Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (20 page)

   Carlyle relayed this news (which Roger already knew) with special glee; he felt his gossip had been responsible for the move. After all, it was the least he could do for his dear friend Roger and that young child he was planning to marry. Had the contracts been signed yet? Carlyle wanted to know. He was as interested in this marriage as if it were his own. Roger told him no; they argued whether it would be proper for Roger to send New Year's presents to Barbara if she was not yet formally engaged to him; Carlyle saying no, Roger saying they had already been purchased. They talked of Roger's coming trip, and of the several huge receptions he was holding for the coming Christmas season. Carlyle mentioned that he had seen Diana going into Child's Bank, the bank Abigail, Lady Saylor patronized. Roger said that was indeed interesting and asked Carlyle what color he ought to redo the rooms in his town house that would be allotted to Barbara as her bedroom and withdrawing chambers. They could not agree on a color. They decided to go to Button's and see if Pope was still there; Roger wanted to hear the poem. How long was she in Child's Bank? Roger asked. Really, Carlyle said, he did not know.

* * *

   "Exactly what do you mean?" Roger was frowning, a thing he seldom did, and there was a bite in his voice. Craven, his solicitor of the firm Craven, Waddill and Civins, shifted in his seat. He was a fat, short man with permanent snuff stains on his yellowed teeth. He cleared his throat.

   "Ah… well, sir, it seems that Lady Diana suddenly thinks the terms too, ah…hem…too small, sir."

   "I know there was some slight disagreement on a cash settlement, but surely not enough for us to quibble about, Craven."

   "Twenty thousand pounds, sir."

   Roger opened, then closed his mouth. He seemed, for the moment, unable to speak. Craven nodded his head in sympathy.

   "Yes, sir, quite understandable. It came as quite a shock to us when Lady Alderley's lawyers mentioned the amount. It seems that Lady Alderley feels that she should have something for the long term—"

   "The long term?"

   "Their words, sir, not mine. If you are not willing to give her a percentage of the fees from the rental of buildings and homes, sir, she wants cash instead."

   "There was no settlement ever planned for her, other than stock, and there are no buildings and homes, Craven. I must expend a great deal of money to build them!"

   "Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Ah, however, Lady Alderley seems to feel that either a cash settlement or a percentage is in order."

   "Abigail!" said Roger softly. He slammed an open palm on his desk.

   "Excuse me, sir?"

   "Nothing! I was thinking aloud. I understand you clearly, I think. This money is not toward Mistress Barbara's settlements, it is above and beyond the money I have already lent Lady Alderley, in addition to the debts and mortgages I would pay off?"

   Craven nodded his head. Roger looked at the litter of papers on his desk. Many of them were drawings and sketches of buildings, and among them were cost estimates and construction schedules. He had already spent a great deal of money and time on Bentwoodes. It seemed impossible that now he might not have it after all.

   "Shall I, ah…break off negotiations, sir?"

   "No! No, Craven. Do not allow them to upset you. Anger and business do not mix."

   He took a deep breath, his eyes bright blue with anger. He waved the lawyer away and went to stand by the window that overlooked St. James's Square. Outside, the lightest of snows was beginning to fall. The lamplighters had already lit the lanterns that towered every few feet above the iron railing that surrounded the fountain at the center of the square. The lights twinkled in the soft dusk. Below him, a wagon filled with greenery, wreaths of holly and bay, loop after loop of laurel and box, was being unloaded. He could see White and Montrose arguing with each other. They were like two schoolboys. He had put them in charge of decorating the house for Christmas. He intended to entertain royally—there were dinners and musical receptions and card parties planned. He wanted his tables groaning with food and wine, his house shining with Christmas candles and greenery. He had thought to celebrate his leaving for France and his coming marriage and Bentwoodes during the holidays. Wren had two assistants even now creating a plaster facsimile of his master plan that he was going to display atop a table for his guests to see. And now it might all go up in smoke because of a woman's greed. He drew his brows together.

