Now Face to Face (90 page)

“Well enough. Robin, I want to ask a favor of you.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“It’s Tommy Carlyle. He’s below, waiting. He came this morning and waited also. Please receive him. Allow him to express his condolences to you. He is sincere in them. A gesture from you would mean so much at this low point in his life. Think of all the years when you were friends, rather than of this last one, when you have not been. He asks that I tell you that he begs your pardon for all he has done, he swears he will do no more.”

“Can do no more, you mean. I’ll think on it. Your mother tells me you’re giving Thérèse to the Princess of Wales’s household in the next week.”

You’re not going to receive him, thought Barbara. Yes, I give Thérèse over, and not happily.

“Wise of you, Barbara, very wise. I’m pleased to see you can be so amenable. You try to mend old breaches of trust, I hear, try to encourage the King and the Prince to understand each other. The Jacobites among us would not be pleased. They like it when the King and the Prince of Wales quarrel. You’re happy at court? Happy with your duties? Good. Good. The King called on me this morning, along with the Duchess of Kendall. Their kindnesses to me, to my wife, during this time have been most flattering.”

He spread out his favor like a peacock’s tail, but it was far from certain he would keep it. He wouldn’t keep it if he couldn’t try Rochester. In the King’s mind, Rochester was the head of the plot. In the King’s mind, Rochester must be punished.

She was in the King’s household now. She knew.

“You resemble the roses in this garland, Barbara, fresh and somehow pure. It eases me to know there is someone among those around me I may trust.”

“Allow Augustus Cromwell to receive a visit from his wife, a single visit, nothing more.”

He laughed, genuinely amused.

“Two requests within the space of moments. You’ve become a true creature of court, Barbara.”

“It is so little, and would mean so much. She’s my dearest friend—”

Walpole held up a hand, and Barbara was silent.

“As we all know. Not even for you will I do that, nor could I do that if I wished it. It is the King’s will that there be no visitors.”

Your will, thought Barbara. He’s given the handling of this plot to you. Walpole’s as tenacious as an old hunting dog, the King had told her. He will find Jacobites. He’d better.

“This is not a matter of friendship, but one of state, of treason, which you mustn’t bother your pretty head with.”

She wanted to strike him. They were speaking of life and death, as well as treason. They were speaking of policy, of survival—his and Gussy’s. You’ll sacrifice Gussy the way you did Roger, thought Barbara, and far more easily, for Gussy is nothing to you but fodder to feed the crowd’s bloodlust for Jacobites that you foster, the King’s bloodlust. I don’t like this, thought Barbara. I don’t like any of it the way I thought I would.

In the carriage, Carlyle said, “I will buy a jewel for the Duchess of Kendall. You will give her the jewel, Bab; ask her to see that I’m given an interview with the King. Tell her there will be another jewel if I am. An interview with the King will restore me. I know it.”

Walpole’s cruelty has broken Tommy, thought Barbara, and I am reminded of Harry, and I don’t know why, but I feel afraid, for Tommy and for myself.

W
ALPOLE TOLD
his footman to bring up no callers for a time. He stared at the papers piled upon a table, papers that even the death of his daughter did not distract him from, papers he sifted through again and again, looking for the path that would lead him to what he wished. Even during the King’s call of condolence today, Rochester’s name had come up.

He has used the Church all these years as the platform from which to attack me, said the King. He has used his vestments to cover treason for who knows how long. It must be stopped. The enemies of my house must be crushed.

Despite Philip Neyoe, despite Christopher Layer, there was not the direct and definite evidence of treason necessary to prosecute in a court of common law. There was only hearsay. He had yet to tell the King.

The fickle, changing bitch that was opinion had begun to shift. The sight of Jane Cromwell, dragging most of her children with her from drawing room to drawing room—including his own, this morning—telling anyone who would listen of her husband’s innocence and virtues, did no good. It made him look like a tyrant, an ogre. He tried to quell the power of the Church of England; he was godless and immoral, rumor said.

I cannot win if they pit me against God, said the King. You must prove that Rochester has acted in an ungodly manner, plotting against his King and country.

Had he taken himself too far out, promised what he could not deliver? He was going to try Christopher Layer and Augustus Cromwell. He could prove their guilt. But the King wanted more.

Just this one head, thought Walpole, staring down at the papers, on Traitor’s Gate, and I am where I wish to be. But I cannot convict that head. The Bishop and his adherents are yet wilier than I.

It was all he thought of. When the news of his daughter’s death had come, he’d thought: Good, a few days’ respite from the King’s questions about my progress. His wife had been disgusted with him.

There was a knock upon the door. A servant entered with a single white rose.

Walpole read the note attached, and said, cordially, “Who gave you this?”

“The downstairs footman, sir.”

“Send him to me at once. At once, do you hear.”

He knew, even as he gave the order, that the footman would be able to tell him nothing.

“My sincere condolences,” the note said, and it was signed “Duncannon.” The white rose was the flower of the House of Stuart. Duncannon trifled with him. What was it Barbara had told them stories of? The savages counting coup. Duncannon counted coup, against him, and won. What sums he’d spent trying to find him. What time questioning others. He wanted this Duncannon almost as much as he wanted Rochester. He would see the reward on Duncannon doubled tomorrow. I so enjoyed the chase of you, your élan, he would say, right before the axman beheaded him.

