Now Face to Face

by Karleen Koen

  “DARLING,” SAID Diana, leaning over the stair rail above Tony; he had a vivid, startling look at her breasts. The rouge on her lips was crimson. She wore diamonds and sapphires, and she was beautiful—remarkable, really—in the candlelight.

  “I called to see you,” she said, walking down the stairs and holding out her hands affectionately to him. She had been affectionate since she’d known he wanted to marry Barbara. “But your mother said you were away from home.”

  “I must speak with you, Aunt.”

  “Of course. But come upstairs with me first; let me introduce my guests—”

  “No, if you please—at once.”

  She put her arm through his, led him to a parlor. “You look awful, darling, tired and ill. You remind me, at this moment, of your father. I haven’t thought of him in years. He was my favorite brother.”

  “Today I went to Tom Masham to see how he fared.”

  She did not turn her eyes away or busy herself with something; he had to give her that. She knew what was coming, and she faced him.

  “He said you had called on him,” he continued, “offered him coins not to admit to the duel. You also called upon Lord Holles. He would tell me nothing of your conversation, but he did ask me if there were prior commitments to which I was obligated, or which might prove embarrassing later. I cannot imagine what you had to say to him. You are not to interfere in my affairs.”

  “Do you or do you not want Barbara?”

  The question took his breath away.

  “Because if you do not, tell me so now, and I will allow you to do exactly as you please. You may drink yourself into oblivion, whore yourself into the pox and an early grave, and stand at the altar and marry the insipid Holles chit, who will bore you to death within the space of a year. I will not lift a finger to stop you. But if you want my daughter, you’d best listen. At this moment, in my drawing room, are several men from the Board of Trade and Plantations, as well as a Virginian or two in the bargain. Now, why do you think I endure their company? It is not for their wit or charm, I do assure you. It is because I think they may aid Barbara, and anything I may do to help her from this end of the world, I will do. If that means I must commit mayhem and murder, so be it. She is the only child left to me, and I want the world for her, Tony. I want everything this life has to offer a woman. I want her debt cleared. Security in a marriage such as she deserves. Children, houses, gowns, jewels, whatever she desires. She is not going to spend her days dependent and—”

  “She is also not going to spend her days as the Duchess of Tamworth.”

  “You—You asked for her hand in marriage—” Diana actually stammered.

  “She made the decision for both of us at the time. It was the proper decision, I see now.” His head felt as if a thousand fireworks had lit themselves inside it and split him away to nothing. “Tell me, did you think I would share her, whether she was my mistress or my wife, with the Prince? Was that part of your plan?”

  “Of course not. I would never—”

  “You married her off to the highest bidder when she was fifteen. You encouraged her love affairs; you held her up to the Prince as if she were a choice bone, and he just the dog to enjoy her. From whom do you think Barbara fled, Aunt Diana? It was not from me. I am not the first man to act the fool over her, and I won’t be the last. My ardor did not frighten her. I did not frighten her. I think she fled from you and your limitless, loveless ambitions, ambitions which have now led you to act in a manner I will not countenance. I have obligations that go beyond desire. You are not to include me in any of your ambitions unless I give you express permission. And I do not give it. And you are not to meddle in my affairs, ever again.”

  The footman in the hall had to run to open the front door for him in time. Outside, he stood a moment before summoning a carriage to take him to the edge of town, to Devane Square.

  Carlyle’s words were in his mind. What was it that interested Midas Andreas, who turned everything he touched into gold? Once there, Tony walked on one of the bricked streets of the unfinished square, a square filled now with weeds, with gaping holes where once trees had been planted. Everyone in London had walked in the garden that had once been here; Roger had brought in plants from around the world. Only one end of the square had been built up into townhouses. These remained, though shorn of their beautiful fittings inside. There was also a small church designed by Sir Christopher Wren. The church and townhouses faced each other in lonely splendor among the fields between the road and Hyde Park. Their windows were boarded over, the front door locked with a chain. The decoration of the interior of the church had never been finished.

