Now Face to Face

by Karleen Koen

  After a time, hearing someone say that Walpole had arrived, he stood and walked among the crowd.

  Was Barbara here?

  He didn’t see her. Did that mean he would be arrested, that she absented herself so as not to see it? His watchfulness, his wariness were at their highest level. He wouldn’t be taken. No one was clever enough to do it.

  “Is Lady Devane coming?” he heard someone ask.

  Tony was standing near the speaker, and Slane saw the jerk of his body at the question.

  Yes, thought Slane, she’s back. Fit that into your life now, O young duke who has been given all things. He walked by the maids of honor describing Barbara’s dress today, talking about the feathers and beads. Someone asked them where the Prince and Princess were, and they answered that the Princess had the headache.

  “Yes,” said someone. “It is called Lady Devane.”

  Slane saw Tony go up to Tommy Carlyle, Tony’s face somber, questioning.

  Carlyle began to talk, his arms sweeping out extravagantly. Describing this day, Barbara’s meetings with the Prince and Princess, Slane surmised. He looked for Charles but did not see him; instead he found Walpole telling a story, surrounded by avid listeners, a certain sign of Walpole’s current favor and increasing power.

  “Lady Devane gave the King’s granddaughters a raccoon, a little beast from the colonies with dark about its eyes, like a highwayman’s mask,” Walpole was saying. “The thing somehow got loose from its cage and attempted to climb up the skirts of Lady Doleraine.”

  Lady Doleraine was the Princesses’ governess.

  “I am told Lady Doleraine screamed as if she were being stabbed, then ran about the chamber like a crazed woman, then fainted at the King’s feet. Apparently, the Princesses were laughing too hard to be of any help. Lady Devane sent everyone from the room, including the King and the guards who had run in at the commotion. She managed to coax the raccoon out from under an enormous japanned cabinet by giving it biscuit dipped in French brandy. She got the thing drunk—I swear it is the truth. His Majesty told me he never laughed so hard in his life as he did when he entered the room again and saw the raccoon staggering about in ever-widening circles.”

  The crowd around Walpole laughed.

  “She is like one of my daughters,” said Walpole.

  “And where is Lady Devane?” asked the Earl of Peterborough.

  Walpole arched one of his heavy brows. “She is a guest of His Majesty this evening.”

  There was a murmur at that, and as Slane moved from one group to the next in the garden, all people were talking of was Barbara, of the infatuation the Prince of Wales had felt for her before she left for Virginia.

  What does Walpole know? thought Slane. He showed nothing, did not seem to even notice Slane. But that would be the way, to act as if all were well, and then to spring the trap. Certain of Lady Mary’s servants were posted in the village to watch for any sign of soldiers or King’s messengers. Slane sent his concentration through the crowd, searching for danger, but nothing came back to him. It was like slapping water and hearing the slap, then nothing more. Was there danger? He did not know.

  Later, in the evening, a barge appeared on the river. It was the royal barge; the King, the Duchess of Kendall, the three Princesses, and Barbara were visible in the light of torches held by footmen. At once, word spread through Lady Mary’s fête, and people crowded to the river’s edge of the garden, pointing. Lady Mary went to the river’s edge and called to the King to come and visit.

  “Shall I swim out to him and give your invitation firsthand?” Wharton asked.

  Before there was an answer, he was stripping off his clothes, the maids of honor squealing and covering their eyes as Wharton walked naked into the river. Charles glanced at Slane, as if to say, “Ought I to stop him?” But Slane ignored the look.

  “Madman,” Slane heard someone say, “he’s drunk enough to drown.”

  Not only drunk, thought Slane, but bitter, spent, needing to shock and outrage. It is the only revenge left us upon the rest of you, until autumn. Yes, Charles, she’s here. You wish you were the one swimming to the barge. That is clear from your face. And Tamworth, standing just beyond, what an interesting mix of emotion upon his face, also.

  Wharton was talking with Barbara, who knelt at the edge of the barge. She was laughing, shaking her head at him. He probably threatened to climb onto the barge, naked as he was. The King, smiling, came forward to talk to Wharton, too. You make Wharton palatable, Barbara, Slane thought. What a courtier you would make.

