I am giving way to selfishness, but I feel the strangest compulsion to send my good wishes, whatever they are worth. I trust you will forgive the impulse.
R.
Berkeley Square
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Oliver,
Brooks’s at 2;00. Don’t forget the draft of the speech. Isobel and Mel have settled it that you’re coming here on New Year’s Eve. David and Simon will be here as well. Mel says she wants to be home where she can run into the nursery and look in on the children whenever she feels the need, and I must say I quite agree with her.
C.
Berkeley Square
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Happy New Year, darling. I can’t imagine anywhere I’d rather be than here, with you.
M.
Berkeley Square
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Darling Simon,
We’re nearly all gathered. Gisèle and Andrew and the baby arrived last night in a crested traveling carriage along with his grace of Rannoch. Yes, Charles’s grandfather has made the journey from Scotland. I’ve always suspected that beneath his detachment was more sensitivity than any of us credited. When I thanked him for coming, he said he thought this would be a good year to be with his Fraser grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He’s staying with Lady Frances and Gisèle and family are here with us. Cedric and Maria and the boys came up from the country (they aren’t staying with Aunt Frances, which seems to make things much more agreeable all round). We’re all going to Lady Frances’s Christmas morning and then here for dinner. “All” being a convenient term that masks that fact that there’s a gaping hole in our family this year. Gelly and Charles talked far into the night last night. Andrew told me Gisèle has said little about Edgar, beyond the first storm of grief. She holds things in. It’s a family trait.
Lydia has gone to her own family. They’ve never struck me as overly warm, but I trust they will be as understanding as they can, and that being away from painful associations will help her through the holiday. Whatever the state of her and Edgar’s marriage, the past weeks have been beastly for her. Being Lydia, of course she doesn’t talk about it either.
Colin and Jessica are helping me hang garlands and tie ribbons and looking with eager eyes into every toy shop window we pass in a way that is so blessedly normal it brings tears to my eyes.
Love to you and David. Hope you’re surviving the Mallilnsons.
Happy Solstice,
Mel
Carfax Court
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Dearest Mélanie,
I arrived here and unpacked our trunks only to find a Christmas box I was supposed to have given to you when we exchanged gifts. Do forgive me for being such a shatter brain—too much spiced wine or too much worry about being confined at Carfax Court for a week with Mama and all my sisters.
Love,
Bel
Berkeley Square
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My dear David,
So far things are progressing more felicitously than might have been expected. Gisèle and I had a good talk last night,. It’s amazing, given our history, what a sensible young woman my sister has grown into. My grandfather is here as well, which is an unexpected comfort.
I hope you’re finding Carfax Court more agreeable than you anticipated. Smile and nod to your father and don’t admit or agree to anything. Always the best policy.
As ever,
Charles
South Audley Street
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My dear Billy,
The children are all here. To you I will confess that is it remarkably agreeable to have them all gathered round (shocking the way the years smooth the edges of one’s cynicism). I wish you could see Chloe. She dined at table last night. She looked remarkably grown up, sitting between Geoffrey and Charles. But by the time she tea tray was brought in, she giggling over lottery tickets with quite as much glee as Colin and Jessica.
She has your eyes, you know.
Love,
Frances
Berkeley Square
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Raoul,
Your box arrived last night. There’s no need for me to prevaricate about the origin of the gifts. Colin and Jessica know you’re name very well now and won’t be a bit surprised that you would send them presents. In fact, they were asking about your only yesterday and where you would be spending Christmas. Wherever it is, I hope it is somewhere not lacking in holiday cheer.
Love,
M.
Berkeley Square
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Mel,
Yes, I know. A note pinned to the pillow seems sadly commonplace. But I wanted you to have your first gift before we went downstairs. Asprey’s said the commission was a challenge.
Happy Christmas, wife.
Charles
Southern France
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Raoul,
We dined with Wellington last night. Fitzroy Somerset , Charles Audley, Tommy Belmont, and the Durwards were also present. Some interesting theorizing about Soult (see attached) but much of the talk was of the Christmas holidays at home. Perhaps it was the spiced wine but nostalgia hung thick in the air. Even Tommy Belmont voiced one or two comments that were startlingly free of cynicism, and Adam Durward (who I don’t believe is any more a Christian than I am or Charles is for that matter) talked about his aunt’s plum pudding and started a round of carol singing (I confess I rather like “Deck the Halls,” which is refreshingly free of religious overtones). There was much talk of Yule logs and mistletoe and holly, pantomimes at Astley’s Amphitheatre, and parties for the tenants on Boxing Day (which, I now know, has nothing to do with prize fighting).
Charles was quiet much of the time. He seems to have distinctly conflicted feelings about the holiday, but his occasional comments speak volumes. He mentioned a Christmas when his parents were both in Scotland with him and Edgar and their sister Gisèle, which led me to believe that much of the time Lady Elizabeth and Kenneth Fraser weren’t with their children over the holidays. He also mentioned a Christmas at his grandfather’s in Ireland at which you were present—you gave him Beaumarchais’s Figaro plays. And another year you gave him Ludlow (do I have the name right?) on the English Civil War. I hadn’t realized, somehow, quite how much you saw of Charles when he saw a boy.
I imagine your visits and presents meant the more to Charles as a boy a his own parents seem to have been such erratic presences. I find it difficult to imagine Elizabeth and Kenneth Fraser being away from their children over the holidays as I contemplate Colin’s first Christmas. Odd, isn’t it? Christmas has never meant much to me. And yet it means something to share it with my son. Colin won’t remember this holiday season, of course. But I will. I’ll remember what he thinks of the set of blocks we bought for him before we left Lisbon and the stuffed bear Charles brought back from one of his errands. Perhaps having a family gives added weight to mid-winter celebrations. Because, as I realized last night, I do have a family, even if it’s at least half illusion. The part that isn’t illusion seems particularly strong just now.
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be speaking of this to you, but there’s no one else I can talk to. I think you understand—you always do.
Happy Christmas, Raoul.
M.
Southern France
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My darling,
Difficult to believe the changes a year can bring. I know many wives complain their husbands can’t remember the date, but I think this day a year ago will be forever etched in my memory. The minister managing to make even phrases like “with my body I thee worship” sound dry as a laundry list, the puffs of smoke from the fireplace. The esteemed ambassador looking as though he had distinct qualms about giving the bride away. The way your skin glowed against the white lace of your mantilla. The way the look in your eyes made me quite lose the power of coherence, so that I’m still not sure how I mangled my vows. If nothing else, I hope the past year has shown you how very much I meant them, though my efforts to show that may have been as bumbling as my words.
I know the past year hasn’t been easy, in any way. Your ability to cope with the vagaries and vicissitudes of our life is truly remarkable. Becoming a family isn’t easy under the best of circumstances. Doing so with war and absences, sudden travel and unexpected adventures seems an exercise doomed to failure. And yet, at least from my perspective, we seem to have managed to carry it off. I know I’m not the man I was a year ago, before you and Colin. I know I wouldn’t go back to the man I was for the world.
Wellington clapped me on the back recently, in an unaccustomed moment of bonhomie, and told me God knows what sort of trouble I’d have got into these past weeks if I hadn’t thought had the sense to bring my wife with m. He’s far more right than he realizes. God knows where I’d be without your ability to pick locks, break codes, devise cover stories, and smooth over diplomatic contretemps. Not to mention other things.
I keep thinking that someday we will live a normal life. That we might be able to plan a day like today weeks in advance, invite friends to dine with us in our own dining parlor, take our son to look at the sea or to the Tower of London of an exhibition, see Simon’s latest play or a new opera,. Then I think that perhaps, for us, this is normal life.
Happy anniversary, wife.
Charles
South Audley Street
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My dear Geoffrey,
I trust you are well and that this reaches you wherever you may be. From what I can make out from the reports we have received, you are somewhere in southern France. I gather that my nephew is also there engaged in what are euphemistically called “errands” (I really don’t see why people persist in shying away from plain language—why can’t a secret mission be called a secret mission—this is quite as bad as calling sexual congress “criminal conversation,” which always struck me as particularly ridiculous because there’s frequently no conversation involved at all).
