Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (50 page)

   Again she was conscious of irony in his tone. With one hand on his arm, she began to make her way through the people standing along one side of the ballroom. Roger had her glass of champagne, but was sipping from it as he talked with their host, the Duc du Maine.

   "Roger," she called when she was close enough, "look whom I have found."

   He turned, smiling, still talking to the duc, but when he saw her with the Prince de Soissons his face went white. The champagne glass dropped from his hand, splintering into fragments on the floor. Barbara hurried to him.

   "Roger! What is it? Are you unwell?"

   The expression on his face frightened her.

   "Roger, my dear friend, is something wrong?" asked the Duc du Maine. A servant was kneeling in front of them, wiping up the fragments of glass, the spilled champagne.

   "Nothing," Roger said, in an odd voice. "I felt a sudden pain. It is gone now."

   Barbara noticed he leaned against the terrace door, as if be needed the support. The color of his face made her afraid.

   "At our age," the Duc du Maine was saying, "we must be careful. That young wife of yours is exhausting you. Ah, Soissons, my wife told me you were in town. An unexpected pleasure and surprise. You already know Lord Devane." The Prince de Soissons smiled; the smile filled his face, lighting his eyes.

   Roger was silent. Barbara glanced from one man to the other and could feel the tension. She put a hand on Roger's arm, and her gesture seemed to wake him.

   "Philippe," he said. "I did not think to see you."

   "But here I am. Ready to revive old interests…old friendships."

   "Roger," Barbara said quickly. Something in his face made her say it. "I am so tired," she babbled. "I was just coming to find you when the prince introduced himself. Could you escort me to my bedchamber? Gentlemen, you will forgive me, I know."

   Roger straightened up and pushed himself away from the wall. Barbara could see the effort he was making. They left the Duc du Maine and Prince de Soissons and made their way through the ballroom; it was she who was supporting him.

   "Shall I call a footman?" she asked him. No color had yet returned to his face. He looked terrible.

   He shook his head, and they slowly climbed the stairs. Sweat had broken out on his face; he was ill; he had said something about a pain. As she opened the door to their bedchamber, he sagged against her, and she called for Justin and Thérèse, who both came running. The three of them helped Roger to the bed and laid him down. Justin began quickly to loosen his cravat, while Thérèse ran for a glass of brandy. Barbara stood at the edge of the bed, wringing her hands.

   "What is wrong?" she asked him. "Tell me! Ought I to call a doctor?"

   "No, no,"' Roger said breathlessly, trying to sit up. "I had a sudden pain in my chest. I am better now. Leave me alone for a while, Bab… Justin knows what to do…leave me alone."

   He was not better. He could not catch his breath. She bit her lip, but did as he asked, going into the adjoining bedchamber with Thérèse behind her. He looked so white, so pale. They had done too much this last week. She could hardly be still long enough for Thérèse to unhook her gown. Once she was out of it, she ran to the door and peeked in. Roger was sitting up, leaning against Justin and drinking a glass of brandy. But when he sank back down onto the bed afterward, he groaned.

   "Sweet Jesus," Barbara said. "He is truly ill—"

   "Madame," said Thérèse, hanging up the gown and coming to her and making her sit down on the bed, "I will go downstairs and have a cordial mixed. I know a soothing recipe. And if he is still ill tomorrow, you will send for the physician and have him bled. That will make him better, if a good night's rest does not do so. He has been doing too much. That is all, madame. He is not as young as you, and he needs more rest."

   "As everyone but me realizes. Go and make his cordial, Thérèse. I will just check on him once more."

   She crept into the other bedchamber. Justin was sitting by the bed, and Roger appeared to be sleeping. She took one of his hands and rubbed it; it felt cold, clammy. Roger opened his eyes.

   "Are you better?" she whispered.

   "Yes," he said. "I need to be alone, Bab. Please."

   She nodded and put his hand back down on the bed, patting it. "Thérèse is bringing a cordial," she said.

   She went back into the bedchamber and sat down. He wanted to be alone. This was understandable, and there was no reason to feel hurt by it, and it was ridiculous to be reminded of her father. Roger was not like her father. She could sleep in here, and tomorrow he would be better. They would return to Paris, and she would nurse him, if need be, until he was better. And she would remember, from now on, that he was not as young as he looked. She closed her eyes. If something should happen to Roger… but nothing was going to happen. Everything was going to be fine.