  Tony walked behind the church to a fountain, where the entrance gates to the house had been. Moss scaled the fountain’s sides, scaled the stone figure of a nymph. The house had been here, but there was nothing now, only bits of broken brick from the wall that had surrounded it. One could see the church spire of the hamlet of Marylebone in the distance. Every plant, every iron ornament, every windowsill—all, all had been sold to pay the fine, or stored away in a warehouse.

  The sun glanced off the water of a landscape canal. Gone were the hundred orange trees in wooden tubs, the small, perfect stone Temple of the Arts Roger had built at one side, like a summerhouse, to hold his collection of paintings and statues.

  The bell in the spire of the church at Marylebone began to ring. Andreas must think the city will move this way, thought Tony. Prices for land were low now; nothing much was selling. There was no building. What building there had been, was stopped.

  “See how a crafty, vile projector picks Britannia’s purse by South Sea shams and tricks.” So went the saying that accompanied a popular woodcut; the face of the South Sea Company director in the print was Roger’s. He was among the chief scapegoats of the crisis. I did what I could, Walpole had said, tiredly. The howls against Roger were too loud. Give me a year, Tamworth, perhaps two, and I will see the fine reduced. She has only to endure a year or two.

  The figure of a woman rose out of a shell in the center of the fountain, like the famed Botticelli painting of Venus rising from the sea, except the woman’s face and form were Barbara’s. Tony reached out to touch the moss that covered one slim leg.

  What was Carlyle’s game?

  Carlyle and Walpole had long been friends. What a high price Walpole paid for his place in the ministry, but everything had its price. Tony himself paid a price for being a duke. The price was that he must put duty and legacy over love.

  And, then, again, the price brought its privileges. No one, it seemed, would do more than shake a finger at him. Even Masham forgave him. In fact, there was a likelihood he and Masham might become friends. They had laughed over that today. I feel like a rag doll from which the sawdust has been expelled, Masham had said, his face flushed with fever. I am a changed man, I swear it, Tamworth. Are you?

  The character of heroes, the stuff of legend. And speculators, on my grandmother’s side, thought Tony. Gamblers. My father was little more than a gambler in land and buildings, his grandmother had once said. Interesting, to try to envision the future, to speculate which way a city might sprawl.

  I’m going to ride through London over the next few days, he thought, and look at what is happening, so that I can make certain Barbara profits from this land I stand on; she must not lose anything more. And then I am leaving town; I am going on a tour of my estates to meet the men who want seats in the House of Commons come spring. But first, he was going home to write two letters: one to Harriet, and one to his grandmother, from whom he was no longer estranged. That, at least, had been accomplished by all this mess.

  AS A church bell nearby struck ten, Tony walked through the dark streets to his Aunt Shrew’s. He felt almost happy. The letter to his grandmother was written. He whistled a little as he climbed the stairs up to Aunt Shrew’s drawing room. As he had imagined, she was playing cards with her lover. They were both richly dressed, she in a ridiculous youthful dark auburn wig
that curled down to her bony shoulders, as many jewels as she could find a place for everywhere, her face splashed with its usual helping of white powder, red rouge, and dark patches.

  Pendarves was equally splendid in dark coat and grand periwig. Knowing them as he did, Tony knew they had done little more than go for a drive in her carriage and eat their dinner. Anything else took away too much from cards. When she saw Tony, Aunt Shrew smiled, waving an arm that displayed a ring on every finger and bracelets to her elbow. She loved to rattle and jingle with jewelry. She prided herself on her jewelry. I know how to pick my lovers, she bragged to her great-nieces, who laughed at her behind their fans but would never have dared to do so to her face, and my lovers know how to pick my jewelry.

  “Have a look at Lumpy,” she said. “He’s had a bath and is fit to bed the Queen. You look exhausted, young man. How was your interview with His Majesty? Am I to visit you in the Tower?” She cackled and played a card with a grand jangle of bracelets.

  “I was asked not to duel again.”

