Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (82 page)

   "The Grace of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us all evermore. Amen," intoned Vicar Latchrod.

   In the silence following his words came the final funeral peal of the bell in the church tower. The Duchess shuddered as the congregation rose.

   Roger stepped outside to an afternoon grown colder and darker. Low clouds hung in the horizon. He looked around. Yes, there was Montrose with the horses saddled, ready to leave. Now there was only his good–bye to Barbara, who would not understand. Several men converged on him, their faces wearing the grimness those in London wore. Jesus Christ, he was tired of grimness, tired of fear, tired of talk of stock and South Sea.

   "I know landlords, myself included, who were paid for their land with stock, at the top of the market," said Sir John. "Stock that is now worthless. What do the directors plan to do about that?"

   "I have every confidence," said Roger, tiredly—he was so weary of saying this same thing over and over, to himself, to everyone—"that the plan to engraft stock with the Bank of England will go forward. I know Robert Walpole and others are working on it."

   "If South Sea is at two hundred," said Wart, "why should the bank buy at four? Walpole is holed up in Norfolk with all the gold he could carry out of London. Tell the truth, Roger."

   "But the Bank of England must engraft the stock," said Sir John. "Or people will be ruined—"

   At that moment, half–carried, half–dragged between Tony and Harold, Diana came out of the church. "Harry!" she was screaming, her face a mask of anguish. All eyes turned to her.

   "If you will all excuse me," Roger said. "I see my wife."

   Barbara was standing by the low, spreading branches of a cypress tree, and her hair was shining red–gold against the green of the limbs.

   "What did they all want? I am cold. Are you cold? Do you think Harry is cold? In that vault?"

   "No, Barbara," Roger said gently, taking one of her gloved hands in his. "Harry will never be cold again. Walk with me a moment."

   "Lord Devane," said Charles, looming suddenly in front of them. Barbara moved closer to her husband.

   "I am leaving," Charles said, and a muscle worked in his cheek. "I wanted to say good–bye to you both."

   She stared at him a moment and then looked down. How young they are, thought Roger. Was I ever that young? He rubbed his chest. The burning sensation in it never seemed to leave him these days. It burned on and on, like coals in his stomach. Barbara began to tremble as Charles walked away from her, and Roger led her into the graveyard, among the leaning gravestones and evergreen yews, where they could be alone. He glanced up. Yes, there was Montrose with the horses, waiting.

   Charles stood blindly at the church gate. He had no idea where he was.

   "There you are," someone called, and he turned, and Abigail was converging upon him, her black handkerchief waving.

   "Where are you going, Lord Charles?"

   "I thought I would return to London today, Lady Saylor. There is no need for me to stay any longer." Behind her, he could see Barbara and Roger talking to one another in the graveyard. He closed his eyes.

   "But I wanted you to ride back with us tomorrow. We brought two carriages, and there is more than enough room."

   "No, thank you. I must return today."

   She looked up at him, and under the round softness of her face was firmness. "You will call on us in London." It was not a request, nor a question.

   What have I gotten myself into? thought Charles. "Yes," he heard himself saying. "I will…"

   "I do not understand," Barbara was protesting.

   Roger closed his eyes. Be gentle, he told himself. Stay calm. She does not understand. She has not been in London. She does not know. She is, in many ways, a child still. He took her hands, which he was holding, and held them to his lips.

   "I have to go back to London. If there were any way I could stay, I would. But I cannot. Please try to understand."

    She stared at him. He saw the mutinous expression creeping across her face.

   "Goddamn it, Barbara," he burst out, unable to control himself, "I am in trouble! I stand to lose everything. Do you understand that? I thought to offer you a fine home and security, and I find myself standing on the brink of nothing!"

   Her mouth trembled. "At least stay the night—"

   "I cannot! I have to go back. You must accept it."

   He walked away from her, taking the chance, just as he always had done, gambling on his luck to support him. She either loved him, or she did not. The choice was hers.

