Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (53 page)

   Both of them watched Hyacinthe for a while.

   "Thérèse," White said in a rush of words, "sometime may I take you walking or for a carriage ride? On your day off?"

   He is a nice boy, thought Thérèse. He has a nice smile. Niceness would be good after LeBlanc. And LeBlanc did not own her. It would do him good to know that. Because she must establish a certain superiority with him as soon as possible or her life would be hell. She had had enough of hell.

   "I would like that."

   "Would you? That is wonderful, Thérèse."

   When LeBlanc knocked on Thérèse's door that night, she was sitting up in bed, the covers folded neatly at her waist. Her hair was brushed and hung down in two plaits onto her shoulders. She wore a high–necked nightgown. She looked young and fresh and virginal. She felt a hundred years old. But calm. The worst that could have happened to her had already occurred. Once one had faced the worst, life was simpler. She nodded to Hyacinthe, who scampered out the other door, the door leading to Lady Devane's bedchamber. LeBlanc knocked again, She could hear the impatience in that sound.

   "Come in." Her rosary beads were twisted together in her folded hands.

   LeBlanc barreled into the room. He pulled off his wig and threw it to the floor. He shrugged off his coat and hopped on one foot trying to twist off a shoe. As he finally began to pull off the other shoe, he looked at Thérèse, who had not moved since he came into the room. Something in her face made him stand still.

   "There are certain things we must get clear between us, Monsieur LeBlanc." Thérèse looked him in the eye. "First, you will never spend the night. Lady Devane's page sleeps in my room, and I will not have him shivering in a bedchamber corner all night when you have your own bed to sleep in. Second, you will always tell me when you wish to visit, and I will inform you whether it is convenient or not. Tonight is not convenient, as I would have informed you, had you given me time this morning. I am still in my flux. You may, of course, insist, but it will be messy for both of us, as well as painful to me. Third, the physician says I must have red wine and beef broth and eggs to heal properly. You will arrange that. The sooner I am healed, the sooner you may take your pleasure. Fourth, you will bathe and shave before you come to my bed. I will not sleep with a man who smells like a pig. And fifth, you will ascertain that no babies result from this liaison. You are never to come inside of me. Never. If you should give me a baby, I will go to Lady Devane and tell her everything. I will be dismissed, monsieur, but so will you. I know Lady Devane, and I am certain she will insist on it. I am finished. Do we understand one another?"

   Various emotions had played across LeBlanc's face as she spoke: anger, incredulity, stubbornness.

   "I could force you here and now," he growled. But Thérèse noticed that he made no threatening move and she was alert for that.

   "Naturally," she said calmly. "But I am a strong girl. I would scream and fight; Hyacinthe would hear me. Everyone would know. I would be dismissed but so, Monsieur LeBlanc, would you. I guarantee it. Lady Devane is very fond of me."

   He stared at her, his mouth open, sagging. She decided it would be wise to be generous in victory.

   "I know your power in the household. And I respect it. I have no intention of denying you. I am not stupid. I ask only that you consider my feelings, and my health. If I am well, the experience will be more pleasant for us both."

   "I could give you to the footmen."

   But his threat was hollow, and they both knew it. Hesitantly, with one eye on her as if she would spring from the bed and attack him, he picked up his wig and coat and shoe. He looked ludicrous.

   "Mind you do not take too long with this flux," he said in an effort to restore his dignity. "I am an impatient man."

   "Be sure to bathe," she answered. "Red wine, beef broth, and eggs. Remember."

   The door closed behind him. She leaned back, sagging, her mouth dry. He had taken it far better than she had expected. He was a bully, unused to others standing up to him. And not very clever. Her attack had taken him by surprise. Now he would view her differently. The balance of power between them had shifted slightly. She shuddered at the thought of his big, naked body on hers. She would think of something else, or recite her rosary. And she would go walking with White and enjoy his bashful regard. His regard would make her feel clean again. This would pass. Things always did. The important thing was that she survived. She thought of the girl she had been just months ago, singing and laughing and thinking the world her oyster. But that girl had never known a man's body or felt love or jealousy or hurt or fear. She got out of bed and called for Hyacinthe. She was teaching him his catechism. Listening to the lisping words of God, watching the earnestness of his sweet, dark face gave her comfort. The little boy meant a great deal to her; he might be the only child she would ever have. There was freedom in that fact; and there was sadness.