  Wharton swam back. As he walked out of the river, careless of his nakedness, Harriet, the Duchess of Tamworth, handed him a long coat, which Wharton shrugged on.

  “The King sends you greetings, says that for this evening he will remain where he is, but he thanks you for your invitation,” Wharton said to Lady Mary. “He asks if Senesino and Mrs. Robinson have yet sung.”

  “No, but they certainly will now.”

  The singers from the opera were brought forward, excited to be singing for the King, and they began a duet there at the river’s edge. Their voices were beautiful, strong and rich, rising and intertwining up into the night. The sight was beautiful, the shadows and lanterns, the singers, the richly dressed crowd around them, the barge, looking fantastic and fiery in the midst of the river.

  Slane took it all in, Tony at the river’s edge, gazing out at the barge, his face strained, grave. His wife was talking to Wharton, who had pulled on breeches, but whose bare chest showed between the lapels of the coat he wore. She and Wharton are cousins, thought Slane. I’d forgotten that. What does she ask him, I wonder? Does he reassure her or make her suffer? There was no way to know with Wharton. The Duke and Duchess of Tamworth would leave this gathering in a different way from which they’d entered it.

  Slane found himself suddenly saddened at that. Do I wish him well, after all? He stared at Tony, the man who was his enemy. Or is it that I wish anyone well, anyone who finds a moment of happiness in this life? Ah, I am, as Louisa says, becoming a cynic.

  He looked around himself at the willows, the reeds, the swans, the men and women favored of this reign, in their rich dress; he looked at Lady Mary’s large stone house, whose windows and doors were open to the night. In his mind was James’s court, where courtiers soon became pinched and vicious, feeding upon themselves and others, such was the futility of a court in exile, always having to beg for coins, for favors from other kingdoms. I want to crush them all here.

  Walpole and the Prince de Soissons were talking. They did not see Slane, who was almost one with the bulk of a willow tree at the river’s edge.

  “I knew Lady Devane and her brother in Paris,” Philippe said. “Her brother and the Duke of Wharton were friends. He and Wharton journeyed from Avignon to Paris in the summer of 1716. They made their obediences to the Pretender when he was in Avignon.”

  “Boys will be boys, won’t they?” Walpole was jovial, as if it did not matter at all that they had called on James and promised loyalty to him.

  Wharton had been given honors by King George when he returned to England. He’d laughed when he told Slane of George’s attempt to purchase him, he said. They believe everything, even honor, has a price. I took what they gave. Why not?

  “I don’t trust a man who hasn’t sown a few wild oats. Half the families in England have a Jacobite in them,” Walpole said.

  Philippe reached into a tiny pocket sewn upon his waistcoat and pulled out what looked like a coin. He gave it to Walpole. It was a medal; upon one side was a profile of James Stuart, upon the other a white horse, symbol of the House of Hanover, trampling the English lion and unicorn. In the background was the figure of Britannia weeping, the city of London, London Bridge. Walpole read the words, translating the Latin: “‘James as the only salvation.’”

  “This was sent me from Paris,” said Philippe. “James’s rewards to the English faithful.”

  “I should like any information upon Harry, Lo
rd Alderley, within your archives, no matter how old,” said Walpole.

  Philippe touched the dueling scar upon his face. “Only Harry? Barbara was with him in Italy in 1717 and 1718. She made quite an impression in Venice and Rome.”

  Walpole didn’t answer.

  “I have information that King George will want to know,” said Philippe.

  How smooth his voice is, thought Slane, listening intently, though he felt sick at what he heard. Ormonde would not come, not even in autumn. It was there in his middle, the way disaster always was.

  “The information is so important that he who delivers it must rise in the King’s regard,” Philippe went on.

  “Why not deliver it yourself?”

  “I have no need for your king’s regard. But there is something I want.”

  “What might that be?”

  “I want the Devane fine left as it is. I want no reduction of it.”

  Walpole was silent. Then he said, “Roger was my friend.”

  “And mine. This has nothing to do with Roger, who is dead.”

  “The information would have to be extraordinary.”

  “It is. You have a gosling among you. Word has come to me from someone who can be trusted in Paris.”

  There was an intake of breath from Walpole. “Who is he?”