In any case, I gather that Charles is engaging in the sort of adventures I have to read between the lines to guess at. What’s more I hear that Mélanie and Colin are with him. My good opinion of Mélanie continues to increase the more I hear about her. I’m not at all sure I believe in conjugal bliss, but Charles is far more likely to be happy with a woman who is his match than with one who sits at home, to whom ten to one he wouldn’t have anything to talk about (because Charles is the sort of man for whom intimacy is bound to involved conversation and serious conversation at that, not to mention several language and the ability to trace quotations to their source). Lady Castlereagh called on me yesterday, very concerned that they have Colin with them, but I told her babies are far more sturdy than most people think, and I’m far less concerned about Colin acquiring lasting scars with his parents than left without them, the way Charles and Edgar and Gisèle were. Comforting to know Charles has the wit to manage his own family in his own way and not follow the regrettable precedent.
I have sadly little new gossip to report. Byron continues his dalliance with Lady Frances Webster, while apparently he hasn’t given up his correspondence with Miss Milbanke (talk about an ill-fated match if you ask me, but then of course none of them have). His chief confidante seems to be his sister Mrs. Leigh at the moment. In fact, their relationship is the source of a number of rumors. As usual with Byron, it is difficult to sort out truth from fiction. Caro Lamb looks thinner than ever. William is making every effort to mend matters between them, though I know his family would much prefer a separation (which would only make matters worse for poor Caroline, I fear—I can’t but admire William for standing by her).
I can’t believe it is nearly the holiday season again. Judith and Gisèle are already making plans to decorate the house with pine boughs and red ribbon, Chloe looks at toys in shop windows with wistful eyes, and I even heard Aline picking out “Deck the Halls” on the pianoforte yesterday. Christopher will be down from Harrow before I know it, and Cedric and Maria will be here with the baby. I don’t hold with this habit of over-sentimentalizing midwinter, but I confess it will be agreeable to have everyone gathered together. Miss Newland, who is a marvel of organization, is seeing to the shopping and writing the cards for my Boxing Day party.
I’d like to think Christmas will find you and Charles and Mélanie and Colin in Paris, but I suspect it will be some time longer, brilliant as Wellington may be. I hope your holidays are at least warm and dry and not lacking in cheer.
Much love,
Frances
Spain
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My dear David,
My apologies for not writing sooner. I left Lisbon almost a month ago on a series of diplomatic errands. Now that it looks as though the French will at last be driven from the Peninsula, the Spanish and Portuguese governments are looking to the future and exhibiting concern over what precisely what form that future will take. Understandable concern, in my view, considering the continued presence of British troops on their soil and the fact that neither country wishes to go back to the governmental situation that existed before the French invaded. Traveling about Spain, the scars left by the war are painfully obvious. Given what’s been done by all sides these past years, it’s difficult for the word of a gentleman to carry much weight.
As might be expected, there as many points of view as there are people involved.—more I sometimes I think. Wellington, it need hardly be said, is not put in the best humor by all of this, particularly considering (as he observed one night at dinner to an envoy from the Cortes in a tone so mild as to be dripping with irony), that the French have yet to actually be driven across the border, in case anyone hasn’t noticed.
Mélanie intervened with the most charming anecdote about getting lost once in the Pyrenees as a girl. Oh, yes, Mélanie’s traveling with me. So is Colin. Call me a deplorable husband and father if you will. I very likely deserve it. But, as Wellington observed to me after the aforementioned dinner, Mélanie is in many ways a far more adroit diplomat that I am myself. And Colin is thriving. He’s an intrepid traveler. Addison rigged a pack for him, and he quite likes being carried round on my back or Mélanie’s. He’s almost mastered sitting on his own, though we have to be careful to put cushions behind him as he tends to topple over backwards.
If I look up from my letter, I can see them now, Mélanie nursing Colin in a frayed armchair by the fireplace in our cramped lodgings. Colin’s left sticky prints on her tippet and managed to pull half her hair out of its pins and there’s an ink smudge on her cheek from the dispatch she was helping me write earlier. Colin looks to have almost fallen asleep, his head flopping against her arm. Mélanie has the most wonderful smile, but the one on her face now is the one reserved just for him. I’m filled with equal parts dread at the risk of failing them and wonder that they’re hear at all and that they have the remotest connection to me.
Let me know what you and Lydgate think of the prospects in Parliament this autumn. Have you seen Bartlett lately? Any chances of a bill to address the frame-breakers concerns?
Love to Simon. I imagine he’d find a great deal of humor in the political and diplomatic machinations of the past weeks.
As always,
Charles
p.s.
If you could send me news of Gisèle when next you call on Aunt Frances, I’d be most grateful.
(original in code)
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Raoul,
Charles is returned, with bruised ribs and a cut along his collarbone that hasn’t quite healed but no signs of permanent damage. Also no papers, though I made a thorough search of his dispatch box and desk. Anything in writing I imagine he delivered to the embassy before he returned to our lodgings. He was indeed meeting with Don Julian Sanchez. He admitted as much, quite on his own, without my having to pry for it. Odd, for in most respects he remains as reticent as ever. He actually asked my opinion about the approach he had taken to the negotiations (a most able approach, I must say—Charles may be reserved, but he’s a shrewd judge of character).
We dined at the embassy last night. There is general optimism about Wellington’s eventual success in pushing the French forces over the border (optimism which sounds to me sadly well-founded). There is a great deal more concern about precisely how matters will play out with the French gone. The Spanish and the Portuguese have, in the eyes of my British friends, a distressing tendency to think for themselves when it comes to the form their government should take and a lack of proper respect for and gratitude to the British (they may for instance, be so ungrateful as to wish British troops gone). Charles, to his credit, pointed out that it is their country. It seems likely that Charles will be sent into Spain again. I’ve suggested that, with the fighting moved so far north, perhaps Colin and I could accompany him.
I learned little else of substance. Tommy Belmont bought a Velazquez off a soldier who looted it from the baggage wagons after Vitoria. Cut from the frame but mercifully unharmed otherwise. I don’t think I realized until I saw it quite how much was lost after the battle. Tommy’s given it to the ambassador to restore to its proper place, assuming that can be determined. In the drawing room after dinner (I still can’t get used to the practice of the ladies retiring while the gentlemen drink port or whatever it is they do), two of the other ladies expressed great distress over a young lieutenant who has contracted a shocking mésalliance with a Portuguese lady. I’m not sure whether they were more scandalized that no one seems sure who her father is or that people seem quite sure of the identity of at least two gentlemen to whom she was mistress before “ensnaring poor unfortunate Harry.” When I ventured that I’d never seen Harry Carstairs look happier, they raised their brows and one said that the woman (his wife) had “contaminated” him. I could only wonder what they’d think if they knew only a fraction of the truth about me. It’s an odd sensation to sit sipping tea with people who wouldn’t be caught dead in your company if they had the least idea of your origins. Of course, I suppose in a sense I am contaminating, Charles, but not in the way they mean. An unpleasant thought, though hardly the only such I’ve had of late.
On a happier note, Colin quite definitely turns his head when he hears my voice.
Keep safe.
M.
Oban
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My dear Charles,
I wandered into the breakfast parlor at an unusually early hour this morning (well, there simply aren’t enough diversions to occupy one’s late night hours in the country, much as I do try) and happened upon Evie and Honoria finishing their tea and buttered bannocks. I caught a reference to you, more specifically to the fact that Honoria has written to you. Which reminded me that I haven’t, not on your marriage (it’s been almost a year, hasn’t it? or on the birth of your son. Not, I’m sure, that you stand it particular need of felicitations from me, but it seems wrong somehow not to write. (What the devil took Honoria so long? No, never mind, I know the answer. I trust you’re sensible enough to ignore any of her expertly veiled comments.)
It’s no secret that I’ve never thought much of the married state (growing up in Glenister House one would have to be something of a blind fool to do so). But I wish you every happiness, and I rather suspect you’ve a more decent chance at it than most. I’ve heard reports that your wife is exceedingly lovely and Simon says her letters show a keen wit. Doesn’t surprise me. In my experience (limited as to years, but I’ve been doing my best to make up for, a Honoria would be quick to tell you with a lift of her perfectly plucked brows), the cleverest women tend to be shrewd judges of who will make a good husband.
