Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (63 page)

   Most of her presents were littered across her dressing table, along with her ribbons and jewels and scent bottles and laces. There was White's poem. It had been tied with a blue ribbon, and in its lines, she was compared to Aurora, the goddess of the dawn, for her red–gold hair and shining spirit.

   There were the various birthday bouquets from friends (Richelieu's had come with a pearl bracelet—most improper, but very like him). Harry had given her a fan scented with lavender and verbena, the fragrance reminding her of her grandmother. When she had opened it, the scene painted across it resembled the view from Tamworth's library windows—the rose gardens and yews, the deer park beyond. ("I described it," Harry explained, "and the man painted it." He said it nonchalantly, as if it were nothing, but she kissed him for his thoughtfulness.)

   She had received many letters from her relatives to wish her birthday happiness, from her aunts and Tony and Fanny and Mary. But the two most unexpected letters were from her parents. Her father wished her felicitations of the day and gave her an address to send him money, which he would repay, he wrote. She folded away his letter without a word, hiding it under some jewels in one of her boxes. (Later she would take it out, reread it, and send him the money.) It was her mother's letter that most surprised her—ink–stained, badly spelled, for Diana had never bothered much with her lessons, being more intent on flirting with her tutors. Her mother wished her a happy birthday, and said that she was in her thoughts. She signed it, "Your loving mother, Diana Alderley." Harry was reading it now.

   "I received one, too," he said, folding it and handing it back. "Has she seen God, do you think?"

   Barbara shrugged. Her mother had never remembered a birthday before, not when she was at Tamworth, not in all the time she could remember.

   "There," said Thérèse, touching a last rose. "You are perfect!"

   "Not quite," said Harry, reaching into his coat, "She needs more jewelry." Hanging from his finger was a long gold chain ending in a single diamond drop, held by two small pearls. She recognized it immediately.

   "Grandmama!"

   Harry handed her a letter, grinning at her. "They both came yesterday."

   "I knew she would not forget!" said Barbara, tearing past her grandmother's seal to read the beloved, much–needed words.

I send you birthday greetings and all my love, and I would give anything to see you, but I do not travel well these days, and so must content myself with your letters, and with my trust in the Lord's watching over you. Sixteen…you are a woman now, with a woman's sorrows and joys. I kiss both your cheeks and your eyes and I wish that I could sit watching you dress for your birthday fête. Remember me among the princes tonight, as I remember you each night in my prayers. I send you my blessings. When you first left for London, I read to you from the Lord's Word. Do you remember? I read you: "Keep thy heart with all diligence, for
out of it are the issues of life," advice which is as good today as it was then. If Harry is with you, kiss him for me. Tell him he does not write, and I expect him to. Watch over him, he has not your character. Everyone at Tamworth is well. Dulcinea has had more kittens. Tony is with me still, braving the threat of smallpox and the Lord protecting him for it, and the more I know him, the more I love him. I can see that with my guidance, he could make something of himself. Your mother prospers in London. Her divorce petition has been approved. Jane is with child. Tell Harry if you think he should know…or care. Keep thy heart, my dearest granddaughter, for your heart is my heart also. I enclose a little something from my own youth, mine when I was sixteen—so very long ago. Written this day, the twenty–seventh of April, in the year of Our Lord, 1716, at Tamworth Hall.

   Carefully Barbara folded the letter.

   "What does she say?" asked Harry.

   "That you never write and that Jane is with child." Harry's face was so still that Barbara was almost sorry for her flippant words. Thérèse, who was fastening the necklace around Barbara's neck, thought, Who is Jane?

   "One more present! One more present!" chanted Hyacinthe, bringing it in. The dogs yapped at his heels.

   "Shut up!" Harry told them. They barked at him. The box was long and thin, like a fan box, and it was tied with a black velvet ribbon. But when Barbara opened it, she saw not a fan, but a piece of paper folded over and over to resemble a fan. Even before she read the words, she knew what they said: "Devane, Soissons, Devane…"

   Harry grabbed it from her and crumpled it. His eyes were flashing with anger.

