Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (35 page)

   Again there was a commotion on the landing. The eyes of everyone in the hall, except Diana, who had found a mirror, turned to the stairs expectantly. The Duchess appeared, Annie at her side. Slowly, she began the descent down the stairs. Behind her came Anne, Charlotte, and Mary. They wore small wreaths of roses in their hair, which was brushed long and full onto their shoulders, like Barbara's. All three were obviously proud of their new gowns and shoes and could not resist she nodded his head, as if to say, The old woman looks grand, as grand as she has ever looked.

   A kind of sigh arose. Everyone was staring up at Barbara, waiting there at the top of the stairs, so that everyone could see and admire her. (The servants would talk about how she looked for weeks. For some of the serving girls, it would be the single most beautiful memory in their lives.) Barbara smiled all her love and joy at the family waiting down in the hall for her. Then slowly, grandly, with more dignity than she had ever shown (the Duchess was continually amazed at these glimpses of a more mature Barbara, glimpses of the woman forming inside), she walked down the stairs. Even Abigail's face softened as she watched her, until she happened to glance toward Tony and see the expression on his face. As Barbara reached the last step, her brothers and sisters surrounded her.

   "Bab!" said Tom, bowing over her hand, and in an unusual gesture, kissing it. "You look beautiful."

   "You do," echoed Kit, behind him. "First rate!"

   "Oh, Bab," cried Anne, "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

   "I love you, Bab," said Charlotte.

   "I must have a kiss," Barbara said, opening her arms, seeming not to mind that her lovely white gown might be crumpled. "A kiss from each and every one of you while I am still a maiden. The next time you address me, Thomas Alderley, you must call me 'Lady Devane.'"

   "Never! I will not do it."

   "A kiss, please."

   The servants let out a cheer as her brothers and sisters surrounded her and she kissed them. Even Mary, greatly daring, ran forward and kissed her cheek. Tony was last.

   "A kiss for me, Bab?"

   "Of course. With all my heart."

   She kissed him heartily on the lips, and he blinked (to Abigail's irritation, he looked stunned) and then offered her his arm, with herbs and flowers falling on them like rain. The family assembled themselves into groups for each carriage. As the carriages drove through the gates, the people who had gathered outside to watch let out a ragged cheer.

   "What is it?" asked Barbara.

   The Duchess patted her hand. "It is for you, chit. For your wedding day."

Chapter Eight

I have forgotten something. I know I have." Montrose, Roger's favors pinned to the sleeve of his new coat, paced up and down near the front of St. James's Church. It was the most fashionable church in London, and on Sundays its pews were crowded with those who were truly religious and those who always showed up where it was fashionable to be, and today its altar and pews were wreathed with white roses and ivy and rosemary, an extravagant frivolity, since the wedding would be attended by few people, although already a crowd was outside in the churchyard, waiting to catch a glimpse of the bride, and of the king, who was rumored to attend. Roger, splendid in a dark blue coat and French wig, was talking with the curate. Robert Walpole, who was to be his best man, was beside him.

   "How can he be so calm?" exclaimed Montrose, patting at the perspiration that dotted his upper lip, while White, beside him, smiled at his friend's complaints. "Are you hot, Caesar? I am hot. This church is too warm."

   "Everything is fine, Francis. It is not too hot. You are nervous. And naturally. But do try to remember that it is Lord Devane, and not you, who must make the responses to the bride."

   Tommy Carlyle appeared, blinking for a moment in the dimness under the church gallery. He wore a white satin coat and a blond wig. His notorious diamond blinked in his left ear. Roger, seeing him, left the curate. The two men shook hands, and Carlyle looked Roger up and down.

   "I must say, dear one, you look quite well. I thought bridegrooms suffered from nerves."

   "Not this bridegroom. Tommy, I think they have arrived. If I am not mistaken, there is Tamworth and his grandmother. Let me go and greet them."

   Carlyle sighed and looked around him. Some distance from him sat Walpole's wife, Catherine. Her pretty, sulky face was turned toward the front of the church, where Roger was now busy greeting Barbara's relatives. Carlyle pushed the handkerchief back into his cuff, flicked at a speck of dust on his black velvet breeches, sat down and sidled over toward Catherine Walpole.

   "I love weddings," he said to her. "Do you?"

   Roger kissed the Duchess heartily on both cheeks and shook Tony's hand.

   "You be good to that chit of mine—" the Duchess began, but her sister– in–law, Louisa, Lady Shrewsborough, thrust her thin body between Roger and the Duchess. With her was her sister, Lizzie. Aunt Shrewsborough poked at Roger's ribs with a gloved finger.

   "She is my niece, Roger! Full of vim and vigor. I hope you can please her where it counts!"

   Both the great–aunts cackled. They sounded—and looked like—welldressed witches from a Shakespearean play. Roger chucked each of them under the chin. They loved it. The cackles rose again. He moved skillfully, gracefully, to Fanny and Harold, standing behind the aunts, and swept Fanny into his arms.