   Below him, White and Montrose noticed him standing in the window and waved. But he did not wave back. Bentwoodes was his dream, the chance to put himself among the truly great families, to create something that would forever be a memorial to himself, to what he had achieved. To build it the way he wished to, he was going to have to sell many of his bonds and stocks and slowly liquidate the assets his bankers had painstakingly stockpiled for him. He was going against their advice. It was going to be enormously expensive. But his children, his grandchildren, would reap the benefits from the prestige, the rentals, the business that would be created. In one way, Diana was adroit to want something of that future. But she was risking no investment of her own. She was not creating the dream; he was. Somehow, there had to be a way to make her understand. Somehow, there had to be a way to achieve his dream. He would hang on to his temper; he would be reasonable. He would take the figures to his business manager again and rework them; there might be some percentage they could accord Diana. He would see. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying not to let the anger building inside him overwhelm him. Abigail and Diana and his own rage would not outwit him; he would not let them. A chance like Bentwoodes would not come his way again. He felt it in his bones.

* * *

   Barbara sat at an elegant writing table in one of the rooms adjoining her bedchamber. The table had graceful, curved legs and a top that curled down and locked. Inside was a flat writing surface and many little cubbyholes in which to put papers and letters. A fat letter to her grandmother lay folded, needing only Tony's seal and signature to send it on its way. She wrote her grandmother about Roger; told her that from this very roof she could look over to St. James's Square, where Roger lived. With Christmas coming, each day was busy, she wrote. (And Roger did not call, she did not write.) Many friends of her aunts visited, and she had to be introduced, and often her aunt had her stay and pour tea. She had seen Fanny's home and Fanny's dear little baby and two small children. She was taking watercolor and dancing lessons with Mary. In the afternoons, if there was no company, Tony took Mary and her for a drive. Grandmama would be happy to know that Aunt Saylor ran her life according to a strict schedule. Barbara might eat a late supper with the adults, if they were not engaged to dine out, but then she must work on her needlepoint and go to bed. The mornings were assigned tasks: writing letters, reading from approved books, lessons (watercolor, geography, dance, French, spinet); afternoons were for visiting or receiving guests.

   Barbara took out a fresh sheet of paper. She was going to write to Jane, who should be in London by now, and invite her to tea. In the bedchamber, Martha, the maid her aunt had assigned to her, moved into her line of vision. Barbara stuck her tongue out at the maid's back. Martha was a heavy, stern woman with dark eyebrows that met over her nose. Martha had thwarted her plan to write to Roger. In order to write clandestinely to a gentleman, a girl needed a maid who could be trusted to deliver messages. One look at Martha had convinced her the woman would go straight to her aunt. Somehow, though, she was going to see Roger. She lifted her chin; her grandmother would have recognized her determination immediately, but her aunt did not know her well enough, and her mother paid no attention.

* * *

   "I really do not see that this entire evening is necessary," Abigail said to Tony. They were both waiting in the great parlor for Diana and Barbara to come downstairs. Tony wore a new wig, a silver brocade coat and a white dimity embroidered waistcoat with black velvet breeches. He looked like a pale pear. Abigail was pulling on the lace at his sleeves as she spoke.

   "After all, Diana has been to the theater any number of times, and Barbara is far too young, in my opinion, to go. Theatergoing has a bad reputation, Tony, a reputation you might not wish to put on your young cousin."

   "Will protect her, Mother."

   Abigail did not like the way he said that.

   "Pooh! She needs no protection. Let her be, Tony. Enjoy yourself. Do not spend our evening watching over a country cousin
.
See them into your box and leave at the first interval to visit your own friends. Barbara will not be expecting you to hang over her all night—"

   She did not finish her sentence because Barbara came dancing into the room. Even Abigail had to admit she looked very pretty in a primrose–colored gown and a white petticoat, pearls around her neck and in her ears. She looked young and fresh and virginal.

   "Tony, I am so excited!" she said, clapping her hands. "Tell me again what we are going to see!"

   "A farce called
The Cheats of Scapin.
A comedy of two acts called
The Comical Rivals
with Italian sonatas by Signor Gasperini. The Devonshire Girl will dance. Two French girls will walk across the rope. Their father will present the 'Newest Humors of Harlequin' as performed before the young King of France, and Mr. Evans of Vienna will show astonishing tricks performed by his wonder horse, Hercules."