   "Damn it! I would like to kill the writer! Bab, are you all right?"

   She had her eyes closed and one hand around her grandmother's necklace. Keep thy heart. She could do that. She squared her shoulders, snapped open Harry's fan, and selected Wart's bouquet of vivid red roses.

   "Your arm, Harry."

   His eye scanned her face, and he must have approved of what he saw because he smiled at her. Together, they went downstairs.

   Talking in low tones at the foot of the stairs, Roger and Philippe moved apart as they appeared. Something about that movement set off a momentary ripple in Barbara's mind—that verse touched them all. Even Roger and Philippe could no longer be completely natural, but then Harry and Philippe were staring at each other like two stiff–legged dogs on the verge of a fight, and she forgot it in trying to get everyone past that moment. Philippe bowed over her hand, and there was something so amused, so malicious, in the back of his eyes that it was all she could do not to snatch her hand back. He is enjoying this, she thought. Why?

   The dinner was as awful as she had imagined. The sly glances at her and Roger and Philippe; the awkward silences; Roger's charm lost against Philippe's coldness and Harry's smoldering anger. The tension between those two was frightening; Barbara expected every moment for them to whip out their swords and begin dueling. I shall get through this, she kept thinking, through the long, six–course meal, through the recital of music and scenes from Racine's plays, through the fireworks display in her honor. And then, at last, the guests were leaving. Only a few of the men stayed to gamble in the library. She escaped upstairs, her face aching from false smiles, her heart aching from the shame at the way people had watched her tonight; her loins aching from her flux.

   Toward dawn, she had a bad dream. She dreamed she was in a crowded room, people everywhere, laughing, talking, dancing, and she was looking for Roger. She looked in a mirror, and the mirror became a window, and on the other side was Roger, and he was talking to Philippe. For some reason she began to cry. She slammed her fist against the mirror, and he looked at her, but he did not see her. She felt as if she were nothing. Sweating and whimpering, she lunged out of her sleep into the dawn. The bed beneath her hips, her rags for the flux, were soaked with blood. She got out of bed, knocking over the books on her bedside table. Her feet skittered among the papers that fell from them as she went to open the drapes. Her sketches. For Devane House. She pulled back the drapes. It was just dawn; not all of the shadows of the night were yet gone. She changed into a fresh nightgown. Roger. She wanted Roger. He would be asleep, but she would lie next to him and his body warmth would comfort her. How silly she was to be frightened of a dream.

   He was not there; no one had slept in his bed. The candle Justin had left was burned to a stub. She crept downstairs. The house was silent, still dark. In the library, the card tables were littered with empty wine glasses and finished candles. She went into the blue–and–gold salon. The breeze from the open terrace doors fanned her cheeks. She thought at first the servants had forgotten to close the doors, but then she heard Roger's voice outside. And Philippe's. A sudden, odd impulse to eavesdrop seized her. She crept closer to the open terrace doors. The chill of the dawn touched her feet.

   "'Rosy–fingered dawn appeared, the early born,'" she heard Roger say. He sat on the top terrace step with Philippe. Their coats and wigs were off, and two wine bottles, empty, lay on their sides. Philippe was drinking from the third, and he poured more into Roger's upraised glass.

   "Bravo, my friend! Let me think…Homer."

   "Very good, Philippe. I salute you."

   "No, let us salute the dawn." They drank to the dawn.

   "I will miss you," said Philippe.

   Roger put his hand on Philippe's shoulder, and Philippe leaned his cheek against it for a moment.

   Barbara's eyes focused on that gesture.

   "Who said parting is such sweet sorrow?"

   "Shakespeare."

   "You should have let me arrange a marriage with a docile, convent– bred French girl. She would have understood. And if she did not, you could have sent her back to the convent."

   "But I have grown so fond of my country–bred English girl."

   "To my profound sorrow."

   "And mine. Life is never simple."

   "Never mind," said Philippe, putting his arm around Roger's shoulders. "She will never learn our dark secret. You are safe. You can make her believe whatever you want. She is putty in your hands, as we all are. What is it about your fatal charm, Roger, that makes it so fatal?"

