by Karleen Koen
There was a knock at the door. Gussy went out to talk with the servant who knocked.
“Lady Devane, on her way to Tamworth, is below, wishing to speak with you,” Gussy told Rochester.
Slane saw Rochester’s face soften.
“You will forgive me, I hope, if I take a moment to visit with her. Her husband was a great friend to me, as was her father. I am touched that she takes time to see me.”
Rochester stood unsteadily, as Gussy helped him with his crutches. Everyone was silent as he limped from the chamber.
I am a leper among my own, he’d said today. Those who are not afraid to be seen speaking with me do not trust me and won’t speak to me. I’ve made my own hell, Slane. I won’t betray, no matter what befalls. Slane believed him. Everyone’s courage was showing. There was in his throat a growing knot at seeing it—the loyalty they gave Jamie, the sacrifices made, which they must live with ever after. He must salvage as many of them, as much of their time and trouble, as he could before leaving. He must, or die trying.
“He’ll betray us,” said Will Shippen.
“I think not,” said Slane.
“I must remember to tell Jane Lady Devane is home.”
Gussy spoke to no one in particular. He had the stunned look of someone who has been given a great shock. Like Wharton, like Slane, he had harbored hopes of an autumn invasion.
Jane had become a favorite of Slane’s. She came to London often now to visit, the children with her, and they piled into Gussy’s small chamber like pumpkins. Slane liked those days Jane came to stay, the chamber lit by candles in the evening, Gussy stirring some thick soup in a pot, Jane putting children to sleep in the bed, she and Gussy fretting and fussing over them. There was something warm and comfortable and good in Gussy’s chamber on those days. A time or two, he had watched over the children for them. He had given Gussy a key to his own lodging, and he always liked to see their faces when they returned, Jane beginning to blush, as Gussy explained, in too long and detailed a manner, how they’d seen the lions at the Tower or gone to view the waxworks, as if a man could not rejoice that he took time to make love to a beloved wife.
“No one is arrested yet. As far as I am concerned, we have come out of this beautifully,” said Aunt Shrew. “In another two years, who knows what will have happened? Walpole may be dismissed. The King may die. That would be a mercy, for the Prince of Wales is openly despised by those who serve him. It will come together again if we do not lose hope. In 1715, two of my dearest friends lost their heads on Tower Hill. I saw Bolingbroke, Marr, Ormonde, Alderley flee, and the Hanovers take their estates. Lord Oxford here was sent to the Tower to rot. He is free now. We still have our heads, and what’s more, we still have our freedom. Rumor may nip at our heels, but rumor is not proof.”
BARBARA WALKED down a gravel path in Rochester’s garden. She slapped her gloves in her palm absently, her head, her thoughts, her heart awhirl. Rochester had confirmed Carlyle’s words. Walpole had sacrificed Roger, the debt, and therefore her, to his own purposes. A false friend—no friend.
She opened the garden gate; across the road was the flash of sun on water. The river. She walked to it, leaned against a willow. In her mind was a memory from Virginia: the morning she’d killed the stag.
She remembered her surprise at herself, the surging triumph she had felt as she saw the animal stagger, run a few feet, then drop. Later, riding back, the stag hung by its hooves upon a pole carried by the slaves, she had known a new thing: that—in spite of her laces and skirts, her birth, her manners, her sex—savagery was within her, just as deeply as she had imagined it within the slaves, with their braided hair, scarred faces, and angry eyes. She called on that savagery now.
Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. The game Robin played was subtle and brutal. The better part of valor is discretion, Colonel Perry had quoted when she’d insisted she would tell the Governor about Bolling’s smuggling. She would be discreet. She would have to be. Robin was the stag.
A stone went skimming across the water of the river, three leaps before it sank. She turned to see the boy who threw it, and there he was: Duncannon. He skimmed another stone before he joined her. Willow touched the cloth of his coat at his shoulders. How tired he looks, thought Barbara, how sad.
“Walpole makes inquiries about you,” he said. “I overheard him. About you and your brother in Italy. Be careful, Lady Devane. Beware.”
“You lied to me about the invasion.”
“So I did. Forgive me. I do not lie now. There will be no invasion.”
Great emotion, great sadness was in his voice. I feel as if I’ve known you forever, she thought. So much to tell him: that she had not betrayed him to Robin; that she was after Robin herself, now.
“Walpole won’t reduce the fine,” he said.
He’d promised, she had just heard him promise it. “Why not!”
“He was given information that is valuable, and not reducing the fine was the price.”
How I hate Robin, thought Barbara. “Who asked him not to?”
“The Prince de Soissons.”
Philippe. I hate you, too. But I always have.
“What name do you go by, here?” she asked.
“Laurence Slane. I am known as Laurence Slane.”
She repeated it: “Laurence Slane.”
He kissed her then, leaning forward easily, a light kiss, on the lips, surprising her. He said nothing, and neither did she.
