Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (59 page)

   And yet, his bedding her had given her a kind of security. The footmen were not so free with their compliments. The chambermaids might eye her with disdain, but there was an amount of envy mixed in. No one bothered her. She was treated with a certain amount of respect.

   She thought of Caesar and his nervous, half–declaration of love. Why could she not love him? He was a nice man, a good man. He read his poems to her, trembling like a boy at her praise. And yet when she had allowed him to kiss her, she felt nothing, just as she felt nothing with LeBlanc. And she could not give herself. Not again. Would there ever be anyone who stirred her heart as the young prince had? Whom she could love the way madame loved her husband? I would like to feel again, she thought. I would like to love someone, something.

   She rubbed her arms against the chill of the breeze. Hyacinthe was snoring. She needed to turn him over on his back. Dear little boy. She loved him. Already, he was acquiring a smattering of English and he knew the first answers in the catechism. Someday, she thought, leaning out and looking at the dark rooftops, darker shadows in the night, I shall save up enough money and open my own shop. I shall live by myself with Hyacinthe and a cat or two. Madame shall be my most honored patron. My dresses will become famous. I will have several girls working under me. And no one shall have me whom I do not want to have me. I shall be free, free as a bird. She thought contemptuously of LeBlanc, his boasting, his temper. Already she was stronger than he. He needed her soft body; her fingers around his manhood so that he could spend himself and die like a beached fish, needed her soft arms around him as he whispered his fears. And she had no such need of him. But she was not free of him either. He was like a hair shirt she wore, reminding her of her sin. Her punishment. Her hell. But at least hell grunted and groaned and took only five or ten minutes. The Blessed Mother was kind. Most nights of the week.

* * *

   It was May. Paris in May. The chestnut trees were full and green, the limes and oaks. The baskets of the flower sellers overflowed with daisies, lilies, peonies, periwinkles, lavender, mint, lads love. The Seine sparkled in the warm sun as boats bobbed on its shining surface, its banks crowded with fishermen, beggars, and naked, laughing children. The breezes were as soft, as warm, as a woman's hand. The first bridge over the Seine, the Pont Neuf, was crowded with its melange of vagabonds, street musicians, dentists and quack doctors, who stood on wooden boxes or rackety wagons and called out their skills to the passing crowds of duchesses, merchants, pickpockets, princes. Everyone who could be outside was. It was May.

   The talk was all of John Law's newly created national bank—a miracle of instant credit that was going to extinguish France's crushing national debt. Everyone was rushing to invest in it, wishing they had been as wise as the Englishman Lord Devane, who was said to hold many shares. Law's bank was a wonder of financial genius, everyone exclaimed. He had a twenty–five–year monopoly, authorized capital was fixed by edict and could not be increased without government sanction. The bank issued its own notes, and these notes had to be converted into cash on sight at the bank. Its stock was offered for public subscription, and the sums in payment for bank stock had to be in bank notes. It was under legal obligation to buy all the Louis XIV paper (notes the late king had issued to cover his wars, now worth little of their original value) at eighty percent discount, payment to be made—once more—in the bank's own notes.

   "Debt has disappeared by magic!" everyone cried, not realizing that paper was eliminating debts contracted in gold. Everyone was ecstatic, except other financiers. Prices were already falling; trade was increasing; money was cheap.

