Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (27 page)

   Barbara stared at her mother. "I would never—" she began, but Abigail interrupted her,

    "Diana, she was only gone for an hour! Heaven knows I am as angry and upset as you. Barbara Alderley, young ladies do not wander about London unescorted, as you well know! Your reputation will be ruined if anyone finds out! When Martha told me you were missing, I thought I would die on the spot—what with twenty people invited tonight, and half of them here in ten minutes—"

   "Do not tell me what can be accomplished in an hour. I, of all people, know. And, after all, she is my daughter."

   Diana's voice cut through Abigail's words like a knife. She sat in her chair, dressed in her favorite color, deep red, her necklace glittering around her neck, and to Barbara, she was the personification of evil and malice. Slowly, deliberately, she stood up. Both Abigail and Barbara watched her, fascinated.

   "Tell me once more what happened, O daughter of mine. Have you spoiled it all for me?" Her low voice was beautiful, like honey, like velvet.

   "I—I told you. I wanted to take a walk, and I—became lost and—"

   The force of her mother's fist sent her crashing to the floor. Pain exploded in her head, red, orange, yellow. Everywhere. She was sick with it. Slowly it began to concentrate itself on the left side of her face. She tried to understand what had happened.

   "Merciful heavens!" cried Abigail, running to Barbara and kneeling beside her.

   "Barbara! Barbara! Are you all right? Tony! For God's sake, help me!"

   Tony, returning, came at a run. There was a metallic taste in Barbara's mouth—blood. Before she could help herself, she spit it onto the yellow crushed velvet skirt of her aunt.

    "Dear God!" shrieked Abigail. In her haste to stand up, she somehow unbalanced the turban on her head and it fell off and went rolling under a corner china cabinet. Abigail's hair was dirty and flattened by the turban. She put her hands to it. "Oh, no!" she said.

   The left side of Barbara's face had become one throbbing blood-red pain. She did not think she could stand up without falling. She looked up at Diana.

   "I hate you," she said wearily.

   Diana made a movement toward her, but Tony put himself in front of her. His pale, plump face was angry. Angry and disgusted.

   "Stay away from her, Aunt Diana! I mean it! Mother, I hold you responsible for this entire scene!" It was the first time in years that he had spoken in complete sentences, but everyone was too upset to notice. He turned back to Barbara and helped her up. She leaned against him, thanking God that he was there.

   "Me!" shrieked Abigail, who was on her hands and knees trying to fish her turban from under the cabinet. She pulled herself upright. The sound of ripping material filled her ears. Somehow, her heel had caught the edge of her skirt and she had ripped part of the waist away from the gown.

   "It is Diana!" she shrieked. "Diana!" It seemed to be the only word she could manage. The blood Barbara had spit on her was centered, large and red, directly on her lower abdomen.

   "Tony! Tony!" she cried, but he did not answer. He led Barbara away. In the hallway, Barbara began to cry, and it made her face hurt even more.

   "Bab, do not cry. I will protect you. I promise."

   "Oh, Tony," she sobbed.

   Bates waited until they were on their way up the stairs. Quickly, he wiped perspiration from his upper lip. He had had the presence of mind to put the guests in an adjoining parlor. Then he opened the door to the great parlor. Abigail, her dirty hair plastered to her head, was on her hands and knees in front of a china cabinet. Diana stood by the fireplace, not a hair out of place, beautiful, serene. Bates spoke to the portrait above the fireplace.

   "Your guests, madame, have arrived."

* * *

Barbara lay on her bed. The left side of her face was swollen, the side of her tongue was swollen and raw where the force of Diana's blow had caused her to bite it, her head ached, and her eye was turning black. No ice or any kind of poultice had been brought to her. Martha was nowhere to be found. Tony had put her to bed himself. She hated Martha, but it was a feeble thing compared to how she hated her mother. Grandmama, she whispered into the darkness. She held the thought that her grandmother would be coming soon around her like a warm cloak. She did not even have the strength left to cry.

* * *

   The Duchess was resting. Tonight she must sit for several hours downstairs in the servants' hall and watch the annual Christmas Eve play they would present in her honor. It was always written and directed by Perryman, who also acted the chief part, a parody of herself. Perryman would be dressed in an old gown and wear a badly fitted wig and would scream at servants and limp about, and the younger servants, who were not allowed in the play, would giggle and laugh, as would the children, as would she, though Perryman created basically the same production every year. There was a lord of misrule running in and out of the plot; he turned her household upside down; she was hunting for him everywhere, under cushions, in the soup pot; somehow St. George and his dragon made an appearance, one of the footmen showed off fancy footwork in a sword dance, and various other odds and ends were thrown in for good measure. She would laugh and nod, as she must. Their hearts would be broken if she were not delighted. Vicar would come with Sir John Ashford and his wife to watch it with her.

