Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (62 page)

   Montrose looked miserable. "Thérèse is sleeping with LeBlanc. She has been for some time. I did not know whether you knew, whether to tell you, so I said nothing. Do not leave here because of her. She is not worth it. Lord Devane values you. I value you, Caesar. You are my only friend."

   "Thérèse is sleeping with LeBlanc," White repeated slowly. He sat down on the bed, as if his legs would no longer hold him. He put his hand to his face to cover his eyes. He made some sound. It might have been a laugh. It was hard to tell. Montrose stared at him, his round, earnest face anxious.

   "I ought not to have told you. It was shock—the fight and everything. I hardly know whether I am coming or going."

   "Yes…the upheaval downstairs. The quarrel. That paper." White's voice was odd.

   "Surely you do not believe those verses? Lady Devane would never have anything of that nature to do with the prince. She loves Lord Devane."

   "Lady Devane and the prince…is that how you read it?"

   "How else?"

   What could he say? "How else indeed."

* * *

   Roger was at Harry's bedside, waiting for him to wake. As Harry shook his head, groaned and tried to sit up, Roger said in that voice that would not be disobeyed, "You are a drunken, dissolute, stupid man. You burst into my home like a common criminal and you insult me and my friend, a prince of France. I ought to have you horse–whipped, Harry!"

   Each word was like a blow from a hammer, implacable. Roger sounded like his mother, like his grandmother. Pain radiated throughout his body, from his face, from his ribs, making it difficult to think clearly. Roger's voice, his icy control, his contempt, made Harry unsure of himself. What had seemed so certain seemed now like shifting sand.

   "This is Paris," Roger continued, each word spat out through clenched teeth, "and all kinds of foul rumors abound. To believe every one of them is the mark of a fool, which I begin to believe you are. You owe me, and you owe the Prince de Soissons, an apology. Only the fact that you are my wife's brother keeps me from throwing you out on the street as you deserve. It was all I could do to keep the prince from challenging you to a duel. Do you know how many men he has killed? You would be one more easy mark on the blade of his sword. You were wrong! Whatever you thought—and I do not want to know because then I will kill you myself—you were wrong! I am a rich and powerful man, and I have enemies who will say and do anything. You add credence to their filthy lies with your actions. You young fool! I expect a note of apology from you to the prince by tomorrow morning. If you do not write it, I will throw you out of my house, sister or not." He stared down at Harry contemptuously. "If your grandfather knew of your conduct today, he would be ashamed."

   Harry lay where he was, listening to Roger's retreating footsteps. He felt the way he had felt at Tamworth, when his mother had raked him over the fiery red coals of her anger and he had been too surprised to think clearly. There was still a spark of defiance, but it was defused by the terrible pain in his ribs, and by Roger's words. Was he wrong? Did Louise–Anne lie, for some reason of her own? He did not know.

* * *

   "You are sleeping with LeBlanc!" White cried. "And all the while you had me groveling at your skirts for one kiss!"

   Backed against the corner, Thérèse was silent, watching his anger, every sense alert to save herself. White grabbed her wrist and pulled her from her corner, making her stumble.

   "Why did you do it? Why?" He twisted her wrist, making her cry out with pain. His face was transfigured with the emotion, the anger on it. "I ought to beat you. I ought to make you grovel in the dust like the teasing slut you are!"

   "Do it!" Thérèse spat at him. "Do it! Be like LeBlanc and make me do what I have no wish to! You are all alike! All of you! Taking, taking, caring nothing for the feelings I have! I did not want you! Do you hear me, Caesar? I did not want you! And I do not want LeBlanc! But I have no choice! Can you understand that? I have no choice! I am a woman! I have no choice!" She screamed the last words at him.

   He dropped her wrist, stunned by her words, by the vicious, cruel anger behind them. "Thérèse. I did not mean to—please, do not cry. Please."

   She turned away from him, wiping her face with her apron.

   "Go away," she whispered.

   He touched one of her dark curls gently before he left the room. She sat down in a chair. "Oh, Caesar," she said, after him. "I am sorry. So sorry."

* * *

   Harry struggled out of bed. His face felt as if it had been used as a bowling pin. There was dried blood crusted on his shirt. It hurt him to move, to breathe. He limped down the hallway to his sister's apartments. In the bedchamber he saw Thérèse sitting in a chair by the window. He limped to her, and when she saw him, she rose with a cry, and in a second had him in the chair, was pouring water from a pitcher, and bathing his face with her apron. He groaned, but sat still under her handling, like a child.

   "What happened?" she whispered.