   Geraniums were blooming in the huge bronze vases on the terrace. Barbara sat at one of the tiny wrought–iron tables, painted deep green, in a matching wrought–iron chair. She and Roger were having company. Part of it was to celebrate Law's bank, part of it was to celebrate May. John Law, Marie–Victorie, the Comte de Toulouse, Philippe de Soissons, Montrose, White, Thérèse, and Hyacinthe strolled about, eating her grandmother's famed lemon tarts and drinking tea or fruit cordials or rose brandies. She had stayed busy. She had resumed her Italian lessons and asked White to begin teaching her Greek, which pleased him very much (or was it being close to Thérèse that pleased him?). Her painting was nearly finished, and she had ordered a duplicate painting to be sent to her grandmother. There were no paintings of her at Tamworth, as there had been no paintings of her brothers and sisters. She wanted her grandmama to have her there in spirit, if not in flesh. She wrote regularly to her grandmother and to Tony and to little Mary. It was now two months since the news of the deaths. She still wore black. She still avoided evening balls and receptions. But she visited and played cards with Richelieu, and she and Roger held quiet dinners. She was working on a floor plan for Devane House, based in part on La Malcontenta. White helped her. He found the original plans and corrected her sketches. She felt full of purpose, almost content when she worked on it. It was a combination of Palladio and Tamworth and Saylor House. It was good. Even White said so. The pain was better. Her brothers and sisters were often in her thoughts, but not always with tears. There was no child. That was a new grief in her life. Roger was attentive and adoring, but something was happening. She had changed. She wanted more from him. He was always buying her presents, extravagant things, diamonds, a new coach, Richelieu's horse. (Richelieu had had to sell; he was so in debt. It had taken the zest out of their gambling for a while, until Richelieu suggested they gamble for Roger's nightcap. She had loved that.) But she wanted more than trinkets and Roger's occasional regard. She felt so alone. She read her Bible often, trying to be patient, to be long–suffering. Charity (which her grandmother said meant love) suffereth long, and is kind. Charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up. Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil.

   From her chair, she watched Hyacinthe throw sticks for the dogs. (Bad Harry. He still growled at Philippe every time he saw him, and Barbara could never find it in her heart to discipline him.) Thérèse and White stood on the terrace steps watching also.

   "Something has to change," White was saying. "I cannot stand this much longer. I want you, Thérèse. I love you."

   Thérèse did not answer. She never answered. White turned away and walked up the steps. Even in his own misery, he noticed that Lady Devane seemed forlorn today for all the company about her house. She had changed since the deaths of her brothers and sisters. She was quieter, more mature. And Lord Devane had not changed with her, White thought with sudden insight, looking toward Roger and the Prince de Soissons, who were strolling across the gravel path toward the terrace steps. As usual, they were talking animatedly, and Roger must have said something amusing because the prince threw back his head and laughed. And he put his hand on Roger's shoulder just for a moment. For some reason, the gesture bothered White. He stared at them and then at Lady Devane. She was watching them also.

   Philippe's gesture imprinted itself on her mind, repeating itself over and over in a sudden, stopped moment of time. She felt faint and did not know why. She stood up to call to Roger.

   LeBlanc appeared at the terrace doors, the ones that led from the blue– and–gold salon.

   "You have a visitor, madame."

   She turned. Two young men were framed in the doorway, both dressed in the height of fashion with all its excess: the laces, the red heels, the large buckles on the shoes, the heavy, curling wigs, the patches, the walking canes. One of the young men was unusually handsome, with dark skin and oddly colored violet eyes and a straight nose over a firm, full mouth. He was smiling, and his smile was like Barbara's. The other young man beside him was eclipsed, ugly by comparison, young, thin, with staring dark eyes and thick lips.

   "Harry!"

   She screamed the words. One of the dogs bounded to her obediently, but she was already running.

   Everyone's attention was caught. They watched her fly across the terrace, two dogs yapping at her heels, to throw herself into the arms of the handsome young man, who caught her, laughing, and swung her around and around. She covered his face with kisses. Then she held it in her two hands, and he smiled at her. Like her, when he smiled, he was beautiful.

   "Harry," she said. She turned to her guests, who were more or less assembled up and down the terrace steps, their eyes riveted.

   "This is my brother," she said to them all. "Henry John Christopher Alderley—Harry!"

   On cue, one of the dogs leapt suddenly in the air, almost to her waist, flipped and landed on its feet before her. Everyone applauded.

Chapter Seventeen

Arm in arm, Barbara and Harry strolled through the gardens. She had introduced him to everyone, along with his friend Philip, Lord Wharton, or Wart, as Harry called him. Wart sat in one of wrought–iron chairs describing Rome to White and Montrose, who hung on his every word.

