Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (83 page)

   They walked back to the courtyard arm in arm. I hate to leave this place, thought Barbara. Annie and Tim and Perryman and her mother waited by the carriage, and Annie frowned as she saw the fatigue on the Duchess's face.

   Barbara embraced her mother. Diana looked sharply older; there were hollows in her cheeks and dark circles under her eyes. She is grieving, thought Barbara, genuinely grieving. Harry would laugh if I told him.

   "You are a fool," Diana said,

   "Good–bye to you, too, Mother."

   She climbed into the carriage, and it lurched forward. The Duchess staggered back as she watched it rattle down the avenue, and both Annie and Tim clasped an elbow, and she did not say anything, but leaned into their combined strengths.

   They saw Hyacinthe burst from behind one of the limes and run after the carriage, Harry and Charlotte following, yapping furiously. And behind the dogs came a fluffy white ball of fur, Dulcinea. The carriage stopped, and Barbara and Thérèse both climbed out to embrace Hyacinthe while the dogs leapt and howled around them, and Dulcinea skulked nearby.

   "She forgot the dogs," said the Duchess.

   Hyacinthe stepped back, wiping his face, and Barbara and Thérèse climbed back in—it looked as if Thérèse was crying now—and away the carriage lurched again, and after it ran the dogs, but they ran halfheartedly because Hyacinthe stood in the middle of the avenue. He darted back behind the limes, and those on the terrace saw him running toward the woods, the dogs following him and Dulcinea following the dogs.

   "She has left those dogs," the Duchess said. She sighed. "Tim, you watch over that boy in the next few days. I do not want him sick from grief. Inform those stableboys I will cane the first of them that dares to tease him."

   "Time for bed," said Tim, taking her arm firmly.

   "I choose my own bedtime!" snapped the Duchess.

   Tim jumped back as abruptly as if a pet dog had just bitten his nose.

   Diana laughed.

   The Duchess scowled at her. "Give me your arm, Diana. I am tired," she said. "It is my bedtime."

* * *

   Philippe stood a moment before the windows of his town house which overlooked the back garden. Everything was ready. His trunk was packed; the notes were written; his butler had precise instructions as to the rest of the books and furniture and clothing. His carriage waited outside. He had only to walk out of this room and down the stairs and out into the morning and proceed away from here. An hour or so on to Gravesend, one of the villages along the Thames closer to the sea than London, where ships loaded and unloaded passengers. There a ship was taking him back to France.

   The only regret he felt, oddly enough, was that of leaving Abigail. The note he had written her would not ease her hurt, he knew; but in time, she would forget him and remember him only with fondness and a delicious sense of escaped danger. She would have been a good mistress, well–bred, discreet, in control of her emotions, enthusiastic in bed once he taught her how to be, but he had not the strength for a mistress. Not yet. He must heal first from Roger, and that would be a long time's mending.

   Roger.

   Abigail had described the scene outside the church in vivid detail. He had been able to picture it in his mind: Roger, dashing, mysterious, faintly scandalous again because of South Sea, atop his restless stallion, his young, grieving wife running across the churchyard, her black gown belling around her long legs, calling his name, the words exchanged that no one heard, making them all the more intriguing and sweet, the kiss. Yes, he could see it all. The reconciliation was, in effect, achieved. It was only a matter of time before it became a physical reconciliation also. He knew Roger, knew his single–minded charm in pursuit of an elusive woman. He had watched him often enough in France in those early years, admiring the technique, the charm, the flattery, the knowledge of dazzling good looks used so ruthlessly, but so charmingly. Always the charm. That fatal charm.

   How did the English King James version of the Bible express it? There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not: the way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid. The way of Roger, with any maiden, was amazing indeed. If only the maiden were not Barbara. As he had listened to Abigail, his choices showed startlingly clear before him. He could leave, now, with his pride and dignity intact, or he could stay, pretend it did not matter, and see it played out to the end.