   He was atop his horse before she came running, calling his name and running. Everyone in the churchyard stared at her. Even Diana was momentarily silenced. The pain in his chest eased somewhat. His magic girl, who made him feel young again. She did love him. He did have her. It was only a question of time, which he did not possess anymore. But again, his luck would support him, as it always had. With her by his side, life might assume different proportions, less frightening, less final. He looked down at her.

   She stood holding on to his stirrup, her head bowed like a child. Barbara, he thought. My dearest. He bent down and lifted her chin. Her eyes, Richard's eyes, glittered with tears.

   "Kiss me," he said. "Kiss me," he said again. "And come to Devane House."

   She put her mouth on his, and the tenderness of his mouth, the pain, the need, the longing of the kiss shook her.

   "I love you," she whispered against his lips.

   He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling in the corners. She put her hand on his face. He pulled himself back up in the saddle. He was as handsome as a god, as handsome as her memories, as handsome as her dreams, all that she had ever loved, she thought, staring up at him. Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life. You, Roger, are my heart. And you always have been.

   "I will be waiting," he said, and he spurred his horse, and then he was galloping away with Montrose, leaving her in the churchyard among the tombs and leaning gravestones and dying flowers.

   On the church porch, Tony and Mary stood together, watching.

   "Did Charles see?" asked Tony.

   "I do not know. He saw enough. He thinks them reconciled."

   "They are."

   Mary looked at her brother. "Tony…"

   His face was closed. Some people thought it his stupid look, but Mary knew better. He was thinking, thinking things that no one would imagine.

   "Do you want to back down?" he asked her. "There is time."

   "No," she said. And then, in a low voice, "She cannot marry him. And I can." She looked at her brother again. "And you?"

   "Rabelais says he that has patience may compass anything."

   "Did Rabelais know Roger?"

   Tony smiled. "No."

* * *

   "Come, Grandmama, just a bite more."

   Barbara was feeding her grandmother hot soup, and the Duchess was being difficult, the emotional toll of the day expressing itself in her querulous complaints: she was not hungry, the soup was too hot, she was tired.

   The funeral had taken the strength from them all. Annie set listlessly in her chair by the bed and did not fuss at her mistress to hush and eat. Diana sat quietly by the fire. For a while this evening, she had wept and moaned, but no one had paid any attention to her, and now she just sat, staring into the fire, picking at a thread in her gown. Dulcinea and the dogs snuggled in a heap at the Duchess's feet.

   "Nell Ashford wants your recipe for pepper posset," said Annie.

   "Who is ill?"

   "Just another bite," said Barbara. "Please."

   "Two of her children."

   "Which two?"

   Annie did not know.

   The Duchess looked at Barbara. "You will be going back." It was not a question.

   "Who?" said Diana, lifting her head. Her face was swollen grotesquely. No one would recognize the beautiful Diana Alderley this evening. "Who is going back? Where?"

   "You are an irritating old woman, Grandmama. I thought you too grief–stricken to notice anything."

   "I am not blind. That was quite a scene you and Roger played in the churchyard today. It eclipsed even talk about South Sea."

   "You?" said Diana, focusing swollen, narrowed violet eyes on her daughter. "And where are you going?"

   "Will you order a memorial tablet in London?" said the Duchess. "Have them put on it, 'The night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee…'" Her voice, clear and thin in the silence of the room, trailed off. A tear trickled down her cheek and lost itself in the wrinkles.

     "Oh, Grandmama," said Barbara, kissing her hand and holding it against her cheek.

   "You are not—" Diana turned to her mother. "Tell me she is not returning to London? Why? Why on earth—" Her face changed. "Roger!" she said. She looked at Barbara accusingly. "You are going back to him!"

   "It is hardly a sudden thing," said the Duchess dryly.

   Barbara was silent.

   Diana stood up. "He killed your brother!"

   "Mother, that is not true. I will not allow you to say it again."

   "Well, he might as well have! Do not be a fool—"

   "All summer long," Barbara said, her temper rising, "you told me to return to him. All summer long you told me to have my cake and eat it too. Use them both, you said. Enjoy Devane House. Enjoy what Roger can give you. Do not be a fool, you said then, too."

