Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (73 page)

   "How are his ears?" asked Barbara.

   "Well all summer."

   "I have heard the putrid sore throat is in London. Keep him warm, Jane, once autumn begins."

   "I will."

   They fell silent, watching Amelia toddle over to Jeremy to see if she could have any of his soldiers. It was late afternoon, and a bird was singing. Jane's garden was full of late summer blooms. There were fat pinks and red sweet Williams, and the regal blue hollyhocks and bold purple asters and pretty white daisies and nodding purple–blue delphiniums. Butterflies and bees droned over them. Thomas lay asleep in Jane's arms. Jeremy and Amelia quarreled amicably over which soldiers Amelia might play with. Cat was straining butter from the cool sides of the churn; Betty hung a load of wet wash on bushes in the chapel garden; ants carried away the lemon tart crumbs the children had left everywhere; a breeze lifted the leaves in the trees and made them rustle the way a woman's long gown will.

   "I really should help Betty," Jane said drowsily. She felt like lying down on the ground to sleep. It was the new child taking her strength. They always did at the beginning.

   "I should not have interrupted you, not on washing day. I love it here, with you and the children," Barbara said quietly. Something in her voice made Jane look at her. She was staring down at Winifred, and the expression on her face caught Jane's heart.

   "You are welcome anytime," Jane said defiantly. If Gussy could have his Mary Magdalene, she could have hers.

   Barbara smiled at her. "You should be so proud of Jeremy. He is a little gentleman. He reminds me of Kit. Kit had that same kind of sweetness."

   "He is his father's pride and joy. And mine. Gussy is already teaching him Latin."

   "Will Gussy be angry with you because I have come?"

   Jane blushed.

   "He has heard, has he not?" Barbara, said, stroking Winifred's hair with her hand. "As have you."

   Jane felt as if her tongue were bigger than her mouth; she could think of nothing to say.

   Barbara put Winifred down beside Jane gently. She kissed her friend's cheek and stood up, brushing crumbs from her gown. The ease between them was gone. Jane pried loose the necklace from Winifred's hand. Barbara clasped it around her neck and strode over to Amelia. Somehow, without making her cry, she repossessed her hat (the roses would never be the same) and her bracelet. She leaned down, and both Jeremy and Amelia hugged and kissed her. Jane felt tears start in her eyes. Thank you, merciful Lord for all Your bounty, she found herself thinking. She put down Thomas next to Winifred and hurried to Barbara.

   "Come again," she said. "Whenever you wish."

   Barbara kissed her cheek. For a moment, they clung together.

   "How fortunate you are," Barbara whispered to her, "that you never do anything of which you must be ashamed later."

   And then she was climbing into her carriage and the coachman was turning it around in the lane and she was leaning out the window and waving to Jeremy, who was running behind it. Thomas had wakened and was sitting up, staring down solemnly at the sleeping Winifred. Amelia had wrenched the beads from Winifred's hand and was playing with them. Cat was patting the sides of a cool white mound of butter. Betty stirred a load of wash and sang a little tune. Jane thought about the green gloves under the parlor board. It was such a little sin.

* * *

   How clean and simple Jane's life is, Barbara thought, leaning against the back of the carriage seat. She wished she could stay in her carriage, stay in it until she reached Tamworth and crawled into her old bed and pulled the covers up over her head. But she could not. She must oversee the packing of her household and tomorrow take her leave of the Frog and his princess with the court looking on, ripe for any glance, any word that might show the Frog's displeasure. She dreaded his lecture. The court waiting for her disgrace. If Philippe was there, she did not know how she would bear it.

   The carriage pulled up before the house she was leasing. She ran up the stairs.

   "Madame!" Hyacinthe came running to her in the hall, all legs and arms and growing boy. Charlotte and Harry were yapping shrilly behind him. She knelt to pet them, the comfort of being here making the humiliation of her disgrace fade slightly. Harry and Charlotte whined and fussed and contorted themselves into ridiculous positions as she found their favorite places to be scratched. Hyacinthe stood waiting, staring at her with dark, bright eyes.

   "I was worried, madame," he said, frowning. Hyacinthe had long ago assumed the responsibility of worrying about her. "As was Thérèse. Many notes have come for you. The prince's equerry called this morning. There is a note from Lord Russel and also, madame, a note from Lord Devane."