   He was almost tempted by the last, for the ending of it all was in question. Roger was too besotted to see it, too lost in this final grasp of lost youth. There was no doubt of his ability to bring Barbara back to his bed and to satisfy her once there. There was, however, some doubt as to how long she would stay. The innocent child of France was gone, and in her place was a woman—both innocent and knowing. She had stubbornness and tenacity, yet there were devils within Roger's nature which might be subdued but were never vanquished. They might prove more stubborn even than she. And, as a playwright might say, there were other twists to the plot. Lord Charles, for one. And, amusingly enough, young Tamworth for another. A quiet young man, a grave young man, an extremely determined young man. Even Abigail, as clever as she was, underestimated him. Yes, there were interesting twists to the plot, if one had the heart to stay and see it played out. He had not. He had no more heart. Sometimes, at night, as he lay unable to sleep, he felt as if he had nothing inside. Nothing but dark emptiness. Sentimental, foolish, unmanly, perhaps. But real nonetheless.

   Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. English at its best and most lyric. Shakespeare expressed the realities of life very well, without the gleam and dazzle of the French language, perhaps, but very well, very well indeed, for an Englishman.

   The note to Abigail was written. As was another to Carlyle—asking that he write if there were any news of Roger that Carlyle felt he might wish to know. And finally, there was the last gesture, worthy of a soldier and a prince. To another soldier, a soldier fighting the final battle, a battle which might defeat him, he was leaving two bags of gold. They would go anonymously to Roger's banker. A gift from the gods, a forestalling of the inevitable, though with Roger's luck, he might pull through this financial crisis. But not as he had been, never again could he acquire the splendor of wealth he had once possessed. Yet, who knew what tale the idiot would tell next? Roger might rise, like the phoenix of legend. Rise from the ashes and win, with his young wife by his side, the powerful Tamworth family his allies, the King of England his friend. But no children. Here, at last, was some small satisfaction. Barbara clearly was barren. There would be no Montgeoffrys to give them joy.

   The satisfaction, however, carried within it a small, poisoned barb he floundered upon. For in his heart of hearts, he would have loved to look upon a child of Roger's; the irony was that the mother did not matter; she was a vessel, a receptacle, nothing more; she did not matter…if she had been anyone other than Barbara. To see the imprint of Roger upon a small face. What satisfaction, what joy, what completeness there would have been in that sight. But such was life. His carriage awaited, as did his ship. His beloved France, his estate, wooded and cool in the summer. His gardens. His books. His treasures. Another world from here. Another life.

* * *

   Jacombe, the banker, cleared his throat and glanced at Roger. "The amount," he said, "as best I can find, comes to £250,227."

   There was a short silence as, appalled, Roger stared at him. The amount was so much more than he had figured, even in his wildest additions and subtractions, with Montrose late into the night.

   An unexpected addition of £200 pounds in gold, Jacombe was saying. Delivered two days ago to your account. Other than that, as you know, no cash of any kind. Loans outstanding totaling some £70,000. Jacombe's voice was dry, the amount shocking even him, banker that he was. £70,000, thought Roger. Money to this friend or that, gambling debts, horse racing, personal loans, a scrawl across a sheet of paper promising payment, word of a gentleman. Gentlemen who now said they could not repay a penny. They were all bankrupt. How weak I feel, he thought, wiping the sudden sweat on his forehead.

   Overdue payments to contractors, piling up since before August. The carpenters, the bricklayers, the painters, the laborers, the craftsmen, the makers of furniture and draperies, a bill for French damask, the color of sea foam, with embroideries, coming to some £15,000. Barbara's bedchamber, thought Roger. Barbara's bed. He had envisioned Barbara naked, white, red–gold against that soft green.

   Jacombe's voice droned on. Stocks, thousands in the Mississippi Company, now valueless, in South Sea and London Assurance and Royal Exchange and other companies he had speculated in over this summer, their value gone or dropping. Payments due on the land he had bought surrounding Richmond over the summer, which would increase in value in the long term, but had to be paid for in the short term. Bills for wax candles and Venetian marble. Had he actually spent £20,000 on Venetian marble?

