Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (19 page)

   Light, honey–colored oak paneling covered the walls, and the bed hangings, bed cover, and chair covers and draperies were of sunny yellow damask. Mary showed her two adjoining small rooms, rooms in which she could read or do needlepoint or receive visitors. A door in the farthest led back to the corridor, meaning she could receive her callers without first marching them through her bedchamber. In one of the rooms, a huge portrait of Diana, blazingly beautiful in a wine-colored gown and diamonds, was hanging in the darkest corner. She went back into her bedchamber and leaned forward to smell the potted daffodils blooming on a small table. Everything around her was rich and comfortable like Tamworth, only lacking the still, shuttered, unused look and smell so many of Tamworth's rooms had. Mary stood silently near the door. She put her hand on the latch.

   "Wait a moment," said Barbara. "I will not bite. How old are you?"

   Mary swallowed. "Eleven."

   Barbara smiled at her. "I have a brother, Kit, who is ten. Only he is not silent as you are. He chatters like a blue jay. Are you always so quiet? You remind me of my sister Charlotte. She is my favorite sister."

   Mary said nothing. She had inherited her mother's square face, but not the beauty which softened it.

   "Where are your rooms?"

   "Up–upstairs."

   "Just you?"

   Mary nodded. "And my nurse, Mrs. Mentibilly."

   Barbara touched the bright yellow trumpet of one of the daffodils. "This is lovely. And very thoughtful of your mother. My grandmama always has our house—Tamworth Hall—filled with flowers. In the rooms that we use, that is. All is almost never open because Grandmama never sees anyone anymore. Other than the vicar and squire and neighbors and tenants, which, when I name them, make up a lot of people. What I mean is that she has retired from the social world, the world this house represents. How old were you when your father died?"

   The pupils in Mary's eyes dilated. "Two." Then she said abruptly, "I do not remember him."

   Barbara smiled. "Oh, I do. He was tall and fair and always laughing, always. He used to bring me oranges in his pockets, and I would have to guess which pocket, and if I did not guess correctly he would swear he was going to give them to Dulcinea. As if cats eat oranges! Dulcinea is Grandmama's cat. Actually, it was not the same Dulcinea that your father knew. Grandmama always names her cats Dulcinea."

   "Mother does not like cats." Mary blurted the words out quickly as if she were a miser and words were gold and too much had fallen from her pocket before she could stop it.

   "No," Barbara said. "She would not. Do you have any pets?"

   Mary shook her head.

   "A dog? Not even a bird? Really, Mary! What a shame! You must get lonely in this big old house."

   Mary did not say anything. She lowered her head and looked at the floor. But she was not sulking. I begin to understand you, thought Barbara. You are lonely, and you notice many things, but you do not tell them. And you have learned not to trust people. But you can trust me. I know how to keep secrets. You are so much like Charlotte. I will write and tell her. Come, Mary, trust me, be my friend. To see if she would follow, Barbara walked back into one of the smaller, adjoining rooms. Mary followed, slowly, safely, from a distance. Barbara smiled to herself. It was like luring a bird. Mary stood at the doorway, watching Barbara with big eyes.

   "Where do my clothes go?" asked Barbara. Silently, Mary pointed to a door set so skillfully into the paneling that at first glance it was unnoticeable. Barbara opened it. The room was small and narrow, with an oak press at one end and pegs on the wall. Nearby was another door just like it. There was nothing in it but a narrow cot, for Barbara's maid. Barbara closed the door. She looked around her. It was perfect, except for that picture of her mother. She would have that moved if there was any discreet way to do it.

   "I think I will have tea in my small parlor," Barbara said, as if to herself. She turned suddenly and caught Mary watching. "Will you join me, Mary?"

   Mary nodded her head. A knock sounded. Barbara ran into her bedchamber and opened the door to two footmen who carried in her trunks and set them on the floor.

   "Where is your maid?" whispered Mary. She had followed Barbara in like a shadow.

   Barbara was kneeling down and unlocking one of the trunks. "I do not have one. I left her at Tamworth because she was bad. Surely your mama will have a chambermaid I can borrow. Look, Mary, in here."

