1810
The Marquis of Aldridge was sitting over a glass of brandy in the private parlour of an exclusive inn half-way between Margate and London. The letter in his hand sent his strongly arched brows plunging towards one another in a frown.
His latest meeting with his father, the Duke of Haverford, was behind him, a reunion with his lovely mistress ahead. He had eaten a substantial and tasty dinner and the business of the duchy, which followed him everywhere, was largely finished for the night.
This letter was meant to be entertainment; light relief after the strain of three weeks with His Grace. Questions from a newsheet correspondent? He’d expected an interrogation on his amorous adventures, and planned to formulate replies that would curl the impudent questioner’s toes. Not that he’d send them, of course. His family did not answer to the newsheets. But he’d enjoy imagining their effect.
These questions were not at all amusing; their answers even less so. He thought the answers anyway. How not?
What impression do you make on people when they first meet you?
Mostly, people don’t meet me. They meet the Marquis of Aldridge. Or they meet the Merry Marquis. And the impression is made before we are ever in the same room.
Aldridge has a duchy to run. Those in my service, those I do business with; they know I expect efficiency, honesty, and commitment. And I reward it well.
As for the Merry Marquis, what it is to have a reputation! Debutantes are warned off me, which saves me from their artlessness, feigned or real. Widows and bored wives search me out. Which saves me the trouble of looking for them.
People meet me for the first time knowing what they want from me, and that colours their impression of the person they meet. None of them want to know me; the real me.
Do you wish to marry? If so, what is your idea of a good marriage? Do you think that will happen in your life?
Marry? Good God, no. I have no wish to marry. I will do so, of course. In time, I must take a wife. I will choose her for her lineage, the lands or wealth or allies she brings to the duchy, her potential to be an excellent duchess. It sound cold put so bluntly, and the idea leaves me cold.
I have seen good marriages. My cousin and my half-brother both made love matches. Even after three years and children, both couples are hopelessly besotted. More than that, though. They are good friends. They like being together. They admire and respect one another.
They live my idea of a good marriage: a relationship of equals, passionately in love but also closely bonded in affection. I cannot expect that, of course. I shall be Duke of Haverford, and shall, in due course, offer myself on the marital altar for the benefit of the duchy.
I think I shall be a dreadful husband. I hope I shall be kind to my wife.
What are you most ashamed of in your life?
Ah. I could give a list. A top ten list, perhaps? One of the worst things I ever did was turn my back on a woman whose virtue I took. She rejected me when she realised I meant to make her my mistress. She had thought my words of love sincere.
It starts further back, does it not? The fault was not being offended at her rejection, but in seducing her at all. At the time, I convinced myself that she was not as innocent as she appeared; that I could give her a better life as my mistress than she had as an old lady’s companion; that if I did not seduce her someone else would.
I was sure she must know I was lying when I said I would adore her forever. Already, though I was still in my teens, I had a reputation. But she believed me. To my eternal shame.
I was a cad. That is the long and the short of it. I… What can I say? I’ve never since knowingly taken an innocent to my bed. I’ve never since made promises I didn’t intend to keep, or lied about my feelings. But that doesn’t make my crime the less.
No wonder she believed His Grace my father when she came seeking help after she found herself with child. He told her that I denied parentage. He lied. He never told me of her plight; never gave me the opportunity to provide for my child. Even had that been his only crime against me and mine, I would hate him for that.
She saved herself, and the little girl. When we met again—she despised me, of course, though not more than I despised myself. But she is a generous woman. She is polite when we meet, and she allows me to be an uncle to my… to her daughter. I am grateful for that.
Tell me about your best friend. How did you meet? What do you like about this person? What do they like about you?
I met Overton at Eton—two boys bonding over a shared dislike for lumpy, burnt porridge. In hindsight, putting it in the headmaster’s bed might not have been the cleverest move. We were seen creeping out of his rooms, and spent the next week on our stomachs in the infirmary.
I admire Overton. He has suffered so many losses, but he just keeps going. He has brought his estate back from the brink of ruin, given his people a future, and built the mill he inherited into the centrepiece of a thriving trading enterprise.
And he has stuck with me through thick and thin. He says I amuse him. I tell him somebody has to. If it wasn’t for me, he’d stay up there in Lancashire and never have any fun!
What would you like it to say on your tombstone?
Here lies Anthony Grenford, who gave pleasure to many and harmed as few as he could. He died aged 99, shot by a jealous husband.
What is your greatest fear?
I am the Marquis of Aldridge, heir to the Duke of Haverford. The men of our family do not feel fear. I distinctly remember the first time His Grace told me that. I must have been four or five. I had climbed down the crag below the castle to retrieve a ball. On my way back up, a rock slid from under my feet, and I almost fell. I froze. I held onto that cliff face so hard it’s a wonder it did not crumble.
And there I stayed. It could only have been minutes, but it felt like hours before my nurse found me, and called for help, and half the castle turned out to rescue the heir. Including His Grace.
His Grace came down the rope himself. He wouldn’t let me reach out for him. He castigated me for crying. He told me that I’d got myself down and I was going to get myself up. He told me that we do not feel fear.
I was more afraid of His Grace than I was of falling. After I reached the first hold, then the second, then the third… it became easy again. He beat me when I reached the top, for running from my nurse. But he did instruct my mother to have me breeched. And I did retrieve the ball.
(This interview was written in 2015 for Sherry Ewing’s blog)