  “That, alas, I do not know. Ah—” Slane had bumped into Philippe.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Slane.

  “Clumsy, likely drunk,” Philippe said, dismissively.

  Slane walked toward the house, in his middle a vibration so strong he almost could not walk. This was much worse than could be imagined. The Prince de Soissons was supplying information from Paris, from the Regent of France himself. So the Regent, once their ally, was betraying to the English whatever Jacobites asked of him.

  Who among the Jacobites in Paris betrayed information to the Regent? There was no way the French should have known there was a gosling. Only three or four men in Paris knew, and only one of those knew the gosling was Slane.

  It would be a great coup for King George’s men to capture a gosling, renowned for his loyalty. Men so chosen could not be bribed; it was part of their oath of loyalty, part of becoming a gosling—unswerving loyalty to Jamie, sworn the way a priest made a vow of poverty—and that could not be said of many another Jacobite. Waiting, as time lengthened into years and invasions failed, had proved, again and again, too difficult a test for many men. As they succumbed to poverty, they succumbed to bribes—always there—from King George’s court.

  He was a personal friend of Jamie’s, one of the devoted inner circle, a man whose father had sailed away and left his estate and property behind in Ireland rather than support William of Orange. They would parade him in the streets like a wild animal captured. They would imprison him forever, gleeful, gloating to have him in their power.

  I must go to Paris, tell the two I trust completely that there is a break somewhere, up high, and that they must no longer, under any circumstances, talk with the French. He must tell Wharton and the others plotting the autumn invasion. Charles must call off Christopher Layer. There is more danger than we realize. My God, what extent does Walpole know?

  He ground his teeth in frustration, seeing in his mind’s eye Gussy, Louisa, Wharton, others, his friends here. I’ll be back, he thought. I won’t abandon friends, not until I know they are safe. Let it be as Louisa says, that Walpole may suspect but cannot prove. Heaviness settled on him. It’s over.

  The singers had finished. There was a burst of loud applause. On the barge, the King could be seen to be applauding. Barbara’s face was a pale and beautiful oval in the light of the torches. Slane stood in an upper window watching; then his vision blurred, and he knew he must lie down. He did so, thinking: She holds the key to my discovery. Huge honors and awards would go to her if she told, but she won’t tell. He knew that—had known it, really, in her bedchamber; only the caution he must always practice required him to verify it.

  He allowed himself to feel the full and certain extent of his attraction to her. It didn’t blunt the ache in his heart, but it helped. She was another reason he would return. And to see Walpole thwarted in any and all ways.

  LATER, LADY Mary came into the house to wake Slane, to tell him of a furious quarrel between Walpole and Tommy Carlyle, something about the South Sea, she said, something about Lord Devane and friendship. Carlyle had thrown a glass of wine on Walpole, and it had taken two men to restrain the usually jovial Walpole from striking Carlyle.

  “Is there to be a duel?” Slane was amused at the idea of Walpole and Carlyle facing each other with pistols or swords at dawn.

  Lady Mary shook her head. “No, but the expression upon Walpole’s face frightened me.”

  This was a perceptive, intelligent woman. Slane respected her opinions. “Why?” he asked.

  “He’s always said he is a humble man.” She spoke slowly, as if she, too, were trying to understand. “A Norfolk squire with mud on his boots. But I think he is very aware of being a King’s minister, of rising, and Carlyle offended against that.”

  “And will pay for that offense?”

  “Somehow. Yes.”

  Yes, he’d be back. He couldn’t leave friends to Walpole.

  Chapter Forty-three

  DIANA APPEARED AT THE EDGE OF THE LAWN, A SHEAF OF wild bluebells in her arms. She walked up the broad steps of the terrace to where her mother, the Duchess, sat, taking her time because of the limp, the cane she must use. She’d had a fall, so she said. Diana was a mossy step or two away. The Duchess tried to calm herself, but she couldn’t. The invasion has taken my strength, she thought, I have nothing left for Diana. I need Barbara now.

  “I’ve been to see Father’s tomb,” Diana said.

  “You’re with child,” the Duchess replied.

  There was a moment’s silence. Diana looked down at the bluebells.

  “I might have known your toady would tell you.”

  “You did know she’d tell.”