   Reactions to Harry had been varied. Thérèse stood still, staring at him in a way that made White nervous and then half angry. But Harry was concentrating on a glass of rose brandy and keeping his big–buckled, red–heeled shoes clean, and he did not really notice Thérèse or, at least, White did not see him notice. Roger had been glad to see him, while Philippe said coolly, "Yes, I know of your father." Harry had flushed red and looked irritated. Later, Philippe had taken Roger aside and warned him about young Lord Wharton, who openly flirted with Jacobite politics. Both the English and French governments were keeping an eye on him. "Not the best friend for your brother–in–law to have," Philippe said. And Roger had watched Harry stroll off with Barbara with an eye that was now not quite so fond.

   "Harry, Harry, Harry," Barbara said, squeezing his arm, "I cannot tell you how I feel." She smiled at him. (Taking stock: he was heavier than he had been when he left Tamworth, but it made him more manly looking, less the boy. He was dressed in the height of fashion, expensively, and she wondered where he got the money—forgetting Roger's generosity. He seemed calmer, less angry inside. Perhaps he was over Jane. He had already had two glasses of rose brandy, but she could not see the old symptoms of quarrelsomeness and melancholy yet. Italy had done something for him. In November, she had said good-bye to a boy, and now she walked with a man.)

   The two dogs gamboled and frisked at their feet as they walked down the path to the large landscape pool.

   "How are you going to keep us apart?" Harry asked her, indicating one of the dogs. Barbara laughed. "I could change his name to Ralph."

   "But would he answer?"

   "No. I guess we shall have to call him Harry–dog."

   "Flattering. He is Harry–dog. Who am I? Harry–man?"

   She leaned down in the path, her skirts in the dirt, and grabbed Harry's front paws.

   "Listen to me," she told the dog, shaking a finger at him. "You are Harry–dog. Understand? Harry–dog!" He whined and tried to lick her face. Charlotte nudged Barbara. Barbara scratched both their heads while Harry watched her, taking stock, as she had done just a few moments before.

   Finally, she stood up and linked her arm in his and they continued their walk. At the pool, she sat on its edge, tearing apart a leaf and tossing bits of it into the water.

   "You are thin, Bab," Harry said.

   She tossed her head. "I know."

   He sat down beside her and took her face in one hand. "It was terrible news, was it not? Out of the blue like that. I got drunk. And I stayed drunk for two days."

   A solitary tear plopped onto the bodice of her gown. Gently, Harry traced its path on her cheek with one finger. He quoted softly:

   "Let me pour forth

   My tears before thy face, whil'st I stay here,

   For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,

   And by this Mintage they are something worth,

   For thus they be

   Pregnant of thee."

   "Why Harry," she said, surprised. "I did not know you liked poetry."

   "It was useful in Italy. Lady Rising liked poetry. Poetry…and other things."

   She recognized this note in his voice—that old ironic melancholy of his, let loose by drinking. She touched his face briefly, her touch as light as a butterfly's wings. She knew him; he had done things in Italy he was ashamed of. He was still torn between his boyish ideals and the reality of growing up. Poor Harry.

   The afternoon sun glinted softly in the depths of the pool.

   "Tell me about you," he said. "About your marriage. Are you happy?"

   "Oh, yes. Roger is good and kind and generous. I am so happy." She did not look at him.

   He cocked his head to one side. "Barbara…"

   She tossed her head again. He waited, knowing her. She gestured impatiently as the words spilled from her. "There are no children yet…and he is so busy…and sometimes I feel so alone…and oh, Harry, I love him so!" She threw herself into his arms. They almost fell backward into the pool. Harry stroked her hair. She was crying. The old Barbara never cried this easily. What had softened her? The deaths? Or time? Or love?

   He comforted her. "What is it, Bab? Tell me. Why are you crying?"

   She sighed and wiped her eyes. It was good to have Harry here. Shades of late nights at Tamworth, when she had crept into his room, or he into hers to talk. When there was always someone to make things better, to bandage her wounds, to send her smiling on her way. When she had not had to worry about her life, but lived day to day, happily, like her grandmother's latest cat.

   "I do not know how to explain. I-I just feel alone. Roger is so involved with all his projects. He is always gone."

   "Does he neglect you?"

   "N–no. But sometimes I feel as if I must make an appointment to see him, to be with him. I am in mourning, of course, so I do not go out as I used to. It is probably my imagination. The deaths and all. But I want so much, Harry. So much. And Roger does not." She trailed off, not knowing what she wished to say.

