Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (87 page)

   "Thérèse! I–I was sorry to hear of Harry. Oh, Thérèse, it is so good to see you," Caesar said slowly, and she burst into tears, crying, crying for herself, for the enormous hurt in her, the ache, crying for this life that was so hard to live sometimes, in spite of God, in spite of faith.

   "You are loved," she sobbed. "And that is more important than anything in the world."

   He got out of bed, and took her in his good arm. She sobbed against him. He stroked her hair, and murmured her name and said he was sorry, and she knew he meant Harry. Yes, they were all sorry. Harry.

   Montrose remained transfixed at the door. Finally, he managed to get hold of himself and come inside the room. He opened the basket.

   "A little food, a little wine,"' he said. "That is what we need."

   Thérèse blew her nose.

   Caesar smiled. His smile was ragged at the edges, without the inner mirth that had once made it so special. But it was a smile nonetheless. "Food, wine, and the two of you," he said. "A feast for the gods. In truth."

* * *

   That night, tired, Barbara went into the bedchamber where her trunks were, searching for paper on which to write a letter to her grandmother. Thérèse sat in a chair, cloths for cleaning and jewels scattered in her lap, looking at something in the palm of her hand and crying. Crying as if her heart were broken.

   "Thérèse!" Barbara said, running to her, but she jumped up, the cloths and jewels falling to the floor, as well as what was in her hand, and ran from the room. Barbara knelt down to pick up the jewels and saw Harry's mourning ring. She picked it up and stared at it. Harry…Thérèse….

   She found Thérèse in the housemaids' bedchamber. Two housemaids sat in bed, laughing and talking as if Thérèse, lying across another bed, did not exist. They stopped laughing at the sight of Barbara, stared sullenly at her a moment, then rose from the bed to make slow curtsies. Why are they not working? thought Barbara, her eyes narrowing. She looked at them coldly, other things she had seen and heard in this household coming to mind.

   "Get out," she said.

   They scurried from the room. Thérèse sat up and wiped her eyes. She began to stammer an apology. Barbara held out her hand and opened it.

   "Here," she said.

   Thérèse stared at Barbara's palm. In it was the ring.

   "Do you—do you wish me to clean it?"

   "I wish you to have it."

   Thérèse stared at the ring. She opened her mouth, but Barbara interrupted her.

   "No! Do not say anything. I could not bear it. I–I loved him so."

   She put the ring down abruptly on the bed and left the room.

   Gently, Thérèse picked it up. She held it tightly in her hand. She would wear it on a gold chain, on the chain that held her tiny crucifix. It would lie between her breasts with the crucifix near her heart, a reminder of how she had loved him. She lay back on the bed. She had promised Caesar that she would see him tomorrow, and she would. When a person was on the edge, as Caesar was, it was important to see others' love, others' caring. If Harry had had someone in London…she could not finish the thought. Tears seeped down her cheeks. She began to pray. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.…

   Downstairs, Barbara banged open the door to the library. Montrose, huddled among his inkpots and lists, stared at her.

   "I want a list of all the servants in this household and the back wages owed to each. Tomorrow."

* * *

   "Lady Devane. Lady Devane!"

   Justin shook her out of sleep. She was out of the trundle bed instantly, moving toward the sickbed. He is dead, she thought. "The fever is broken," said Justin behind her.

   She felt Roger's forehead. It was damp. His hair was matted with sweat. She touched his cheek with her own. It was cool. The fever was broken.

   Justin smiled, she clapped her hands and covered her mouth to laugh. The fever was broken. Justin bowed, and she curtsied, and they did a country jig once around the room together, in the dark, stumbling into furniture, holding their laughter in like children doing something forbidden, and thus laughing even harder. The fever was broken.

* * *

   That morning, the doctor felt Roger's pulse and frowned. He is still an ill man, he said, but Barbara did not care what he said. Roger's fever had broken. He was going to live. She would not allow him to die. She left the doctor clucking over Roger and threw on a shawl and went outside. He was going to live. When he woke, she would tell him how much she loved him, and she would nurse him carefully. If there was any way, any way possible, she was going to take him to Tamworth. She glanced up at the sky. There was not much time. One or two good rains, snow, and the roads would be impossible. The muddy ruts would rattle him to death. She would take him away from this house with its surly servants, take him away from London with its lying news sheets and gossips, to convalesce at Tamworth. Secure. Safe. Among those who loved him, and by spring, he would be well.