The mist is clearing beyond the book room windows as I write this. It looks as though we may get one of those sparkling August days. Staring at the damp green of the lawn and the stone wall beyond, I find myself remember another sunny day in August when you taught me to hold a cricket bat at Dunmykel. Or the afternoon you spent in the library helping me correct a Latin exercise. Or the night you took me to dinner at Brooks’s, and we sat into the early hours of the morning debating Burke and Paine and comparing “Hamlet” to “The Oresteia”. Your son will be very fortunate in his father.
There’s little enough to report here. Val and Honoria were trading barbs the moment he came down from Oxford, before he’d so much as handed his beaver to the footman. Evie runs interference. I mostly watch from the sidelines. Father seemed to have renewed his intrigue with Lady Bessboroguh before we left town. I could be uncharitable and make a comment about him trying to gain a share of the attention surrounding her daughter and the poet. Speaking of Byron, have you read his “Ode to the Framers of the Frame Bill”? It appeared anonymously in the Morning Chronicle last year. I brought a copy of the “Giaour” with me from London. I have to say the man does have a way with words.
Yours,
Quen
Oban
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Dearest Gelly,
I don’t believe you’d actually steam open a letter, and you perfectly well l wouldn’t do so with someone’s private correspondence. Even Honoria’s. There, I’ve said it, but I know I may do so to you, which is just why we all stand in crying need of a good friend. I haven’t the least notion what Honoria wrote to Charles, but she was at her desk the whole of the morning, so I’m sure the words were well chosen. In fairness to Honoria, I can understand it being a difficult letter to write. I do believe she sincerely cared for him, and that her feelings were deeply engaged. She wouldn’t talk about him at all when she and Val came back from their visit to Lisbon two years ago with Uncle Hubert and David. I remember distinctly, because I so wanted news of how Charles was getting on, and Honoria simply said “he’s quite changed” and wouldn’t elaborate or even talk much at all about Lisbon or anything else. Val said not to mind her, we all know what she’s like when she’s crossed, and then spent an hour or more telling me all about the sights they’d seen in Lisbon (he can be so charming when he puts his mind to it, it’s a pity he doesn’t do so more often) and said that Charles was as tiresomely bookish as ever. I’ve always been quite sure something happened during their stay.
I don’t think Honoria had given up her hopes of Charles, though. And so of course hearing he’d married another woman would come as a disagreeable surprise, to say the least. I must say I always rather felt sorry for Honoria in this regard, because as fond as Charles has always been of her, I never felt he cared for her in the way she cared for him. Much as I care for your brother, Gelly, I’m not at all sure I understand him, and I’m quite sure Honoria doesn’t. It’s not just the books Charles reads, it’s the fact that he always seems to be thinking about them. Even when he’s having a perfectly ordinary conversation, I’m quite sure there’s something more complicated going on at the back of his mind. And having read some of the pamphlets he wrote when he was up at Oxford (which I’m not sure Honoria has done), I really don’t think Honoria would be very happy married to a man who believes in universal suffrage and abolishing the entail. Of course love is shockingly blind to prosaic details such as what will make people happy.
I know you’ll say Charles’s feelings didn’t seem engaged in Honoria’s direction because he’s completely unromantic, and I suppose in a sense he is, but I can imagine him falling in love in the right circumstances. Quen says Charles is far too sensible to have married without caring for the lady in question, and I’m inclined to agree with him. David and Simon and Bel all say Mrs. Fraser’s letters are quite charming. As to the talk about the baby—you know as well as I do nine-tenths of the talk one hears is more fiction than one finds between the covers of a novel. I confess I can imagine Charles coming to the aid of a lady who found herself in a unfortunate situation, but I’m quite sure he wouldn’t allow himself to be taken advantage of. I’m sure he will make an excellent father, and every obligation of family and friendship calls upon us to support him in every way we can.
My love to Lady Frances and to Allie and Christopher and Judith and Chloe,
and to you of course,
Evie
The Steyne
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Evie darling,
So Honoria finally wrote to Charles? What I wouldn’t give to see that letter. Couldn’t you have steamed it open and copied it out before it went into the post? Has Honoria ever before failed to get precisely what she wants? No doubt that’s why it took her so long to write—shock held her immobile.
I wonder what she’s like? Charles’s wife that is. Rupert Thorne called last week with his mother (he’s getting round quite well without his leg, he even manages to joke about it, though he says he feels guilty not rejoining his comrades in the Peninsula, which seems odd as there’d be a good chance of his getting killed if he did, but then gentlemen do sometimes reason in the oddest way). He says Mélanie—Charles’s wife—is quite bewitchingly beautiful but so easy to talk to a fellow forgets to be intimidated (his words). Uncle Geoffrey writes about her being clever and sensible and you told me Edgar wrote Quen that Charles is a “damned lucky dog”. Not that I have any but the most academic interest in what my brother chooses to do (how, could I, I’ve scarcely seen him in over four years), but I can’t help but wonder, the way you go about an interesting novel. Judith thinks it’s a grand love match. Even Allie says people can fall in love at the strangest times, look at novels like “Pride and Prejudice”. Which is all very well, but those are novels where strange things are supposed to happen, and this is Charles were talking about. It’s so hard to imagine Charles married. He’s the least romantic person I can think of (well, next to my cousin Cedric). He’s never been one to flirt—you know that. He’d spend half a party in the library or bringing us ices in the nursery (he was rather good about that). If he had mistresses he was so discreet we didn’t so much as hear a whisper of gossip. Quite the opposite of Quen and Val. I even knew all about Edgar and Lizzie (the second housemaid at Dunmykel) and that opera dancer he had in keeping before he went to the Peninsula. And Edgar’s always falling in love. Charles has never seemed the least in love with any woman or any man for that matter (well, I couldn’t help but think of it, David’s his best friend, but there’s nothing romantic about the way Charles treats him either). I supposed this Mélanie might have married him for his money. He does have rather a lot of it. Or perhaps the gossip about the baby—the gossip Aunt Frances tried so hard to keep me from hearing (as if there’s ever been any avoiding gossip in this house) is true. If Charles isn’t the baby’s father, that should make little Colin fit right in in this family. But in that case who on earth is the father? Someone already married? Someone Charles knows? I wonder if Mélanie’s still in love with him, whoever he is. It doesn’t sound very comfortable. But then I don’t imagine marriage to Charles would be very comfortable in any case.
I’m sure Honoria found a way to allude to it. The baby, I mean, and all the talk. And ten to one Charles won’t even notice. Even I’ll admit he has an unusually keen understanding, but he’s always been irritatingly blind when it comes to Honoria being Honoria. For Mélanie’s sake I hope she’s tough as nails. She’ll need to be.
Do write soon. Why do you have to be going all the way to Scotland? I doubt will stay in Bath much above a month-=Aunt Frances will want to be back in London in the autumn, and I daresay Honoria will as well, so that’s some comfort. I wonder who Honoria will turn her sights on now. Even she has to concede Charles is beyond her.
Love always,
Gisèle
Grosvenor Square
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Dearest Charles,
I know this letter is shockingly overdue. Evie has reminded me gently at least a half-dozen times (she has the most wonderful knack for reminding one that one is supposed to do something without ever coming right out and saying so). I could give you a thousand and one excuses. I could say that with Parliament sitting do late (who would have thought a place as far away as India could cause such a fuss?—oh, dear, even as I write that I can hear you telling me I should take it seriously) July has been unusually busy. We gave a musicale only last week (for which I foolishly decided to learn a whole new Beethoven sonata, what was I thinking?). I could say that in the last month I’ve had to moderate three different fights between Quen and Uncle Frederick (with Val, of course, getting into the mix). I could add that one of Quen’s escapades—nearly coming to blows in Emily Cowper’s drawing room of all places with Sir Humphrey Grandiston, who apparently less than compliant where his wife is concerned—necessitated a whole round of calls on my part to prevent the talk from escalating. I could further mention that the sad business between Lady Caroline Lamb and Lord Byron, while blessedly distracting the ton from Quen’s peccadilloes, has had me writing a flurry of letters to friends who want the latest news (which of course it would never occur to you to ask for) not to mention paying and receiving yet more calls and visits because people will think I know more than I do. I could write a lot of nonsense about order new gowns for the autumn and preparing to go to Argyllshire as London finally thins of company.