   From Roger. Her heart stood still. It was a moment before she could make her legs strong enough to hold her when she stood. She went into the bedchamber, pulling off her hat, the dogs and Hyacinthe following her. Thérèse was folding gowns into neat stacks. She looked at Barbara, an expression of relief on her pretty pert face.

   "I am so glad you are back, madame. Hyacinthe and I, we were worried. Sit down," she said, coming over to Barbara and taking the hat from her. "You look tired. Hyacinthe! Fetch madame a small glass of wine."

   "Am I already disgraced?" Barbara asked, pointing to the stack of gowns. "Have I a note of dismissal?"

   "I–I thought only that we might be leaving—"

   "Is it common news, Thérèse? Tell me."

   Thérèse nodded her head, her mouth grim. She pointed to the small pile of notes on a table by the window. Barbara went to sift through them. She crumpled Charles's without reading it. There were no apologies on his part that she would accept. She put her aunt's aside. She would not read a lecture from her Aunt Abigail. She opened the note from the Frog. She was to call on him tomorrow morning at eleven. It was signed with his Christian name, and underneath were scrawled the words, "You have broken my heart." She sighed. He had no heart, only vanity. He would be impossible tomorrow. How could she bear to listen to his words of reproach? She touched the note from Roger, thoughts tumbling in her head. Was it over between them at last? Were the ties between them finally to be severed? Funny how in Paris she had wanted nothing else… and now…it was a moment before she could steel herself to open it. Thérèse, eyeing her as she folded gowns with deft motions, sniffed. Slowly, Barbara unfolded the note.

My dearest Barbara,

I will escort you to court tomorrow morning, as it is both my duty and my wish. I believe I remember you well enough to know you are thinking harshly of yourself. Do not. No one who truly loves you does. I will call on you at ten. Until then, I remain, whether you wish it or not, always yours. Roger

She stared at the note.

Watching her, Thérèse felt her heart give a little skip.

   "He is coming to escort me tomorrow," Barbara said slowly to Thérèse. Just as slowly, a smile spread across her face, lighting it from within. Her grandfather's smile. She held the note a moment to her bosom, then carefully folded it, as if it were made of glass and might break.

   "Monsieur Harry? Does he come with you?" Thérèse asked.

   "I left him in London. He tried so hard to help me, Thérèse—"

   Hyacinthe came into the room with the wine. Barbara smiled at him.

   "She is better," he said to Thérèse. "Look."

   Thérèse glared at him. Barbara laughed. Charlotte and Harry barked at the sound of her laughter and stood up on their back paws.

   "Bad dogs!" said Thérèse. They barked louder.

   Later, after Barbara had eaten, she sat in her oldest nightgown and shawl by an open window while Thérèse stood behind her, brushing her hair. Charlotte was in her lap, and Harry was lying on top of her feet. Hyacinthe, on a nearby stool, was reading, slowly, from
Robinson Crusoe
, the literary rage of last year. They had started the book some weeks ago, and all three of them lived for its adventures. They had made a pact that no one would read ahead of the others.

   "'I walked about on the Shore, lifting up my Hands, and my whole Being, as I may say, wrapt up in the Contemplation of my Deliverance, making a Thousand Gestures and Motions which I cannot describe, reflecting upon all my Comrades that were drowned, and that there should not be one Soul sav'd but my self…"' read Hyacinthe, pausing now and again over a word he did not know, until Thérèse prompted him.

   Soothed by the familiar sound of his clear voice, Barbara felt herself relaxing. Outside, she could hear the night crickets, the sighing of branches against one another, a gate yawning and creaking in the wind. Her hair crackled as Thérèse ran the brush through it with familiar strokes, soothing strokes. Roger was coming for her tomorrow. He would be with her when she faced the court. No, she might not have the comfort of children, might never have them. But she had this moment, its quiet, these people, their love, her family, Hyacinthe and Thérèse and the two dogs. They were hers forever. And tomorrow, Roger was coming for her.

Chapter Twenty–Three

Hurry up, Thérèse! He will be here soon!"