   A horseman trotted up the circular road to the house and she ran forward, thinking it was Tony. Charles was off his horse in one lithe movement and holding her hands before she had a chance to speak.

   He smiled down at her, and she saw herself reflected in his eyes. No rouge or powder, faded old gown, someone's woolen shawl. And she did not care.

   "He is going to live, Charles," she said, taking her hands out of his. "The fever is broken." She looked up at the leaden sky and laughed out loud. "He is going to live!"

   She felt suddenly like dancing, like running. Something that had been squeezing her heart had eased its hold, and she had not even realized it until now, when it was gone. I feel like celebrating, she thought. Celebrating survival, for I begin to think simple survival a feat in itself. He is going to live.

   Charles watched her face. Everything she felt was clear on it. Goddamn me for a fool, he thought, staring at her face. Only she makes me act such a fool.

   "Come and have tea with me," she said, her grandfather's smile on her face.

   He shook his head. "I am happy at your happiness, Barbara. I rode over only to see how Roger—and you—did. And so I see. I have some happy news of my own. I wanted to tell you in person. I think I am going to be married."

   He said the words calmly, as if he were telling her of the purchase of a new horse, his arms crossed on his chest, his eyelids half–closed. At his ease.

   She was silent. Finally, she said flippantly, the Barbara of this summer, to cover what she really felt, "My condolences to the bride."

   He threw back his head and laughed. She wanted to slap him. He stepped toward her, his eyes no longer half–closed.

   "Give me a kiss of congratulations, for old times' sake. We both have what we want, do we not?"

   He was looking at her in a mocking, half–challenging way, and she wanted to slap him again, and she stepped forward and kissed him quickly, hard, on the lips, but he caught her by her shoulders and said, his voice as mocking as his eyes, "Not like that. Never like that, Barbara. You have forgotten old times, I see. I will remind you." And he put his mouth slowly, deliberately, on hers, and she felt the shock of its warmth all the way through her body, and she thought, Charles, we might have been, we came so close, but I could never give you the whole of my heart…and then his tongue grazed hers, and she leapt back out of his arms, fiercely, frowning, saying, "Roger! Roger needs me! I do congratulate you. I do! Good–bye, Charles."

   And she ran all the way to the house, not looking behind her even once. And in the house, she peeped through thick draperies at him, and he was still there, staring at the house, but a fog was in, slowly rolling over and over, through the gates, down the lane, slowly obscuring him.

   When Roger woke, she was there. He opened his eyes and saw her and struggled to lift his hand, but could not and she lifted it for him and kissed it. "I am here. I love you," she said. "You are with me. I will take care of you."

   "Barbara." He croaked out her name. "H–hurts."

   "Hush, now. Go back to sleep. Rest. You must rest. And then you will get well. If you rest."

* * *

   A carriage drove into the circular road and wheeled before Devane House. Diana and Annie descended from it and strode purposefully up the steps and into the house.

   "Where is my daughter?" said Diana, pulling off black gloves and glancing down the hall.

   "In the library," said Cradock, bowing.

   "And Lord Devane?"

   Cradock smiled. "His fever has broken."

   "Oh," said Diana.

   In the library, Barbara and Montrose were going through the list of servants.

   "There was a riot in the lobby of Westminster yesterday," Montrose said.

   Barbara shivered. "I want to take him away from here. I was thinking of closing the house, leaving only you and Cradock. If I sell my pearl tiara, it ought to more than cover the cost of wages to the other servants. As far as I am concerned, there is not a one among them worth—"

   The library door opened dramatically, and Diana swept in, Annie following behind.

   "Annie!" Barbara said, jumping up. "Annie!"

   "I have come to nurse that husband of yours. Your grandmother sent me."

   "I want to go to Tamworth, Annie. I want to take him away from here. The doctor says a journey will kill him, but oh, I want him out of here. Go and see him. Through those doors there. Did you bring Grandmother's medicines? Oh, Annie, I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you. Francis," Barbara said, turning to Montrose, "Annie can cure anyone."