I could say all that, but of course, being you, you’d see right through me. Because you’d discern what I must confess myself. Of course I send my warmest felicitations and congratulations to you and your wife on the birth of little Colin. How wonderful it must be to hold one’s own child in one’s arms! How glad I am to know you have experience the joy I hope to one day know myself. But I must own that sincere as my good wishes are, my feelings on hearing the news were somewhat more complicated. I’m sure you can understand (and if not, it is perhaps all the more important that I not put it into words).
There, I have perhaps said more than I should, but you know me so well I suspect you would read between the lines in any case. I have always known you would make a splendid father. I am so glad you did not turn your back on the experience, as you once said you would. I will add that, reading between the lines myself, what I know of the circumstances of your son’s birth makes me admire you all the more.
Your devoted friend always,
Honoria
South Audley Street
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My dear Mélanie,
I am delighted to hear that you go on so well and Colin is thriving. From your own letters and from the accounts I receive from Charles and Geoffrey, you genuinely seem to enjoy motherhood. Quite remarkable. I almost envy you, I never seemed to have the knack for it, though perhaps that is simply an excuse for my appalling selfishness. I have been making an effort to enjoy Chloe’s childhood, and I find it surprisingly rewarding. Gisèle coming to live with me after my sister Elizabeth’s death changed me in a number of ways. There’s nothing like seeing one is needed, and those events drove the point home even to me.
Goodness, when did I become so serious? I meant to send you some London gossip (along the latest edition of “La Belle Assemblée” which I am enclosing). Much as the victory at Vitoria is spoken of in London drawing rooms, I fear there is even more talk of Caro Lamb’s latest antics. Or rather Caro’s and Byron’s, for I hold the wretched man quite as much to blame. Caro has continued to refuse to return Byorn’s picture unless he would agree to a private interview with her (he refused (if only he would always show such sense). It all came to a head at Lady Heathcote’s ball early this month. I wasn’t present unfortunately–Chloe had come down with a chill and her fever was high enough to cause alarm–She’s quite recovered now (yesterday she attempted to slide down the stair rail). All I can do is attempt to piece together the myriad stories, each more fantastical than the last. Apparently Caro waltzed in front of Bryon (who never used to like her to do so). He made a show of his unconcern. Caro retired to the supper room, where she seized a knife and threatened to stab herself. Byron said something along the order of do go ahead, but strike your own heart not mine which you have wounded already. Some of the guests got the knife away from Caro, but she was cut and got blood on her gown. At least that’s one story. Others say she got the cut from a broken glass or from a pair of scissors she was carrying (why on earth should she be carrying scissors at a ball? Though it wouldn’t be the first of Caro’s starts). There are more versions of what happened than there were guests at Lady Heathcote’s. The Satirist went so far as to say that it was William Lamb who should be pitied because Caroline survived the attempt. Which I must say I failed to find in the least amusing.
Oddly enough, Caro and Byron seem to be getting on better in the wake of this incident. They’ve actually begun corresponding again according to Lady Melbourne (who isn’t at all happy about it). They both have such a love of creating scenes. One find oneself observing the whole as though it is some sort of hideously overdone drama. And then every so often I’m brought up short and remember that these are very real human beings. Byron meanwhile has embarked on a flirtation (or worse) with Lady Frances Webster, who is in quite over her head. And he continues to spend a great deal of time with his sister, Mrs. Leigh, while I don’t matters have really ended between him and Annabella Milbanke.
I look this over and suspect I have managed to convince you that London society is mad or a nest of scandal mongerers or shockingly self-absorbed. All three of which, I fear, are sadly true. But we do occasionally talk like rational creatures.
Your affectionate aunt,
Frances
(original in code)
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Charles is off on a mission for the ambassador. He didn’t give me any details, of course, but from the look on his face when he bent over Colin’s cradle this morning, I judge it to be serious. I took the enclosed from his dispatch box last night before he left. I didn’t have time to decode it all, but I gather Charles has gone to meet with an emissary of Don Julian Sanchez or possibly with Don Julian himself. Everyone here anxiously awaits news from Pamplona and San Sebastian, but though it’s plain that Wellington means to take both, nothing but the wildest of rumors have reached us. There’s a great deal of gossip in embassy salons (and a great deal of very real concern behind closed embassy doors) that the
Emperor means to take command of the forces in Spain himself. More than one young attaché has assured me that I shall be quite safe even should the Corsican Monster come to the Peninsula.
I’m dining at the embassy on Tuesday and will send a report. I trust I need not remind you that should any harm befall Charles on this mission, it would prove distinctly damaging to our long terms objectives.
M.
p.s.
Colin rolled over yesterday, quite on his own.
(original in code)
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Excellent work as always. The news from the north isn’t good. Soult seems to be in retreat through the Pyrenees, though according to my latest intelligence we still hold San Sebastian where General Rey has maintained a spirited defense. Losses in the past fortnight have been sadly high on both sides (close to a quarter of Soult’s men if my sources are to be believed). I don’t think your friends at the embassy need fear the specter of the Emperor. With the armistice ending and no treaty concluded, he will have more than enough to occupy him to the north.
As to your husband (there’s no need to hesitate to admit you’ve grown fond of him, by the way), he’s well able to take care of himself, and I have a number of reasons for doing my utmost to see he doesn’t come to harm.
R.
p.s.
Thank you for the news of Colin.
Lisbon
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My dear wife,
As with the letter I just wrote to Colin, I confess that I very much hope you will never have cause to read this. I am still growing accustomed to waking to find you beside me and to walking into our rooms and knowing you will be there. The thought of not finding you there is terrifying in the extreme. But until Stuart told me about the particular errand he was sending me on, I hadn’t properly considered what it might be like for you were I suddenly not to be a part of your life.
We have discussed the financial arrangements. Blackwell and Edgar would see you and Colin safely to England. David, Simon, and Aunt Frances would stand your friends once you were there. It isn’t easy to be an exile, but you would be safe in Britain until the Continent is at peace. Knowing you these past months, I have no doubt of your ability to make yourself at home wherever you may find yourself. You have a wonderful knack for making a home.
But in that eventuality, I would never have the chance of telling you how very much these past months have meant to me. You have given me so much that I never thought to have. If I am sometimes clumsy at showing it, the lack is entirely on my side and not (as I trust you realize) owed to any lack of feeling. Circumstances have made us intimately acquainted with each other in some ways, while in so many others we are still getting to know each other. I hope we shall have time to do so. If we should not, I hope more than anything that you find the happiness you deserve. If you find even a quarter of what you have given me, your life will be rich indeed.
With all my heart,
Charles
Lisbon
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My dear Colin,
I must confess I pen this letter profoundly hoping you shall never have occasion to read it. I worry about what I have to offer you as a father and what sort of job I shall make of it, but I very much want to be there to watch you grow up and to offer you what I can.
I’ve just learned that I shall have to go into Spain for a fortnight or so. One never quite knows what one is getting into with errands of this sort, and there’s always the chance it may prove dangerous. It’s a new thing for me to have responsibilities to other people. I’m still getting used to what I owe to your mother. Leaving my interview with the ambassador (where I learned about the errand), it occurred to me that I shall say goodbye to you knowing there’s a chance I shall never see you again.
If your mother someday gives you this letter to read because that is what has happened, I am sorrier than I can say for failing you, for not being there to watch your growing up. Duty is a complicated thing. It can pull one in a multitude of different directions. Honoring one’s commitments is one of the most important things a person can do. Which means not always doing as one wishes. And sometimes it’s fiendishly difficult to sort out which commitments come first. Nothing is more important to me than what I owe to you and your mother, but I have other responsibilities and people dependent on me. I don’t think I’d be a very good father to you if I didn’t do what I thought was right. It can be very difficult to figure out what’s right, but it’s very important to try to think it through for oneself and not let anyone else do your thinking for you.
Your mother is a remarkable woman. Don’t ever be afraid to ask her questions. She can tell you how eagerly we looked forward to your birth, and how much we both loved you, before you born and even more so after we were able to hold you in our arms. If there’s one legacy I’d like to leave you, it’s that you’ll never doubt you were loved. I’ll never cease to be grateful for however much time I have with you. I know with your mother’s care and protection and good sense you will have a happy childhood and will grow to be a man we would both be proud of.