   It had become an annual tradition, Sir John always declaring that they had not made her mean and stubborn enough, and that Perryman was too fat to do the part justice. Vicar would give a small speech afterward, something about her generosity and Christian charity; all the servants, still in their costumes made of bits and pieces of old dresses and rags, as well as those in the audience, would cheer. The whole household would then troop into the great hall, where her grandson Tom would light the Christmas log and everyone would toast it with a glass of ale. The servants would leave to make sure everything was ready for tomorrow, when she gave a great feast in the hall, to which every servant and tenant came, as well as friends. All along a wooden trestle table, a table far older than she, a table that had been used in her father's time, and great–grandfather's time, a table that had been used back in the times when Henry VIII sat on the throne. Faces would glow up and down its long sides, waiting for the crowning glory, the boar's head, borne in on a tray as long as and wider than Anne, an apple in his mouth, surrounded with a wreath of apple and rosemary. It was an old tradition, one that many households no longer celebrated, but boar's head at Christmas was one of Tamworth's traditions. Then in would come the Christmas pies and the puddings, roast goose, turkey, quail, mincemeat pies, apple tarts, nuts, and cheese. All afternoon they would feast. There would be church in the morning, carolers tonight, and Christmas box—tips to servants—throughout the next twelve days.

   She must attend a supper at Squire's and a dinner at Vicar's and a card party at Sir John's. The children would be going here and there to different parties held throughout the county. And so would she. But, oh, it was all different this year without Barbara. How she missed her Barbara. She had half a mind to bundle up the children and herself and descend on Abigail for the New Year, just to see that child with her own eyes. It was Barbara who ramrodded the finding of the Yule log and the wreathing of the evergreens. It was Barbara who had somehow weasled herself into the Christmas play since she was eleven, and convulsed the servants with laughter each year playing a lazy, dirty, insubordinate maid to Perryman's Duchess. It was Barbara who sang the clearest as they sang the old Christmas carols and drank their Christmas wassail of ale and nutmeg and sugar and roasted apples floating in the great silver bowl. It was Barbara who brought life into this old house, and she had never realized it as much as she had realized it this month or so that the girl had been gone.

   She found herself listening for her footsteps around every corner; found herself straining to hear Barbara's voice among the children. When she looked out her window and saw her grandchildren playing in the snow, her eyes instinctively looked for Barbara, no longer there. And it was not just she who missed the girl. The children moped and whined and cried and misbehaved worse than they ever had. Poor Henley was going out of her mind. Even Annie, who had a longstanding feud with Barbara, who considered her impetuous and headstrong (true), who considered it her sacred duty to turn Barbara into a docile lady, missed the girl; each day since she had left, the Duchess had expected a letter. She knew Diana too well not to worry. That was why she had written her sister–in–law, Louisa. But Louisa's reply had been unsatisfactory. There was only one long letter from Barbara, written just two weeks ago from Saylor House. The Duchess had read it and reread it until she had it memorized. She had then had to read it to the children and to Annie and to Perryman, and the housekeeper, and the cook, who passed along the news to the lesser servants. Drat that girl, they all missed her.…

   Strange were the ways of the Lord that one of Diana's children (Diana, her failure) should have come to mean so much to her, as her life entered its cycle of grief…her sons dying one by one, and Richard changing…that fine, clear, dear mind of his going…grief…yes, that was grief…and the further he moved from her, the more she had come to need the child Barbara, who looked much as she imagined Richard must have looked as a child, who became the daughter Diana should have been. And was not. With Barbara's presence, she could accept Richard's death, accept the gaping, dark hole it tore into her life, for he had been the center of her world, well or ill, the center. At the last, though her heart broke with what he had become, she still must plot with Annie over what would tempt him to eat, save bits and pieces of village gossip for him to laugh at, worry over his health, fuss over this and that. Her center…yes, Barbara had given her a reason to go on with life, for she must see this girl grown, and grow she had, into a woman, making her own life now, and the Duchess felt as if she had another hole in her heart. She had not realized she would miss the chit so.

   When Barbara married Roger, she would send for the other children; the Duchess knew it. Barbara was their real mother, not Diana, who had spit them loveless from her body and left them. And then who would the Duchess have? She pursed her lips. She was old, too old now for the turmoil of young children and yet…perhaps she would move near to Barbara. Yes. Live near enough to watch her grandchildren and her great–grandchildren grow up. Abigail was always panting to add to Tony's legacy. Let him have this dower house in exchange for a London property. Where she might see them all whenever she wished. Ah, there was Annie, cross old stick. Annie missed Barbara almost as much as the Duchess and the children did. She sat up straighter. Annie was bringing letters. The Duchess enjoyed her letters; friends and relatives kept her informed of gossip and family business. An hour or more each afternoon was spent dictating replies to Annie, so voluminous was her correspondence. She might no longer want to rule the family, but she still enjoyed knowing what was going on and commenting upon it. Annie was almost smiling. What was this?

   The Duchess accepted a letter and recognized at once Barbara's sprawling handwriting. She ripped open the seal and then read the four sentences: "Come to London, Grandmama. I am in desperate trouble. I have been bad. Please, please come."

   "What is it, madame?"

   The sharpness in Annie's voice jerked her back to herself. Her girl was in trouble! The Duchess did not stop to think why or how. She only knew that this child, the child of her heart, needed her. It felt good to be needed. She stood up.

   "We are going to London, Annie," she said fiercely. Vigor and purpose flooded her tired old bones. "Our girl needs us, Annie." No more needed to be said.

* * *

   It was only two days before New Year's Day. Festivities at Saylor House had proceeded as usual; Abigail held card parties and dinners, teas and suppers, but Barbara's presence hung over the holiday gaiety like a pall. She stayed in her room; there was no need to lock her in, she refused to leave. She was not eating; the trays sent up kept being returned with hardly anything touched. The servants were talking about it; everyone knew Diana had slapped her though no one quite knew why. Abigail, playing cards, entertaining guests, had to pretend that everything was normal when it was far from being so. The immediate family knew, of course. Barbara had poured her heart out to Fanny the next day. And though Fanny said nothing, Abigail had the strangest feeling that somehow she was considered to be to blame. And what had she done but prevent her niece from making a serious mistake? Mary moped about the house like a beggar's child. Every time Abigail looked up, those pale blue eyes of her younger daughter would be staring at her with blame in them. She had not slapped Barbara! Diana had!

   She sat now in the great parlor, sipping tea. Fanny and Harold were here and Tony and Diana and Mary. At the sight of Diana, greedily licking crumbling cake from her fingers and outrageously flirting with Harold, Abigail's blood began to boil. Tony, her Tony, without half a brain in his head, the boy she had schemed and planned and thought about for years, had come to her bedchamber late last night to tell her he thought that when Barbara had had time to heal from her attachment to Lord Devane, that he would like to court her. Abigail had sat on her bed, night cream plastered on her face, a rag tied around her head and under her chin to stop its sagging, and literally been unable to speak. Barbara and Tony. It was beyond bearing. And the irony was that Tony could have Bentwoodes anyway. Diana was going to sell it to him. (Abigail had somehow not explained all this yet to Tony.) Dear God, could there be a God when he sent this kind of news for a mother to bear? Tony and Barbara. The thought made Abigail shudder. How Diana would laugh if she knew.

   Merciful heavens, sitting here now, with that child upstairs pacing up and down, growing thinner by the day, a pall over every holiday joy, seeing Diana across from her, eating her food, sleeping on her bed, borrowing her money, and then looking at Tony and knowing that he was in love with a headstrong, impetuous hoyden, well, it was literally more than Abigail could bear. She had thought she could bear no more the afternoon that awful Maude Berkley had been witness to as appalling a scene as any on the stage. She had thought she could bear no more when her gown was bloodstained and torn and her turban was beyond reach and five guests out of the twenty invited were already there. She had thought she could bear no more when Roger Montgeoffry had strolled in with Barbara on his arm and Abigail had no idea what he was going to say or what had occurred. Well, it was nothing compared to Tony's declaration last night. She had simply been bereft of speech. And Tony, mindless idiot that he was, had taken her silence for acquiescence and had kissed her and said that he was glad she did not oppose his choice. Abigail's cup of gall was full. There was nothing else that could happen to her.