   Montrose coughed and glanced toward Diana, who stood to one side, watching Barbara with eyes that were both reproachful and mocking.

   "Mother," Barbara said. "I am glad to see you too."

   "Yes," said Diana. "So I see."

   She looked at Montrose, who coughed again and left the room. Diana sat down. She picked up the piece of paper that held the names of the servants. Her face was hard, cold.

   "Have you been to court?"

   "No, Mother."

   "And do you plan on going?"

   Barbara's jaw hardened. "No, Mother." She tensed for the argument she knew was coming.

   "I see."

   Diana stood up and pulled back on her gloves. At the door, she said, "Do me the courtesy of letting me know when you leave town."

* * *

   Thérèse fed White another spoonful of soup, talking all the while. "And his fever broke early this morning. How glad we were! Madame Barbara was dancing around that house like a little girl. And this afternoon, her mother and Annie—Annie is the Duchess's tirewoman and she knows everything about nursing—arrived. Madame Barbara says Annie will make Lord Devane well again." She smiled, and White smiled back. She leaned forward to put down the bowl, and her necklace swung out of her gown.

   "May I?" asked White, and he held the mourning ring between two fingers.

   "Harry's," Thérèse said. She kissed the ring and crossed herself and put the necklace back inside her gown. "Now," she said, "I have a proposition to lay before you."

   White arched an eyebrow.

   "We are closing down Devane House if we can leave, and only Montrose and one other servant will be there. I told Lady Devane about you—no, Caesar. Do not look at me that way. I told her only that you were in London, and she suggested that you come to stay at the house with Montrose."

   "I do not need anyone's charity—"

   "Shut up. I hate false pride. She made the offer out of her regard for you. She has no idea—of this," said Thérèse, making a gesture with her hand that took in his shabby room. White frowned.

   "And why not? I thought it would give Montrose company, and you a place to become stronger. You might begin writing again. Well, you might. You can at least write to me. And in the spring, you could come to Maidstone, which is close to Tamworth, and convalesce." Thérèse stood up. "You think about it. I will be back tomorrow."

   She put the bowl and spoon back into a basket and straightened the covers about White's body and fluffed his pillows. He watched her with eyes that were not as listless as the day before. She shook out her gown and tied her cloak and pulled the hood up over her face and picked up the basket. She kissed his forehead and went to the door. She paused.

   "I overheard someone say Alexander Pope lost half his fortune, and John Gay everything."

   White frowned at her.

   She smiled back. "We are never alone in our misfortune, Caesar. Sometimes it only seems so." And she closed the door before he could think of a reply.

* * *

Annie sat down at a table in the room Barbara had given her and dipped her pen in ink. She must write a letter to her Duchess, who would be waiting for it, who would not rest or sleep properly until she heard from her. They would be bringing Lord Devane to Tamworth, just as soon as Mistress Barbara closed the house and dismissed the servants. The Duchess must prepare for him. And other things, Annie shook her head as she wrote. Lord Devane was dying. Mistress Barbara would not see it, but he was. If she was careful, if she delicately added the mandrake to the foxglove, she could deaden the pain this journey would give him. And who knew? The foxglove might prolong his life…for a while. Mistress Barbara was correct in her impulse to want to take him to Tamworth. A man needed to die with the people who loved him by his side. In a house filled with tradition and memory. Where others had died, so that death was not unfamiliar, not frightening, to its walls, its household heart. She could give him the strength to survive the journey. Yes, that she could do. But no more. There was no medicine, no herb, no power—but the Lord above's—that could save him now.

