Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (88 page)

   Barbara listened to the complaints of the household staff and decided what should be done. And as the days grew colder and the nights grew longer, and the ancient corners of Tamworth made people shiver with their drafts, Barbara ordered Hyacinthe to begin reading aloud, to any of the household who should wish to listen, the amazing and fantastic adventures of Robinson Crusoe. Grooms and stableboys and housemaids and footmen could talk of nothing else through their dreary winter chores. His adventures were the exciting rhythm to which the household moved as November faded into a leaden December. Roads became mud–filled mires. It was a chore to walk to a neighboring farm. The sun set early. Frost covered windows and doors. Cold household corners were avoided as all sought the warmth of the fire. The only news of the outside world came through letters, letters not easily delivered, sometimes a week or more late, and therefore all the more treasured.

* * *

   The Duchess did not recognize the handwriting or the seal of the letter before her, and she slapped at Dulcinea, who was determined to play with it. Dulcinea leapt haughtily to Barbara's lap, staring with slitted, green– gold eyes at the Duchess.

Madame,

I take a great liberty in writing to you, but I have heard much of your fairness and strength, and I knew your husband long ago.
He was the finest general I ever had the honor to fight against. And, therefore, I hope you will consider me, in an odd way, an acquaintance, and grant my request. I have recently heard that Lord Devane is gravely ill and is residing at Tamworth. It would be the greatest kindness if you would write me to let me know how he fares. I enclose my address in the hope that you will, and remain your obedient servant,

Philippe Henri Camille Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Soissons.

   Well, thought the Duchess. Well, well, well.

   She glanced guiltily at Barbara and folded the letter away before she should see it. Barbara frowned over the letter she was reading, and the Duchess recognized the handwriting; its neat precision could only be Francis Montrose's. Each week he wrote a long letter, and Barbara worried all day after receiving it and stayed up late into the night writing an answer. She and Montrose were trying to deal with Roger's debts.

   "Mr. Jacombe is now recommending that we sell Devane House," Barbara said irritably. Mr. Jacombe had something new to recommend each week. "I will never do it. I will pull down every stone and brick myself before I allow anyone to have that house. We are going back there in the spring when Roger is well."

   The Duchess did not reply. She knew better than to try to talk with Barbara about Roger's illness. She would not hear. Never had the Duchess seen such obstinate denial. She tried not to think on it too much, of all that lay behind it, tried not to think what would happen when Roger died. She prayed each night to the Lord for strength when that time should come. Because she would need it. Barbara would have none left.

   She skimmed through Abigail's letter, without the heart now to enjoy its gossip—Parliament's opening; the king's speech; Neville and Pitt moving that the directors of South Sea be ordered to open their books before the house; a reference or two to Roger's flight, as his going to Tamworth was now called; Walpole's surprise and dismay; his speech, that he had a plan for restoring public credit that was more important than punishing those believed guilty; anger and catcalls from members; a suggestion later, from Lord Molesworth, that directors be tied in sacks and thrown in the Thames.

   "The ministry is upset by the Commons' determination to pursue an inquiry," wrote Abigail. "And I agree. The names on the directors' lists for special preference would be embarrassing. I know my name is there, and I should not wish it bandied about by the Commons."

   She closed by asking of Roger's health, and then, almost as an afterthought, she wrote that Charles and Mary had signed marriage contracts. "We are planning a quiet wedding by special license in a few days, out of deference to our mourning for Harry. I know you will understand why I ask you to break the news to Barbara. Both Mary and Charles send their love to her, as do I, and we all pray for Roger's recovery."

   I would imagine you do, thought the Duchess, folding the letter. Now, how do I begin to tell Barbara this?

   "Here is a letter for Roger from Tommy Carlyle," said Barbara, smiling. "I will read it to him when he wakes." She looked out the window, but it was misted with cold. She could see nothing. It was like looking out at nothing. As if there were no world past these windows. "Last spring when I first saw Roger again, I went to a great fête he held at his pavilion of the arts, and all London was there, Grandmama. They hung on his every word; they followed him with their eyes; they admired his wealth and taste. Lord Sunderland stood on one side, and Lord Stanhope on the other. In the gardens, the king strolled with his mistress and his secretaries and his Hanoverians. The prince and princess were there, and Walpole and Townshend and Montagu, and I was so proud. In spite of my anger, I was so proud—" She stopped. "Only Carlyle and Walpole have written him. I do not think I will ever forgive all the others."