* * *

   "What did you do to Henri?" Richelieu asked Barbara immediately, before she could even untie her cloak.

   His question made her flinch. Did anyone in Paris do anything other than gossip? (St. Michel had said rogues had attacked him. He had ignored her as if he had never known her. His nose was broken.)

   "Nothing!" she said irritably. Roger was as distant as if they had never made love, as if he had never cried in her arms and told her of his fears. "Now, do we play cards, or do you kiss your horse good-bye forever?"

   "I would much prefer to kiss you."

   She turned around midstep and stalked toward the door. She was not taking anything from anyone. Richelieu could go hang himself. Thérèse was already unfolding her cloak. Richelieu caught up with her and grabbed her arm. She jerked it away and turned on him. He smiled.

   "Stay," he said, putting himself between her and the door. "Please. I apologize."

   He dealt the cards. She was silent, her face that of a bad-tempered child.

   "You ought to control that temper," he said casually, ignoring the look she gave him. "I can see now why Henri emerged from his encounter so scarred. He will never forgive you, you know. Your days of popularity are ended."

   She ground her teeth.

   "If I ever try to rape you, I will succeed, temper or no."

   She laid her cards on the table. "My trick,"' she snapped.

   "Only in cards, my pet."

* * *

   Her flux began. So there was no baby growing. She had thought after Roger's violent lovemaking that surely, this time, there would be a child. But there was only blood. And now he stayed away from her, from their home; she fell asleep waiting to hear the sound of his boots in the hall. She felt like breaking something. Hyacinthe and the puppies were instinctively staying out of her way. Bah, her grandmama would have said, you need a good caning. Grandmama would have put her to work outside, beating the floor rugs with a stick, or inside, polishing silver until her shoulders ached. She did not have enough to do; and she was alone too much. Other women had cousins, nieces, children around them. She should send for Anne and Charlotte and Baby. Just write the letter and post it. Only Roger was so distant, he might grow more distant over it. Or then again, he might not even care. What was wrong? Why was he avoiding her?

   Thérèse walked into the bedchamber, carrying letters. Barbara's spirits lifted. She snatched them from Thérèse who said, unnecessarily, "They are from England, madame."

   "This one is from Grandmama," Barbara said, ripping past the seal. "I hope the boys are—"

   Her voice broke off as she scanned the page. Then she looked at Thérèse and tried to speak, but no words came out of her mouth. She sank, like a stone, to the floor, not fainting, but just on her knees, her skirts belling around her.

   "What, madame? Is there bad news?" cried Thérèse, staring at Barbara's white face.

   "R–Roger," Barbara gasped. "Find Roger."

   Thérèse ran from the room.

   It cannot be true, Barbara thought. I will not allow it to be true. She rocked back and forth where she sat, her arms around herself, her body seeking ancient, comforting rhythms. The words in the letter were exploding like fireworks in her mind, and with each explosion she trembled. By the time Thérèse came back, with the housekeeper, Montrose, and LeBlanc in her wake, Barbara lay on the floor wailing, a sound that sent shivers down the spines of the men. They tried to lift her from the floor, but she began to fight them, crying and screaming.

   The house was in an uproar by the time Roger arrived late that afternoon. On impulse, he had gone riding, ignoring his engagements, his responsibilities, as he had done since Sceaux. He had meant to be gone for an hour or so, until the fresh air, the feel of the horse straining between his legs, had cleared his mind. But he had ridden on and on, almost to Versailles. And everywhere, in the city, in the dark forest, newly verdant on each side of him, Philippe had seemed to be riding too, perched like a hunting hawk on Roger's shoulder, in his thoughts. Philippe had apologized. Proud, cold, arrogant Philippe, a prince of France. Roger laughed out loud, startling his horse. What power he had felt in that moment. And how Philippe knew him to tempt him so. Was it possible? Could he begin again? For this time, he would be the one in control, the one who ended it when it no longer pleased him. This time it would be his terms. He felt his heart beat with the exhilaration of possibility, unfolding before him the way a woman unfolds her legs.