   Tony had carefully, painstakingly memorized the program. Abigail stared at him, a suspicion forming in her mind that was so preposterous it died before she could fully formulate it.

   "I cannot wait; I have never seen anyone walk across a rope! Aunt, Tony says it is suspended high above the stage! And the Devonshire Girl is supposed to be so graceful! And Tony says he will take us to supper afterward at Pontac's, which is famous for its food!"

   Barbara's gushing enthusiasm was irritating. "Supper?" Abigail said coolly. "It will be quite late—"

   "Only nine, Aunt. The entertainment is concluded at nine. We should be home by eleven, not late at all! Tony, help me fasten my glove! It has come undone."

   Abigail watched her son obediently bend over the wrist Barbara held so imperiously out to him. He seemed to take longer than necessary fumbling with the tiny pearl buttons. Abigail watched his plump face closely. She pursed her lips. He looked far too happy, but before she could think of something to make him unhappy, Diana glided into the room. She wore a gown of royal blue satin that pushed up her breasts provocatively. In her hair were diamonds and sapphires; they matched the necklace about her throat. Where on earth had they come from? thought Abigail, quickly assessing their value. They must have been in the trunks they had gotten for her. She had only to pawn those jewels to have money for half a year.

   All Barbara could think of, seeing the way her mother was dressed, the way she had a patch at the corner of her left eye and at the corner of her mouth, was how much she wanted to be grown up, to wear powder and patches and rouge. She had tried to bully Martha tonight into letting her wear just a touch of rouge on her cheeks and lips, but Martha had shaken her head no. "Lady Saylor would not like it, miss. It is not seemly." Barbara did not want a maid who told her what was seemly. She wanted a maid who knew all the latest fashions and so made her fashionable and desirable, like her mother. If she were allowed to display more breast (not that she had much, but corsets worked wonders with what little there was if they were tied properly), if she wore paint and powder, Roger would fall at her feet. As it was, she had to do her best in primrose and pearls.

   "When will I see Lord Devane?" she asked her mother, saying the words that were always on her mind. Diana looked at Abigail. Abigail looked at one of the war murals.

   "Soon," Diana said carelessly.

   Barbara did not answer; she was thinking about the look she had seen pass between her mother and her aunt and her feeling that it boded no good.

   Signor Gasperini was already in the midst of one of his ringing arias when they arrived at the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane. A porter showed them to their box; it was situated with others under a wooden gallery. In front of the boxes was the pit, a large space facing the stage in which benches covered in green matting were placed. The pit was seething with people, people who were paying little attention to Signor Gasperini. Both men and women sat there; but mostly men, men who were talking, playing cards, flirting with the women present, and some who were standing up and leisurely surveying who was in the boxes. It was easy to see who might be there because the stage was brightly lit by candles hanging in large chandeliers stage left and stage right and by candles placed along the edge of the stage. Contributing to the noise were porters busily collecting tickets. Young women carrying baskets of oranges tied round their necks with a ribbon sold the fruit for refreshment.

   Robert Walpole and Tommy Carlyle were both in the pit, though not together. Carlyle was one of those standing, and since he was tall and hulking, he obscured the view of those on the benches behind him. There was much hissing and booing for him to sit down, but he ignored it, as did Signor Gasperini on the stage. Carlyle continued languidly to survey the boxes. He saw Tony enter with Diana and Barbara, and he saw the Duke and Duchess of Montagu in the next box. He waved his hand until the Duchess of Montagu noticed him. She was a dark–haired woman with a sulky mouth. She waved her fan at him. He pointed to the next box, where Tony was helping Diana and Barbara with their cloaks. By now, their entrance had attracted the attention of others in the pit. It was Diana's first recent appearance in public, and since few people had seen Barbara, although much had been said about her, everyone was curious to see how she looked. Three or four other people were standing up in the pit, pointing to Tony's box and discussing the people in it.