   "Oh, Thérèse," he said. He put his arms around her, though it nearly killed him to move them, his head in the skirt of her gown, and held her. She stroked his short, thick, dark hair.

   "There," she soothed. "It is all right. I am here. I am here."

   The words were the same she used to soothe Hyacinthe when he had a bad dream. Nothing else was said. She bandaged Harry's raw knuckles. She cleaned the dried blood from his face, touching the swelling with gentle fingers. Carefully, she eased him out of his coat and shirt and wrapped torn strips of bedsheet around his middle. He gasped and turned white. He was trembling when she finished. Very gently, she touched his lips, his beautiful, firm red lips with her fingertips. He did not try to make anything of it, he simply accepted her gesture. She helped him stand up, and he limped away.

   She straightened the room, putting away the bloodstained rags, the creams, the bloody water. There was no need to follow him. She knew where he was, as he knew where she was. It would be so easy. She sighed. Her heart was not healed from the baby. And he was hot–tempered and in debt and would be faithless. Time, she thought, smoothing back the hair at her temples. I have all the time in the world. She felt her heart swell. It was good to be young and alive. She began to sing, her voice as light, as lilting, as a bird's.

Chapter Eighteen

The moment she walked in, Barbara felt it: some odd tension came from the way the footmen stood back in the shadows like small boys caught and punished for something, the way their eyes cut at her and then away. Something has happened. It was her first conscious thought. And with it…Roger, he is ill. She heard people in the blue-and–gold salon nearby. LeBlanc and the housekeeper and a footman were in the process of trying to mend the damage. Pieces of broken chair lay stacked neatly in a corner; most of the pieces of porcelain were off the floor; most of the chairs and tables had been righted, but Roger's papers were still strewn about as if a wind had come in and thrown them everywhere. LeBlanc began to stammer even before she demanded an explanation,

   "I am not at liberty to say."

   "You are not at liberty to say!" She drew herself up to her full height. "This is my household, Pierre LeBlanc, and you will give me an immediate explanation."

   LeBlanc exchanged a glance with the housekeeper. A glance Barbara caught.

   "Well?" she snapped.

   "There was an…ah…altercation of sorts, madame."

   "An altercation? Do you mean to tell me there was a fight…here?"

   "Yes, madame."

   "Between whom?"

   "Ah…Lord Harry, and Lord Devane and the Prince de Soissons, madame."

   Whipping her full skirts over one arm, she ran up the stairs. The doors to Roger's apartments were locked. She hammered on them with her fists. Justin let her in. Lord Devane, he explained, not looking at her, was resting with a poultice on his mouth. She swept past him.

   "What is this I hear of a fight between you and Harry?" she began, but was stopped by the sight of his face, sick and white.

   "Roger!" she cried, throwing herself on the bed beside him, ignoring Justin. "Tell me what happened. This is all so unbelievable!"

   There is a hell, thought Roger, and it is here on earth. Now, in this room, seeing her face, its innocence. That is hell. I do not want to pay for it. Not with her. He touched her cheek.

   "Do not worry your head about it." he said, trying to smile. "It will all blow over in a few days."

   "A room downstairs is destroyed. Your face is bruised. I hear that you and my brother and Philippe have engaged in some kind of quarrel. And you tell me not to worry! Roger, I want to know! I have a right to know!"

   He made a decision, gambling with fate, with his luck, as he had always done.

   "Read this." He gave her a small piece of paper, which he had found pinned to his pillow. Justin had no idea how it got there, and Roger had realized the futility of Barbara's not seeing the verses sooner or later. Why now? he had thought, smashing his fist against a wall in a rage of helplessness. It was just as true five years ago. Why now, when there is someone who can be so hurt by it? Dear God, what shall I do?

   She scanned it quickly. "Devane, Soissons, Devane—'tis all in vain…" She finished, "in life, in love, in bed." Her face changed. Dear Christ, it is coming, thought Roger.

   "I…do not understand," she said slowly, as slowly she began to. "Who would write this?"

   Roger shrugged, his face showing nothing. "I have many enemies, Barbara. Any influential man does."

   "Yes, but to write this…this filth! To use my name as if I were a common whore! To imply that Philippe might be my lover!" Her voice had gotten louder with each word, propelling her off the bed. She was screaming by the time she finished.

   And then, at the expression on Roger's face, "Sweet Jesus, you do not believe it! Surely you do not think—Roger, you are the only man in my life! I swear it!" She threw herself back on the bed, on him. "Tell me you believe me!"

   Some kind of struggle was going on inside of him; she could see it.

   "I believe you," he said, but it was said too slowly to satisfy her.