   "It was different this summer. Roger was a wealthy man. Things have changed. You have not been in London, Barbara. The directors go in fear of their lives. Did you notice the way people stared at him today? He is a marked man. A man on the verge of disgrace. If you had any sense, you would stay right here and—"

   Barbara stood up abruptly, spilling soup on her gown. She kissed her grandmother's cheek. "Day after tomorrow," she said. "I will leave then. Shall I come and sit with you tonight, before you sleep?"

   Diana was silent until the door closed behind Barbara. Then she said bitterly, "Well, I am singularly blessed in my children. She is a headstrong, impulsive, wrongheaded fool."

   "Not children." The Duchess spoke softly from her bed. "Child. You are singularly blessed in your child. All the others are dead."

   Diana caught her breath, her mouth trembling suddenly.

   "Harry killed himself," the Duchess continued. "With a razor. Across his throat. You were away. Away from town."

   Diana began to cry, not prettily, as she was capable of doing, but in a noisy, ugly, gulping way. Annie, sitting beside the Duchess, smiled sourly.

   "Why are you s–so cruel to me?" Diana wept. "I loved him. I–I love her. She is a–all I have left."

   "I know."

   There was silence but for Diana's sobbing and the crackling of the logs in the fireplace.

   "How old I am," said the Duchess to herself softly. "How tired…"

   "I am here," said Annie, bending over her.

   Diana stood by the edge of the bed. She looked like a large, sullen, repentant child. "I–I am here, too, Mother," she said. "'if you want me."

   The Duchess patted the bed, and Diana sat down on it. She looked at her mother, so tiny, so frail, against her mass of pillows. To Annie's surprise, she put her head against her mother's breast and began to weep again.

   "I know," the Duchess said, stroking her hair. "I know."

* * *

   The carriage waited in the courtyard, Thérèse inside, trunks strapped to the back and top, while Barbara and her grandmother took a final, short walk together. It was cold, morning cold, and the Duchess was very weak, but she insisted. They walked along the terrace and stood looking at the duke's desolate rose garden. Weeder women were on their hands and knees, pulling up weeds between the rosebushes, while the gardeners were shoveling a covering of crushed leaves and dirt on the stem bulb from which the spring's new rose canes would develop. Behind the rose gardens, smoke from burning piles of leaves spiraled into the autumn sky.

   "I should gather the rose hips. Send Jane some rose–hip fever water if the posset does not work," the Duchess said.

   "It will work. Your concoctions always work. I will write to you every week. I promise. Give Hyacinthe plenty to do. Tell him I shall write to him also."

   (Barbara had decided that Hyacinthe should stay at Tamworth for the time being. He had cried at the idea of being left, but she promised to send for him as soon as she could and told him he must look after her grandmother and that he could sleep in the stables with his new friends. And she left him the copy of
Robinson Crusoe
to keep. She whispered that she was also leaving Harry and Charlotte for him to look after, but that he was not to tell her grandmother until she was long gone. And then, after the telling, he was to run and hide, and by dark, the duchess would be too tired and too worried and too glad to see him to do anything at all. That was how I always handled her, Barbara told him, which made him smile through his tears.)

   "Will you go straight to Devane House?"

   "I do not know, Grandmama. More than likely."

   "London is not a pleasant place these days, I am told. Promise me you will be careful. Your coachman has his pistol, has he not? Loaded?"

   "Yes."

   "I have two things to say—"

   "Only two?"

   "Never mind. I want to say them before I forget. The first is about forgiveness. It is never done well in little bits and dabs. Do it all at once and never look back, or do not do it at all. Those are your grandfather's words, not mine. And the second is about change. Change is an easy thing to decide and a difficult thing to do. It is the day–to–day struggle of it that defeats people. Do not despair if old ways look good to you. Despair only if you fall into them too often."

   Barbara put her arms around her grandmother. How small she was. How thin and frail. How much of her zest was buried with Harry. How much of them all was buried with Harry. "Take care of yourself," she said gently.