   There was the beginning of a roaring in her ears. She made a small sound. Philippe turned his head toward her, and they locked eyes. He saw her; she saw him see her; and for that second she read his heart clearly. He hated her, and he loved Roger. My dear God, she thought, as Philippe turned back to the gardens as if she were not there. As if she were a ghost. Or nothing. Roger was oblivious to her. He put his hand on Philippe's face.

   "I shall miss you," he said.

   Philippe smiled at him, and then, before her disbelieving eyes, Roger pulled Philippe's head down, and their mouths met, and they kissed. She could not move. The kiss did not break. The morning sun, now in its first strength, surrounded them like a halo. She stepped back, back into the cool shadows of the room. Her thoughts were incoherent….They kissed like a man and a woman….She had seen it in Philippe's eyes. They were… her thoughts stumbled to the few, small gestures which had fastened themselves in her mind, ready, waiting for this moment. The day Harry had arrived. Last night. Devane, Soissons, Devane. It did not mean that she and Philippe were lovers; it meant that Roger and he…

   "No," she said, stumbling back over a chair. It was as if she were a piece of glass, splintering into fragments. Everything was pressing in on her, becoming dark, yet through a tiny tunnel of light she could still see them on the terrace, still embracing. They were before her eyes even as she sank to the floor. Someone was screaming…over and over the sound filled her mind with pain….Roger…oh, Roger. She fainted.

Chapter Nineteen

The Duchess and Tony walked through the meadows bordering Tamworth Hall. It was early morning, the morning after Barbara's birthday, and the dew clung to their feet and wet the hem of the Duchess's skirt. It glistened on the green meadow grass, a grass green as only May could make it. A grass through which white meadow daisies and golden buttercups bloomed. The buttercups grew higher than the grass, and the Duchess was like a child, slashing at their heads with her cane, ruthlessly. But she could afford to be extravagant; the month of May was extravagant. The smallpox was gone, borne away on April winds. It had spared her Tony. The bees were out, already drunk on flower wine, zigzagging greedily from field to hedge to field again. Cowbells sounded in the morning stillness as the milkmaids herded cows to their morning pastures. A few birds called to one another. The hawthorn was showing its fat buds, its promise of sweet fragrance; the butterflies and bees and the Duchess checked on it anxiously.

   "A week more," she said to Tony, "and the hawthorn will be open— smell it already." She would fill Tamworth Hall with hawthorn branches, as would every villager and farmer their own homes. There would be branches of hawthorn in cottage windows, in country parlors, filling houses with its wonderful sweetness, the beauty of its red or white or pink blossoms.

   "This is my favorite time of year," said the Duchess, leaning on Tony's arm, surveying her rich fields, the woods between here and Tamworth Hall, woods whose trees had leaves the color of spring, a tender, moist green, under which bloomed violets and wood sorrel and sweet woodruff. She must go out soon, with Annie and a maidservant or two, to gather the woodruff. Its perfume would scent her drawers and trunks and cupboards for months afterward. She had it growing in her kitchen gardens, among the rhubarb and tender radishes and young onions and potatoes, among the cabbages and rows of spinach, but to her mind, no woodruff smelled as sweet as that which grew under the trees in her wood. She loved Tamworth. It was a part of her soul; even now it was healing her with its birds and flowers and bees and meadows. She missed the children, yes. Not to see them running in the meadows, climbing the trees, fishing in the stream. But they were gone. With their grandfather now in the family vault, and the only meadow flowers they would ever see again would be the ones she brought them. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity—yet not all. She was not alone. The Lord was good.

   "Look at that sky, boy. It is as blue as the color of Barbara's eyes, or your grandfather's eyes. Someday this will all be yours, and now I can say those words gladly. You are a good boy, Tony. A good boy to look after your grandmother so."