   Thérèse sighed and continued to lace up Barbara's stays at her own pace. He would not be here soon; they had almost another half–hour to go, but it would do no good to say so.

   "Thérèse! You are too slow! Hurry!"

   The dogs, picking up Barbara's nervousness, ran around Thérèse's feet and barked in agreement.

   "Hush!" she told them.

   The stays were tied. Now she draped a loose robe over Barbara and handed her a large paper cone and Barbara put her face into it. Hyacinthe, looking up from his book, seeing what they were doing, moved to a far corner of the bedchamber. (Yes, he had been reading, and yes, it was
Robinson Crusoe,
but Thérèse could hardly discipline him when she was secretly reading ahead herself.) The dogs scurried under the bed as Thérèse felt the texture of Barbara's hair to be certain she had rubbed in enough pomatum to hold the hair powder. She opened the box of white powder, violet– and orrisroot–scented, and tapped a large powder puff in it.

   Little clouds of white powder rose around Barbara's head as Thérèse lightly powdered it. Hyacinthe hid himself behind a window drapery. When she was finished, Thérèse walked around Barbara. Yes. It was perfect. Barbara raised her face from the paper cone, and Thérèse pressed the puff along her hairline to blend excess powder back into her hair. She stepped back and looked critically at her work. Yes. Yes, it was good. It made Madame Barbara older–looking, but without harshness, for her face was still young and soft enough to carry the stark white powder. Barbara unfastened the robe to finish dressing, and Harry and Charlotte came out from under the bed to growl and attack the powder–scented garment until Hyacinthe managed to drag it away from them and fold it away. Thérèse tied a black armband around the sleeve of Barbara's gray gown, and while Barbara slipped on jewelry, she rouged and patched her face and ran the little lead combs through her lashes and brows.

   "I wish this day were over," Barbara said.

   As do I, thought Thérèse. We should have stayed in Tamworth with your grandmother; you were not well enough to come to London and see him again. And now this has happened, but the note from Lord Devane is what is disturbing you most. I feel your mind searching, probing, wondering why, not daring to acknowledge hope. Ah, Lord Devane, you must somehow give my dear Barbara her life again. You do not deserve her love, but what has that to do with anything? Love is not given because one deserves it. She needs a child. If you come back, I shall pray every day to the Blessed Virgin to heal her barrenness and bring a child. And then she made a strange face at her own tiny sorrow remembered.

   Hyacinthe saw her face. "Thérèse, what is wrong? Did a pin stick you?"

   "No," she said. "Life did."

   "Go to the window and see if you can see Lord Devane's carriage," Barbara told Hyacinthe, but before he could, someone knocked at the door, and Barbara started at the sound. It was a footman with a note. Thérèse recognized the writing; it was from Lord Russel, but Barbara put it on her dressing table without opening it.

   There was another knock. The footman again. "Lord Devane is below."

   Barbara stood up abruptly, knocking over the dressing table stool. Harry and Charlotte, their tongues hanging out, waited expectantly by the door; they wished to go downstairs with her. She knelt down to pet them while Thérèse slipped three black feathers in her hair and clipped them with a pearl clasp.

   "Will Monsieur Harry join you in Tamworth?" she asked.

   "I am sure he will, Thérèse, if only to escape his creditors. Be ready when I return. I want to leave immediately." Barbara stood up. "Hyacinthe, go downstairs and tell Lord Devane I am coming. Then wait in the hallway for me until I call you." She clapped at the dogs to lead them into a small adjoining room and shut the door on them quickly. At once, they began to whine and scratch at the door.

   "Go with God," Thérèse said softly. "I will pray for you."

   "Do that. God does not seem much in my life these days. I think I need him." Barbara was out the door.

   Thérèse leaned in the doorway to watch her go down the stairs. The dogs had begun to howl. In the middle of the staircase, Barbara stopped a moment and took several deep breaths, then ran rapidly on down and out of sight.

   Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed are thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Thérèse took a deep breath. She felt better. Barbara was now in the hands of the Blessed Virgin, and after Thérèse had finished her packing, she would kneel and say her rosary several times just to ensure that the Holy Mother continued to intervene as long as need be. Blessed Mary, ever virgin, had once been a mortal woman. She would know. She would understand. The dogs were now yelping, Harry the loudest. Thérèse opened the door and they bounded out, running all the way to the other door, but it was closed. They looked hopefully at Thérèse, but she ignored them, so they satisfied themselves with going to lie wherever she needed to step.