   "It is politics, Barbara. Those who fall from power are always shunned by all but a few true friends. We were, the Marlboroughs were, even Walpole went through his hours of darkness. A year ago he had nothing—"

   "But my mother. Speaking of whom, I have a letter from her. Let me see what she writes."

   "—and today, Walpole's name is on all lips, and he has a position again in the ministry—"

   "Good God." Barbara looked up at her grandmother, a stricken look in her eyes. "Charles and Mary are going to marry…Mary, I never thought of Mary!"

   "Give me that letter."

   She read Diana's brief, curt, tactless scrawl, no date, no greeting, just the words:

Congratulate yourself, Barbara. I know I do. Charles Russel will marry your cousin Mary in a few days. Abigail crows with
pride, and so she should. It did not have to happen, as well you know.

Your mother, Diana, Lady Alderley

   God curse her, thought the Duchess, stealing a march on me, dropping the news like a cannonball into Barbara's heart. God curse her.

   She leaned forward. "Barbara…" But Barbara was standing up, dropping Dulcinea out of her lap like a stone. It was too much for Dulcinea, who mewed loudly and jumped to the windowsill.

   "It hurts me," Barbara said. "I never thought of Mary." And she left the room.

* * *

   A week before Christmas, when the sky was low and gray, threatening snow, Barbara rode to all the neighboring farms to deliver handwritten invitations to Tamworth's Christmas Eve play, in which she herself would figure, as she had done in the old days. The Duchess was glad to see her go out of the house, away from Roger and her nursing of him. She came back from her outings with bright red cheeks and a brighter red nose and high spirits. She is taking the news of Charles and Mary well, thought the Duchess proudly, as she watched her ride away to Ladybeth Farm to deliver the last of her invitations.

   An hour later, Barbara walked into the Tamworth kitchen, her fur–lined cloak hood pushed back from her head. Thérèse and Hyacinthe, preparing mincemeat pies for Christmas Day dinner, looked up at her.

   "Did you give Lady Ashford the recipe for Jeremy's cough?" asked Thérèse. "And the New Year's gifts—"

   "Jeremy—" Barbara began, but her throat closed. She went out the door, toward her grandmother's bedchamber. They had all been crying at Ladybeth when she arrived, the maidservants, Jane's younger brother and sisters, her mother and Sir John. There was a note from Jane. Jeremy was dead. He had died two days ago. Only last night, she and Thérèse had spent the evening wrapping New Year's gifts for Jane's children, hair ribbons with mottoes on them, wooden animals, a hoop and a stick for Jeremy when he was well. She held a note in her hand. A note from Jane to her. It said:

You will know by now that my Jeremy is dead. He died peacefully in our arms. It is the Lord's will, and he suffered so that at last, I was thankful to let him go. He loved the painted book that you sent to him. I read it to him over and over. Thank you for that, Barbara. The others are well. I cannot write anymore. Not today.

   "Shall we cancel the Christmas play?" asked the Duchess, holding her.

   "No," Barbara whispered, huddled against her. "Let us have this one Christmas together, as it used to be."

* * *

   Everyone sat in the great parlor, wreathed with evergreen and holly, a huge yule log burning in the fireplace, amid whispering, rustling, waiting. Hyacinthe sat near the Duchess, his eyes shining with anticipation, and the younger servants giggled and fidgeted restlessly among themselves. This year, once more, Lady Devane was playing a lazy, insubordinate maid to Perryman's Duchess. The older servants whispered to the younger ones that one had not seen anything until one had seen Lady Devane and Perryman play off each other. Vicar Latchrod agreed, his nose red; he had already been tippling at the Christmas punch.

