Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (40 page)

   "Marie–Victorie, where is Armand?" Louise–Anne said, giving Barbara a short nod. "I saw him a moment ago and now he has disappeared. He knows I wish to quarrel with him—there he is. Excuse me."

   Marie–Victorie linked her arm back through Barbara's, and they began to walk again.

   "We grew up together," she said of Louise–Anne, "which is why I put up with her rudeness. She can be charming when she wishes to be, but now she is only charming for Richelieu. She is making a fool of herself over him. Everyone is talking about it. I wish she would marry and settle down."

   "As we have," said Barbara.

   Marie–Victorie patted her hand. "As we have."

* * *

It was late. Barbara lay alone in her bed, waiting to hear her door open, but it remained closed. Finally, she threw off her blankets and ran in her white nightgown to Roger's apartments, pushed open his bedchamber door, and looked around. Justin, his valet, was gone. Good. Dressed in a loose robe, Roger was sitting in an armchair, staring into the fire. Littered at his feet were many papers, drawings and sketches of houses. She tiptoed into the room, She had to take a deep breath, her heart was beating so. What she was doing was… bold. If you want something, go after it, her grandmama always said. She had done so all day. This was her last citadel.

   Roger did not hear her enter. He was thinking of what it felt like to be in Paris again. Of the memories being here revived. Paris was the center of the world; its arts, its fashion, its architecture, its language were copied by every civilized nation. He had first seen it in the late 1690s, when peace treaties were being negotiated between France and the rest of the world, and Paris was once more open to foreigners. He had been twenty–four, Richard's military aide for some four years, and before that, a soldier since he was sixteen. The war had been going on all that time, and he had seen enough blood, enough maimed or dying men and horses, enough burned fields, enough crying women, to last him a lifetime. He took a leave of absence from his regiment; Richard arranged some kind of official reason so that he should draw a salary, and he came to Paris. He loved it. Though the great Louis was in his pious years, there were still magnificent entertainment, ballets, suppers, balls at the luxurious chateaux surrounding Versailles, and he had dropped among the French women like a cannonball exploding. They all wanted him, a princess here, a countess there, a duchess, an opera dancer, an actress. For three years he drank, laughed, loved, spent other people's money. When war began again in 1701, he was among the last to leave. He went back to England, back to his post as aide, back to Richard.

   (Was it then that he realized his feelings for Richard were more than admiration? Or had he always known, ignoring them, burying them in service, in camaraderie on long campaign nights before a battle when the wind whistled through the tents, and Richard sat up grieving that the next morning he would be sending his soldiers into death? He ran Richard's errands; he rode through armies of crazed men to take commands to Richard's subordinates; he risked his life behind enemy lines as both soldier and spy, and he journeyed between God knows where and Tamworth or London so that Alice should have her letters. He had never known a man to love a woman the way Richard loved Alice…everyone in camp held his breath when her letters came, because their beloved, smiling general, the best, the finest soldier in England, had been known to make battle–hardened sergeants weep when a letter from his wife was not a happy one.)

   But he was thirty now, and being Richard's aide was not enough any longer. And there was the war, its blood spilling out of men whose faces mirrored the shock of that last, final surprise. And there was the politics of ambitious men, stupid men, greedy men to contend with. And he was tired of it all and of himself. So he resigned his commission and left for Hanover, with Richard's letters of recommendation and introduction in his pockets. He involved himself in Hanoverian policy, gambling that Elector George would be Queen Anne's successor. Until 1710. The year of Richard's death. Devastating him. The agony of the grief he felt, the feelings never expressed. He had thanked a God he stopped believing in that he had taken the time to visit Richard those last years. That he had never abandoned his old mentor, the finest man he had ever known. Who had never abandoned him. He was back in Paris when the ceasefires of war were ordered. Older now, forty stood as the next major signpost in his life. Wealthy. The heir to the English throne was his friend. Therefore, men scrambled to offer him ways to make money…as long as they benefited in return. He revived an old acquaintance, looking for…what? Had he known then what lay under that old friendship?

   Even now, there was no answer, but being once more in Paris revived memories interlaced with pain. And passion. Dark and throbbing. Like blood seeping rhythmically from a wound. Ebb and flow. Life and death. I am over it, he thought. How demanding, forbidden, and treacherous it had been…and exhilarating, as only such a combination could be. Striking him more deeply than anything in his life but his feelings for Richard. He could face that truth. And others. The ending of the affair was inevitable. He had known it even as it began, and yet he did not stop its beginning. And he had not been able to stop its ending. And that was when he finally knew his own mortality. Having taken the lid from his Pandora's box and gazed inside. At all he was. And was not. And chose to be. And chose not to be.