Your loving father,
Charles Fraser
The Albany
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My dear Charles,
You don’t sound any madder to me than you do in the general run of things. I must say I’m a bit insulted that you don’t think I’d be interested in news of your child. I’m an uncle, remember, and have been for three years now. I must say, from what I remember of Amelia’s infancy and Billy’s more recently, you seem to be singularly fortunate (sleeping for five hours at stretch is a rare feat in an infant of that age, I believe). Of course, Bel and Oliver have a larger house and a better staffed nursery than you possess in your Lisbon quarters. Simon, reading your letter, threatened to ask Oliver if he’s ever changed a napkin. I must say, I rather hope he does. I should quite like to see Oliver’s face.
We are both, needless to say, pleased beyond measure that Mélanie and Colin are in such good health. I’ve always been quite certain I shall never be a father, so I confess I’ve never given much thought to the state. But I can imagine, I think, something of the wonder and terror you must be feeling. You know more than most people of the complexities of my relationship with my own father. Thinking back on my own childhood and knowing you as I do, I can only say that your son is extremely fortunate in his parentage. Simon adds that reading between the lines he can tell you’re an excellent parent already. He says he isn’t a bit surprised. You have a knack for being infernally good at most things you attempt.
The Royal Assent to the East India Company’s new charter was given yesterday. The Company will still govern, but their monopoly is broken. Simon and I chanced upon Christopher Ingleseby at the Piazza last night (do you remember him from Harrow? clever, scholarship student, took the maths prize you won our year,-he’s now at Melchett’s Bank) and he talked enthusiastically about the possibilities in iron and coal. Father seems pleased. I dined with him today (yes, I braved the dragon’s lair and went to White’s), and he spent half a bottle of claret talking about how the loss of the monopoly was the directors’ own fault for their gross incompetence. He has agents in India, doesn’t he? No, I know, I daresay you aren’t supposed to tell me. All in all, Father was in an unusually pleasant temper (he didn’t even take advantage of your son’s recent birth to make an remarks about my marrying). We barely touched on the war (we rarely do, there’s too much he can’t say), but I deduce that things are going well on the Peninsula, and can only hope that this means we will see you and family in England before too long.
As always,
David
Lisbon
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My dear David,
Mélanie and I send our thanks to you and Simon for the handsome silver rattle. Colin would, I am sure, thank you as well were he able to speak. As he is a remarkably alert baby but has not yet quite mastered the power of speech, you must permit to tell you that we’ve tied it to a ribbon hanging over his cradle and he stares at it with a rapped attention which (his father deduces) indicates great appreciation.
Geoffrey Blackwell assures us he has all the signs of a thriving baby. Last night he slept for five hours straight, a singular feat for which we should be most grateful says Addison (who is the eldest of seven). He cries quite loudly when hungry or in need of a fresh napkin but is blessedly even-tempered the rest of the time. His eyes are quite extraordinary. When I bent over his cradle this morning, he seemed to focus right on my face for the first time.
I just read over the above and concluded that you will probably think I’ve run mad. Which I supposed I have, in a way. I never thought to have children at all, and even in the past months, anticipating Colin’s birth, I didn’t at all grasp what it would be like. He’s so very helpless and yet so very much his own person. A person it’s Mélanie’s and my responsibility to nurture.
Mélanie is a wonder. She says she often feels she’s making it up as she goes along, but from my perspective she has an uncanny knack for knowing just what to do. Following her lead, I’ve got passably good at changing a napkin and holding him so he’s less inclined to fuss (Mélanie holds him with a casual ease which seems to make him feel entirely secure).
Clumsy as I often feel, this, I suspect, is the easy part. It’s the next one-and-twenty years or so and beyond (does one ever stop worrying about one’s children?) that fill me with cold terror at times. The times when I feel grossly unequipped to meet any of the challenges ahead. Then I look at Mélanie and Colin and realize how very grateful I am for the ability to try, however inadequate my efforts may be.
Have I mentioned lately what a wonderfully forbearing friend you are? There’s no one else on earth I’d dare speak to in this way. But I think you know that.
Has the East India Charter been settled yet?
As always,
Charles
Brighton
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Dear Mrs. Fraser,
I hope you will find the enclosed useful for little Colin. I have also enclosed a small trifle for you. If there’s one thing I remember distinctly from the births of both my children, it’s that I felt distinctly in need of cosseting afterwards (though in the general run of things I pride myself on being quite self- sufficient). Situated as you are, I imagine any sort of cosseting is in short supply.
I cannot tell you how pleased I was to hear the new of Colin’s birth and that you and the baby are both well. I have always felt Charles would make a wonderful father. I still remember how kind he was to my sisters and me when he came to visit us with David during their holidays from Harrow. He had a patience sometimes lacking in a brother (even a quite splendid brother like David) and a knack for knowing just what to say to bolster the confidence of a young girl at that awkward age at which one is so sorely in need of confidence. He’s our little girl’s godfather, you know, and though he only sees her on rare visits home, he’s always struck me as much more at ease than many gentlemen are with an infant. When I first showed her to him, he actually stretched out his arms to take her and seemed undaunted by fears that she’d either break or require a new napkin. He didn’t even panic when she started to fuss. You can imagine my admiration of such fortitude.
We have heard the wonderful news of Wellington’s great victory at Vitoria. You can imagine the rejoicing. King Joseph and his court put to flight – are one actually hope the tide has turned? There are so many reasons to hope so. And I confess that for me one of them if that perhaps this makes it more likely Charles will be able to bring you and Colin to England soon, at least for a visit. I do so long to meet you. And when the children are a bit older, Colin and Billy will be just of an age to play together.
I hope you go on well and that Charles’s work does not oblige him to go away from you for a time. I am presently at Brighton with my children, while Oliver stays in London until Parliament rises (this business of the East India Company’s new charter seems to be dragging out). He’s only a day’s journey away, and even that separation is vexing.
Yours most affectionately,
Isobel Lydgate
The Albany
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Dear Bel,
Trust me, the talk is quite as bad in the coffee room at Brooks’s or the corridors of Parliament as it is round the tea table or along the Promenade. If one of my speeches could create half the stir my friend’s marriage has done, I’d be a force to be reckoned with. Oliver and I overheard a distinctly vulgar wager over our beefsteak and claret last night. We were both on our feet before we caught each other’s eye and realized that satisfying as it would be to plant someone a facer, it would only add to the scandal which would hardly be doing Charles and his wife a service.
Father keeps muttering about “couldn’t my friend avoid distracting entanglements” as though I had some sort of influence over Charles. Lady Winchester cornered me at Sally Jersey’s last week convinced that Charles’s bride is a French adventuress twice his age with a false pedigree who ensnared him into marriage through some sort of ruse that sounded straight out of a Restoration comedy. After a quarter-hour, I managed to persuade her that Mélanie is half Spanish and younger than Charles, but I could make so further inroads. I had no sooner escaped than Mary Trenor seized my arm and said was it really true Charles had met his wife when he rescued her from the band of gypsies who had abducted her as a baby. Before I could reply, Miranda Vance said she’d got it all wrong, Charles’s wife was a gypsy and had trapped him with a love potion. At which point it was all I could do not to choke on my champagne, but I did manage to say that .Charles had indeed met his wife in the Cantabrian Mountains, but as far I knew no gypsies of any sort had been involved, and that Charles was the last man I could imagine falling victim to a love potion.
As to the true nature of Charles’s feelings–? My dear Bel, you know how little he confides in anyone. He certainly doesn’t write of his marriage with Romeo’s ardor, and yet if Charles did start sounding as if he’d jumped into the balcony scene I’d have serious concerns for his sanity. He writes of Mélanie with an affection which is all the more palpable for being couched in carefully chosen words. He writes of young Colin with a father’s love. Oliver says Charles is much too sensible to marry where he doesn’t feel a sincere attachment. Simon has exchanged letters with Mélanie and says he thinks she may be just the thing for Charles. I hope he may be right. Whatever caused Charles to marry so abruptly, I don’t believe any of us have the true story. To you, if you to few others, I can confess to my own share of lingering concern for my friend’s happiness.