   She took his hand in both of hers and held it to her heart. "I swear by all that is holy, by Our Lord Jesus Christ above, that you are the only man that I have ever loved, and that I have never been unfaithful to you." Steadfastly, she refused to think of the time she had thought about kissing Richelieu. Surely the Lord would not want her to count that.

   "You are a good wife, Barbara."

   She nodded her head in agreement, making him laugh. Reprieved, unexpectedly so, he leaned forward to kiss her mouth, tempting and soft.

   "Who would have written this?" she demanded under his lips. "It is outrageous. Someone ought to be hanged! We will cancel the dinner! We will go to the regent, demand satisfaction! We will—"

   "See that vase there?" said Roger, pointing to an ancient Chinese vase on his mantel. "Smash it and get your tantrum over with now, because I am sick to death of Tamworth temper. There is nothing we can do except ignore it and act as normally as possible. Does anyone in your family understand the concept of rational behavior?"

   She felt as if she had been dashed with cold water. Harry. She had forgotten Harry. What had he done?

   "What did Harry do?"

   "He attacked Philippe and me. You saw the downstairs. Imagine the rest. I can only assume he was drinking. It was all I could do to keep Philippe from challenging him to a duel—"

   "Sweet Jesus."

   "Precisely."

   "He was defending my honor—"

   "Do not talk to me about honor, Barbara. He lost his temper and acted without thinking. As a result, he has given the gossips more than enough fodder to make these despicable verses seem to be based on some fact. We will hold your dinner party, Harry will be on his best behavior, and you will behave as charmingly as possible to the Prince de Soissons. That will give people something to think about, if they can get past the marks on all our faces."

   She put her hand to his swollen mouth. "Oh, Roger, I am so sorry. Does it hurt?"

   "Of course it hurts, but not nearly as much as being embarrassed in my own home. You will, I hope, emphasize to your impetuous brother the need for continued good manners in the coming weeks."

   Now she was beginning to feel angry. "He did it for my sake. What was he to think? At least Harry fights for what he believes—"

   "Implying I do not? No, Barbara, I will not follow your reasoning. Harry acted without thinking. If he had thought, he would have realized that you would never be unfaithful to me."

   Her face was mutinous.

   "You are not the only one touched by this, Barbara. It is my name being dragged alongside yours. My honor—as well as yours—being questioned." His handsome face was grave.

   She was instantly ashamed of herself.

   "Roger, I did not think. You are good not to be furious with us both. I will speak to Harry. I promise. Thank you for not sending him away."

   "Make no mistake, Barbara. I am still angry with him, but at my age, I know what time will do. This will pass; if we behave as always, some fresh sensation will take its place for lack of anything else. Within a month, we will be gone, and all of this will be behind us. Try to think of that, rather than this filth. Promise me you will try."

   It had been written down, distributed across the city. The written word was so powerful; it lingered in people's minds as truth. This rumor might follow her like mud clinging to her skirts for years, no matter its lies. He asked much of her. She said, "I will."

   She went to see Harry. He was sulky, rebellious, drinking. She was shocked at the sight of him, so much worse than Roger. His face was cut and bruised; one eye was closing and turning black and blue; his knuckles were bandaged, and he could not move without pain. He refused to discuss any of it with her except to tell her through clenched teeth that Roger and Philippe would receive an apology from him.

   "And what about me?" she said softly. "Do I not deserve one?"

   "What for?"

   "For thinking that I would be unfaithful—"

   "I never thought that, Bab."

   "Then why would you attack Philippe?"

   He was silent. A muscle worked in his cheek.

   She left him. Poor Harry, thoughtless as always. Only this time, he had shamed her by his conduct.

* * *

   In her bedchamber, she thought about it as she took off her hat and gloves. It was a shameful, dreadful thing that verse implied, sullying her honor. She understood Harry's anger. She could not get the verse out of her mind. Devane, Soissons, Devane…

   A knock sounded. Caesar White peeped in. She welcomed him, even though all she wished was to be alone for a while to sort everything out.

   "Lady Devane," he said, talking and bowing and coming into the room all at the same time, "I came to say good-bye."

   "Good-bye? But where are you going?"

   "I am leaving."

   "Leaving," she cried, staring at him, "But what do you mean? Not leaving the household—but why? What have we done? Surely you are not going to leave before my birthday? What has happened? Tell me, Caesar, and I will make it right."

   He took her hand and kissed it. "I have enjoyed our association, Lady Devane, and I will always remember you. I hope you remember me as kindly—"

   "How can I not? Caesar, have you talked to Lord Devane? He is going to be so upset. Do not leave like this—"

   But he shook his head, becoming even more adamant at the mention of Roger's name. She could not believe it; she felt as if she were losing a dear friend. He had been her first ally in the household. This could not be happening.