   "He is a man, Bab. Men and women have different lives, different needs."

   "I understand that. But sometimes two people—together—build something. Between themselves."

   "You are too impatient. What you want comes with time—"

   "And how do you know? When did you become so knowledgeable in things between men and women?"

   He grinned at her. "In Italy, I learned a lot about things between men and women!"

   "Bah! I am not talking about that! I want a husband who shares my life with me, who shares his life, who talks to me, who—"

   "Only lovers do that together."

   "Grandmama and Grandfather had it! And you and Jane! And—"

   "Jane was a passing thing. A first love. Nothing more. What a romantic fool you are. And what our grandparents had happens to few people, Bab. At least, few people who are married to each other."

   She said what was in her deepest heart. "I thought, for a while, Harry, that he had a mistress. But then I decided it was my grief and my jeal ousy. Now I am not so sure. I think there are other women in his life. Meaningless, perhaps, but there. And I hate it! I hate it!"

   "A wife and a mistress are different things. Roger is years older than you, set in his ways. You cannot expect him to give up everything for love of you."

   "Why not, Harry? Oh, why not?"

   He laughed at her. "What a baby you are."

   She did not reply. He put his arm around her. They sat together in the twilight. The sun still sparkled through the trees, but the sparkle was softened by evening. Birds were singing, and the night insects had begun that first raspy practice before their symphony began.

   "You have not asked me about Italy," he prodded, trying to steer her mind in another direction. Dutifully, she asked. He described it, the colors of the sky and mountains, the rivers. The cities of Rome and Venice and Milan, their statues, their churches, their society. Carnival. She listened to him, thinking, Who is he? He has experienced things I have not, and now I do not know who he is. But perhaps it was only the twilight, which could bring a wistful mood, and her own melancholy. Part of her grief, Roger had assured her, when she tried to talk to him of these strange, sad feelings she experienced.

   Harry told her about Wart, about what a good friend he had become, how he lent him money and had been his second in a duel.

   "You have already fought a duel!"

   "Yes." Harry's face was proud.

   Wharton was seventeen, extremely rich, and had married against his parents' wishes. So they sent him abroad. He and Harry had met in Rome and liked each other immediately, Harry being attracted to Wart's money and background and good manners, and Wart being attracted to Harry's success with women and hot temper. Wart was shy and admired what he considered Harry's boldness. They had become good companions. And when Roger had written for Harry to come, Wart had come along. He would stay in lodgings his parents' agent had already arranged for him.

   "Roger asked you to come? For my sake?" She felt better. Roger cared for her more than she allowed. If only she could learn to be satisfied with what she had.

   Servants were lighting lanterns that were strung in the trees.

   "Who is this Soissons?" Harry asked her as they strolled back toward the house.

   She could not see his face in the dark, but she could hear the dislike in his voice. Already. Sometimes she and Harry were very much alike.

   "Why do you ask?" "I did not like him."

   "Do not let Roger hear you say so! Philippe is his dearest friend." "Well, then, let me say I do not approve of your husband's friends."

   "Harry, do not be difficult. You are going to be staying with us, and it would be awkward if you quarreled with the prince."

   "Well, you have Roger tell the prince that he had better watch what he says to me. I take nothing from anyone anymore, Bab."

   She felt, rather than saw, the movement of his hand to his sword hilt. She was silent. Italy had changed him. The softness of boyhood was gone and in its place was a man. And not all parts of the man were admirable.

   The next morning, he strolled, whistling softly, into Barbara's apartments. The antechamber was empty, and the door to the bedchamber was open. Hands in his pockets, he walked in, and the whistle died in his throat. Appreciatively, he stared at the shape of a woman's posterior, as she, on her hands and knees at the bottom of the foot of the bed, slapped a slipper against the floor and exclaimed, "Harry! Come out at once! Now! You stupid dog!"

   "I protest at being called a stupid dog."

   Thérèse turned around in surprise and then, when she saw who it was, sat back on her hands. They stared at each other…the way they had stared at each other yesterday, the first time their eyes had met, and held.

