Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (79 page)

   "What a whining, unforgiving little fool you have become, Bab Devane! If you loved him, you should have fought for him…." She faltered a moment at the expression on Barbara's face. But only for a moment.

   "Bah!" Deliberately she struck her cane against the soft earth beneath their feet. "Do you think every one of us receives what he wishes out of life? That there are those of us so above the rest of God's creatures that we suffer no hurt, no injustice? Welcome to the world, such as it is, Barbara Devane. You are grown into a fool. And I could never suffer fools!"

   "Damn you for the interfering, self–righteous old woman that you are!" Barbara cried. "Yes! My husband was unfaithful! But not with another woman! Ah, now I have your attention! Well, listen to me, Grandmama! He was unfaithful with another man! Yes, now that I tell it, you are stricken silent, aren't you? Suddenly you have no lectures, no Bible verses to recite me! No trick to pull from your sleeve to make my life come back together again! Do you, Grandmama? Do you?"

   There was a roaring in the Duchess's ears. She heard Barbara from a long way off because a pain was gripping her insides with sharp claws, paralyzing her. Richard, she thought. I knew. From long ago. And I could not face it. Would not. Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy. She stared at her granddaughter, who was beginning to say such things, things she ought not to hear, things that ought not to be said, words of betrayal and humiliation and hurt—such hurt—oh, she writhed inside at the hurt. I am too old, she thought feebly. I should have let it be. But she was helpless to stop what she had set in motion.

   Barbara dashed at the tears running down her face. She could no more stop her words than she could have stopped the sun's journey across the sky. She had been silent too long, wandered like a lost child through the maze of other people's desires too long. She was tired, and she was angry, and she was afraid. The letter was so beautiful. Promising so much. And she no longer trusted anyone. Not even herself. Someone must share her pain. She would die if someone did not share it. The pain of the last four years. Her mother would not hear. Harry could not. There had been no one to tell, for she had found, even in her most violent rage, that she could not betray Roger to anyone else with the truth. Let them guess, let them gossip, she would not say it. For it was her youth and her love and her pride and her sense of herself as a woman that Philippe had killed that morning. And her dream of Roger, the handsome knight, the hero. The man that must be more than all other men. She did not think she would ever get over it. So she must pour out her grief, she must tell someone the truth, his truth and hers, if it killed her and her grandmother both. She wiped her eyes savagely.

   "I thought I would die. But I did not. I wanted to. I felt killed with what I had seen. I cannot even talk of it now, after all this time, without crying. Look at me! Harry guessed it. I never said a word, but he guessed. He nearly died himself trying to salvage my honor. Honor! I have no honor anymore. So much of what has been said about me is not true. But enough is. I have had lovers, yes, but only Richelieu and—and Charles…." Her voice broke on his name. "I have no excuse for Jemmy. I was drunk. It was a mistake. This summer I have felt so wild inside. I do not understand it myself. Oh, Grandmama, I tried to forget Roger. Not to love him. But I still do. I weep like a child because he sent me a love letter! I still love him! God help me. I am so afraid. To love a man who is not a man, a man who…" And she could not finish, but put her face in her hands and sobbed like a child.

   The Duchess heard her and was helpless. She felt as if someone had thrown her to the ground and knocked the breath from her. Feebly she thought, Thank God she has stopped talking; each word is a knife in my heart. Let her cry. It is good to cry, to let the poisons out. Poison kills, it kills the heart. Abigail's wonderful Prince de Soissons…strange are the ways of the Lord. Christ, have mercy on us. If I were not so old and knew the emotion would kill me, I would cry with her. Dear God in heaven above, I was wrong five years ago. Wrong. Richard, I allowed our girl to be hurt. My pride, my arrogance. They are ashes in my mouth. Come and comfort me. I need you, my heart. Where are you?

   Hyacinthe and Perryman made their way up the hillock to them. Perryman had the corn baby's hat on his head. Old fool, thought the Duchess feebly.

   "Madame." Hyacinthe waved his hand. "Come and join us."

   Barbara leapt up from the bench and ran down the other side of the hillock. Somehow the Duchess managed to get to her feet.