Chapter Twenty–Seven

Robert Walpole flung one large, naked leg from under the bed covers and put his hands behind his head to watch Diana brush her hair. She whipped the brush back and forth, totally concentrated on her image in the mirror, and he smiled slightly at the intensity of that concentration. She sat at a dressing table skirted with gauze and lace. Two long arms of gauze wound down on each side of the large mirror affixed to the table's top, and a litter of crystal jars and bottles competed with rouge pots and brushes and ribbons of different colors, cherry, green, primrose, for space. Why she had the ribbons he did not know. She only wore black now. For Harry. But black became her, as she well knew. Clemmie scuttled in and out of his vision, a ponderous lump in moth–eaten satin slippers that had once belonged to Diana, picking up clothes and clearing the table of the supper he and Diana had eaten. She glanced at Walpole sideways and then put her hand in one of the pockets of his waistcoat to steal a couple of coins. Walpole pretended that he did not see her. Grinning with her gap–toothed smile, she clutched the coins in one hand, and the dirty pewter in the other, and still somehow managed to open and close the door behind her, Diana's slippers slapping against her bare heels.

   "Does she always steal?"

   "Always," said Diana, not taking her eyes from the mirror. She had lost weight since Harry's death, and it made her face harder, colder.

   "And you?" he asked,

   "Whenever I can." Though he had been joking, Diana answered seriously, concentrated now on rubbing l'eau de Ninon into her cheeks, and particularly into the deep lines on each side of her mouth. She missed the irony that the water was named after a famous French courtesan, said to have remained beautiful far past the time to age, but Walpole did not.

   "Do you think Barbara has reached Tamworth yet?" he asked, his mind on age and beauty and death, and therefore Roger.

   "Who knows?"

   "You seem remarkably unconcerned."

   Diana rubbed the water into her face with deft, hard strokes. "On the contrary, I am remarkably concerned, but when has she ever listened to me? She does exactly as she pleases. Now people are saying his illness is a false one. That he has fled the city and taken thousands of pounds with him and that Brussels, not Tamworth, is his final destination. I could have told her they would say that, but she would not have listened." She screwed the lid irritably back on l'eau de Ninon and rummaged through her many jars and bottles and pots for another. "Will the Commons press for an inquiry?"

   Walpole rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I will do all I can to stop one."

   "But can you stop an inquiry?"

   "I do not know. All I know is that the best way to end this crisis is to concentrate on stabilizing the economy and not on punishing the directors."

   "That sounds like a sentence from a speech you are planning for the Commons."

   "As a matter of fact, it is," Walpole said. "Lord, I wish I had seen Roger before he left. Carlyle said he was so ill. In all the time I have known him he has never changed, except somehow to grow more handsome. I became fatter with the years, and older, and he more handsome. He has been a good friend to me, Diana. I will screen him when Parliament begins."

   "You have so many to screen: the ministry, the king, the prince. Some of them will slip through the cracks."

   "Not Roger. I promise."

   "I hope to God you can keep your promise. I have spent this entire morning dealing with Harry's creditors. I do not want another bankrupt in the family. Who is Alexander Pendarves?"

   The question surprised him. Suspicious, he leaned on his elbows to stare at her. She, however, appeared fascinated by something she had just discovered on her chin.

   "He is a member from Newcastle," he said slowly, "a rich, miserable old miser who has not been to a Parliament in some twenty years, but is at this one to see vengeance done to the men who made him lose a half guinea on the exchange. Now why, Diana, do you ask?"

   "Robert, whatever can this be on my chin? Just look!" And she swiveled around and thrust out her chin; there was nothing on it. "It is enormous."

   "Which chin, Diana?" And then, as she glared at him, "Put a patch on it. It is probably a witch's wart."

   He lay back on the pillows, chuckling, suspicion forgotten in his delight at his own wit.

* * *

   Heavy rain pelted down as two carriages pulled into Tamworth's avenue of limes. Barbara wiped her eyes, kicked at her horse's sides with her heels and rode up to the carriage holding Annie and Roger. She knocked on its door with a riding crop. Annie rolled up the leather shade.

   "We are here," Barbara said, rivulets of rain streaming down her face and neck in spite of the hood on her cloak. Annie nodded her head.

   Inside the carriage, she leaned over the makeshift board bed created for Roger and felt his pulse. It was weak, a thread. He lay with his eyes closed and his mouth drawn in, pinched and blue at the edges. She felt his forehead, but there was no fever.

   "'This was a dreadful Sight to me, especially when going down to the Shore, I could see the marks of Horror,'" read Hyacinthe, curled up beside the Duchess and the dogs and Dulcinea in her big bed, "'which the dismal Work they had been about had left behind it, viz. The Blood, the Bones, and part of the Flesh of humane Bodies eaten and devour'd by—'" He stopped, lifting his head to listen, put down the book and got up to run to the window. He turned, his dark eyes shining.