I fear the business of the Charter will drag out well into July. Oliver dined with us last night. I expect he’ll have written to you by now, but I believe he plans to make a visit to Brighton at the end of the week so at least you and the children will have a few days with him.
Simon sends his love. As of course do I.
Your affectionate brother who misses you,
David
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May 29, 2007 at 12:42 am
Saw your post on aarlist2 and came right over to visit. It is beautiful and very professionally done. Congrats on your new book. Seems elegant and sophisticated.
June 4, 2007 at 5:06 pm
HI Evie,
Thanks so much! Greg and jim will appreciate the comments on the site (as do I), and I appreciate the comments on the book! We’ll be updating content frequently (these letters get updated once a week), so do check back.
Cheers,
Tracy
June 5, 2007 at 6:58 am
I was so excited to recieve news of your book Secrets of a Lady. I am anxiously awaiting my copy, I already pre-orderd with amazon! And I love the Fraser correspondence. I can’t wait to read one by Charles.
June 5, 2007 at 7:07 am
Thanks so much, Perla! I love writing the Fraser Correspondence, so it’s great to hear you enjoy reading it. You bring up something I’ve been meaning to mention–I’m going to be writing a lot of letters, so if anyone has particular characters, subjects, etc… they think it would be interesting to hear about, do let me know. I can’t promise all suggestions will be work with the back story, but I’d love to hear thoughts.
Cheers,
Tracy
July 2, 2007 at 11:07 am
tracy thank you for your reply and the link to this your site.I love the letters. You have the tone of the age so authentically.I shall be getting hold of ’secrets’ to read the extra.
July 2, 2007 at 5:05 pm
Daphne, I’m so glad you visited the site and particularly that you like the Fraser correspondence.I love writing the letters and part of the fun is trying the capture the tone of the period, so your words are a lovely compliment! I add a new letter every week, so do be sure to check back. And if you have suggestions for topics/characters for letters, do leave a comment or send me an email.
Cheers,
Tracy
July 2, 2007 at 6:02 pm
Just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your Charles and Melanie books! I saw you on one of my Historical Fiction reader groups and replied about your books but didn’t see my comment. Excellent work and I look forward to more!
Kaathryn Garrelts
July 2, 2007 at 6:17 pm
Hi Kathryn,
Thanks so much! I think the group is historicalfiction.org? I just joined, and it’s a great list!
Cheers,
Tracy
September 8, 2007 at 7:22 pm
Do you have any news on further Charles/Melanie books yet?
If not, will you be writing any others? I have ordered many of your older books.
I must say, I enjoy your more realistic view of the Regency period. Not to mention, characters who actually act like people did.
A heroine who is class conscious (A Sensible Match), French characters who are NOT drooling villains, and England is not presented as the one country where Truth and Justice Rule.
September 8, 2007 at 9:40 pm
“Beneath a Silent Moon” will be reissued in May. I’ve just gone through and made minor edits, and I’m finishing up a new epilogue (another letter from Charles to Mélanie) and the A+ section (this time letters between the characters *after* the conclusion of the novel, which allowed me to show some things I couldn’t wrap up in the book–and also meant I had to do quite a bit of thinking about exactly who would have gone where, done what. etc…). I hope to know more about “The Mask of Night” and other Charles & Mélanie books fairly soon. I’m also working on an historical novel set in the French Empire in 1811.
So glad to hear you ordered some of my earlier books and enjoyed them! That makes me so happy and would have really pleased my mom (who I co-wrote many of them with). Alessa, in “A Sensible Match” was a fun heroine to write, because she was very conscious of class and her own position. I liked her imperfections (she also has a temper and is a bit spoiled), though we had to be careful to get the balance right. This actually ties in with the discussion in the Elusive Scarlet Pimpernel Thread under “Dear Reader” about Marguerite St. Just. And with the blog I’m planning for Monday on “Imperfect Characters”.
Thanks so much for your interest in my books. As soon as I do, I will definitley post something!
October 27, 2007 at 4:04 am
I have been waiting for “The Mask of Night” for years, news cannot come soon enough. Your Fraser correspondence is a fantastic way to keep Charles & Melanie fresh and alive during this extreemly excruciating wait.
October 27, 2007 at 5:53 am
I’m so glad you enjoy the Fraser Correspondence, Perla! I have so much fun writing it, and it’s a great way for me to think more about the characters. Let me know if there are any particular sorts of letters you’d like to see.
I can’t wait for “The Mask of Night” to be published either
. I’m in the midst of editing the latest draft, and I have to say at the moment I’m fairly happy with it (my opinion tends to veer wildly in the midst of an edit 
.
October 30, 2007 at 3:40 am
Oh, Honoria is a nasty little… witch, isn’t she?
I wonder WHY she wanted Charles so much – was it because he was so blind to her true nature and she thought she could get away with anything, or just that she *couldn’t* have him? He was probably the only man she went after who rejected her.
October 30, 2007 at 4:12 am
Great question, JMM. I think it was that she couldn’t have him. He was the only man who’d ever rejected her, which only made him more intriguing. When he married, he became even more of a challenge, and when she suspected he had genuine feelings for his wife, that increased the challenge even more. Like the Vicomte de Valmont and the Marquise de Merteuil, Honoria loved challenge.
November 19, 2007 at 12:35 am
It’s odd to see letters from Evie. And to see her trying to be fair about Honoria; considering… everything.
I mean, knowing just what her feelings for her cousin are.
November 19, 2007 at 8:18 am
I think Evie’s feelings about Honoria at this point are complicated–she alludes to that in her scene with Val in “Beneath a Silent Moon”, when she’s talking about things like Honoira slipping into her room and holding her hand when she first came to Glenister House and would cry for home. I meant that scene to be very sincere.
February 5, 2008 at 4:28 am
I feel bad for Melanie; it must be terrible, to be surrounded by people gloating over the defeat of the French.
Of course, Louis XVIII wasn’t the worst king (his younger brother was).
Interesting glimpse of David.
February 5, 2008 at 4:47 am
I had thought about (and alluded) to Mélanie’s time in Paris after Waterloo being difficult, with foreign soldiers thronging the city and symbols of the Revolution obliterated. I hadn’t thought about her first visit to England also being a trial, until to write this letter I was reading about Wellington’s triumphal return to England and the Prince Regent’s fête, and I realized Mel and Charles would very likely be there. The supper tents really were decorated with allegorical transparencies, and one did have the theme of “The Overthrow of Tyranny by the Allied Powers.”
David, as you pointed out in your comments on last week’s blog, is more cautious and more of a conventional English gentleman than either Charles or Simon.
March 2, 2008 at 6:20 pm
I have always had a liking for Quenton, even if he is a rake. No, I don’t have the usual romance reader’s adoration of rakes. (Except for Mary Jo Putney’s Reggie in “The Rake”)
Maybe it’s because underneath, Quen *knows* he’s wasting whatever potential he has. Because he has a sense of… humor? self deprecation? about himself.
Because he admires Charles so much, even if he thinks he doesn’t have Charles’ strength.
Because in the end, he is willing to throw aside his ‘conditioning’ and live the life he wants.
March 3, 2008 at 6:56 am
Thanks, JMM, I love it when people comment on the Fraser Correspondence! I have a soft spot for Quen myself. I particularly realized this when I did a light revision of the book for the re-release and wrote the letters for the A+ section (which deal a lot with what happens to Quen after the end of the book).
I don’t necessarily love rakes as heroes, either (though Dameral in “Venetia” is one of my all time favorite heroes). But like you I like Quen’s sense of humor and self-deprecation (which I was aiming for in the letter) and his underlying affection for those he cares for and passion for the woman he loves. I think you’re right that his admiration for Charles shows his sense of, perhaps, the man he would like to be. And I love his willingness to overthrow everything he’s been raised to be. It takes a lot of strength to do that. I love writing letters from Quen. And he has a cameo in “The Mask of Night” which was a lot of fun to write as well.
April 8, 2008 at 1:37 am
Loved Aspasia’s letter – she’s got Honoria’s number. “No man is a hero to his valet”. I used to do cleaning for a temp company in college; you certainly see a lot about people. While I would love to have enough money to have a housekeeper (I hate housework) I hate to think what they would know about me!