   "Perryman, escort me back to the supper. You, Hyacinthe, you just never mind your mistress. She has a pain." It took all her strength to say the words. She saw the letter lying on the bench. She picked it up and put it in the pocket of her undergown. She motioned to Perryman, who held out his arm to support her. If he had not, she would have fallen.

   "Old fool," she said without feeling. "Take off that hat!"

* * *

   The Duchess lay in her bed, floating, floating above the pain in her heart and in her legs. She had fallen at the harvest supper, and Annie and Tim and Thérèse and Perryman and Hyacinthe and she did not know how many other people had converged upon her like sheep stampeding over a ledge. Somehow she was in Tim's strong young arms, and she remembered to smile and even had the sense to have Tim carry her to her bedchamber window so that she could wave down to the chastened people clustered on her lawn and have the satisfaction of hearing their cheers and the fiddle start up again. Let them enjoy their supper. Thérèse and Annie had rubbed her legs with liniment, but she could not stop moaning, because the pain was everywhere, and she thought she would die from it. Wine, she gasped, the wine. And she trembled and spilled it over herself as she drank down the soothing drafts of dandelion wine. It would dull the pain; it would dull everything, and then she could bear it. From her window came the sounds of the festivity, the fiddle, the pipes, the tabor, laughter, shrieks. She had sent Annie and Thérèse back down. They knew only that their Duchess had overtaxed herself and was now sleeping well. She was not sleeping, however; she was floating above herself. Perhaps I have drunk a bit too much wine, she thought.

   "Richard," she said out loud, "you ought to have watched out for me. I have no head for wine."

   She stopped because someone was in her room. Was it the wine, or was that Barbara floating to her bed? It looked like her granddaughter, though the face was so swollen it was difficult to tell exactly who it was. Well, I am here, she thought from her dreamy, floating distance, and now I can deal with whatever you might tell me, though I may die later in my sleep from it. (Barbara, it was only a letter, a snippet of gossip, and I could not believe what might not be true. I knew, but I did not know. I could not face it. I let you face it. Forgive me. Richard, I hurt our girl.)

   "I came to apologize for what I said to you this afternoon."

   Her voice was so hoarse it was unrecognizable. She sat on the edge of the bed. "You are not self–righteous and interfering. I said some terrible things to you. I ask your pardon. I was upset." She laughed, a short, bittersweet laugh, as if she had just remembered something.

   "What are you laughing at?"

   "Nothing. Everything. A memory. Someone once told me he only hurt when he laughed. I know how he feels. I have been crying all afternoon. I feel terrible."

   "Five years is a long time to carry such things in your heart," the Duchess said from her safe, royal, floating distance. She bit her lips to bring the feeling back to them. Richard had let her drink too much wine. Give me no more surprises, Barbara, that is all I ask, she thought. I am self–righteous and interfering and far, far too old to change.

   "I hate to cry," Barbara said.

   "You always did. I blame Harry. He teased you about it until you fought him, crying all the while, when you were a girl. There is no weakness in crying. If we do not sorrow over what hurts us, how do we ever go past it? I have shed many a tear myself, Barbara Devane, over what life has brought me. Compassion can come from great pain, if you allow it. But compassion takes courage. Bitterness is easier." How grand she sounded. How wise.

   "I do not feel very compassionate at this moment, Grandmama."

   "No. I should not imagine you do." She squeezed her granddaughter's hand and looked at her lovingly. It felt good to be grand and wise.

   "There is more," said Barbara.

   Kill me, thought the Duchess. Kill me now and be done with it.

   "He talks of my coming to Devane House, of our children," Barbara was saying.

   She looked into her granddaughter's eyes. Such sadness, thought the Duchess, forgetting that she did not wish to know. What? What? What could hurt her girl so? After Roger, what else could there be?

   "I think I may be barren."