   Tony, hulking above his thin, frail grandmother, blushed like a child. A shame, thought the Duchess, that he is so plain. None of William's handsome looks at all, except for his height. All Abigail, watered down to nothing. Ah, well, we work with what we have. And we thank the Lord for His blessings. She squeezed Tony's arm and gestured for them to continue their walk. Abigail would be here tomorrow, anxious no doubt to see why her son tarried so long. The Duchess smiled grimly to herself. Abigail would have to loosen her hold a bit, for the Duchess claimed Tony now. He was hers. Given to her by the Lord God Almighty. Though she was prepared to share…to a certain point….Ah, she looked forward to quarreling with Abigail. She slashed the heads off a patch of buttercups with vicious satisfaction.

   Dulcinea appeared from nowhere, her silvery–white fur sleek with dew, her tail slashing with jungle majesty. She was stalking birds, hoping with her cold cat's heart that perhaps a hatched babe or two had fallen from their nest. Above her, a pair of rooks circled and cawed and swooped down at her. Dulcinea was no fool; there was a nest close by; a baby on the ground perhaps. She ignored the Duchess and Tony, intent on her hunt, and went leaping into the woods with the grace of the primeval beast she was.

   "Want one of Dulcinea's kittens, Grandmama. Do not forget."

   "Say 'I,' boy! Can you not say the plain–English word 'I'? You are going to have to learn. I will not have the Duke of Tamworth sputtering around this country like a damned fool! Let me hear you say, 'Grandmama, I want one of Dulcinea's kittens.' Say it. Or I will give you nothing. Go on! Say it! You can do it, Tony."

   Hesitantly, Tony said, "I…want one of Dulcinea's kittens."

   The Duchess nodded vigorously. Poor Tony. Why should he hoard words as others hoarded gold? What was he afraid of? What kind of upbringing had he had that he could not declare himself? She remembered him as a child, fat, unblinking, staring about him silently, someone on Abigail's staff always correcting him, teaching him, pushing him, if Abigail herself was not worrying over him. Harry and Barbara teasing him unmercifully. She herself ignoring him. Poor lout, no wonder he was the way he was. Well, he was under her wing now, and she would bring him out of himself. Abigail had done her duty as she saw fit, but she had raised a shy, uncertain man and the Duchess meant to do better. God had granted her this last chick in her hour of need, and she would do her best by him. Never mind that he was not all his father had been. He was hers. They walked on through the woods, coming out of its cool shadows to the gardens near the house. She was tired now. She could feel her age dragging her down. She needed her morning rest.

   "Never mind me, Tony," she said, softening the edge of what she had said before. "I am a crotchety old woman this morning. I did not sleep well last night. Barbara was on my mind. I felt a worry. Annie says the tea leaves bode evil. I do not like it!" She stamped the ground with her cane. "I hope she is happy. She should be happy. I pray she is. Sometimes one feels so helpless…a feeling I never like, Tony. I do not believe in helplessness."

   He was silent. She knew what that silence meant. He still loved Barbara. Ah, what a tangle life was. Never giving us what we wanted, or worse yet, giving it. Well, there was no use coddling him. The truth had to be faced. That was how people healed, by facing the truth, as difficult as that was to do sometimes. But Tony was frailer than Barbara, not used to her gruffness as Barbara was. She had much to make up for in her handling of this boy— this dear boy. She squeezed his arm.

   "You cannot have her. She is married, and even if she were not, she is too strong–willed for you. You would both be unhappy. Oh, I know you do not think so, but I am right, Tony. I see with the eyes of an old woman, and I am right. Come on, boy, pull me along. Tamworth is just a few more steps, and I must rest a bit. Ah, feel that breeze. Look, one of your grandfather's roses—they are called the Duke of Tamworth, named after him—is opening. Look at that color. Ah, there is nothing prettier than a Tamworth morning, is there?"

   He smiled at her. It caught her heart. There was a glimmer—just the tiniest glimmer—of Richard in that smile.

   "Bah!" she said, smiling back at him. "Never mind trying to charm me. It will do you no good. I am a tough old bird. All we Tamworths are. You will see. You are one of us. God bless you, boy, you are one of us. Pick me a rose, Tony. I want to go inside smelling your grandfather's roses."