   Bentwoodes was his new love. Sealing over old hurts, old disappointments. Protecting him from himself. He was here for Bentwoodes (and to test his invulnerability—he admitted it). Paris was the center of the world. He could not forever ignore it. He would not. All his life, he had faced that which he feared. And triumphed. He would find his furnishings for Bentwoodes here; all those elements that made a fine house beautiful, the moldings, the carvings, the rugs, the tapestries, the furniture. Bentwoodes in its glory would become Devane House. It would shelter his sons. He would do as Richard had done….He smiled to himself. A wistful, charming smile, sadness curving its edges beautifully. Even in death, Richard influenced him. How oddly lives, places, things intertwined in the space of mortality a man was given. Who would have guessed that Bentwoodes—he could remember fox hunting in its fields with Richard—would come to mean so much? So much that he risked Paris again? I am over it, he thought.

   "Roger…"

   He started. "Barbara! What is it? Are you unwell?"

   She did not come any closer, but moved one bare foot back and forth against the rug. She did not know it, but she looked very young and very charming, with her hair all about her shoulders and in her high–necked, thin gown.

   "I…I feel so lonely, R–Roger. I wondered if you might…c–come and sleep with me for a while." She bit her lip. "You don't have to do anything," she said hurriedly. "I just want some company. I am not used to being so alone all the time, you see."

She rushed through the words trying to explain. "At Tamworth, there was Grandmama and my brothers and sisters, and even at Aunt Abigail's, there was Mary. Here, there is no one…Oh, Roger, I miss my family so, and it is worst late at night, and I thought, if you were not busy, you might come and visit a while. Just until I go to sleep. You do not have to do it forever. I am sure I will become used to everything eventually."

   "My poor baby," he said. "I forget how young you are." He held out his arms, and she ran into them. He rubbed his chin against her thick hair. She sighed and nestled against him, poking at a drawing with her foot.

   "What is this?"

   "Bentwoodes…Devane House. My—our home."

   She reached down and picked up a paper.

   "That is a temple front," said Roger. "A man named Palladio designed it some hundred years ago in Italy. I find its classicism beautiful."

   Palladio, she mouthed silently. Classicism.

   "You know, Barbara," he said, watching her mouth as it shaped the words, "you are not at all what I expected."

   But before she could ask what he expected, he said, "To bed. I shall come and visit." He stood up, and she stayed in his arms. As he carried her to her rooms, he said into her hair, "Even though I don't have to do anything, I think I might after all."

* * *

   The next morning, she was at the breakfast table before Roger. She blushed when she heard the door open, her mind full of memories of the night before. She signaled the footman, and as Roger sat down, a cup of steaming coffee was placed before him. He was far more relaxed than she. But then he had far more experience with next mornings.

   "You are up early," he said.

   The footman began to serve them breakfast. Roger cut into a piece of bacon. After a moment he stopped.

   "But where are Francis and Caesar? It is ten o'clock, is it not?"

   Speaking very rapidly, Barbara said, "I asked them to join us in half an hour. I thought it would be a good idea to have this time alone, before you begin all your duties and appointments, and before I begin mine. It might be the only time we see each other all day, and we can start off the day together, no matter what happens later on. You do not mind, I hope."

He smiled to himself and took another bite of bacon. "My dear child, you are free to order your household about as you wish."

   She took another deep breath and plunged on. "I—I wanted to ask you about my invitations."

   He looked at the stack of papers by her plate.

   "I am not certain which I should refuse and which I should accept. I thought we might go over them together, if you do not mind. Until I know more people. Then I will not need your help."

   "You could ask Francis's help."

   "I should feel so stupid asking him. Please, Roger, just until I learn my way." He frowned. She held her breath. She looked young and appealing, and he remembered she had been young and appealing last night. He put down his fork and held out his hand, and she gave him the stack of engraved cards and tried not to rustle too impatiently as he leisurely looked through each one.

   "You have calling cards from the Duchesse du Maine, the Duchesse de Berry, the Duchesse d'Orléans, Madame la Princesse, and Madame la Duchesse. They are among the most powerful women in France. Return the calls of each one. We take no sides."

   "Even the Duchesse de Berry?"

   "She is the oldest daughter of the regent, and an afternoon call will do no harm. Under no circumstances, however, are you to go to one of her supper parties, if you should be invited. I doubt you will be. Use your own judgment, Barbara. Go wherever you wish, avoiding only suppers by de Berry, the regent, or the Prince de Soubice."