  The eyes that now stared back at the Duchess were the color of the bluebells.

  “Tell me everything, Diana.”

  “I cannot have the child.”

  Why not? Walpole would support it. Diana would have to disappear, of course, lie, but she was good at that.

  “Leave it be, Mother. Let me to do what I will. It’s for the best. The child isn’t Robin’s.”

  The Duchess’s heart was fluttering, birdlike, in her chest, making her dizzy. Diana laid the sheaf of bluebells in the Duchess’s lap, and the Duchess stared down at the color, which seemed to swim at the edges of her vision like deep blue water. She lost herself a moment to time and space, became suspended in the blue. A young Diana looked back at her, chin lifted, the way Barbara lifted her chin. I will do as I please. And so she had, always.

  “Leave it be.” Diana balanced on the cane. “Tell the Gypsy to do as I ask. She knows the herbs that will do the deed. Order her, Mother, I beg you. When, in all our life together, have I ever begged you? I beg now.”

  Swirling, swirling blue. The third child was a girl child. At last, said Richard, holding the naked, squalling baby aloft to the nymphs painted upon the ceiling, none of whom were as beautiful as this child would grow to be. My pet, my sweetling, my lovely little girl, crooned Richard. Diana.

  “NOT ONLY have the French betrayed us, but so has someone else, someone among ourselves, at the highest levels. I don’t know whether from France or from Italy.”

  The Bishop of Rochester sat without moving. Lord Oxford closed his eyes, placed his hands, which Slane noticed were trembling, in his lap. Oxford, you were considered the most treacherous, the wiliest man in Queen Anne’s court, thought Slane. We need that guile now. Where is it? Did you leave it in the Tower of London? Old man, old man, go home and close your door.

  Wharton went to a sideboard, poured himself more wine. Aunt Shrew, playing a game of solitaire, had stopped somewhere in the midst of Slane’s speaking to gaze out a nearb
y window. Dr. Freind was silent. Will Shippen swore softly. Gussy pinched at the bridge of his nose, a quiet gesture that for some reason angered Slane.

  Is that where your heartbreak is? thought Slane, watching him, watching them all. Others—Lord North, the Duke of Norfolk, Lord Arran, Lord Cowper—were not here. Divisions deepened as summer progressed.

  “North, Norfolk, Arran, Cowper must be told,” Slane said, looking to Rochester, upon whom most of the King’s suspicion rested. The gossip at Lady Mary’s gathering had been that Rochester would be arrested within the week. Lady Mary and Alexander Pope had both reported hearing it.

  “I can have you escorted from the country within two days. King James will receive you with all love and appreciation,” Slane said to him.

  “Leave the grave of my wife, the country of my birth, my parishioners, my church, my daughter and grandchildren, my friends, never to see them again? Upon Robert Walpole’s vindictive use of rumor and fear? No. I will see it out. Walpole toys with me.” Rochester spat the words out. “He tries to break my nerve.”

  Slane met Aunt Shrew’s eyes. If Rochester is arrested, she had asked him, forthrightly, the way she would, will he betray the rest of us, or not?

  He will not, Slane had replied.

  Word had come to him from Paris this morning. The Duke of Ormonde was in Spain, fighting off his debtors, for he had mortgaged and borrowed upon everything he had to buy arms for the invasion. The French had ordered all Irish soldiers back to their regiments, on pain of hanging. Officials all along the Spanish coast had been ordered to put embargoes upon any suspicious ships. Two—Jacobite, sent to help Ormonde—were already embargoed. King James wrote letters to keep up the spirits of those here, sent them medals in appreciation. “Plans are simply put back,” he wrote. He could not yet accept truth. Slane would tell him truth.

  People here were exhausted. This was the fourth time in ten years that they’d hoarded coins, mortgaged lands, sent money abroad to support an invasion. I’m bankrupt, Wharton had said today, with his odd, cruel smile, as if it were nothing. He’d given nearly everything he owned toward this invasion, and told his bailiffs, who questioned him about the emptiness of his coin boxes, that he had gambled and lost. His patrimony was in ruins. Oh, don’t look so upset, Slane. I can hold off those I owe. Wharton didn’t complain, and Slane loved him for it. He’d drink himself to death instead.