Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (56 page)

   "It is at times," he said abruptly, draining the glass of wine.

   Philippe stroked the dueling sear that had ruined his profile but had brought him Roger.

   "Will you believe me when I say I am sorry?" His tone was sincere, grave.

   "You had better be."

   "I have been thinking while you were gone. You mentioned a brother once—older—"

   "Harry."

   "Yes, Harry—such a common name. He is in Italy, is he not?"

   "As far as I know. Italy is where I have money sent."

   "Why not write him and have him come here? She might do better with the added company of someone in her family nearby. And it would relieve some of the burden you must feel."

   Roger set down his glass, obviously surprised at Philippe's thoughtfulness. "It might be just what she needs; she is so very family–minded…and still such a child, as you say. This has all been a terrible shock for her."

   He poured himself more wine. Philippe, watching his face, waited.

   "Well?"

   "Well, what?"

   "My dear Roger, I know your every mood. What else is on your mind? Come, tell me. What did she say upstairs? Does she dislike me so much?"

   "On the contrary, Philippe. She said you do not like her."

   It was out, the thing that had been between them since he had reentered the room, dividing them, dividing his loyalties. He had hated the feelings her words produced—the knowledge, deep inside himself, that she was correct, the knowledge of Philippe's cruelties, his jealousies that she was no match for, and yet which he inadvertently exposed her to; the sud den, wearying guilt, the sense of being trapped, trapped by her innocence and faith in him, trapped by his own vanity and needs.

   He needed Philippe. God help him, he loved him; knowing what he was, what he was capable of, he still loved him. But the main feeling, the one whose taste he now drank brandy to cover, was one of unworthiness. He was not worthy of what she felt for him. And that perhaps hurt most of all.

   "Not like her?" said Philippe, who had come close to guessing Roger's every emotion. "Who says I do not like her? My manners this afternoon were boorish, appalling. Sometimes I am an old fool. Tomorrow I will send her three dozen red tulips—"

   "Good. She likes flowers."

   "—begging her forgiveness. It is her grief, Roger. It distorts perceptions. She mistook my nervousness—and my irritation, I admit it—for anger. For dislike. I found her a delightful child. Subdued, now, not in her best looks; but that is understandable! Her voice is extraordinary. It sent shivers down my spine. I did not notice it at Sceaux, being too intent on other things. And when she smiled at you this afternoon, she was lovely. Truly lovely. You are a fortunate man, Roger."

   Philippe's generosity surprised Roger. "Yes," he said. "The first time I saw her smile was like seeing Richard again, in his youth. She has her faults, but all in all she has been a pleasant surprise. She knows her duty. Her grandmother's—a veritable tigress—has raised her well. You should have seen her take over my household. It was like watching Richard maneuver crack troops into position. One attack, and we all surrendered. And she loves me. In a year or two from now, when there are children, and life has matured her more, she will be a superb countess. I envision her running my estates, my children, myself, as I dodder around Bentwoodes with a cane, gardening, the pastime of an old man—" He stopped, aware he had said more than he meant to. Philippe hoisted himself out of the armchair and limped over to where Roger was standing.

   "Pour me a brandy," he said. "I find that making a fifteen–year–old cry has upset me more than I realized."

   They both laughed. And when Roger had poured it, Philippe clinked their glasses together and said, "To gardening, my friend. To gardening."

* * *

   When her flux stopped, Barbara went to Roger's apartments. He was dressing to go out; Justin was just helping him shrug into a coat edged with gold lace. He looked handsome, elegant, and formal. His hands were covered with jeweled rings. Justin, seeing Barbara standing in the doorway in her nightgown and shawl like a lost child, hurried to her, fussing over her like a hen over its chick. She must sit here out of the draft; she must have a glass of wine. And Roger held her hand to his lips and kissed it. Smiling at her, his eyes crinkled in the corners. She felt her breath catch. He was so handsome. She wanted a child—their child—so much. He read her as if she were a book. He called for Justin to bring him pen and paper and dashed off a note (she caught Philippe's name) and sent Justin scurrying to have it delivered. (She was glad it was Philippe he was breaking an appointment with.) Roger pulled off his wig, and she helped him out of his coat. He pulled her onto his lap and petted her, and his petting led to more sensual caresses until finally they were in bed. She wept as they made love, which distressed him, and later lying on his chest as he stroked her hair, she tried to explain the sense of being fragile, like delicate glass, these days. The way other emotions, such as love, were underlaid by grief.