   The Duchess opened her arms, and Barbara moved into them, and the Duchess held her and stroked her hair and smoothed the tears from her young cheeks, just as every once in a while she smoothed a tear from her own cheek. She held her and rocked her and soothed her just as if once more Barbara was the child and she the strong, all–knowing woman she had once been, who had healed all childhood hurts. For a long, long time she rocked her. And then finally Barbara moved and wiped her own eyes and blew her nose, and poured them both a large glass of wine, and her young face was swollen and only she and the Duchess and the Lord above knew all her sorrows. Life, thought the Duchess gulping down her dandelion wine with uncharacteristic greed. Life is what is going to kill me. I am too old.

   "I want to sleep in here tonight."

   Of course you are going to sleep in here tonight, thought the Duchess. I am certainly not going to sleep alone. If I die tonight, as is almost certain, I want someone to know it. She tried to speak. Something was wrong with her lips and tongue. She had to concentrate not to roll out of the bed.

   "I want more wine," she said petulantly.

   Gently Barbara took the glass from her hand. "No more wine. Lie back and close your eyes. Go on. I am here. I am here, Grandmama."

   Everything was whirling behind the Duchess's closed eyes. The world was topsy–turvy. Her granddaughter was now taking care of her. Once it had been the other way around. Life and its endless complications. Barren. She could not be barren. It would be too cruel. Diana spewed children from her body as easily as a cat did kittens and cared nothing for them. And her granddaughter, who loved them so, could not conceive. Life hurts, Richard. Roger loved you. I understand that now. I saw the hunger in his eyes, but did not recognize it then. The seeds were there for what happened to our Bab. But we did not understand. And yet, when he looked at me, there was sometimes the same hunger. I could feel his desire. He was a handsome man, Richard. All the women wanted him. And he wanted them. He is a man. A complicated man. It would be easier for us all if he were not.

* * *

   Her grandmother had saved the letter, giving it silently back to her; she read it and reread it until it tore along its creases. I am not a fool, he wrote. I know there is much to be explained between us. Philippe. Who had smiled at her under the great dome of Roger's pavilion of the arts. If Roger thought she would pack her trunks and rush headlong to London to his waiting arms, he had another thought coming. (Besides, she had rushed headlong once already, in the spring, and he had not even realized it. Rushed headlong into Philippe's smile. Like running into a wall.) She would wait. She would let her heart tell her what to do, and she would not make one move from Tamworth until she was certain. Roger could wait as she had waited. She still had much to deal with. There were dark dreams of her father and of Jemmy. Of Charles and Richelieu, who opened their arms to her, but somehow she could never reach them. She had to understand it all. And herself. Roger, wait. As I have waited. Ah, Roger, the girl who loved you in Paris does not exist, and the heart of the one who does is so hard…it needs to soften. I need time now to heal, forgive and forget.…

* * *

   Outside her window, in the fields and woods of Tamworth, autumn was coming. In the hedges, the hawthorn berries showed red, as did the bramble berries, and those in the sun were turning ripely black. The petals from the roses fell and fell and fell like rain—or tears—until only the scarlet hips were left. The sunsets were ruby and gold. As she watched one from her window, verses came to mind; verses she had once known as well as she knew her name….Charity suffereth long, and is kind… beareth all…believeth all, endureth all….When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child….When I became a man I put away childish things….For now we see through a glass, darkly…but then face to face… Keep thy heart with all diligence…for out of it are the issues of life….

   The sunset she watched was beautiful. Tamworth was beautiful, bathed in its glory. In another few weeks, it would be time to gather hazelnuts. The leaves would all be turned, the air crisp and cool. Come to live with me again at Devane House…compassion comes from pain….Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.…She would write a letter to Jemmy's mother tomorrow. It would be a different letter, a painful letter, but she would do it anyway. A hand wriggled itself into hers.

   "Do you have another pain?" asked Hyacinthe. "Is it terrible?"

   "I think my pains are better."

   She kissed his cheek and breathed in the glory of the sunset. She drank in its beauty, its serenity, its quiet.

   A furious honking burst the quiet. Below, three of the Duchess's Michaelmas geese waddled as fast as their splayed feet would take them across the lawn, honking frantically the entire time. Shrill yaps now joined the honking. Harry and Charlotte and Dulcinea leapt from a clump of bushes and ran after the geese—it was a hunt, and a joint effort.