  “A reasonable request, I must say. You owe me twenty pounds.”

  Tony went to stand behind her so that he could see her cards. He leaned down and kissed the top of her wig, smiling a little at her hand. She was going to win.

  “You owe me twenty pounds, nephew, not a penny more, not a penny less. Leave this Harriet Holles now that you have scandal on your coattails, marry a Tory, and I will forgive you the debt, leave you all my funds in my will, and dance with blue satin shoes on at your wedding.”

  “I thought the goldsmith fled with all your funds, Aunt Shrew. Sir Alexander”—Tony turned to Pendarves—“who other than the late Earl Devane owns land off Tyburn Road?”

  “The Grosvenors, Lord Scarborough. I have no idea who else.”

  The door opened, and Laurence Slane came into the chamber; his expression was somber, the dark brows elegant slashes above the dark eyes.

  “You look full of news, Slane,” said Aunt Shrew.

  Slane looked over at Tony, who knew suddenly that his title of duke, his legacy of fame from his grandfather, did not matter. He was not, after all, to be let off lightly.

  “It’s Masham, isn’t it?” Tony said.

  “Not dead?” said Aunt Shrew, putting down her cards with a crash of bracelets.

  “Yes,” said Slane. “Tom Masham is dead.”

  TONY WALKED down Russell Street toward the central piazza of Covent Garden. The sellers of fruits and vegetables at Covent Garden were gone now. The three shacks were just beginning their revels. A little flower girl stood at the commemorative column in the center of the square; at her begging, he bought some bunches of flowers from her, and at the coin he gave her, she ran away whooping into the dark. Across, under an arcade, he saw a young woman sitting at the windows. She played a game of solitaire, looking out into the square every once in a while. She was attractive—there to be purchased, if a man wished. All cats are alike in the dark, said Charles, and no woman is worth devotion. You are wrong, Charles, Tony thought.

  A carriage rolled by, the horses’ hooves clip-clopping on the cobblestones. Words said today echoed in his mind, like the last round of a church bell:

  Friends never betray, do they?

  Your grandfather was an honorable man, a grand seigneur.

  Tom Masham is dead.

  Barbara could have married him. He had been so far gone in love he would have rushed off to be wedded to her by special license. She could have been the Duchess of Tamworth, and the estate left to him would have been plundered to nothing as the Devane debt ate it up, for anyone who married Barbara, married the debt. It was the law. You’re a good boy, Tony, my boy. I have killed a man, thought Tony, and over nothing. Heartbreak pales compared to this anguish.

  He separated one bunch of flowers from among the others and put it at the base of a column that was in the center of the plaza. In honor of his grandfather, the grand seigneur, who created the legacy he now carried.

  Then he laid a second bunch down by the first, for his father, whom he had known only a little, but who had died as bravely as a man may die.

  Then he put down a third, for Barbara, as a final farewell to the woman who had not taken advantage of a callow, lovesick fool, who taught, as his father and grandfather had, that honor knows no sex, no age, no limit; honor knows only, and finally, behavior.

  Chapter Fifteen

  PHILIPPE, THE FRENCH PRINCE DE SOISSONS, STOOD AT ONE OF the long windows in the great parlor of Saylor House, staring at handsome gardens in which leaves floated down langorously, as if they had all the time in the world, to rest upon straight gravel walks and beds of flowers. Gardeners were about, raking them into piles, burning them. It was a scene of order, decorum, nature brought to man’s bidding, the design of the gardens emulating on a miniature scale those across the Channel at the palace of Versailles. Versailles had been the wonder of civilized Europe in its building, and every royal house had copied its design; even these Hanovers, who had fought France during the wars and who now ruled England, had a small duplicate in their continental province.

  Philippe had just come from the English court, which like all royal courts made every effort to duplicate the intricacies of French court etiquette and yet could not compare in any manner to the original. He was looking down at these gardens, so very French in their design: the avenues, the landscape pool, the fountain. This parlor, too, was filled with objects and furniture created by the finest of French craftsmen, even though the man who built it had defeated the French in battle. His companion, Tony’s mother, Abigail, was dressed in a sack gown, the height of current fashion, a style from the French court.