   Roger drank a few sips of the cordial Thérèse had prepared, then sank back down on the bed and closed his eyes.

   His chest still hurt. He had felt as if it were exploding when he looked up and had seen Philippe. Dear God. Philippe. Memories rolled over him, like waves pounding a beach. He was held by them, bound hand and foot, their captive. The darkness and forbidden desires, the arrogance and love. The blood pouring from Montreal's mouth and nose. The futility and anger. The despair. And the passion.

Chapter Fourteen

Annie sat in the Duchess's withdrawing chamber, guarding the Duchess against well–meaning, but intrusive, visitors. They had been coming—one by one—all morning. Squire Dinwitty, Sir John Ashford, Vicar Latchrod, tenants, some of the principal villagers. Braving the sickness, as soon as word spread. Annie gave them ale, listened to their condolences, and sent them away. Only Vicar Latchrod stayed, in a drawing room, murmuring prayers. There was nothing anyone could do, and they must look to their own households, for the scourge lay coiled like a serpent in the brush, striking randomly and without warning. Many households had someone sick, someone dying. They could only pray, beseeching the Lord God Almighty, that soon it would disappear

   Annie could hear the Duchess sobbing. She brushed tears from her own eyes and got up to shut the door more securely. In the bedchamber, which was dark and dusty—vases of dead flowers lay on tables littered with teacups and papers—there was no sound except for that of weeping. It was clear, high weeping, such as a young girl does, except that it was not a young girl. It was the Duchess, and she was weeping for her grandchildren, the last of whom had died this morning of smallpox.

   The sound filled the dark bedchamber with its desolation, its despair. On the other side of the door, Annie put her face in her hands. Sometimes life seemed nothing but a hard and weary burden. And there was much to do. Even now, Henley was laying the little bodies in the lead–lined caskets. No one else would do it; they were afraid of catching the smallpox. It would leap right out of a casket and kill you. And all the bedding and nursing clothes had to be burned. The house had to be disinfected with a mixture of pitch and frankincense. They would dispense with much of the ceremony; the bodies would not lie in state but would be buried as soon as possible, to keep the chance of spreading infection as low as possible. There would be no funeral invitations; the Duchess would write the necessary letters to the family.

   A bell began to toll, the bell of Tamworth church, informing the village and countryside of the deaths. Annie wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Black hangings must be put up in the rooms, the mirrors covered. And the letters must be written. The one to Lady Diana and, especially, the one to Mistress Barbara…writing that one would be a test of faith.

* * *

   Diana lay like a goddess, lolling on her new settee. She wore no hoops, so that her guests, Walpole and Montagu, could see the shape of her legs through the material of her gown. She stretched herself before them like a feast neither of them could have. It had been her custom lately to invite Walpole to a late supper, but only when the Duke of Montagu was also present. She then flirted with whichever man caught her fancy that evening. If it was a ploy to spur Montagu's cooling interest, it worked, for he found himself whipped into new frenzies (and new promises) by the sight of Walpole watching Diana with desire in his eyes. Walpole took it all like a good–natured bear: growling, cursing, but as yet safe.

   She had fed them well. She was managing to live very nicely on her mother's allowance, supplemented by Montagu, and now the three of them drank brandy and discussed politics. Or rather the men discussed politics and Diana listened, waiting for the right spot in which to insert fresh pleas for her divorce petition. All the news was centered on the fizzling invasion in Scotland, of the Pretender's flight, his leaving his loyal Scot nobles to face the English and Hanoverian troops. Diana yawned behind her hand; Kit had been in Scotland, but luckily for her, he was gone with the Pretender. There was talk that he was in Paris. Good. Let Roger deal with him. To her, Kit was as good as dead. He had taken her too close to the edge, and now she felt nothing for him. except the need to be divorced from him and completely on her own. Walpole said Roger was reported to be buying half of France for Devane House and the other half for Barbara.

   Clemmie scuttled into the room and handed Diana a note. She rose and walked closer to the candelabra to read it. Walpole and Montagu paused to watch her walk, and it was a sight worth stopping for. But they were unprepared for her shrill cry. She sank to the floor and suddenly the room was in chaos, as both men ran to her and Clemmie screeched. Walpole reached her first and carried her back to the settee. Montagu rubbed her hands, while Clemmie held a burning feather under her nose. She began to revive, her eyelids fluttering, her face white under its rouge. Walpole poured some brandy down her throat, and she sputtered and her eyes flew open and she coughed and cursed Walpole between each cough.