   "I always make it a point to kiss my relatives, particularly when they are as pretty as you," he said as he kissed her on the cheek.

   Abigail stood stiffly behind her daughter and son–in–law. A flush on her cheeks, she held out her hand to Roger, but he leaned forward and kissed her cheek, also.

   "The best man of us won, Abigail," he whispered, and before she could answer, he moved on to Diana, who looked him in the eyes, seemingly not one bit ashamed of herself.

   "I would strangle you with my bare hands," Roger said softly, kissing her lips, smiling into her eyes; "but it is my wedding day."

   There was a loud cheer from the outside of the church, and Roger was past Diana at the doorway, greeting the king, Melusine von Schulenburg, and two attendants. Everyone in the church rose. The curate nearly tripped over his black robes running to the front of the church to greet the king. Roger kissed Melusine on the cheek and offered her his arm, and with the king following, escorted the royal party to the first pew. He looked completely natural and unselfconscious. King George nodded graciously to those standing around him before he sat down.

   "Showy!" sniffed Abigail to Fanny, as they sat back down.

   "Superb!" Carlyle whispered to Catherine Walpole and the Duke and Duchess of Montagu, who had taken their seats.

   White knocked on the door of the small room in which Barbara and her sisters and Tony were waiting. Barbara stood at once.

   "They are ready," White said softly. "And may I say, Mistress Alderley, that you look lovely."

   As she walked down the aisle on Tony's arm, her sisters before her, Mary holding the long train of her gown, Barbara felt as if her moment in life had finally arrived. She was the center of everyone's attention, even the king, who was smiling at her. She stopped at his pew and curtsied. She knew exactly what to do and how to act because Roger, in one of the few times he had talked with her, had told her how she should behave. But of her own volition, as she rose, she plucked a flower from her posy and offered it, with a smile, to the king's mistress. The king nodded his head approvingly.

   Her sisters and Mary were now clustered at the first pew. At Barbara's nod, they filed in beside the Duchess. Barbara leaned over and kissed her grandmother. The Duchess sniffed loudly.

   "Dearly beloved," began the curate. (His voice carried. Christopher Wren had built this small church with its side galleries and rounded baroque arches to allow worshippers to see and hear clearly.) "We are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God…."

   The Duchess stared blindly at the altar, seeing not Barbara and Roger, but other couples—herself and Richard, her sons and their brides, Diana and Kit.…

   "Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to love together after God's ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?" the curate was asking Barbara.

   "I will," she said clearly, her voice low and throaty, like Diana's. It did not tremble or shake.

   "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"

   Tony looks ill, Abigail thought to herself, her eyes on her son's face. He had not taken his eyes from Barbara since the ceremony had begun. His response was inaudible, but he was placing Barbara's hands in the curate's who would eventually place her hand in Roger's, symbolic gestures showing her obedience and dependence upon others for the marriage. The curate, as God's minister and priest on earth, would deliver her to Roger's care, through the power of God, as God had provided a wife for the first man who had walked the earth.

   Tony sat down blindly by his mother, who reached over and patted his hand. Both his hands were gripping his knees so tightly that his knuckles were white. He was concentrating on Barbara. These last weeks he had shown a maturity that was new, and while annoying in some ways, it was encouraging in others. Abigail felt furious that his energies should be wasted on Barbara, who was not the wife for him. She was too lively, too headstrong, too…yes… say it, intelligent. Yet it hurt to love someone who did not return your love. Abigail could sympathize with her son's feelings. She had loved William, not deeply, of course. Passion had no place in marriage, which was based on respect and regard. But she had had some strong feelings for him at the beginning — how could she not?—he was handsome, virile, amusing. She had soon realized, however, that he would never care for her deeply, and she had been glad to know, thankful that she had realized in time, before she could have felt more and embarrassed both of them. She had been content with their relationship. The hurt had only been a little one; she had too much pride, too much self–worth to brood over it; she had duties and responsibilities. Still, seeing the look in Tony's eyes reminded her of those first few months when she had thought that, possibly, William might care for her. It was a painful time, a humiliating time. Her ups and downs, her ridiculous, girlish hopes. Thank goodness only she knew of it, and she did not like to think of it, even now. Well, she was going to find Tony a nice little wife. An obedient girl. A good girl. She would make up for Barbara. And Bentwoodes.