   Barbara was lifting out a shallow tray that fitted across the top of the inside of the trunk. The tray had different–sized compartments with lids. Fascinated but wary, Mary hovered over her shoulder. Barbara opened one of the lids. Bright ribbons were curled inside each other. Mary sighed. Barbara took a red one from the bunch and held it out to Mary. Slowly, Mary took it. Barbara lifted up a piece of lace nestled in the center of the ribbons' curl.

   "This is from the sleeve of the man I love, Mary. He is the most handsome, the kindest man in the world, and I am going to marry him and have lots of babies. You will have to be godmother to one of my babies. Somewhere in here is a music box he gave me. I will show it to you later—but first—" She put the lace back carefully into its nest, and opened another compartment. It held her jewelry, her pearls, a few necklaces and earrings, and a miniature of her grandmother. She patted the floor beside her.

   "Sit down, Mary. I will show you a portrait of Grandmama. And I will tell you about my brothers and sisters, Harry, Tom, Kit, Charlotte, Anne, and Baby. You remind me of Charlotte. I would like to pretend you were my sister, if you do not mind. I feel so lonely here in London without them all. See, this is Grandmama. She looks very old and very stern here, and she is. She is very strict about manners. At Tamworth, I have to practice once a week with a carving master so that I shall know how to carve, and serve fish and fowl and beef properly. And I have to practice my music and my French—"

   Mary was nestled beside her, listening. Tentatively, she put her hand out and touched the edge of Barbara's skirt, then she drew it back quickly. But Barbara was satisfied. She felt a powerful, protective urge toward this small girl—it was a maternal streak within her toward all beings smaller and weaker than herself. And they loved her back for it. They could not help it.

   "My mama does not like yours." Mary stammered the words, and once they were out, she sat staring at Barbara in horror, as if she could not imagine how such a thing had happened. Her life lay in Barbara's hands, but Barbara gave her a quick hug.

   "I know," she said. "Not many people like my mother. Look, these were my first pearls. Grandmama gave them to me when I was thirteen. When you have tea with me today, I will let you wear them, and we can pretend you are a duchess, and I shall practice my manners on you. I have to have perfect manners. I am going to be a famous countess after I am married."

   "Oh, Barbara," sighed Mary, happier than she had been in her life. She listened to every word her older cousin had to say, storing it away to take out later and repeat inside her head. No one had paid such attention to her for as long as she could remember. Barbara had told her about her father. She had given her a red ribbon. She had many brothers and sisters, and one of them was like Mary. She was going to wear Barbara's pearls. She had told Barbara a terrible thing, and Barbara was not going to tattle on her. She began to love Barbara a little, with her small, lonely heart.

   Later, after a chambermaid arrived to unpack her trunks, and Mary had to go away to her lessons, Barbara sat in one of the window seats, the fat yellow cushions piled behind her back. She looked out on the rear gardens, the trees waving bare branches over graveled paths. Away from the trees were rows of pruned rosebushes, their brown arms ugly and stubby. They will be lovely in the spring, she thought, leaning her head against the chill of a windowpane. It was good to be here. It brought her closer to Roger. Surely if she were here, it meant the contracts were to be signed. He must be closer. Surely he would come to visit her here. There had to be a way she could find out what was happening. No one bothered to tell her anything, and they became angry at her if she asked. Not that they had to tell her, she was only a girl, and she knew her grandmama had spoiled her, always treating her as if her opinion were important, always letting her know what her future held. She was more fortunate than many girls. But it was hard to wait, hard to be patient, when others were deciding your future. She was not a patient person; it was her worst fault, her grandmother told her, that and her impulsiveness and her temper. She sighed for her grandmother, and for Roger, her prince, her dream. To her, he was always that handsome, tanned man sitting way, way up on a horse and laughing down at her and reaching forward to pull her up in the saddle before him. He was the man who had picked her up in his arms at her grandfather's funeral and hugged her and told her not to cry, when he was crying himself. She loved him with all her heart. She always would.