In another moment, he was across the road, going wherever it was he went. She looked down at her hand. He had put something into it, a stone. She had no memory of his giving it to her.
Could she still skim a stone across water? When she was a girl, she could do it. Yes, three leaps, as good as his.
Later, in the carriage, she put her fingers to her lips; his kiss was still there. How odd she felt, as if some spell upon her were lifted. Roger’s no more, she thought, and in that was sadness, but also joy. When she was a girl, she’d known exactly what she wanted. Her feelings had told her where to go and what to do. It had taken cruelty and betrayal to mix her to pieces. Loss to make her find herself. Like the girl of old, she knew what she wanted now, Robin’s head, Devane Square’s rise, and perhaps, Laurence Slane.
“To Tamworth,” she told the coachman. She’d rest there for a time before beginning. It would be peaceful.
“SHE VOMITS again, but nothing more,” reported Annie. “No sign of blood.”
The Duchess had Tim carry her to the bedchamber in which Diana rested, wan, pale, white-faced against even whiter pillow coverings. The crimson hangings of this chamber were overpowering; for once, they even overpowered Diana. When these chambers had been built, Richard had been upon his rise. His beloved daughter must have whatever she wished; he’d lure her to Tamworth with a bedchamber hung with finest crimson cloth. Diana had been like a lovely, dark moth in them. She was the wickedest woman at court, which he would not see. Or did he see, and yet love anyway? Oh, Richard, it would have been the way you loved, accepting all that was in another, the good and the bad, loving simply and purely. You were always better at love than I, thought the Duchess.
She made Tim and Annie leave, though she allowed Diana’s faithful fool, Clemmie, to remain. What that serving woman had seen in her years of service would most likely put another in the grave.
Diana was waking. Her hands atop the covers went at once to her abdomen. She looked to Clemmie, whose expression, as far as the Duchess could see, did not change. But Diana and Clemmie must have an unspoken language such as the Duchess and Annie did, for Diana turned her head away, brought her hand up to wipe at her face.
A true tear? thought the Duchess. If so, it would be worth the price of a diamond for its rarity. Diana’s cast-off lovers would rise from early graves to see it.
“I’ve been thinking, Diana. Is there no fool among the men you know who will marry you?”
Diana made a face of disgust. �
��After Kit died, I vowed I would never put myself in another man’s hands again.”
“You put something there, however, didn’t you? Now, listen a moment. I assume you still believe, as always you did, that coins are there for the spending, and nothing else. A marriage might be just the thing. It would give you a resting place for your old age. You are not becoming any younger, you know. Barbara received my land of Bentwoodes as dowry, but I have a farm or two all mine that I might give you, some bank funds invested I might be persuaded to part with as bribe to a reluctant bridegroom, if need be. Could you not make Walpole think it is his, have him arrange that one of his minions marry you? You’ll soon see the darker side of your years, Diana, and this child, who seems determined to stay among us, will take its toll. Think upon it, it’s all I ask. Clemmie, call my footman to come and fetch me. Your mistress has, as usual, exhausted me.”
“Mother…”
The Duchess waited, fearful of what else Diana might ask. Nothing was ever simple between them. Always, always, they bartered.
“May I stay awhile, here? At Tamworth?”
A pain as piercing as unrequited love squeezed the Duchess’s heart. She nodded.
Chapter Forty-four
A CARRIAGE LUMBERED CLUMSILY DOWN A DIRT ROAD. BARBARA bounced from one side of the carriage to the other. In the fields, grain was beginning to show its precious heads. Laborers in other fields scythed the long grass, their blades flashing in the sun. Wildflowers peeped out of ditches and fields: crimson pimpernel, crimson corn poppy, golden agrimony. Barbara closed her eyes, smelling the cut grass in which wild marjoram grew, smelling summer, smelling home. In Virginia, Blackstone would have the seedlings all moved. They would not be seedlings now, but plants. He and Kano would be pinching back some leaves, nurturing others. Had he bought any indentures from the prison ship, and how was dear Edward Perry? He should be with her, going to meet her grandmother. She heard the sound of bleating, opened her eyes to see a stone circle fence, and in it, men shearing sheep. Lambs, outside the circle, bleated and cried for their dams, who bleated and cried at being sheared.
“We turn into the avenue of limes,” said Thérèse.
“Tell the coachman to stop.”
The sound of the horses’ hooves in the dirt was no louder than the beat of her heart. She opened the door, tossed Harry out, then jumped down.
“You go on ahead,” she told Thérèse and the coachman, and she began to walk down the shaded avenue toward the house. Home of her childhood, haven of her girlhood, her wonderful, unfettered girlhood, when she’d run through the fields and pastures as free as any boy, free until the day she left to go to London to marry Roger. Oh, Grandmama, she thought, how good it will be to see you again.