April 8, 2008 at 6:33 am
I’m so glad you liked Aspasia’s letter, JMM! It was really fun writing from her POV and getting her take on the characters. You’re so right about servants and staff being a “warts and all” view of their employers (my friend Pam Rosenthal uses this wonderfully in her book “The Slightest Provocation”). I’m sometimes struck by the appalling lack of privacy my characters have by modern standards. (And they’re the ones leading a life of luxury).
April 8, 2008 at 6:30 pm
LOL! Heck, the richest people didn’t even DRESS without their servants! I can’t imagine having someone dress me!
Did you ever see Marie Antoinette? The scene where she’s dressed – and they have to keep stopping while she’s standing their naked, because each woman coming in the door is of a higher rank and has the right to hand MA her clothes?
April 8, 2008 at 6:41 pm
I didn’t see “Marie Antoinette” (keep meaning to rent it), but I saw an exhibit of jewelry and furniture of hers from the Trianon recently The text at the exhibit talked about how the excessive formality of the French court was difficult for her, after growing up in the Austrian court which was a bit more relaxed (one reason she liked to escape to le Petit Trianon).
I sometimes have Mélanie dress herself–but I figure with the life she lives, she’d need to have her clothes designed so she could get in and out of them on her own if need be. And if Blanca isn’t there, I often have Charles help with the hooks and laces.
April 8, 2008 at 7:37 pm
Yes, it was very different for her.
And the scene in the movie is based on fact; it’s mentioned in several bios. The woman couldn’t even pick up a glass of water for herself; people fought over who did what – who carried her train, who lit a candle, who put her clothes on. Yikes.
April 8, 2008 at 10:25 pm
And with all sorts of court and political ramifications if the protocol was violated. I think we sometimes forget how very crowded and unprivate that world was. The Regency was a bit more private, but still very public by the standards of what we’re used to today. Of course, lots of my friends have nannies who might write letters to their sisters, much as Aspasia did.
April 23, 2008 at 4:20 am
Hmm… what *did* happen at the Lievens three nights ago?
April 23, 2008 at 4:27 am
The prior letter, from Kenneth Fraser to Honoria’s uncle and guardian Lord Glenister, alludes to the fact that Kenneth danced with Honoria and Glenister got upset and he and Kenneth has a row. What else may have happened is still open to debate
.
May 6, 2008 at 2:37 pm
Oh, boy. I have a bad feeling about this. I’ve commented on how “conventional” David is; I’ve often wondered if he would give in to his “duty” by marrying and providing an heir. The thing is, I don’t see Simon going along with the idea. I mean, he might accept David marrying, but I don’t see him remaining in a relationship.
Boy, Carfax really doesn’t get Charles, does he?
May 6, 2008 at 2:59 pm
You’ve got the characters exactly, JMM. I’m quite sure Simon wouldn’t remain in a relationship with David if David married. Simon can’t bear lying and hypocrisy. David’s problem is that he takes the idea of his duty to his name and family seriously and part of that duty is providing an heir. He continues to insist to Simon that he won’t marry, but he’ under constant and increasing pressure from his family.
In many ways Carfax doesn’t get Charles, though he is very good at playing on Charles’s feelings (as in the excerpt I posted last week).
June 22, 2008 at 7:02 pm
David is rather naive, isn’t he? He’s so certain that Charles was going to marry Honoria; that Honoria is the sweet little girl she presented herself as.
June 22, 2008 at 7:13 pm
David tends to view the world through convention-tinted glasses. He’s perceptive enough to know there’s more to the Charles/Honoria relationship than meets the eye, but he doesn’t know precisely what (because Charles hasn’t confided in him and has , in fact, taken pains to ensure David doesn’t learn the truth). And yes, when it comes to Honoria, David is quite deceived–but then Honoria’s good at deceiving people
.
Thanks for commenting–I love it when people comment on the Fraser Correspondence!
June 25, 2008 at 3:30 am
What *was* David’s (private) reaction to Charles’ marriage?
Was he secretly upset that all his family’s hopes were dashed?
June 25, 2008 at 8:11 am
Good question, JMM. Some of the earlier Fraser Correspondence letters touch on David’s reaction to Charles’s marriage. David wants Charles to be happy, and I think senses fairly early on that he has a chance of happiness with Mélanie. But I think not understanding what happened between Honoria and Charles gnaws at David, and while on the one hand he was perceptive enough to know Honoria and Charles weren’t well-suited, a part of him is afraid Charles broke Honoria’s heart. David wants everyone to be happy.
July 12, 2008 at 5:34 pm
Is “R”, Raoul? Does Frances know who Charles’ father is?
I really, really, REALLY want “Mask of Night” to be published! I want to see what’s going to happen to everyone!
July 12, 2008 at 5:41 pm
Yes, “R” is Raoul. I somehow didn’t think she’d put his full name–not sure why. Lady Frances does indeed know who Charles’s father is.
I want “The Mask of Night” to be published too! For lots of reasons, including so that I can talk about it with readers
.
Meanwhile, I’m happy to try to answer questions with spoiler space.
July 12, 2008 at 11:28 pm
I didn’t realize one could leave comments for the Fraser Correspondence. (Silly me.) I had a “wait a minute, did I miss something in the books?” moment last week. Is this a new twist, Tracy, or did you plan it from the very beginning? I wonder how Lady Frances know. There are so many possibilities, each tells different stories of the relationships, I think.
July 12, 2008 at 11:46 pm
You can leave comments on all the pages on the site, Sharon–one of the thing I love about the design.
Good questions about Lady Frances. When I first writing “Daughter/Secrets” she wasn’t even Elizabeth Fraser’s sister–she was a friend and Charles’s godmother (and a bit older than she ended up). But my friend and critique partner, Penny Williamson, assumed she was Charles’s aunt, and I realized this added a lot to the book. I definitely knew at least the outlines of Lady Frances’s connection to Raoul when I wrote the scene in “Daughter/Secrets” where Mélanie says, “I think sometimes Charles wonders if Kenneth Fraser was really…”
And Frances says, “Oh, no, Mélanie. I have no doubt he wonders, but some questions are best left just that. For everyone’s sake.”
I worked out more of the details when I was working on “Mask of Night,” and the connection is explained a bit more there.
Care to speculate on how Frances knows?
.
July 25, 2008 at 11:07 pm
How did Frances know? Was she told, or did she piece the truth together from various sources? Before Raoul’s reply last week, I might have guessed that Elizabeth was the primary source, even indirectly. After reading his reply, I am not so sure. I am eager for the details in “Mask of Night”.
I have to say that out of the full cast of characters, Elizabeth puzzles me the most. Besides Raoul, did she tell no one but Edgar? I don’t know why but I somehow don’t want to explain her actions away as “simply” that comes out of her suffering from maniac depressive disorder. Are you going to write more about her in future books?
July 26, 2008 at 6:30 am
Very timely comments, Sharon! I’ve been thinking a lot about Elizabeth Fraser lately, because she, or at least her memory and her past history, plays an important role in “Charles & Mélanie Book #4.” And yes, there was a lot going on with her and a lot more behind her actions than being bipolar (though that certainly complicated her life).
As to your other questions, if you don’t mind relatively mild spoilers…
…
Elizabeth told Frances about Raoul being Charles’s father. Frances kept Raoul updated on Charles after Elizabeth died. They all would have known each other well growing up and as adults.
August 29, 2008 at 2:24 am
Aw… poor Gelly! Will she and Andrew be in the new books? I do feel for her, even if she is somewhat mean to Charles.
Will we see more of her courtship of Andrew?
August 29, 2008 at 6:08 am
There’s a fair amount about Gelly and Andrew’s courtship in the letters I wrote for the extras in the reissue of BENEATH. And I’m planning to pick up on the story in the Fraser Correspondence. I’m also planning to have them both figure prominently in future books. My current plan is that they will both play a significant role in Book #5.
September 9, 2008 at 4:33 am
So Andrew met his natural mother. Awkward. Especially since he knows he was born out of incest. Yikes!
September 9, 2008 at 7:07 am
Definitely awkward. But it’s always seemed to me that Georgiana Mortimer would want to see him, now that she knows he knows the truth. Especially given that she’s just lost Evie. It wasn’t anything I could deal with in “Beneath a Silent Moon.” One of the things I love about the Fraser Correspondence is that I can explore things that happen between books.