   "Bad dogs!" she told them, shaking her finger at them. They watched her, their eyes as bright as little black buttons. She began to sort jewels carefully into the compartments of Barbara's jewel case, thinking of Barbara as she did so. Some women needed children, and some, such as herself, did not. She would never forget the small bud that had formed within her or the way of its dying…or the necessity that it die. She stopped to cross herself. Always she lit candles; always she said the prayers for its soul, and for her own, which would pay in Purgatory; she had accepted that penalty at the beginning. But she never ceased to believe that the Blessed Virgin, the Holy Mother, a woman herself, would intervene with the Lord when her time to pay came. And truly, Hyacinthe and Madame Barbara and Harry were enough for her. They were her family. She felt no need of a child, and the older she became the more she realized that, indeed, if her soul was damned, her life on this earth was blessed. Never again had she to worry about bearing a child she could not raise, whose birth would pull her down into disgrace and poverty. She had only to walk down any street in London to see the women, hundreds of them, like herself, but dirty, unkempt, old before their time, watching with eyes that were bitter and tired, watching children—the destiny that damned them—play in street gutters, as filthy, as abused as the women themselves. She always said a prayer when she looked into one of those women's eyes. How many of them had once been ladies' maids like herself? She knew the answer. Too many. One fall from grace was all it took. One rape. Or yielding to temptation. And their lives changed forever. But not hers. The Lord in His mercy, the grace of the Blessed Virgin sheltered her. She was her own mistress.

   How many times had Harry begged her to let him set her up in lodgings? She should abandon her position and become his, he told her. And when she lay in his arms, she was tempted. She did so love him. But when she was home again, dressing Barbara or directing the chambermaids or teaching Hyacinthe to read, she knew deep in her heart that if she did, he would cease to love her as he now did. That she would lose something essential. She did not blame him; it was human nature to desire what one could not have and to take for granted what one possessed. If she had been a woman of his station, she might have yielded. But then, if she had been a woman of his station, they might have married. But would she have married him? He neglected his estate and gambled and spent money he did not have, and as a wife, she would have resented such ways, for his future would then also have been hers. And his unfaithfulness. As a wife, there would have been that, too. As it was, and God was so infinite in His wisdom, they were both free. They loved each other freely. She knew he was unfaithful, and yes, there were times when it hurt her. But she also knew that she did not want to lose him, that his heart was hers; and she comforted herself with that, finding patience and acceptance through her prayers. Harry had not the strength, or the mind, to be faithful. Yet, always he returned to her. Always. And loving him had been her choice. After the duel, there could be no other choice. Not for her. He had not forced her. How she loved him for that. And for the deliberate, delicate gentleness and delight with which he had first made love to her.

   Now, when would she see him again? There were so few times to treasure these days. Once she had spent the whole day with him at May fair. She smiled at the memory…striped tents, sausages, ale, blood puddings, acrobats, freaks, mimes, Scaramouche, the harlequins, the summer sky, a pair of soft, green–leather gloves he had bought her as a souvenir. How happy she had been for that whole day! (That was the day she had seen Caesar White again. She had been laughing at the antics of the puppets in a Punch and Judy show, and there he was, staring at her through a crowd of people. She had smiled and called his name but he turned away. It had made her sad to see that after all this time he had still not forgiven her. And she had looked at Harry, who had never said one word about LeBlanc, who had never questioned her about Caesar, who was simply Harry, and she had thanked the Lord for her blessings.) And now she must wait until he came to Tamworth. Well, what was, was. It did no good to brood. And she had much to do and the time would pass, and before she knew it, there he would be, grinning at her in the doorway of her room while she opened her arms and held him close to her breasts and loved him carnally with her body—the love sweeter for the absence—as she loved him spiritually with her heart. She closed the jewel case, and before she realized it, she was humming a little tune as she began to pack the last of her mistress's belongings. In the midst of her humming, she stopped suddenly and said out loud, "Be well, Caesar." I will add his name to my prayers, she thought, and the thought soothed her again, and happily she resumed both her humming and her tasks.