* * *

   Roger sat near the roaring fire that kept the water hot for the coffee and tea served at the St. James's coffeehouse. Rather than sitting at one of the long wooden trestle tables along with other customers, who were talking and gambling and smoking pipes, he had pulled his chair close to the iron rack holding the coffeepots and teapots; the rack was positioned in front of the fire so the pots would stay warn. A few feet from him, the cashier, Mrs. Blow, stood behind a waist–high counter. Patrons paid their penny to her and then were free to spend as much time as they liked drinking tea or coffee (or something stronger for extra). Some coffeehouses lured in customers with a beautiful cashier and pretty barmaids, but St. James's attracted its customers because of its proximity to the palace and, therefore, its access to foreign and domestic news. Roger came in to read its newsletters and pick up court gossip, just as he went to Lloyd's coffeehouse because Lloyd's specialized in news of shipping, to Jonathan's because it was frequented by London merchants and bankers and he could always find out the latest gossip about the stock market, to Garraway's because it sold the finest wines when it held its auctions, to Child's because it had a reputation for being patronized by London's most learned men, just as Will's had a reputation for having poets and wits as its prime customers.

   The first coffeehouse in London opened in 1650, sixty–five years ago, and now they were an institution in every man's life. All neighborhoods had one or two just around the corner (near the law courts, the students started their morning, still in their nightclothes, at the Grecian and Squire's and Searle's, and stayed there until noon, when they went home to change and go to court). A man went to read the latest news in the letters or journals and in the advertisements pinned to the walls; he went to idle away time; he went to smoke his pipe or dip his snuff in peace; he went to meet a friend or business associate; he went to pick up messages and letters he did not want to have delivered at home; he went because all men went and, eventually, he would run across friends and acquaintances and bear the gossip of city and court and abroad.

   In the St. James's coffeehouse, as in most coffeehouses, the smoke from pipes created a fog that hung suspended and visible in the air. Walpole and his brother and two other men were playing cards at a round table near the windows that overlooked the street. Roger had played for a while, but he had lost consistently and eventually quit. Now he sat reading a letter about news of the French court that Elliot, the proprietor, had given him. Elliot knew Roger was leaving for France in January and thought he might like to know the latest news. The letter really did not contain anything Roger did not already know: the regent was quarreling with his nephew, the King of Spain; the regent's daughter had disgraced herself by passing out into her brandied cream dessert at a dinner for the Prince of Venice; there were rumors circulating that the regent was dabbling in black magic in an effort to conjure up the Devil and have him kill the young king, Louis XV, under the regent's protection; the Scotsman John Law was the toast of the city, and Parisians were falling over themselves to give him luncheons and entertainments and listen to his every word as if he were an oracle from God; he and the regent were said to be planning a grand financial scheme that would pull France out of its perpetual near–bankruptcy. Roger refolded the letter and gave it back to a waiter. He was thinking about Law and how he must be sure to meet him when he was in France when Carlyle strolled in, spotted Roger immediately through the tobacco smoke, laid his pennies before Mrs. Blow, called to a waiter for a glass of wine, another to pull up a chair near Roger, and with greetings throughout the room, finally settled himself by Roger.

   Roger, feeling bored, was glad to see him. Carlyle would have all the latest gossip, and had, in fact, just come from Button's, where he had listened to the poet Alexander Pope read a few stanzas from his latest poem. There was talk that Addison and Steele might start another newsletter. Hearing Robert Walpole belch loudly from his table, Carlyle said Walpole's wife was rumored to be sleeping with Lord Hervey. Roger smiled. Walpole's wife was sleeping with him. It was accidental; too much wine and ennui; before, her snapping black eyes had seemed intriguing, after, they merely seemed the result of a bad temper. He was already tired of her, just as he was tired of everything these days. If she was interested in Hervey, he would gently prod her in that direction. She would remain a friend if it were she, rather than he, that ended it. He cared for Walpole too much to want his wife to come between them. Carlyle mentioned Walpole's debts; he was desperately short of money. Roger made a mental note to lend him several hundred pounds, it was the least he could do.

   Carlyle read Elliot's letter. To his disappointment, Roger said the black magic story was just that, a story spread by the regent's illegitimate cousins to discredit him. The regent did practice black magic; Roger had seen him do it in his basements in his palace, the Palais Royal, but he practiced it because he did not believe in God, and he was trying to test him by raising the Devil. If the Devil existed, said the regent, then so did God. His loyalty to the young king was absolute. Carlyle wanted to know more about the black magic. They talked about an old woman who had been burned at the stake for witchcraft in Chelsea. They talked of a new shop opening in the New Exchange and whether they would go at once or wait until the curious crowds left; of whether they would go to the theater that night; of the rumor that the Pretender, James III, was off the coast of Scotland. They talked of the news that Diana, Lady Alderley was now living with her nephew, the young Duke of Tamworth.