   "Please, Caesar. Stay for my sake. At least until my birthday—"

   She could see that he was moved by her emotion, but Thérèse came into the room and he stiffened, and said he could not change his plans, but that he wished her all happiness.

   "He is leaving us!" Barbara cried to Thérèse.

   Thérèse looked at White and then away.

   "I must go," White said to no one in particular.

   "Is it because of the verse?"

   "The verse?"

   "Yes. Are you leaving because of that? Surely you know it is all lies. I would never be unfaithful to Lord Devane."

   He took both her hands in his good one. "I admire you from the bottom of my heart," he said, looking into her eyes, "and I would never believe evil of you."

   "Then why are you leaving?"

   He did not answer. And she knew then that nothing she could say would change his mind. Something had happened; but she was not to know what it was.

   "Wait." She rummaged through a cupboard until she found her bag of coins.

   "Take this," she said, handing it to him.

   "No! I could not—"

   "Lord Devane would be furious if you went away from us empty– handed. Go on, take it. I can always get more tomorrow. You know how generous my husband is. You have my good wishes, Caesar. I hate that you are going."

   He could not look at her. Swallowing, he bowed and left. She watched him walk out of the room, as did Thérèse. Then she ran to find Montrose, who was in his parlor halfheartedly arranging pieces of paper.

   "What happened?" she cried.

   But he could tell her nothing; he was as bewildered and hurt as she was by White's sudden flight.

   "He quoted poetry," he said, looking at her blankly.

   "Poetry!" she exclaimed. "What did he say?"

   "He said, 'From morn to noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, a summer's day; and with the setting sun dropped from the zenith like a falling star.'"

   "But what does that mean?"

   "It is about Lucifer and his fall from heaven. That is all I know."

   Lucifer! She wanted to stamp her feet and shout at the sky. What was happening? In their own household? It was coming apart and she did not know why.

* * *

Now it was the afternoon of her birthday. Outside, footmen and maidservants bustled stringing new paper lanterns across the gardens, raking the gravel, pulling old blooms off the flowers, setting the tables with linen cloths that brushed the bricks of the terrace, arranging flowers and ivy and candles in the center of each table. The fountains in the gardens would spew wine tonight. In the kitchen, the cook and his helpers roasted meats and the fish, duck, and capon dishes that would be served tonight; in the pantry, on silver trays, lay mountains of fresh fruit, jellied tarts, cakes, iced and sugary. Her finished portrait, festooned with flowers, hung in the hall, the first thing guests would see as they came in the door. Yesterday she had overseen the sending of its duplicate to her grandmother. Her grandmother was very much on her mind; she longed to talk with her. Something was wrong—it was the verse—she could feel its effect as surely as she felt the sun on her face. They were all touched by it.

   She thought about it as Thérèse dressed her for the dinner, a glittering affair even if it was small, since the most important people in Paris would be there. And she did not care. She dreaded the thought of having to smile and nod and pretend nothing was wrong, pretend that she did not know what she knew, pretend she did not realize that they were all watching, assessing her and Roger's every move. Everyone in her household was nervous and edgy, from LeBlanc and Montrose to herself and Roger. It was as if everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Roger was like a cat, high–strung, snapping at everyone. He and Harry avoided each other, which hurt her heart to see. Harry sat sprawled in one of her armchairs, patches over his bruises, as if to emphasize them, dressed to within an inch of his life: an expensive wig and coat, lace that was finer than hers, high heels on his shoes, the young dandy. He might not have had a care in the world, except for the marks on his face—and the scowl.

   She was on the edge of a ferocious mood herself, even though under Thérèse's skilled hands she looked like an angel. Her flux had begun this morning, blood red. She had wanted to cry with disappointment. But it was her birthday, and she had to pretend that everything was well; that her name had not been dragged in the mud with her husband's friend; that her husband was not humiliated; that her brother had not made an ass of himself; that one of their most devoted servants—and friends—had not inexplicably left them. She pressed her hands together trying not to scream at Thérèse as she brushed her hair up, arranging fresh white roses in it. Tonight, she wore black and white: a black low–cut gown, the underskirt shot through with threads of silver, frosted with flowers of pearls and diamonds. Patches were sprinkled on her forehead and cheeks to emphasize her red rouge. Huge diamond drops were in her ears, her birthday present from Roger, as were the bracelets she wore on each arm. Hyacinthe matched her, black and white, like a tiny harlequin. He would carry her fan and whichever of the birthday bouquets she had been receiving all day she chose to carry tonight.