   "And what happens at these suppers I am to avoid?"

   He smiled at her. "Nothing you need know about."

   "Do you go?"

   She was looking down at her plate. The smile on his face faded as he stared at her. Nothing about her was quite predictable. No maidenly tears on their wedding night, when he had expected them. Then her silence, her fading into the background on the journey, so much so that he had almost forgotten he was married. And now, again, her unfurling like a flower in the sun. Receiving bouquets from young men, appearing in his bedchamber at night in a thin nightgown, catching him at a vulnerable moment, charming him, and this morning, asking him dangerous questions. It shocked him to realize—afresh—that there was now a person in his life whose feelings he would have to consider. He had no wish to hurt her, but he also had no wish to curtail any of his activities. He would be discreet, but not even for Barbara, sweet as she was, did he intend to change his life.

   "If I wish, I do," he said, very gently, waiting for her sulks, her tears; they seemed inevitable.

   She still stared at her plate. He waited. When she looked at him, he was surprised to see that her eyes were not brimming with tears. They were clear.

   "Will you come with me to Madame de Gondrin's this afternoon?" she asked.

   "Perhaps," he said, surprising himself.

   She leapt up from her place and kissed his cheek and was back in her chair again before he had time to move, smiling at him as if he were the most wonderful man in the world. Smiling, she was the image of her grandfather. Why had he lied? He would not be going with her to Madame de Gondrin's. God, he would hurt her in little ways, a hundred little ways, and gradually she would come to love him with less intensity. Until she did not love him at all. Which would be best. For them both. But he found he did not like thinking of a time when she would not love him, and he sighed at his aging vanity.

   "I have invitations to the opera and the theater and luncheons which are addressed to me only, Roger. Do I go alone?"

   "If you wish. I will have many engagements which do not include you, and I would feel better knowing you are occupied with your own friends. It is not fashionable for a husband and wife to do things together." He watched her face as she considered this, thinking suddenly, sharply, of St. Michel's bouquet. "But do not become too fashionable, Barbara. There are limits." For her. Not for him.

   She smiled again, happy at his proprietary words, words he knew were unfair, and he was touched. Be careful, Roger, he thought to himself. In his mind, he saw three toothless old hags grinning at him. The Fates.

   "You mentioned not taking sides earlier. Tell me why."

   For her to be asking him of French politics when most girls her age (and women far older) were interested in nothing but their gowns or gossip or love affairs was another surprise. What lay behind it? The wish to impress him? Or Alice's training? He thought of the quagmire that was French politics, of his own monetary stake in it, of women like the Duchesse du Maine, who schemed and lied and plotted so that her husband might have the power of his cousin, the regent, a power that had been left to du Maine in his father's will, for his father was the great king, Louis XIV. But du Maine was illegitimate, and though he had been given money, titles, and position, he could never have that ultimate power, that of a pure bloodline, like Orléans, nephew to a king. And, more important, legitimate. He thought of John Law, a gambler, a visionary, a rogue, who was in France to put its monetary system back together. He had schemes of a national bank, of public companies that would make millions for their investors and uplift the stagnant economy. Law was going to pull France out of its near–bankruptcy, caused by years of war under the great Louis. He thought of the financiers, the farmers general (a monopoly of men who collected taxes and raised the money for royal loans), the bankers who wanted Law to fail, who had gotten fat and rich off the old systems of money lending. Roger was gambling that Law would not fail. He was going to invest heavily in the new bank, and in the public companies. To build what he envisioned required a great supply of capital. But Law's power rested on Orléans, and if Orléans fell, Law fell. And Orléans was in a shaky position, threatened with war by Spain, whose ruler was one of the great Louis's own grandsons—legitimate and therefore a cousin, but what was family when money and power were involved? And the Duchesse du Maine kept the flames fanned. And it was all over who should control the young heir's household and education. An heir who might die tomorrow of smallpox or the putrid sore throat or poison. And then France would be plunged in civil war again as she had been all those years before Louis had been strong enough and crafty enough to bring the French nobility under his heel. Roger did not want a wife whose lifeblood ran on public policy, whose machinations undid kings (the ink on hundreds of letters—women always wrote letters—letters that lied, that pushed, that prodded, that slandered, that libeled). Barbara might grow as fashionable, as witty, as sophisticated, even as wanton as the cleverest of the French princesses, but he did not want her as devious, involved in what was the realm of men, and a dangerous realm at that.