September 16, 2008 at 2:35 am
Awww… Quenton misses his beloved! *Wibble*
September 16, 2008 at 6:22 am
I do have a soft spot for Quen, JMM. And because of the way the mystery unfolded, so much of his romance with Aspasia had to take place “off camera” as it were (I really didn’t want readers to clue in that they’d end up together until very late in the book). So it’s fun to to be able to explore their relationship more in the Fraser Correspondence.
March 4, 2009 at 10:50 pm
“What could be lonelier than fearing one’s lost track of oneself?”
What a beautiful line. I love it.
But is it the loneliness that Raoul warned Mélanie about, or did he mean something else (or something in addition to it)? Does it have anything to do with his own boundary crossing? After all, Raoul does come from a somewhat privileged background, doesn’t he?
March 5, 2009 at 2:19 am
Thanks so much for your thoughtful words, Sharon! I love it when people comment on the Fraser Correspondence. So glad you like that line. I’m quite fond of it–must figure out how to work it into a book!
You’re right, Raoul does come from a quite privileged background–not quite so much as Charles, but he’s definitely from the elite class, both in Ireland and in Spain. But he’s also very used to being an outsider, as a Irishman, as a Republican, as a man from two different countries. And he knows the loneliness of constantly playing a role, of never being able to truly be “yourself” with anyone. I think he probably came closer to being able to be himself with Mélanie than with anyone else for a long time. He knows that even though Mel loves Charles, even though she’s going to stop spying and deceiving him, the fact that she’s still playing a role will wear on her. Even with Charles she can’t (at that point) entirely be herself. A large part of which has to do with her political ideals and also her background. So I think the loneliness he was talking about was the loneliness of “fearing one’s lost track of oneself.”
March 6, 2009 at 3:46 am
Well, somehow I thought Raoul might have meant something more than what Mélanie has experienced at the time of this letter. I’ve always thought that the bark of loneliness has multiple layers. As the surface layer peels away with time, one discovers additional layers underneath. With his being much older than Mélanie, I just thought Raoul might have experienced other layers of loneliness in addition to the one of constantly playing a role, such as his from two worlds yet belonging to neither, which Mélanie has yet to experience. No?
March 6, 2009 at 7:06 am
Oh, I think that’s definitely part of it, Sharon (and you delineate it much better than I did!). When I said he’s an outsider, I didn’t mean that meant he didn’t experience the loneliness of being from different worlds. Quite the reverse in fact. He’s half-Spanish and half-Irish a Republican with an aristocratic background who’s spent much of his life among the English aristocracy. As you say, he doesn’t really belong anywhere. And I think he understands, a Mel probably doesn’t at one-and-twenty, that simply being desperately in love doesn’t give one a sense of belonging or take away the loneliness. There are, as you say, multiple layers to loneliness (great image) and Raoul has experienced a lot more of them than Mel has, at least at that point.
March 13, 2009 at 2:06 am
What an interesting analogy! You made loneliness almost appealing and its peeling away erotic.
I have never considered comparing loneliness to clothing, but you’ve made me wonder: Can loneliness be worn comfortably? Do some wear it to keep warm and others to dazzle? And I suppose one can become so comfortable cloaked in loneliness that one is reluctant to remove even the outermost layer. Perhaps that’s what is happening/has happened to Raoul?
March 13, 2009 at 7:05 am
The clothing analogy just occurred to me as I was writing the letter and seemed like something Raoul might say. I do think loneliness can be worn in a variety of ways–awkwardly, gracefully, and yes in some cases comfortably. As you say, the outer layer can be a protection against being hurt (because what can be more vulnerable-making that letting oneself care for another person and risking hurt?). I think it’s a good insight that that has happened/is happening to Raoul. It’s one of the reasons I’d love to write a love story for him as the series progresses and explore the many layers to his characters more. I also think he’s more connected to Mélanie, Charles, and Colin than he’ll admit, even to himself.
March 13, 2009 at 4:31 pm
Yes, yes, a book for Raoul. It’s got to be a good read, love story or otherwise. Any news on Books 3 & 4, Tracy?
March 13, 2009 at 4:59 pm
Thanks, Sharon! I do think he’d be a lot of fun to write about. Book #3 actually deals with Raoul a lot, and his relationships with both Charles and Mélanie. No news on books #3 #4 unfortunately
.
July 7, 2009 at 12:27 am
WOW! i just finished reading Beneath a Silent Moon! Fantastic! I love reading the history of the characters and the background of events taking place in the books. And the letters are fantastic! I am hooked waiting for Number 3 to come out!
Thank you for these great characters.
July 7, 2009 at 12:47 am
Thanks so much, Cathy! It’s great to know you found the books and wonderful that you’re enjoying the Fraser Correspondence. I have so much fun writing the letters. I love it when readers comment on them!
August 5, 2009 at 5:26 am
I’m not optimistic about David and Simon right now. I know the letter from David to Charles is several years “in the past” (1814), but David is just so… dutiful.
August 5, 2009 at 5:49 am
I confess I meant the letter to raise some concerns about David and Simon’s relationship, JMM. After all, part of the interest of a series is the tension and problems of the ongoing relationships. I do think David’s changed a bit since this letter, but he does take his responsibilities as a future earl very seriously. So far he hasn’t really confronted the fact that his relationship with Simon comes into direct conflict with some of those responsibilities, at least as defined by his father. Eventually he’s going to have to deal with that. Which isn’t to say he and Simon won’t come through that to a happy ending. But it makes for an interesting problem.
September 13, 2009 at 10:47 pm
Hi Tracy. Thanks so much for the letters. I finished both novels months ago and the letters make waiting for #3 more endurable. Any news on when we might see #3?
Regarding David and Simon (two of my favorite characters), I ma surprised that Simon is accepted into David’s family’s home. It would seem to me that David’s father would eventually wage war against Simon as a way to get David to “take his responsibilities as a future earl seriously”. Maybe he (David’s father) is a more complicated and interesting person…
For David, really, his concern should be lessened, if he would appoint Belle’s son as his heir. Besides, wouldn’t that be the way the lineage would work, if David outlived his father and died himself childless? Alternatively, he could adopt a some foundling and name him/her as the heir/heiress. If he really needed some good publicity about it, the mother could claim him as a father — in her dying breath. Simon does know an actress or two. Too much a Winter’s Tale?
September 14, 2009 at 1:05 am
Thanks so much for your comments, Anne! I love talking about the Fraser Correspondence. I’m hoping I’ll have something to post about “The Mask of Night” (Book #3) in a bit.
I’m glad you like Simon and David. I’m very fond of them both and enjoy writing them and exploring the dynamics of their relationship. David’s father, Lord Carfax, is an interesting character. He features prominently in “The Mask of Night.” He actually started out much more as a stereotype of a bluff English gentleman and got much more interesting and complex in subsequent drafts. He was Charles’s spymaster, and I think in many ways Charles is the son he’d have liked to have, or at least that’s what David thinks (though Charles and Carfax clash frequently too).
Simon and David officially are friends who share rooms, as many single young men did. David’s family go along with that story and therefore sometimes include Simon at family events. I think David’s parents are wise enough to know that pushing this point would push David away. And they hope this is a phase that David will grow out of. But I think you’re right, as time goes by, Carfax is likely to try to drive a wedge between David and Simon. I actually have some thoughts for how this will play out in subsequent books, which repercussions on Charles and Mel.
Because the Carfax title and many estates go through the male line (as most British peerages do), Isobel’s son wouldn’t be the heir after David. Since David is the only son, the next in line would be his father’s younger brother, if he had one. As Carfax doesn’t have younger brothers, the title would then go to the descendant of Carfax’s father’s younger brother. So a second cousin of David’s. David could adopt an heir for his personal possessions but not for the title and the entailed property. And even if he claimed a foundling as an illegitimate son that wouldn’t help, as illegitimate children couldn’t inherit titles or entailed property. The Carfax title and estates are in a sense a trust that David holds to pass onto the next generation. Part of his duty, as he sees it, is to raise up and groom an heir to pass them along to. And of course, Carfax would like them to go to his direct descendants (actually Isobel is probably Carfax’s favorite child, but the Carfax title isn’t one of the rare ones that can pass through the female line).