   Payments past due on the loans he had arranged to pay for the budding of Devane House and Devane Square. And mortgages when his initial funding had run short. Most of the square stood empty, and it was still unfinished. Few had the cash to lease his town homes, and he had not the cash to pay the laborers to finish. A cycle, pulling downward. If you walked through the streets of London, you met people trying to sell coaches, gold watches, diamond earrings; servants roamed the streets, looking for work; Long Lane and Monmouth and Regent Fair, the streets of the used clothing markets, offered richly embroidered waistcoats and petticoats, the clothing of the wealthy, the titled, along with their rags and secondhand gowns. Everyone was selling. No one was buying.

   Who had told him just the other day that credit was frozen solid? Whoever it was had not been able to send £25 from London to Dublin by a bill of exchange. The pamphlets, the street ballads, the lampoons knew who to blame—South Sea villains, South Sea thieves, the directors, his face, his name, featured among them as prominently as John Blunt's. Though his part in it was much smaller. Blunt had pushed through the schemes. He had only helped with bribes, the lists of subscribers. Devane House had been his avocation, his hobby, his world, not the rise and fall of stock, though he, like anyone, profited from the rises. But not enough. Not nearly enough. Now the directors of the Bank of England said they would not engraft stock. They had survived the run on their cash coffers, by the skin of their teeth, and they did not care what happened to anyone else now, as long as they survived.

   London was a changed place these days, a ruthless place. Men who smiled upon you yesterday demanded payment on old loans today. Women who once lowered their eyes seductively now asked you straightforwardly to buy their diamonds and pearls. The banks in Amsterdam had recalled cash advanced to London, denying credit, selling stock held as collateral. The Prince of Wales refused to see him. When he appeared at court now, it was as if a space surrounded him, a space into which few people ventured. Members of Parliament were in town, angry, perplexed, bearing petitions from their townships asking for punishment to the creators of the present misfortune. Yet who was to blame? Parliament for wanting to rival France? Blunt for manipulating credit? The ministers for ignoring it? The other directors for allowing it? Himself, for concentrating on Devane House, on Barbara? He pulled at his cravat. He could feel the familiar breathlessness. It would be followed by pain, by the burning in his abdomen and chest. He needed to calm himself, to rest. There were solutions. There were always solutions. If a man did not panic.

   What was Jacombe saying? Something about drawing up a list of assets, a list of disposables, though as a banker and businessman, he knew this was the worst of all possible times to sell anything. Roger dismissed him and stood a moment at his desk, a finely made French desk of intricate, inlaid woods and mother–of–pearl and marble. He took deep, gasping breaths of air. He could hear himself, and the sounds he made frightened him. He could not get enough air. He managed to open a window that overlooked his gardens, his pavilion of the arts. A fog was rolling in. The air he sucked into his lungs was wet, moist, on his cheeks, in his throat. He drank it thirstily. November was supposed to be the season of fogs; it was a week away yet. This was an early fog, blurring his vision of his pavilion, distorting his sight. He shook his head. He felt as if a fog were rolling in over his mind. He saw Philippe. And Richard. Standing in the fog. Philippe was wise to leave as he had. He had not even said good–bye, but one could not blame him. He had not done well by Philippe. The burning grew stronger. He must not think of that. He must rest. Calm himself. Not allow panic to overwhelm him. He was tired. He had been working too hard, going from meeting to meeting, argument to argument, the trip to Tamworth, the disgrace, the worry over his account books. His mind raced in spite of his effort to calm it.

   Two hundred fifty thousand pounds. An incredible sum. He could never pay it off. His belongings would have to be sold. If he could hold creditors off—and he could. He was related by marriage to the Tamworths, the King of England was his friend, as were Robert Walpole, Lord Townshend. The list of those who owed him, in some form or another, was endless. He would begin calling in his markers. If he could hold his creditors off, he could wait, wait until the market calmed, and then sell discreetly. He rubbed his chest. The pain was spreading. He might even have to sell Devane House. Options. What were his options? The governorship of a colony, surely, the king would grant that. Barbados. Jamaica. He smiled, but the smile turned to a grimace. He grunted with pain. God, it hurt. He must lie down. Barbara would come with him. Her youth was his talisman. He dreamed of her at night, her long, white slenderness, the thick red–gold hair loose on her shoulders, her bare breasts, the red–gold between her legs. Soon he would kiss that red–gold; he would possess her again, totally, and they would start anew.