   The Duchess sat dressed in her finest, as she did every year for this Christmas Eve play held in her honor, parodying her, one of the highlights of Tamworth's year. She wore a black velvet gown, and diamonds glittered on her fingers and around her throat and even in her lace cap. Her legs were aching, and she was tired. Very tired. Death, too much death. One never knew from where it would come. Young Jeremy had died from an inflammation of the lung. Harry by his own hand. Richard of a broken heart. Dicken and Giles and her grandchildren from smallpox. But it could have been measles, consumption, gout, humors of the blood, fever, rickets, palsy, a cut or sore or cold that did not heal. She glanced down at Roger, propped in that bed that had been carried down and set up for him. How careful the footmen had been not to hurt him as they moved him, yet still he could not suppress a groan or two. He lay back now against the pillows with his eyes closed. His mouth was pinched in, and his cheeks had a flush the Duchess did not like, and he had lost so much weight in these last weeks that he no longer resembled himself.

   He opened his eyes and, seeing her, tried to smile. The old wistfulness was still there. You were the handsomest man I ever saw, barring Richard, thought the Duchess. He thought the world of you. She blinked her eyes at the sudden tears welling in them. She would not cry tonight. This was Barbara's night. She had worked so hard for it. She and Thérèse and Hyacinthe had wreathed every room in the house and all the mantels and windows and Tamworth church and chapel. There were bay–scented candles burning. They would have their Christmas dinner tomorrow in this room with all the servants. A Christmas as it used to be. The Duchess thought of all those Christmases she and Richard had shared, when her sons rose tall and handsome around her, with their young wives and families. There was no Christmas as it used to be. Roger made a restless movement, and she leaned over him.

   "Save your strength for the play. In her girlhood, Barbara could convulse a saint when she was in the mood—Roger, what is it?"

   She leaned over farther so that she was near his face.

   "Take care…of her," he whispered.

   "Take care of her," snapped the Duchess. "You are a fine one to give me orders. On Christmas Eve. You are dying, and I am old. What can I do? You just take care of yourself! That is what you do!"

   He gave a weak laugh, a ghost of itself. "I should…have married you, Alice.…"

   He was charming to the last. Even dying could not extinguish that. "Bah!" she said to cover her feelings. "I would not have had you! Not on a silver platter! Now hush. The play is beginning."

   Barbara was wonderful. The serving maids and footmen screamed with laughter. She was outrageous, hilarious, running over to snatch the vicar's wig and wear it herself, dancing with St. George and his dragon, parodying the lord of misrule so that even those who acted with her could not help laughing. Hyacinthe cried with laughter, wiping tears from his face and holding his stomach. When Barbara whacked Perryman's Duchess across the rear with a broom, the Duchess went into such a fit of coughing laughter that the play stopped until she was well again. Even Annie was surprised into a grim chuckle or two. When the play was over, everyone stood up and whistled and cheered and clapped, and called her name. Barbara curtsied to the audience and picked her nose and tried to wipe it on Perryman. Hyacinthe bayed with laughter; Justin pulled off his wig and waved it; Thérèse laughed and clapped; the Duchess wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. Hyacinthe released the dogs, and they ran to Barbara, excited by the noise, and leapt and flipped in the air, and everyone clapped even harder. It was the best play ever, they all agreed.

   "Punch and ale," said the Duchess, stamping her cane on the floor. "Punch and ale."

   Barbara walked over to Roger, breathless, perspiring with her performance.

   "He looks tired," she said to Justin, who nodded his head and went to fetch the footmen to carry him upstairs. Barbara bent down.

   "Did you like me?" she asked. "Did I make you laugh?"

   Roger stared at her, his mouth compressed. "I…hurt…"

   She felt his forehead with her hand. Then with her lips. Was she wrong, or was he too warm?

   "Annie!" she called, a rising note in her voice. "I should have left you upstairs," she said to him.

   His eyes were bright, so blue against the terrible whiteness of his face. A bright, burning blue.

   She put her ear to his mouth. He seemed to want to say something.

   "I…love…you," he whispered. She held his hot, dry hand all the way up the stairs.

* * *

   She sat tiredly in the window seat in Roger's bedchamber. Finally, the snow had stopped. It had snowed all this Christmas Day. They had not gone to church; no one had come to carol to them. Even the Christmas dinner was muted and quiet because the Duchess did not feel well enough to come downstairs, and Barbara got up from the table every few moments to check on Roger. She could not help it.