  It was clear to Philippe that the humiliating peace treaties of 1713 and 1714 meant nothing; France was merely resting, allowing her precious boy King, the great-grandson of Louis XIV, time to grow into a man. The regent, who guided the young King, knew a masterly retreat was sometimes part of the battle.

  Sniffling came from Abigail’s direction. Philippe had brought her the news of Tom Masham’s death. It was all London was talking of this morning, her son’s duel and Masham’s death.

  “‘The moon has set, and the Pleiades; it is midnight, and time passes, and I sleep alone.’ I quote from Sappho, the tenth Muse, my dear Abigail.”

  And when his dear Abigail, no Muse, did not answer, because of course she did not know who Sappho was, Philippe smiled thinly at the gardens, having succeeded in amusing himself at her expense. Roger, he thought, you would have known the verse. I miss you still. Will I ever recover from your death?

  “Sappho was a Greek poetess,” he said.

  “Was? Is she dead?”

  “As she lived six centuries before Christ, one can only assume so.”

  “Not Christian, then?”

  Abigail dabbed at her face with a handkerchief, and spoke without irony. Very little in life was amusing to Abigail, who was daughter of an earl and had become mother of a duke, two distinctions she never forgot.

  “No.” The irony in Philippe’s voice was deadly, stinging, and completely unobserved by her, one of the reasons they remained good friends. “How much longer must I endure these tears, Abigail? I must tell you I find you quite bourgeoise.”

  “I don’t care how you find me. This duel, that vile broadsheet, now this death—it is all too dreadful. I have never been so upset. I have wanted nothing but my son’s happiness, always.”

  “Nonsense. You want nothing so simple as happiness for your son.”

  The Hanovers had not rested securely in England since the South Sea Bubble, and though France was required by treaty not to succor one James Stuart, also called the Pretender, she was also required by survival to do that which was best for herself. He and the French ambassador had talked long into the night of that.

  “Would you rather that Tony had allowed the insult,” he asked, “and that the gossip flying through town this day was of how the Duke of Tamworth is a craven weakling who will allow anything to be said
of the women of his family? He acted honorably. He acted the man. I would have done the same.” He had done the same—too many times, now, to remember.

  “He might have died.”

  “But he has not died. It is Masham who has done so.”

  Philippe sighed at the further sounds of Abigail’s tears. Turning around, he faced her, and after watching her for a time, limped over to her. The limp was from an old battle wound. He bore another wound, a dueling scar from a sword across his face—a proud, arrogant face, reflecting the man inside. Philippe was a prince of the blood, related to the royal houses of Valois and Capet. Pride was something he had suckled in with his wet nurse’s milk.

  He sat down upon a footstool near her. “What if I can make your son’s marriage take place in sooner than a year?”

  “You? Can you do that?”

  “I can do many things, my dear Abigail. Do you desire it? You have only to command me.”

  She stared at him a moment, her face puffed and proud. He knew what she would say. She hated and feared Barbara, if only because Barbara was Diana’s daughter. She wanted her son safely married, to anyone but Barbara.

  “Yes.”

  “It is done, then.”

  “How? What will you do? You leave for France today.” She put her face into her handkerchief and began to weep again. “I will miss you so.” And then, looking up at him, her fleshy determination showing through the tears: “Sooner than a year?”

  He could read her mind. She was calculating: When might Barbara return, at the soonest? He nodded.

  “You are very kind, Philippe, more than kind.”

  I’m not kind at all, thought Philippe. It was love, he’d told Barbara when she’d asked if Roger had loved him. She might have answered the same, if he had been foolish enough to ask her, but he was not as foolish, as impulsive as Barbara. Roger had loved her, more than Philippe had seen him love anyone, except her grandfather Richard Saylor. He did not forgive her for that. He would never forgive her.