   "Do you want to go home?" he asked her. "To Tamworth. I will send you there."

   She closed her eyes. To be with her grandmother again. To feel her grandmother's strength, her safety. But she was a woman now. With her own life. And her duty to Roger as his wife. She had to learn to stand on her own. She reached up suddenly to kiss him for his thoughtfulness, and he was not able to hide the expression on his face. For the briefest of seconds, she saw that he wanted her gone. The shock of it squeezed her heart. She lay back on his chest, hiding her face from him. If he had told her he hated her, he could not have hurt her more. And Roger was thinking, God forgive me, but I want her gone. Not forever. Just for a few months. Just a few months of complete freedom. And she knows it. I let her see it. Jesus Christ, what is happening to me? I had better be careful. Very, very careful. He hugged her closer. I will buy her something tomorrow, he thought. Philippe can help me choose it. Something that will make her forget.

* * *

   He thinks I am a child, she thought, staring into the narrow black velvet box in which was nestled a diamond–and–ruby bracelet. A child to be bribed with pretty trinkets. Why does he want me gone? What have I done?

   "Madame!" exclaimed Thérèse. "You must wear this. I insist! It is absolutely beautiful. Here, hold out your arm so I may fasten it on. There! Look how lovely it is, how it shines against the black of your gown. You are fortunate to have such a thoughtful husband. I can tell you the only time the Princesse de Condé received something like this from her husband was when she caught him being unfaithful!"

   Thérèse laughed; the sound was like silver bells; and Barbara, after a moment, laughed with her.

   "Now, go," said Thérèse, giving her a little push. "Madame de Gondrin is waiting downstairs, and it will do you good to get out. Go, madame, go."

   In the carriage, Marie–Victorie de Gondrin, placid and self-possessed as always, seeming years older, kissed Barbara on both cheeks as if she were a convalescing child. When I am twenty, will I be this way? Barbara thought. Calm, assured, understanding everything?

   "I am so glad you are coming out with me," Marie–Victorie said. She held Barbara's face in one hand, examining it as if it were a piece of fruit she wished to purchase from a vendor. "What is wrong, Barbara? You have a strange look on your face."

   "I–I have a headache. Perhaps I ought to go back in. I do not feel like seeing anyone."

   Marie–Victorie patted her cheek. "My dear child, grief is not something one puts away in a few days like a winter cloak for storage. It has its own time. You will feel better for making the effort. I promise you. Come now, I have sworn to Armand that I will bring you by to see him. He says he has not played a decent hand of cards with anyone since you stopped coming by."

   Barbara smiled.

   "There. Is that not better? You need to get out more, go on with your life again. Your dear Roger will be glad to see it. Men never like it when their wives are unwell—but what is this on your arm? Let me see it! Did Roger give that to you? Naturally! You are so fortunate, Bab. Gondrin never gave me anything so beautiful. Now, let me think, what has been going on lately?"

   She chatted on about the possibility of a parliamentary inquiry on Richelieu and de Gacé for dueling and the speculation of whether or not the regent would take the sacrament at Easter since it meant his swearing to give up his mistresses. Barbara thought about what Thérèse had said and the suspicion that had sprouted in her so suddenly, like a poisonous plant, was fully grown in seconds.

   In the Bastille, Richelieu strutted up to her, ugly, his thin, narrow face thinner, his head cocked to one side. His strange eyes glinted at her.

   "You look terrible," he said.

   She laughed. He was thin and stringy and ugly, and she did not know why she had come to see him. He kissed her hand.

   "I have missed you abominably, Barbara Devane. Sit down and let us play cards! At once!"