* * *

   Roger stood at an open window, one foot up on the low sill, when Barbara opened the door. She walked in easily enough, but stopped in the middle of the room, unable to will herself to move one step farther. They stared at each other, and then, very slowly, he smiled. Why is he always so handsome? she thought, and she felt as if her heart were going to jump out of her body. In her mind, it was a bird fallen from its nest and fluttering frantically in circles on the ground. She noticed that he, too, wore a black armband, just as she and Hyacinthe did, and that courtesy touched her. He proclaimed to the world that Jemmy Landsdowne was a mutual friend, that the loss was shared. His gesture would muffle some of the scandal. It was the gesture of a generous—and confident—man.

   He straightened up and walked toward her. Surely he sees my heart, she thought wildly. It must be visible leaping just beneath my skin. He stopped an arm's length from her. Too close, and yet so far away.

   "You look beautiful," he said, and his eyes were like sapphires, polished to a fine glow, burning, burning her with all that was in them. He took a step closer. In spite of herself, she stepped back. She might never have been alone with him before. He was a stranger to her, and yet, this was the same man she had loved with all her young heart. He had been the first to make her cry with passion in his arms from the skill of his lovemaking and from the love she felt for him. If be kisses me, she thought…and she could not finish the thought.

   "Barbara," he said. "You are trembling. Are you ill? Shall I call for your maid?" It was as if cold water were dashed in her face.

   "No," she said calmly. "It is nerves. Thank you for coming this morning, but I have decided your accompanying me is unnecessary. I can handle myself—"

   "I am certain you can," he said. His tone was cool, detached, self– assured. It threw her off guard. "Whatever may have happened between us, Barbara, you are still my wife. I would be a cad not to offer you the protection of my name and presence at such a time as this. Are you ready? Good girl. You look superb. My carriage is just outside."

   He went out to tell Hyacinthe to call the carriage forward. She stared after him. How dare he be so cool and collected? She raised her chin. When he came back inside for her, she swept by him without a word.

* * *

   Irritably—very irritably—Abigail eyed Tommy Carlyle, the only other person sitting in the antechamber in Richmond Lodge that was used for the Prince and Princess of Wales's drawing room receptions—the chamber those who had an interview with their royal highnesses in the private apartments must first pass through. Carlyle fanned himself slowly with a huge fan that had dangling silk tassels, and he wore the usual large diamond in his left ear and an impossible wig. Even Louis XIV would not have worn such a wig, thought Abigail, unable to pull her eyes from it. Carlyle smiled at her, and to Abigail the smile seemed to say, I know why you are here, and I am here for the same reason. I would not miss it for the world. Unfortunately, it was beneath her dignity to inform him that she was here only because her daughter, Mary, now sixteen, was a new maid of honor to the Princess of Wales, and she was merely waiting for Mary to finish her day's attendance. She had no wish to see her own niece humiliated (even if she did deserve it). Barbara was, after all, still family.

   Of course she had been appalled when she heard of the duel, so much so that she sat down at her desk and composed an impulsive letter of indignation and outrage to the Duchess and posted it to Tamworth by special messenger. Let the Duchess see what her pet was doing now, she had thought. Let the Duchess read about the latest scandal and weep! Barbara was growing into a copy of her mother, she had written with angry, sweeping, underlined capitals, and four years ago she could have told them when they insisted on marrying her to Roger Montgeoffry that no good would come of the match. Had anyone listened then? No. The Duchess had come marching up from Tamworth and scattered them all about her like so many billiard balls. Time has proved her correct, she had written. Part of her livid anger—and she would be the first to admit it—had to do with the fact that her niece had somehow snatched the single most eligible man at court, a man Abigail had been cultivating for some years, waiting patiently, carefully, until Mary was old enough, before she set anything into motion. She had laid her plans so well. As she always did. Charles's mother and she were old friends, and they had agreed between themselves that the match would be perfect on all sides. Mary had only to reach sixteen, and then the pair of them would begin their work. And who had shown up a month after Mary turned sixteen? Every time she saw Charles Russel grin like a lovesick fool at her wicked, immoral, rude, headstrong, and already married niece, she wanted to smash something, preferably on Barbara.