Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (38 page)

   Paris itself was a contrast of stone mansions—like the one she and Roger were leasing—broad squares and handsome gardens against dark, narrow, medieval buildings and wretched streets. It was a perpetual tumult of noise, even dirtier than London, and the beggars were more aggressive and noticeable. Signposts hung out into the streets; there were no lanterns on buildings as there were in London, so that at night the streets were dark as Hell was supposed to be. Beggars were everywhere; they dashed out in front of your carriage to beg for alms; they waited in front of house gates like human flies (blind beggars seemed to be a Parisian specialty). Church bells rang for morning, noon, and evening prayers, and, as in London, street vendors selling lavender, brooms, doormats, fish, and street ballads walked up and down the mud–filled streets, competing with the curses of the wagoners and the rattle of coach wheels.

   She was homesick; Tamworth, her grandmother, Tony, her family, were too far away. It would take another miserable journey across roads and sea to reach them again. (When may I ask Roger about my brothers and sisters coming to live with me? she had questioned her grandmother the day after her wedding. Sweet Jesus, Bab, her grandmother had said, startled, give the man time!) Time…He needed time, and so did she. When was her time? She did not seem to fit anywhere in Roger's life. It was as if she were an afterthought, a piece of baggage added to the journey at the last minute.

   In London, there had been two or three days of frantic activity—Roger's servants packing and covering furniture with dust covers, and she trying to spend as many hours as possible with her grandmother and family. Everything for the journey was already planned; she simply followed along. On the journey, she had the feeling that Roger had forgotten he had married her. She would catch him staring at her with a look of stunned surprise on his face, as if to say, what is this girl doing here? It hurt her feelings. Not that he was anything but kind. And courteous. As was his staff. But she had not imagined this beginning to her marriage—Roger's neglect, the discomfort of the journey, her flux, Paris itself, this house, with its huge, cold splendor.

   In fact, it was hardly a house; it was more like a palace with rooms that led into more rooms that led into still more rooms, and no wall without paintings, without marble or mirrors, without intricate paneling and swags of carved this and that—cupids, violins, flowers, animals, all outlined in gilt—impossible to describe, except that one had a feeling of such immense richness, of such minute attention to detail. There was something feminine in all the ornamentation, in its excess. On every surface were fancy glass and gold clocks, vases of hothouse flowers, bric-a-brac, china dogs, cats, shepherds. Even Saylor House, for all its grandeur, was not the same. It was simpler, less cluttered. If Roger felt at home among the excess, she felt overpowered.

   She pummeled a pillow with a fist. He had left her on her own again tonight. Since arriving, she had drifted like a ghost through this house, waiting for someone to tell her what to do. All week, she had tiptoed to Roger's apartments late at night and knocked on the door. If Justin, Roger's valet, had not been so kind, she would have died of shame. Justin was small and neat and precise, and he acted as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to appear as she did. He talked to her about Roger, about his habits, as she waited. (Roger was fussy about what he wore, but once he was dressed to his satisfaction, he never gave it another thought. He liked to stay up late, but he almost never overslept. He liked to breakfast with Montrose and White and plan his day.) And what would my ladyship like? Justin would ask her. She did not know. This was the first time she had ever been on her own.

   She hit the pillow again, and settled in it and into the covers like a small, determined animal making its nest. This was her life now with Roger, and she was going to have to make it into what it should be because it seemed no one else was. Perhaps it had been naïve of her to expect to be one with him immediately. But she was not a child, and they were mistaken if they thought she was going to stay in the background quietly like one. She knew her duty. She knew her position. Her grandmother had taught her what was expected of a lady. And she was not afraid. (Well…only a little.) After all, she had gone to Roger's town house on her own, risking dishonor and her reputation, to tell him what was in her heart; she had told her grandmother her dearest desires when all seemed lost. Assuming her rightful position in Roger's household was just another step in achieving those desires. And no one could take it for her… though she had hoped Roger would help.