   She beat him four games out of five. It almost took her mind off Roger. Marie–Victorie was correct; she must get out more. In her mourning, she could no longer attend balls and receptions, but quiet dinners, an afternoon visit here and there, would do her good. She had lessons she could begin again: Italian, watercolor, pianoforte, and singing. She could sit for her portrait once more. White and Montrose and she might resume their excursions. She would finish the volume on Palladio. And begin another. Devane House. It was the reason Roger remained so long in Paris, to order or buy all that was beautiful for it. She would make Devane House the focus of her attention. Until there should be a child. And for diversion, she had Richelieu, awful Richelieu, and the card games. And she had Roger…. She stared at the bracelet on her arm until Richelieu reminded her that it was her turn to deal.

* * *

   "No, madame," Justin told her, "he is not here."

   She tried to wait up but fell asleep. He did not come to breakfast the next morning. She went up to his apartments. Justin was folding linen shirts and putting them into a cupboard.

   "Where is he?" she asked. Justin concentrated on his folding.

   "He has gone riding."

   "With whom, Justin?"

   "He did not say, madame."

   "Whom did he go riding with?" she asked Montrose.

   "Why, I believe it was the Prince de Soissons," Montrose answered, surprised. She caught up with Roger later in the day.

   "Why did you not come to breakfast?" she asked him.

   He kissed the top of her head. "No reason. Do you like the bracelet?"

   "It is beautiful. Why did you not come to breakfast?"

   "I did not know you would be there," he said, staring at her. "I was late and breakfasted with the prince in his home."

   Roger stayed in that evening and was at breakfast as usual the next morning, but it did not help the suspicions she now felt, eating at her like a canker.

* * *

   "Do you really think I look so awful?" she asked Richelieu a few days later, unable to concentrate on her hand. Thérèse and Hyacinthe were with her as chaperones. She felt drawn to Richelieu the way metal filings are to a magnet. He was a man of the world, he was honest, brutally so. Women fought over his favors, except for her, and yet he had not abandoned her when others had.

   "Yes."

   She frowned at her cards.

   Hyacinthe, fascinated by the linnet, kept pushing his finger through the cage. The linnet squawked and flapped his wings.

   "Leave that bird alone!" Richelieu snapped.

   "Do not raise your voice to my servant!" Barbara snapped back. Richelieu narrowed his eyes at her but did not say anything else. Hyacinthe went to stand by Thérèse, who was talking with Richelieu's valet.

   "Aces are high," Richelieu prompted, when she still had not played a card. She stuck her tongue out at him.

   "Lovely, Barbara. No wonder your husband strays."

   She struggled to keep her face from showing anything. Richelieu was like a viper, always knowing where to strike to kill. She felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her.

   "Who says my husband strays?" She was proud of how cool her tone was. If he was looking for gossip, he would not get it from her.

   "All husbands stray," he told her, watching her. "You have been ill, neglectful, full of yourself. We men are creatures of the flesh. I assume—"

   "Never assume." She slapped her first card on the table. Richelieu stared at it. It was a good one. He had given up trying to guess her strategy. He suspected she played without one. He waited patiently. Patience was his strong point. They played steadily, without speaking. Finally she said, as if it were unimportant and she were merely speaking to pass time, "Why are you unfaithful to your wife?"

   He smiled to himself. At last. "I am unfaithful because I was forced to marry her. Because there is no love between us. Because I wish to be. I do as I please, and so does she, with my blessing. I do not want her. Let someone else enjoy her."

   Barbara shivered.

   "And what would you do if you found your Roger was being unfaithful to you?"

   She could not answer. Richelieu mocked her.

   "You would cry. All women do. My wife did. And do nothing. Which is why men go on being unfaithful." His scorn stung.

   "And what would you do—"

   "I would be unfaithful back, Bab. Sauce for the goose."

   "And what would that achieve?"

   "Nothing. Except that sometimes revenge is sweet. Very sweet."

   His eyes glinted at her. This conversation was becoming too uncomfortable, She tossed her head.

   "Do you believe in anything?"

   "Of course not. I lost my innocence at ten, when I was at court, and I learned that men and women—especially women—are capable of anything."

   His hand was lying near hers. She had an impulse to carry it to her cheek. Part of that impulse was pity for the child of ten, and part of it was something that startled her. She glanced at Richelieu and then away, but not before he saw what had been in her eyes.