   Of course, nothing could truly make up for Bentwoodes. It was a loss that would not be easily gotten over. All that land. Any fool could see that its development would harvest thousands of pounds. She had been lazy and lackadaisical not to have checked on it before. She had known it belonged to the Duchess—a freakish thing for her family to have done, pass land along to the daughters through a trust that did not allow it to become their husbands' unless by special consent of the daughter. And the Duchess had never consented it to her husband. Not that he needed it. He had inherited enough when the Duchess's father had died. Richard Saylor was no fool; they could say what they liked about his saintly character. He had married well. Married a girl who was richer and came from a better family. An intelligent move by any standard. More than intelligent—pushy, just as Roger Montgeoffry was with his handsome face and his charming manners. Well, charm covered a multitude of sins, and one of his sins—Catherine Walpole—was sitting across the aisle next to that odious Carlyle, watching with a downright sulky expression on her face, ripe for a scene. Barbara would have her work cut out for her. Montgeoffry was hardly used to a life of domesticity. But then, what man was? It was the women who sat by the fire and spun, birthed and raised the children. Men were free to do as they pleased. A woman was only free once she was a widow, and then only if she was a rich widow.

   "I, Roger, take thee, Barbara, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

   The Duchess listened to Roger's vow, thinking of the expression on his face as Barbara walked down the aisle to him. He was not in love with her, but then Barbara knew that. Dear Lord in His heaven above, pray she did nothing foolish if he should never love her. She was so headstrong. Love was not the usual reason people of their station married. Yet she had found love unexpectedly in her own marriage and been so much the richer for it. To love and to cherish—how cherishing Richard had been of her. Life was so uncertain. Who could have known that she would grow to love Richard as she had? That Richard, of all people, should have seen past her bad–tempered, proud shell to the frightened, passionate person she was inside. That he should have held out his hand and said, Come with me, my love, and I will show you how to live.

   "I, Barbara, take thee, Roger, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto, I give thee my troth."

   Barbara and Roger were following the curate now to the Lord's table for prayers and blessing. After a short sermon and communion, it would be over. The Duchess prayed with all her heart that Barbara should have her heart's desire, or, if it was not the Lord's will, that she should have the strength to find other happiness in her life. She was so young, only a baby. Most girls married by fifteen, but most girls were not her granddaughter, and from her distance of years, Barbara seemed a child. Surely Roger's experience, his charm and kindness, would make the marriage easy.

   There was a rustling sound as people stood up around her. Roger was leading Barbara toward the king. They were married. Her granddaughter was hers no longer. She now belonged to Roger.

   A crowd had formed around the married couple and the king. People were kissing one another, and bowing to the king. The king kissed Barbara's hand.

   "Countess Devane," he said. "Let me be the first to salute you."

   Everyone applauded. Robert Walpole smacked Barbara on the lips, then turned to Fanny, then to Diana, who was being kissed by Harold, while the Duke of Montagu waited impatiently.

   "I despise men," the Duchess of Montagu said, watching her husband kiss Diana.

   "So do I," said Catherine Walpole, who was watching not her husband, but Roger.

* * *

   "They have arrived!" someone cried, and the guests, joining the waiting servants in Roger's hall, cheered. Cradock opened the door, and Tony stepped across Roger's threshold, Barbara in his arms, her brothers on each side. The bride was not allowed to step over the threshold of her bridegroom's house, but had to be carried over it by her relatives. The servants stared at Barbara in her full, white gown with its green ribbons. She smiled at them. Roger appeared behind her, the Duchess on his arm. He went to stand by Barbara, and said, "I present your new mistress, the Countess Devane."

   The servants clapped, and a shower of flowers and herbs fell on Barbara and Roger. Behind him, family and friends from the church were coming inside to join the guests invited to the reception.

   "She looks lovely," Maude said loudly to Jane. Maude, startling in a purple dress with yellow embroideries and tassels and a turban hat, was on her second glass of claret. "Go up to her and say something."

   "We will make her acquaintance in just a few moments," Gussy said. Jane smiled up at him gratefully. Her uncle was silent, as always.

   "You have to push yourself forward in this world, Jane," her aunt was saying, Gussy having made no impression on her. They had arrived early, to Jane's chagrin, and she had followed her aunt about the town house as she inspected every room and nodded haughtily to servants and other guests. They did not know anyone here. They were out of place in this beautiful house with its elaborate furniture and beautiful guests and wedding candles and flowers. They ought to pay their respects and go. If her aunt had any sense, that is what she would do. But no, she just wanted to walk around looking at the other women's gowns and brag that Jane knew the new countess. If Gussy had not been here to lend a note of dignity, Jane would have died. Gussy might be dull, but at least he was a comfort. He alone had noticed how dispirited she had been since she had received the wedding invitation. She loved Barbara. She really did. She had always admired her spirit and courage. But she could not help feeling that it was not fair that Barbara should have her heart's desire so easily. Jane had always tried to be so good. Loving Harry had been the only really disobedient thing she had ever done, and she could not help that. Now she felt so bitter. So angry. And it was not nice to feel those things. Gussy had talked with her. Naturally, she could not tell him what was wrong, but his sensitivity was comforting. He had prayed with her, and told her of his hopes for his own church, of how he would depend on his wife to help him with his duties to his flock. She had been excited at the thought that she could be a help to anyone. Some of the pain over Harry had eased. But today, being here, brought it back.