The other half of me is already wondering whether our guillotine is still in good working order and which part of the front yard is best to display your head on a spike.
Please understand I would not use such frank language unless you had pushed me thus far through your persistent and inexplicable rebelliousness against giving me a beloved son.
Oh, how clear in my memory is the soul-destroying event that was the last birth! I arose feeling fitful that morning. I dined on my customary red wine and duck, and your absence at the other end of my 12-foot-long dinner table indicated that you were, in probability, betwixt labour pains and birthing the boy who will inherit my estate and fortunes when I pass on.
The absence of news from my man, Phillip, inclined me to believe that the boy had not yet come. The nervous glances between the footmen whilst I sipped broodingly on my excellent merlot signalled to me that you were probably in the midst of travail. I finished my duck. It was good.
Afterwards I paced the marble foyer of my mighty mansion, my leather shoes clacking impatiently on the marble floor, occasionally glancing down at the reflection in my shoe buckles over the expanse of my impressive stomach. I could see that my powdered wig was slightly askew, but I barely cared.
I became aware that I was not alone. Phillip hovered nervously in the doorway. “Be gone, fool!” I screamed, ashamed to be caught in a moment of reflection, and I am embarrassed to admit I threw my muff at him. He scampered out the door, and before it slammed shut I momentarily heard the echo of your self-indulgent birthing screams. Stoically, I awaited my fate with my bejewelled fingers clasping my waistcoat, longing for an answer from God which seemingly would never come.
After what seemed like centuries, your showy production came to an end. I turned to see the midwife tentatively open the door. “The mistress is well, my Lord,” she tittered, holding her face low. I marched past the stupid curtseying woman, my cloak flailing behind me as I strode decidedly towards your private chamber.
Entering your room, I saw in my periphery you in a state of decided disarray upon the bed, your chemise disgracefully covered in blood. My infant son lay swaddled in his crib, and – no! This was no son! I turned my eyes from this abomination and took in your scandalous figure in disgust, an expression which did not fade when our eyes met. I looked upon your maidservant (whom I have bedded, by the by, on no less than 30 occasions), and sneered. “My good Sir-” the impudent woman simpered, and I turned about on my heel and moved purposefully from the room.
I marched as far away from you as my legs could take me, returning to my foyer where the paintings of my father and grandfather stared down upon me in mockery. Suddenly, my knees failed me, and I fell to the ground. “WHY????!!!!” my tortured screams rang out, echoing throughout the house as dramatic orchestral music reached a crescendo, and scattering the birds on my estate into the sky. “WHY?!?!?!?!!”
I lay some moments on the ground in the foyer, not bothering to stop the tears which marked me as a broken man. My satin waistcoat felt more like a straightjacket, and the weight of my velvet cloak was heavy upon my person. And as I whimpered, “I’m sorry, father”, at the frowning grey-haired man in the painting above my fallen head, so help me God if I didn’t wish you and your devil’s spawn dead at that very moment, woman.
You can see, I trust, what a distasteful morning this fateful day was for me. I could barely gather the presence of mind to go shooting with the hounds that afternoon. I should also add that your antics that day saw me take down no more than five ducks – which is two below my average for a typical hunting party.
It must be clear even to a female that this cannot, will not, happen again. I will not be made a fool of. Are we clear on this, woman? I quite ruined my stockings on my tragic foyer fall that morning, and they are not the only items belonging to me that are ruined by your impudence that day.
I am not privy to the knowledge of why you continually refuse to give me a male heir who will carry on my line, fulfil my hopes and dreams, and keep my estates out of the hands of my scheming cousin. I consider it fruitless to inquire into the minds (if one is to call it that) of women. I know only that your intentions are evil.
That being said, understand this. Failure to produce a male heir this time round will not go unpunished. I already have made plans to have your rose garden removed and replaced with your skewered slut’s head. The choice is yours. You can have this, or give me my son and remain alive. You may even receive a brief nod in recognition of work well done after the boy is born. I will glance with apparent impassivity upon his newborn face, and you will bring him up whilst I retire to Bath to take the waters and mix in society.
Again, woman, the choice is entirely yours.
Sincerely,
Sir Ben Affleck
(To Lady Jennifer Garner)
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