   How was he going to be dazzled with her maturity and style if she displayed none? Think on what you want, her grandmother would have said. Well, she wanted to be fashionable and worldly and have lots of babies and surround herself with her brothers and sisters and raise them and marry them off in style and be godmother to their children, all the while overseeing Roger's household and her own children with a splendid assurance that would amaze everyone. But the one who must be amazed was Roger. He was the axis around which she spun. She wanted him to love and need her (as she loved him, for sometimes when she looked at him and knew she was finally married to him, her love swelled her throat and hurt her heart). She wanted to surround him with that love, with the children of her body and his—with the comfort and ease a loving wife could bring.

   She had waited for him to make some gesture to show where she stood in his life, what he wished her to do. But there was none. And so now it was up to her….She closed her eyes tightly and said a series of quick little prayers, just as she used to do when she was a child and the morrow brought things she feared to face. She felt better. She opened her eyes. She smiled. She knew her position and her duties. She had been well taught. And on her own, she had begun to learn that success was sometimes simply a matter of having the courage to proceed in the direction of one's dreams.

* * *

   The three of them rose like guilty schoolboys when she came into the breakfast room the next morning. She had been floating around on her own so much that they had probably forgotten who she was, she thought irritably. Well, she would remind them.

   "Barbara," Roger said, smiling at her. "How nice of you to join us. I thought you would still be sleeping." He kissed her hand. Handsome liar, Barbara thought.

   The footman held out a chair at the opposite end of the table. Roger was at the other end, with Montrose and White at his right.

   "No," she said. "I wish to sit here."

   She indicated the empty seat on Roger's left and intercepted a look between White and Montrose that made her grit her teeth. As she settled herself, she said, "Sleeping? No, I came home early last night. I could not find you, and I was so tired."

   There was a silence. She smiled into her coffee as the men sat back down. After a moment, Montrose, whose place was directly opposite hers, cleared his throat and said, "Ah, I have arranged for you to visit the Chateau de St. Honore, sir. The count requests that you share luncheon with him. And the Trianon will be opened for you any time you wish. The regent says to simply select a day. And Madame has sent a note asking you and Lady Devane to St. Cloud."

   Barbara took a deep breath. "Trianon is one of the king's residences, is it not? I would love to see it."

   Roger smiled. "It would bore you. The talk will be of nothing but architecture."

   "But you are searching for ideas for Bentwoodes, are you not, Roger? How could I be bored with that? It will be my home too. I know more about architecture than you think." Under the table, she crossed her fingers and said a prayer. You will go to Hell for lying, Annie always told her. She knew nothing about architecture. But she would learn.

   A footman entered carrying a bouquet of camellias, their full, lush blooms a soft pink, edged in white. He handed them to Barbara with a bow, and more surprised than anyone at the table, she took them.

   "Law has asked to see you at five," Montrose began, but Roger's attention was fixed on the bouquet and on Barbara's face as she buried it in the flowers.

   "They have no smell," she said through Montrose's sentence. She was smiling at Roger, that smile of hers which so charmed people. Roger did not smile back. Montrose gave up. No one was paying any attention to him.

   Barbara pulled a small white card from inside the bouquet and read it. Her brows drew together. The smile faded.

   "Well, really," she said, "I thought these were from you. Who is Henri de St. Michel? Have I met him? There must be some mistake. I will tell the footman to return these—"

   Roger held out his hand, and obediently she placed the card in it.

   "'To the memory of last night—Henri de St. Michel,'" he read aloud. "The memory of—whom did you meet last night, Barbara?"

   White began to polish his butter knife with a napkin and Montrose shuffled his papers; both would rather have died than leave the room at this moment.

   Barbara tapped a finger against her mouth.

   "I can think of no one. You were with me at the reception, and at the hall, I simply wandered around—really, Roger, the men are so rude—" She was suddenly silent. The image of the man in the red cloak had popped into her mind. But why would he send her flowers? He did not even know her name. She told Roger of it.