   He had always wanted it all, wanted to taste and do everything. He had lost himself in so many women, so many beds. But Richard had been the only person he had ever really loved. The terrifying fact of that had made him cry out in the darkness like a child. And he had always found a woman to comfort him, to make him forget. Until Philippe. The only other man he had ever desired…ever loved. Philippe had cauterized the bleeding wound that had been Richard. Their desire had been flame, consuming them both. They had been like the Greeks of ancient times, equal in all respects—the ultimate lovers.

   And now Philippe was offering that again. The risk made it all the more exciting. What a fool he was, just as he used to be about fighting. Trembling, praying; then the drums sounded, the trumpets, and he lost himself in the lust, all fear forgotten, in the physical act of staying alive, of killing before one is killed. Life stripped to the simple equation of survival. Nothing was more exhilarating than that. The brave soldier, Philippe used to say, mocking him, but admiring him too—his courage, his joy, his skill in war. Philippe, who had left his heart like a desolate battlefield, dead men and horses littered everywhere, smoke swirling into the sky from the burning gunpowder and cannons. There could never again be between them what had once been. But even a shadow of what had been was a compelling enough reason to begin again.

   Barbara. His thoughts stopped, skittering into the darkness like rats' feet against a bare floor. He did not want to think of Barbara, of what he might owe her, of how she would feel if she knew what he was considering. She would never have to know. And he himself did not know what he was going to do. But suddenly he felt young again, as powerful, as virile, as full of possibility as he had at twenty. But it was even better, because he was no longer twenty. The greens in the leaves were full of tints, browns, yellows he hadn't noticed before. The air was crisp, fresh, burning his lungs; the sun surprising in the way it dappled through the trees.

   When he finally rode into his own courtyard, the first shadows of evening were gathering. He was planning his evening. He had an impulse to go to Madame Ramponeau's on the Rue Rouge, to try the girls. Philippe had made his blood boil with a violence that even Barbara could not quench. He wanted to lose himself in sensation—wanted to lose himself in this new virility he felt. He wanted the softness of women, their salty taste, their yielding breasts. A young woman, like Barbara. Several young women.

   He did not know what he was going to do about Philippe, but he knew he wished to savor this moment, this moment of youth with experience behind it; this feeling of renewal, of power, of possibility, of temptation; he wanted to savor it as long as it lasted.

   He ran up the stairs to the bedchamber floors, not noticing how quiet the house was. LeBlanc and two footmen were hanging bolts of black material across one of the salon entrances as he ran by, but the significance of this did not register. He ignored LeBlanc's call. It was only when he walked into the connecting chamber between his and Barbara's apart ments, and saw Montrose and White huddled together with Justin and Thérèse, that he realized something was wrong. His heart froze. LeBlanc and the footmen, the black cloth.

   "Barbara!" he said. "Where is she? What is wrong? Is she ill? Answer me!"

   "She is resting now," Montrose said, his face white and still, his eyes large in his face. "The physician gave her a sleeping draft."

   "It is her family, sir," White said. He had seen the shock passing over Roger's face, as had Justin, who was already pouring Roger a brandy. "A letter came from the Duchess of Tamworth this morning. Lady Devane's family, her brothers and her sisters, have died. From the smallpox."

   Montrose handed Roger the crumpled letter. They had had to tear it from Barbara's hand. She had been shrieking. Montrose had thought he would faint.

   Roger read quickly; the handwriting was shaky, the ink blotted.

My darling granddaughter, my most dear child,

It is with a heavy heart that I write you. I know no other way than to tell you simply—they are dead, my dear. All of them—
your brothers and sisters. Of the smallpox. Tony will write you the details, which you will want to know, but which I have not the strength to include. I cannot even write their names, my hand trembles so. My tears fall on this page as I write, as I know yours are now doing. I would give my own soul to be with you at this time, Barbara, and I can only tell you to trust in the Lord God Almighty, His power, His wisdom, His mercy. "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord is thy keeper: The Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: He shall preserve thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore." Remember these words, my dear. Think of them in the coming days of sorrow. I know our dear ones are in heaven with Our Lord. They are lambs He has gathered to His bosom. Only that thought sustains me in these, my hours of grief. I pray that you are well, that you find the strength to overcome this
news. I am very tired. I can write no more. Tony is with me. I pray for you, dearest Barbara.