   "They are here! They are here!"

   The dogs leapt from the bed as if they understood. The Duchess forgot about savages and blood and bones.

   "Run down and see for sure. Hurry, boy! Run for me! And tell that rascal Tim to come and fetch me."

   She leaned back against the pillows, feeling the tiredness begin from the little bit of excitement just experienced. She shook her head and closed her eyes. Tim walked in. She opened her eyes.

   "It took you long enough," she snapped. "Hurry, now. Master Giles is home from school, and it seems an age since—" She broke off, aware from Tim's face that something was wrong with what she had just said.

   "It is Lady Devane, ma'am," Tim said gently, "with her husband, who is ill. Master Giles is—" He did not finish.

   "He is dead."

   She and Tim were both silenced by her words. But Tim recovered first.

   "Here, now. Lady Devane has come all this way just to be with you. Are you going to sit up here and brood, or are you coming downstairs with me?" And then, to her astonishment, he winked at her.

   "Impudent—you have no manners! No manners at all! In my day, a footman would have been flayed alive for such conduct! My household is falling to pieces! To pieces, while I lie up here and rot!" She sighed. She felt better. Invigorated almost. She glared at him. "Take me downstairs."

   The great hall bustled with activity. Perryman was loudly and importantly ordering footmen about. Hyacinthe and the dogs—yapping shrilly—ran from Barbara to Thérèse, clearly unable to make up their minds which of them to stay with. Barbara, her cloak and hair drenched, was ordering footmen to be careful as they carried Roger in, covered with blankets, lying on a board, Annie and a thin, neat man who the Duchess guessed was his valet holding a cloak over him to shield him from the pouring rain outside the door.

   The Duchess pointed toward Roger, and Tim carried her over. Annie folded her lips tightly at the way the Duchess looked and glared at Perryman, who glared back (each had secretly missed the other), but the Duchess had eyes only for Roger. He looked worse than she had expected, and she had expected the worst from Annie's letters. He groaned and opened eyes of startling blue contrasted to the whiteness of his face.

   "Alice…" he whispered slowly, and he tried to smile, but the effort cost too much, and he closed his eyes.

   The Duchess met Annie's eyes. She met the eyes of the little man who was Roger's valet. She met the eyes of Thérèse. Then she looked at Barbara, dripping with rain, and Barbara smiled brightly back at her, Roger's hand held in hers.

   "I have brought him home for you to nurse. Roger"—she leaned down to him—"you are at Tamworth. Where you are going to get better."

     And then she was all movement, outdoing even Perryrman, as she ordered the footmen to be careful as they carried Roger up the stairs, called instructions to Thérèse and Annie and Justin, hugged Hyacinthe, bent down to pet the dogs, who kept leaping up on her skirts, shrugged out of her wet cloak, running her hands through her wet hair. All the while smiling.

   "Take me upstairs," the Duchess said to Tim, and they followed behind Roger. She felt weak. Weak and sick at heart. I do not possess the strength to deal with this, she thought. Harry's death; it all has taken too much.

   In the duke's bedchamber, Barbara rushed about seeing Roger comfortably settled. The room smelled of clean linen and lemon and lavender, and the fire crackled in the fireplace, but Roger shivered and moaned as he was laid on the sheet. Justin tucked blankets carefully about him while Barbara rubbed his cold hands and called for Annie and told him she would feed him tea and toast herself.

   "You are home," she said to him. "You will be better soon. I promise. Tamworth is the cure for anything."

   Roger's mouth was a grim line, as was Annie's when she came up behind Barbara to stare down at him.

   "Give him more of the medicine," Barbara said. Then, "Annie, was I wrong? To bring him here? He looks so—" and she could not finish.

   "He would be the same anywhere." Annie moved her to one side and motioned to Justin. "Help me to lift him up on the pillows."