   "That is more like it!" said Walpole. "You frightened us—" He broke off because Diana put her hands to her mouth and began to cry, heedless of her makeup or of how she looked. The sight was enough to make Clemmie's almost toothless mouth fall open.

   Montagu picked up the crumpled note. "It is her children," he said to Walpole. "They are dead…the smallpox. My God!"

   Clemmie began to wail again; Walpole patted Diana's hand, but Diana was oblivious to him. She was crying and rocking back and forth and her rouge was streaking her cheeks, and she did not seem to care.

   That, and the smallpox, were more than Montagu could bear. He kissed her hand.

   "My dear, I feel it is better if you are alone in this time of travail. I offer my sympathies. Indeed I do. I will call tomorrow or the next day to see how you are getting along." He was halfway out the door, finding his hat and cane and cloak by himself. "My sympathies—"

   "Coward! Bloody coward!" Diana screamed, her face ugly, her throat muscles bulging. "Be sure and wash your hands afterward—the note might carry the pox—a pox on you, you half–man! They are dead! Dead!" Montagu scuttled out the door. Diana in a rage was impossible. Diana in a rage and crying was more than he could bear.

   Diana pulled at Clemmie, and Clemmie sat down like a large lump on the settee, and the two women put their arms around each other and wept. Walpole lit his pipe and smoked, watching them. After a while, Diana made an attempt to wipe her face. She spat at him, "Why have you not left? Are you not afraid of the smallpox? Of grief? Or do you think I am going to forget myself and allow you in my bed!"

   He did not answer.

   "Leave me!" she cried. "I want to be alone. I have lost my children, and I never thought to, and now they are dead, and I want to go to Tamworth to see them buried, and it may already be too late!"

   "There will be smallpox in Tamworth—" he began.

   "I do not care! They are dead! Do you not see? I never thought they would die before I did! Go away!"

   She buried her face in Clemmie's ampleness and sobbed. Clemmie sobbed with her. Walpole sat silently, waiting. Finally, the sobs lessened again. Clemmie sighed and blew her nose on her apron. Diana looked at Walpole, her face ravaged, a travesty of its normal beauty. Wearily, she said, "You are persistent. I give you that. Clemmie, fetch another brandy bottle. I am going to get drunk, and you, sir, may join me. I am going to get so drunk I will not be able to remember what a bad mother I have been. So drunk that it will take me days to recover. So drunk I will not remember how I feel at this moment."

   Clemmie poured the three of them large glasses of brandy. Diana drained hers in a single gesture and held out her glass for more.

   "I have a daughter," said Walpole, when they were both on their fourth glass. "A lovely girl, your Barbara's age, who is ill. The doctors try every cure, hurting her more with each one, and nothing makes her well. In my heart, I believe she is dying, and I pray to God that her suffering will be brief, but He does not seem inclined to hear my prayers." He spoke reflectively, sadly.

   "I never cared," said Diana, slowly, choosing her words carefully now that the brandy was numbing her tongue. "I never visited them or thought about them. They were just there, like the sun and trees. Each time Kit bedded me, I had another. When he gambled, and there was no money, I cursed them, but my mother raised them. I cursed them and wished them dead so I would not have to worry about their marriages and settlements and allowances. And now they are dead. And it hurts. Robert, it hurts me so much that I almost wish I were dead myself. Do you believe in God, Robert? Is He punishing me for my sins? There are so many of them. And I have enjoyed them all."

   They shook their heads over her sins and drank more. The fire sputtered, but Clemmie was too intent on cuddling her brandy glass to add fresh coal. The candles began to gutter as time passed, and they drank steadily. Diana, almost as drunk now as she had wished, shivered. She looked at Walpole, who had matched her glass for glass and then some.

   "I have a most terrible urge," she told him. "I want to go upstairs and make love like a dog in heat. Am I mad, Robert? I am no prude, but I shock myself."

   "They say it is a common reaction to death. A need to celebrate life in the midst of death."

   "You speak beautifully. No wonder you hold the Commons in the palm of your hand. God, I feel so sad. I want to wallow like a dog. I want to know I am alive, and not dead like my children. Am I bad, Robert?"

   He nodded his head, and she burst out laughing. She stood up and put down her glass, taking some time to put it down correctly. It kept wanting to fall over. She ran her hands over her body, cupping her breasts deliberately.

   "I am going upstairs," she told him.