   Holy Mary, Mother of God, thought Thérèse, her heart pounding in her ears from the effect his eyes had on her, he is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. Not beautiful in the thin, angelic way of Lord Devane, but beautiful in a different, lustier way. His lips were firm and full, his cheeks smooth and flush with youth, his eyes the shade of the blossoms of a wood violet, his lashes long, his nose straight and full. He grinned at her, a grin that acknowledged her femaleness, and its effect shocked her. For the first time in a long time, she felt alive, well, and full of her old youth and vigor.

   He strolled forward, very much at ease, very much aware of her embarrassment, and held out his hands. She allowed him to pull her up. For a second, their faces were close enough to kiss.

   "Tell me who you are again," he said. "I saw you yesterday and last night all I could think of was your face."

   She became prim and proper. She stepped back, shook out her white apron, settled her little lace cap, the efficient lady's maid. "Thérèse Fuseau," she said shortly. "Lady's maid to your sister."'

   "And I am Harry Alderley."

   "I know." His silence made her nervous. "I was calling the dog. He got into madame's box of bonbons, and now he will not come out from under the bed."

   "'Madame'? You call my sister 'madame'? I love it. Little Bab Alderley, her hair knotted, her dress torn, is now 'madame.' And the dog's name is Harry?"

   "Madame named them for you and for your sister Charlotte."

   He stepped closer to her. "But how will I know which of us you are calling for?" His tone was teasing, provocative.

   "You will be Monsieur Alderley, and he will be Harry. It is simple, no?" She knew how to put fresh young men in their place.

   He stepped closer still. She did not back away. She came to his chin.

   "And what if—for some absurd reason—you should begin to call me Harry? Then where would we be, Thérèse?"

   "We can only trust that will not happen, monsieur." Adroitly, she stepped around him, leaving the room with great dignity, which she spoiled by glancing back at him. He was watching. He grinned. She hurried away.

* * *

   Richelieu leaned down, his arms on each side of the armchair, trapping Louise–Anne.

   "Are you certain?" His eyes gleamed at her, frightening her. "Are you absolutely certain?"

   "I saw them," she stammered. "At de Berry's I stumbled into the wrong room. They were making love. They are lovers, Armand."

   Richelieu turned away from her and stared at the linnet in its cage. It preened itself, ruffling out its feathers, and began to sing. Its song filled the cell, clear, sharp, high, almost hurting the ears.

   "What are you going to do?" Her voice was as shrill, as sharp, as the bird's song.

   "I am going to compose a poem."

   "Will it hurt Barbara?"

   "Yes. Yes, it will."

   "Good. Let me stay. Let me—"

   "Go away, Louise–Anne. I cannot work with you distracting me." He looked up and saw her face. In an instant, he had her arm and was twisting it. She cried out.

   "You will leave this alone. Do you understand?" His face was inches from hers. His eyes glittered. She was afraid. She nodded her head.

   "Go home," he said, his voice now caressing. Still holding her arm, he kissed her lips. She shivered.

   "Let me stay."

   "No."

   She walked to the cell door, lingering a moment, but he was hunting for a pen and paper and she might never have existed. She slipped through the cell door like a shadow.

   "A rhyme," Richelieu said to himself. "Just an ugly little rhyme." He hummed, thinking of its effect. Lampoons, scurrilous poems, and obscene rhymes were printed about everyone in society. They were printed on presses secretly at night and by morning hundreds could be found pasted to public statues, walls, buildings, in bedchambers, drawing rooms, and council cabinets. The great Louis XIV had tried unsuccessfully to have them stopped. His court was a favorite topic. Suspected writers were imprisoned, presses were destroyed, but the rhymes continued. Their source was inexhaustible—gutter poets, gutter noblemen. There was a new writer of particular talent; his verses stung. His name was Arouet, and he was the son of a notary. He had been imprisoned, but nothing stopped him. The Bourbons suspected him of composing the latest rhyme about Louise–Anne, but Richelieu felt the verses were too mild to have been written by Arouet, who was said to be thinking of changing his name to Voltaire. The Arouet rhyme about Louise–Anne went: