Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (29 page)

   "No, Grandmama. I am sure there is not." His surprise betrayed him into complete sentences.

   "Nonsense. There must be. You are Richard Saylor's grandson. The least of them, perhaps, but his grandson nonetheless. I want to thank you for your care of Barbara. I would have thought you so under your mother's thumb that you would not say boo to a goose. I was wrong about you, boy. I freely admit it. I am proud of you, Tony. You acted like a gentleman. You acted like the best of Richard Saylor's grandsons!"

   Tony's face had gotten redder and redder with each word. He mumbled something, out of which the Duchess understood only "Did what I should" and "Love Barbara, also."

   She stared at him with narrowed eyes. What did he mean? Could he… had he…had her Barbara captured Tony's heart, the heart his mother kept in safekeeping, under lock and key?

   "Speak up, boy," she snapped. "Spit it out."

   "Love Barbara, Grandmama," he got out. "Have for weeks. Almost since I first saw her. Would marry her if Devane will not. Damn fool if he does not."

   Sweet Jesus in his heaven above, thought the Duchess, what have we here? Tony and Barbara. They were cousins, but it was legal. And it would make Barbara the Duchess of Tamworth. But then, there was Tony as the duke.

   "How does your mother feel about this?"

   Tony looked down at the buckles on his shoes.

   "I see," said the Duchess. "You know Barbara has deep feelings for Lord Devane, do you not?"

   Tony nodded his head and, in a surprising burst of eloquence said, "It does not matter. I do not blame her. He is a handsome man. Elegant. Everything I am not. But I love her, Grandmama, and I could take care of her. I would."

   "Tony." The Duchess smiled at him. "Give me another kiss. You are your father's son after all. No, I will not give you permission to court her yet. It is too soon. But I love you for it. Now go away."

* * *

   Abigail wiped at the perspiration on her palms once again. In one hour, she had fifteen guests arriving to celebrate the arrival of the new year. Since six this evening, the knocking at her door had not stopped and each time it was something for the Duchess: flowers, presents, invitations, red roses from the king himself. How did they know she was in town when she had only arrived day before yesterday? And she had had to spend thirty minutes this afternoon listening to her housekeeper explain that she did the best she could and that if the Duchess of Tamworth was not satisfied she would, of course, resign. This, before an evening party! And it seemed that Anne and Charlotte and Mary (Mary!) had gotten into the kitchen and eaten most of the candied fruit prepared for this evening, and the cook had taken twenty minutes of her time swearing that he would not work in such a disorganized household and moaning that his supper buffet was ruined.

   She had soothed the housekeeper and the cook. She had sent for the three little girls and talked severely to them, spasms she could not control crossing her face each time she looked at Anne and Charlotte. When she had rung for her footman to deliver a message, she had found that he was busy delivering for the Duchess—again. The Duchess had been gone all yesterday afternoon with Barbara and the girls without a word as to where she was going. But she had found time to reduce her housekeeper to jelly and to talk with Tony. And now Abigail was summoned, an hour before her first guest. She wiped at her hands again and surveyed herself in the mirror. She looked regal, majestic, mature. She wore a dark blue velvet gown, with white lace at the neck and sleeves. Her bosom swelled up satisfactorily, and her sapphires glittered handsomely there. She had done what she thought was correct, done the best for all concerned. She had merely suggested that Roger's terms might not be fair. Nothing more, nothing less. She had offered to find a younger, better husband. She had been—quite naturally—offended by Barbara's conduct. But she had never raised a hand against her. She had nothing to blame herself for. Nothing. Surely, Tony's feelings for Barbara were the result of proximity. They would fade when the girl returned to Tamworth with her grandmother. Thank God the Duchess knew nothing about it. Abigail wiped again at the perspiration on her hands. She had nothing to blame herself for. She had done the best for all concerned, as she always did.

   "I only did what I thought was best, Mother Saylor," she said, standing before the Duchess, regal and calm in her blue gown, her soft, fleshy face betraying nothing of what she was feeling. It irked her that the Duchess should be seated like a queen, that she should have to walk across the room and wait until the Duchess spoke to her, for all the world as if she were a schoolgirl. But she betrayed none of her irritation. That would be playing into the Duchess's hand. She explained her position calmly and rationally. Montgeoffry was so much older. His reputation was dissolute. She felt that Barbara would be overwhelmed by his way of life, that she might be corrupted.

   "And Bentwoodes!" snapped the Duchess.

   "Bentwoodes?" echoed Abigail, not by so much as a blink indicating the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

   "You had no interest in Bentwoodes, then?" asked the Duchess, her dark snapping eyes on Abigail. Abigail tried to ignore the feeling that they could see to the bottom of her soul. She carefully explained that she had merely made a suggestion that Diana do a little more research, that she not undersell the land. Nothing more, nothing less. She had no personal interest in the land. None at all. She had tried to do her duty toward her niece. Surreptitiously, she wiped her hands on the sides of her gown, still managing to look at her mother-in-law serenely.

   "What will happen to Bentwoodes now, do you think, Abigail?"

   She shrugged. It was, of course, none of her affair. "The land is worthless undeveloped. Diana ought to sell it and use the cash to finance Barbara's—"

   "If the land is worthless, why did you not encourage Diana to snap at Roger's offer?"

   She wanted Diana to get the most for the land, knowing as she did Diana's financial situation. She never meant for the negotiations to falter. But again, she was not too upset; because she had never felt Roger Montgeoffry was a man her niece ought to marry. He was too—

   "Thank you, Abigail," the Duchess interrupted. "Inform Diana I am too tired to see her tonight. Give your guests my regards and tell them I wish them a prosperous New Year. I will not come downstairs tonight."

   The Duchess sat back. Abigail, for all her greedy, managing ways, had a sense of duty. Roger might not be the husband for Barbara, whatever his riches. That snippet of gossip had come to her mind again. Ridiculous, but in the old days, he had gone from one woman to the next, kind, laughing, charming, but unfaithful nonetheless. Diana said he had settled. Who knew? It might be better for Barbara that she not marry the man. He was too old for her. Too old to change. Now that the marriage seemed to be botched, perhaps, after all, it was the Lord's will. Perhaps she ought to take Barbara back to Tamworth with her and live with her tears for a year.

   There was a scratching at the door. Annie, glancing at the Duchess, who looked tired, shook her head, but the Duchess gestured that she should open it. Barbara came in, a tissue-wrapped package in her hand. Already today, to the Duchess's eye, she looked better. Still thin, but more light to her face, though when she did not realize her grandmother was watching, the Duchess had seen such a stricken look in her eyes that it had pierced her to the heart. She opened her arms, and Barbara ran and hugged her.

   "Do you go to Abigail's party?" She patted Barbara's thin face fondly.

   Barbara shook her head. "I am still in disgrace in Aunt's eyes, and, in truth, Grandmama, I do not feel much like celebrating. I will make my curtsies to the guests and retire with Mary and Anne and Charlotte. I came here to give you your gift early. Already gifts are piled up for you, and I knew mine would be lost in all the others. Here, Grandmama. Happy New Year."

   The Duchess opened the rustling tissue. Inside was a pair of gloves, so soft they felt like rose petals, dyed a dark forest green.

   "Smell them, Grandmama."

   The Duchess held them to her nose. They were scented with essence of jasmine.

   "It is Roger's favorite scent, Grandmama."

   Roger. The Duchess laid down the gloves. She gestured for Barbara to lean forward and held her face in her hands, kissing each cheek and staring into the girl's eyes before she released her.

   "Your grandmother is tired," Annie grumbled from her chair nearby.

   "Go away, Annie," said the Duchess. "I must speak privately with Barbara." They waited until Annie closed the door behind her. Then Barbara turned, eyes shining with such expectation in them that the Duchess was taken aback.

   "What if I told you, Barbara, that I thought it best to leave everything as it is…" Before she could finish her sentence, Barbara went down on her knees before her.

   "No, Grandmama! I love him so. I will die without him!"

   "You do not know him, child!" she said, taking Barbara's hands in hers. Great tears were welling up in the corners of Barbara's eyes. She shook her head stubbornly.

   "Let him go to France," the Duchess urged. "You come back to Tamworth with me. I will arrange for an exchange of letters between you. That will give you time to know if—"

   "If he goes away, I will lose him, Grandmama! I know that in my deepest heart. And if I lose him, I think I will die."

   She was silent. This girl before her was someone she did not know anymore. Once, she had known every corner of her heart. Or had she? It frightened her to see the depth, the sincerity of Barbara's emotion. There was obviously only one solution Barbara wanted. Last night, it had seemed easy. Tonight, Abigail's objections raised doubts. A woman belonged to her husband, body, soul, property, once they married. If he was a drunkard, a sadistic madman, a lecher, a brute, a wife bore her lot as best she could. Caring parents tried to choose a sane, sensible man who would be good to their daughters in the long term. Many, however, simply sold their girls to the highest bidder, the one with the fanciest title and the most money. It was a contest the parents waged, seeing who could make the best bargain for their time and money. Staring at Barbara's tearstained face, the Duchess was reminded unpleasantly of the young Diana, so many years ago, pleading for her Kit.

   "Please, Grandmama! Please, I know you can fix—"

   "Bah! Go away, Bab. You have made me tired with all your tears."

   Tired and frightened. She had come here to do the best for her girl, but now she was not sure what was the best. Obviously only seeing Roger himself could decide her. She was tired, and her legs, those traitors, those constant reminders of her age and frailty, were beginning to ache. She had been too active today, hopping about as if she were a young girl. She would pay for it tonight and tomorrow. She would have to remain in bed nearly all day. But that was good, she needed the respite.

* * *

   All across the city of London and Westminster, church bells began to ring out the news of the approaching new year of Our Lord, 1716. The bells would ring tonight at midnight, and tomorrow, to celebrate New Year's Day. Everyone who could afford it would be wearing new clothes as they attended the king's reception or visited friends and relatives to play cards and deliver New Year's gifts. When the hour of midnight struck, doors throughout the city would swing open as people unbarred them to let out the old and bring in the new. Everyone would watch for signs of the new year's luck: the first person to enter a house on the new year was a sign, good luck if it was a dark-haired man, bad luck if it was a woman. Bibles would be dragged from their boxes as family members dipped, an old-fashioned custom of randomly picking a verse from the Bible to indicate the year's luck.

   Roger and his friends were gathered about a huge silver wassail bowl. In it was the traditional "lamb's wool" ale: nutmeg, sugar, toast, and roasted apples. A garland of rosemary and bay and blue and gold ribbons was twisted around its base. Walpole and Carlyle, White and Montrose, Townshend and his wife, Catherine Walpole, the Duke and Duchess of Montagu, and Carr Hervey lifted up cups of the steaming ale and cried, "Wass hael," ancient Saxon for "To your health." The meaning was forgotten, but the gesture was part of heritage. Everyone was already a little drunk, and by midnight they would be drunker still. Catherine Walpole tried to catch Roger's eye, but he was talking to her husband. She turned to Carr Hervey, who was smiling at her, and lifted her cup. Silently, they toasted a new year to each other. No one mentioned Roger's failed plans. He seemed not to care at all. Bentwoodes might never have existed. All his talk was of France.

   "I might be gone for years," Roger told his friends. "I might explore the whole world."

   "That is the lamb's wool talking," said Walpole.

   "That is a disappointment," said Carlyle, but no one was listening to him.

* * *

Barbara sat on her bed. The bells were ringing. Her Bible, especially made for her at her confirmation, lay open on the bed. It was covered with soft, scrolled, embossed leather, and the arms of Tamworth and Alderley were engraved on the front and back covers, and in gold on the front pages. Mary, Charlotte, and Anne, all wide–eyed, sat on her bed. She had promised them, in her happiness of the afternoon, that tonight at midnight, they would dip. Now she felt like doing nothing except lying on her bed. There was such a weight on her heart that it hurt each time it beat. If she lived through this, she would never, never love again. It was too painful. If she lived through this, it did not matter whom they married her to; it would be years and years before she recovered.

   "Bab, it is Mary's turn," Charlotte said.

   Barbara handed the Bible to Mary, who shut her eyes tightly, fumbled with the pages, and finally jabbed her finger down.

   "'Blessed are the meek,"' Barbara read for her, "'for they shall inherit the earth."'