   "Diana, this is not going to be the way you think. Are you prepared for that?"

   She laughed at him. "No man is a match for me."

   "I am, but I think you are too drunk to appreciate me. But you will, I guarantee that."

   She walked toward the door, undulating her hips, glancing over her shoulder, her seductiveness spoiled only by her hiccup. "Now is your chance, Robert. Now or never."

   Walpole set down his glass and followed her.

   Clemmie sat in the shadows, nursing her brandy. "We are bad," she said aloud. "Lord have mercy on us."

* * *

   Like three black crows, the Duchess and Annie and Cousin Henley sat in the winter parlor, their black shawls over their black gowns. Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into darkness, thought the Duchess. My grandchildren are in the darkness. I am alone.

   The thought pierced her through and through, like cold in her bones on a winter morning. She had no one left to care for, save Henley, who would only grow more dried and bitter and pinched with the years, now that she, too, had lost her charges….The life of an impoverished female relative…servitude in a house that was not yours, among relatives who took you for granted…she would assure Henley of her place at Tamworth, assure her that her service to the children had been seen, for the woman had put away her bitterness at the first sign of sickness and nursed them all unceasingly. What did Henley feel, sitting now with her tearstained, swollen face? She had thrown herself on the caskets at the funeral. Had she truly loved the children, of whom she so often complained? Who ever knew what was in the heart and mind of another? Suffer the little children to come unto me, Vicar Latchrod had read in his quavering, reedy voice, for such is the kingdom of God. He shall feed His flock like a shepherd. He shall gather the lambs with His arms, and carry them into His bosom. Smallpox. Lord, have mercy upon us.

   Tom had been first, complaining of vague aches and pains so that she had not sent him back to school. And then the baby, whose fever rose so high that he went into convulsions, and she and Annie and Henley took turns bathing that small, thrashing body with cooling fever water. And with their tears. There were no spots on the baby, no telltale rash. He was dead after two nights of fever and convulsions. They could not weep enough tears to save him. They did not yet know.

   But on Tom's body had come that fatal red rash. And then she felt terror, cold tendrils curling themselves around her heart to squeeze it. Smallpox was merciless. There was no warning. No rhyme or reason as to whom it would strike, or how hard. Those who survived might have no scars or only a few or become blind or so pockmarked they forever wore a mask to hide the ravages. It had come to her house before. (Visions of Dicken. And his child. The rash swelling into raised pimples that became blisters of yellow pus. Swelling father and child into monsters of themselves. "I am on fire," Dicken had cried. Over and over. She and Annie and all their fever waters, their ague drops, their cordials and spirits of wine, had been unable to save them. Richard's face as they buried his firstborn and grandchild...No more, she had thought, staring at that face. Saying at last what she had always known. His sons were his main spring. He himself would not survive their deaths. Not like her, who would survive anything…even Giles. Her dear son Giles. An epidemic at Cambridge. They sent his body home. She made Perryman pry open the coffin. There would be no burying of him without a last look. The smell as the lid began to lift. Perryman dragging her away. The smallpox had turned Giles to black bile.)

   So the smallpox had taken two of her sons from her, and now it appeared again, its death's head leering at her in the night as she tried to pray for strength and understanding. The end came swiftly for the little girls, who died soon after the first rash appeared. Their urine was bloody, and she had known at seeing it that there was no saving them. Smallpox was inside them. Tom and Kit fought valiantly, as brave in their fight for their lives as their grandfather, God bless him, had been on the battlefield. The pustules raised their skin until they screamed with it. Their skin sloughed off in large pieces.

   The agony—theirs, hers. The agony of watching someone you love suffer so. The odor in the sickroom so strong that everyone wore rags soaked in camphor around their faces to endure it.

   Barbara's trunk of presents arriving. She held toys before fever–bright eyes, and the children smiled and whispered their sister's name. Be better, she urged them, croaking past tears swollen, knotlike in her throat. Be better…sweet Lord Jesus, how would she ever have the strength to write Barbara? Little Anne, sitting up in bed; at the last, calling "Bab! Bab!" over and over. Kit, his face disfigured, ravaged with running sores and lost pieces of flesh, each breath a struggle as the smallpox attacked his insides, holding fast to a leaden soldier his sister had sent. Dying with it in his hand. The Duchess shivered even though the fires burned brightly, trembled with age and grief….Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, there is a man child conceived…Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it….Let darkness and the shadow of death stain it. Darkness. And the shadow of death. Smallpox….