Spies and goslings.

Into his mind came the names of young noblemen suspected and discarded for lack of evidence: the Duke of Wharton, Philip Stanhope, others. If Barbara’s brother Harry had been alive, his name would have led the list. A child of Diana’s was capable of anything. He set the rose down beside the garland Barbara had brought, made with her own hands, she said, a garland with white roses in it, white for maidenhood.

Or for Stuart.

He remained where he was, staring at the garland. What if the gosling was not, as they supposed, a man, but a woman? A woman whose brother and father were Jacobites, a woman who had been received by King James in Rome, a woman who, according to his notes, had dined with every Jacobite in Italy. A woman who was now in the royal household and, on the strength of her charm and wits, rapidly rising. She reads aloud to the King in the evenings, the Duchess of Kendall had confided the other day, and the Duchess of Kendall did not even like Walpole. He says he likes the sound of her voice.

What does she read to him?

Robinson Crusoe.

Walpole’s heart beat faster.

If he could give the King a gosling in the place of Rochester, that might do. Did you ruin my daughter for your ambition? Diana had asked him. If you did, I will cut your heart out and eat it. But their coming child distracted her. Robin, you are disgusting, his wife had said. Is nothing sacred to you but your ambition?

No, not really. Nothing. No one.

It was sad but true.

Chapter Fifty-four

P
ENDARVES AND
B
ARBARA WALKED THROUGH A TOWNHOUSE IN
Devane Square. All of the wonderful interior molding upon the walls, around the doors, around the ceiling—the cascades of wooden flowers, shells, violins, musical notes, children playing—was gone. So were the chandeliers, which had been of silver. The wall sconces had been silver, Roger at his extravagant best. Above her remained the glorious scenes painted upon the ceiling, gods and goddesses floating upon clouds. There’d been no way to remove the paintings whole, or else Parliament would have done it when Roger was fined for his part in the South Sea. The chamber they were in was light-filled, windows all along its three outside walls.

“I thought to have everything finished simply,” she said, “as they do it in Virginia. Plain panels of wood inset in the walls, rather than ornate carving. All the chambers painted the palest of greens and blues. That will save expense.” She would live here soon. Pendarves was paying for the finishing of this.

Pendarves pointed, and she saw out a window that Andreas was dismounting, going into the church.

“What do you think he will do when he knows?” she asked.

“One of two things. Demand at once that you repay the notes you owe him—”

“Which I cannot.”

“Or demand that he be allowed to build here, as I’m doing. You haven’t answered about the ground lease for these townhouses.”

“I won’t give away the ground lease. It remains mine. By my figuring, you’ll be paid back what you’ve spent, including interest, from rents before five years are passed, so I will give you all the rents for six.” He wouldn’t own these three townhouses, but he was building more, and those he would own. She had the land they sat upon, however, and he’d have to pay her rent for that.

He considered what she said, then slapped at the window ledge, chortling, clearly pleased. Papers were ready, papers that gave him the right to finish this row of townhouses, to lease them in his name, to build more.

“I’ll have you in here by Christmas, Bab.”

The townhouses would lease faster with her living in one. She was in fashion, and her stepfather, no fool, wished to use the fact. That was all right. She understood. It was to her advantage, too. Tomorrow, the King drove out in his carriage, with his nieces, his granddaughters, to view the church, to walk the square. Wren was excited.

A church bell tolled in Marylebone, announcing the hour. On the last ring, she and Pendarves went outside, and she saw Bathsheba walking down the lane. Loyal Bathsheba, come to fetch her, so that she would not be late.

Why take a half-wild Gypsy as your maidservant? her mother had asked.

Why not? Barbara answered.

Tim carried her grandmother out of the church, Colonel Perry beside her, Wren and Andreas following. The coachman brought forward the carriage that would take them to Diana’s townhouse.

“We’re going to make a Virginia garden in the square,” Wren said to Andreas.

Barbara sighed. Wren was just no good at secrets. At once, Pendarves scuttled into the carriage, but her grandmother and Colonel Perry remained where they were.

“Are you?” Andreas was looking at her, trying to read her, she could see.

“Yes. I want lilacs, which are my colonial friend Major Custis’s favorite, and wild pansies, which have markings like a slave’s scars.”

“A fountain in the middle, I thought,” said Wren. “Trite, I know, but people do love water. And hyacinths, Lady Devane, tell him of the hyacinths. Dozens and dozens of hyacinths,” he said, not able to contain his delight, “blooming everywhere, in honor of the servant boy. The trees all from Virginia; vines; perhaps the garden a little wild, I thought—daring, I know, not done, not formal, but it’s time I stretched myself to something different.”

“Quite an undertaking,” said Andreas, “and an expense.”

“A dream at this point. We’re nothing but a quartet of old dreamers,” said the Duchess. She was putting money into the square. “Excuse us, but we really must leave.”

“You go to Leicester House?”

“Yes,” said Barbara.

“And tomorrow His Majesty calls?”

“Yes.”

“I hear you are collecting for vagabond children.” Andreas smiled at Perry, the smile not reaching his eyes.

“He is,” said Wren. “He will go walking in the worst of London, and so he sees our dregs. He says they live like wild dogs among the warehouses at London Bridge. He wants me to design a shelter for them.”