   He handed her back the card. "It must be St. Michel. And apparently he is taken with you. You should be flattered. He is one of the young Turks of the city. You should also be careful. He is quite ruthless in his methods. I see I shall have to watch out for you more carefully at public balls, or I shall be fighting a duel over you." He laughed suddenly. Everyone stared at him. "I never expected to fight a duel over my own wife," he explained, but no one else found it amusing except Barbara, who clapped her hands together.

   "A duel! How exciting! But, of course, I would not want you to have to do that. I will send the flowers back at once, Roger. He is impertinent."

   "That would be gauche, Barbara, and never let it be said that I have a gauche wife. St. Michel has simply expressed an interest in you as an attractive young woman. I have done it myself a hundred times. Accept it as a compliment. I want you to be fashionable and sought after. I think you would enjoy it very much. But no duels, please."

   She plucked three blossoms from the bouquet and sent two of them skittering across the table to White and Montrose.

   Leaning toward Roger, she carefully fastened his in his buttonhole, inches from his face. Shyly, not quite daring to look in his eyes, she kissed his cheek. Her lips were soft.

   "In memory of my first conquest," she said.

   Roger stood up and pinched her cheek. "Your second. I was your first. I am meeting St. Honore at noon, but I will be home for dinner. You look very pretty this morning, Barbara. Is that a new gown? No? I like it. Francis, follow me out."

   Smiling to herself, she attacked her cold breakfast. White continued to drink his coffee, now and again glancing across the table toward her. He liked looking at her, liked the lean lines of her, the way she spoke so directly, so unexpectedly in that low, throaty voice. In a few moments, Montrose burst back into the room.

   "Mr. Montrose, you must advise me," said Barbara, looking up from her plate. "Ought I to hire a secretary? Or will you help me with some small commissions? I do not want to infringe on your duties with Lord Devane." At that moment, she looked very much her age.

   In spite of himself, Montrose thawed. He sat down. "I am at your service, madame."

   "Good. I have not explored this house fully or met the servants. What do you suggest?"

   Montrose looked startled. "Suggest?" he said tentatively, as if she had implied committing murder. White covered his mouth so that they would not see his smile.

   "Yes." She said directly, "I am mistress of the household, you see. And I do not feel it has been established clearly."

   "Ah…I will arrange for an appointment with the housekeeper, madame, so that you may tour the house. And, ah…I will assemble the servants at your convenience and introduce them. And I will arrange appointments with the majordomo, the cook, et cetera, so that you may make your preferences clear to them…" He trailed off, eyeing her to see if there would be more. There was.

   "Very good. What is Lord Devane's schedule?"

   "His…schedule?"

   "Yes. What time does he breakfast each morning? Is he going to hold a levee? On which mornings? Is the open table scheduled every day? You know, Mr. Montrose."

   "Ah, he is holding his levees on Thursdays only. He breakfasts at ten every weekday morning, and we go over his appointments at that time. The, ah, open table is scheduled on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays, madame."

   "Excellent, Mr. Montrose. Thank you. In the future, will you and Mr. White make it a point to come down to breakfast half an hour later than you do now? And any guests we should have are to breakfast in their rooms."

   "Half an hour…but why?" He quickly added, "If I may ask."

   "I wish to breakfast privately with my husband each morning before the day's business begins."

   "Would you prefer that Mr. White and I breakfast in our rooms, also?"

   She wiped her mouth with a napkin. "Oh, no. It is Lord Devane's habit to meet with you in the morning, and I will not change it. Except slightly, to include me. I am sure he will not mind." She smiled, her grandfather's smile, and stood up.

   "And would you please begin interviewing for a new lady's maid for me? A French one. I wish to send Martha back to England as soon as possible."

   "B–back to England?" Montrose said in a dazed voice.

   "Yes. She is unsuitable. Good day, Mr. Montrose. Mr. White?"

   White looked at her. He had enjoyed watching her deal with Montrose. Now it must be his turn. She smiled at him, and unlike Montrose, he could not help smiling back.