   Barbara walked from the room, and as she closed the door on Justin and Annie trying to lift Roger, she sagged a moment against it. Terrible, dark fears rose in her mind. She swallowed and breathed deeply in and out for a few moments until they went away. She smoothed back her hair and went into her grandmother's bedchamber. The Duchess lay back against her pile of pillows, eyes closed, one hand stroking Dulcinea, and Barbara sat down on the bed and held one of her grandmother's gnarled hands against her own soft cheek. Constancy. There was such comfort this moment in her grandmother's constancy. She could count on that, as she could count on nothing else. The Duchess opened her eyes.

   "The journey tired him, Grandmama. We had rain these last two days. Pouring rain. We packed warm bricks all about him because Annie said it would be bad if he caught a chill. I know there must be a cordial or a draft somewhere"—she could hear herself babbling, but she could not stop— "somewhere in those recipe books of yours that will give him some relief, that will help him rest—"

   "There is."

   "I knew there would be. I had to take him from London. I had to. The news sheets. They were writing such things about him. They were—"

   "Hush, now. Hush."

   Childlike, Barbara laid her head against her grandmother's chest, feeling the brocade of her old robe prickle against her cheek. The Duchess stroked her hair, the drying curls. Now, she thought. While I have a little strength, now.

   "He will be better in the spring, I think," Barbara said.

   "And I do not. Listen to me, Barbara, and be brave. Roger—"

   "Do not say it!"

   Her ferocity surprised the Duchess. Barbara sat up in her arms, her eyes blazing.

   "The last time someone said those words to me Harry was dead. I will not listen. Not again! Do you hear me? I will not listen!"

   An edge of hysteria lay in that voice. The Duchess could feel herself reeling, somewhere far off in her mind. Hear this now, foolish people, and without understanding, which have eyes, and see not; which have ears, and hear not…Barbara will not hear…she will not see…Richard… and she closed her eyes and gray mists seemed to swirl in her head, bringing forgetfulness…blessed…she drank the waters of the River Lethe, which gave the gift of forgetfulness to those who drank from its cool depths.…Lethe…in Hades…Heaven and Hell…Someone was shaking her shoulders gently… bringing her back.…She did not want to come back, pain was here…more dying…Richard…

    "I did not mean it, Grandmama. Please open your eyes! Please talk to me! But not of Roger. Later, we can talk of him. Please, Grandmama—"

   The Duchess opened her eyes. "I must write to your mother of Harry and Jane," the Duchess said. "The match will not do—"

   Barbara caught her breath, and the Duchess knew something was wrong. And then she know what. And she could not bear the look on Barbara's face.

   "I remember, Bab. I do. Harry—" Her face crumpled like a child's, and she began to cry. "Harry is dead. I know. I remember. I am old. That is all. Old." And you will not hear me, Barbara, and my heart hurts for you.

   Dear God, thought Barbara, holding her grandmother in her arms and rocking her. I am going to break. Like glass. Into hundreds of sharp pieces. She took a deep breath. I will not break. I am strong. I can help myself. And those who need me.

   "I loved him so," her grandmother was sobbing in her arms. "I should have given him more money when he asked me, but I did not. I did not understand."

   "No, Grandmama," said Barbara, feeling tears for Harry swell up in her own throat, but refusing to shed them, knowing that if she began, she would never stop, not with Roger lying as he did in the next room. "None of us did."

   "I am glad you are here," said the Duchess, clinging to her. "So glad you are here."

* * *

   The November rains brought sleet and frost, a prelude to the coming snows of December. Tamworth opened its wintry arms and sheltered those who needed it. Barbara now led the evening prayers. Barbara oversaw the last winter chores of candle making and hog killing. Barbara decided when the weather was mild enough for the Duchess to be carried to chapel. Barbara met with the vicar to talk of Advent sermons. Barbara sent to London for a special book for little Jeremy, still ill, a book with brightly painted pictures and characters which folded out. Barbara sat for hours in the stillroom, deciphering the spidery handwriting of some long ago Tamworth housewife, reading of angel salve and oil of St. John's Wort and waters to preserve the sight, cure the stomach, prevent consumption, plague, apoplexy, scurvy, reading of cordials and drafts and pastes, and trying any of those that Annie approved for Roger. Barbara cajoled the cook into preparing plums stewed in wine and the white meat of capons and delicate stews and broths for Roger and for her grandmother.