There was the house now, visible at the end of the avenue of trees, quite perfect, exactly what should be at the end of such an avenue. The brick of it mellow, faded, covered in most places by ivy. The child she’d been, playing at fairy cups with Jane, looked at her with solemn eyes; the girl she had been, who had sat in those bays upon many a day, barefoot and dreamy, waved at her. The wild young woman who had inspired duels and desired what she couldn’t have ran across the expanse of lawn, skirts swaying, arms creamy white in lacy sleeves. Hello, Barbara, she said to all her selves.
She called for Harry and walked around one of the long sides of the house. Her grandmother sat on the vast flagstone terrace, dozing, as always she did. Nothing changes, and everything does.
Barbara stood where she was, tenderness in her heart welling, it seemed, without end. Grandmama. Dearest Grandmama, she thought, how small you are, sitting there in your chair. Have you always been that small? Barbara smiled, all her love in that smile. There were no words for what this woman meant to her. Her heart felt like a summer wildflower, open and bold to the sun, full of love.
Harry barked; Tim, leaning against a huge stone vase, straightened and saw Barbara. She put her finger to her lips, lifted up her heavy skirts and began to walk up the grassy steps in that graceful movement so particularly her own, her face alight and smiling.
Dulcinea leaped from the Duchess’s lap to run at Harry. The pair, old friends, met halfway and wrestled one another on the grassy steps. The Duchess lifted her head, opened her eyes, pursed her lips.
“Tim!”
At once, he knelt by her.
“I dreamed I saw Lady Devane, there, on the steps.”
“It is not a dream, Your Grace.”
Dulcinea and Harry dashed into the shrubbery in a merry, remembered game of chase.
“Grandmama,” Barbara called from a middle step. “I decided to come home. I have come to report to you about Virginia.”
Then, quickly, she was at the top step, she was kneeling, she was putting her head against the Duchess’s breast.
“Precious, precious girl, darling child, I thought I’d dreamed you. Tim, I thought I’d dreamed her. Barbara, pet, sweetling, my dear child. You are back.”
The Duchess was stroking Barbara’s hair, rubbing her cheek back and forth into the red-gold of it as if she could not get enough.
Better than Defoe, thought Tim, wiping at a tear in his eye, and it’s our life.
Then the Duchess sat up straight. “You’ve picked a fine time to come home.”
“Do you mean because of the invasion?”
“Worse. Your mother is here.”
In the great hall, Thérèse and Annie were supervising the servants bringing in boxes and trunks from the carriage.
“Have you pulled the crossbows from the halls and issued them to the parlormaids to protect us from the invasion?” Barbara teased Perryman. “I might have been a Papist Irishman, you know, coming in to cut Grandmama’s throat for the Pretender. There!” Barbara made an evil slashing motion across her own throat. “‘Die, dread Duchess,’ I might have said, and ordered you to give me all the Tamworth silver for my king. But first, I’d say, kiss this rosary, and swear upon the holiness of the Pope, over all.”
“She has not changed,” Perryman said to the Duchess. “Not a bit.”
Yes, she has, the Duchess thought. My girl has become a woman.
The Duchess motioned for Tim to take her over amid the boxes and trunks.
“Hyacinthe?” The Duchess said his name quietly to Thérèse, so that Barbara might not hear.
Thérèse struggled not to cry, and the Duchess asked no more.
“I’ve learned the ways of the colonial savages,” Barbara was saying, “and if you do not obey me in every way, I will cut your hair from your head and wear it upon my belt; a scalp, it’s called, with the flesh dried to leather upon it. I’ve brought you a scalp, Perryman. You must wear it instead of your butler’s wig.”
“Barbara…”
There was no mistaking Diana’s voice. From the bend in the stairway, Diana stared down at Barbara, as if seeing a ghost, then ran down the steps to embrace her.
“I knew you’d come back. I told everyone you’d come back. No one believed me, but I knew.”
Barbara stroked the tears from her mother’s face with her thumbs and kissed her mother’s cheeks, one then the other, and Diana crumpled down in a heap on the very last stair, sobbing as if her heart would break. Barbara sat down beside her and put her arms around her and rocked her back and forth, as Annie and Thérèse and a servant went up the stairs, Barbara’s boxes in their arms.
It was as if Diana were the child, and Barbara the mother, thought the Duchess, watching. But isn’t that how it always was? It was Barbara who was mother to her brothers and sisters, not Diana, ever. Such tenderness in Barbara’s face, her touch. New tenderness, deep and true. How will anyone resist her? thought the Duchess.
“I’ve seen the King, and I’ve seen the Prince and Princess, and now I am home for a while, no more curtsies and false smiles…. Everyone still expects invasion,” Barbara said to her grandmother.
“And the Bishop of Rochester?”
“It is said he will be arrested before this month of July e
nds.”
Other servants were in the hall, now: Cook, the groom, the stable boys, various maidservants, all to see Barbara. The word that she was home was spreading through Tamworth. By nightfall, everyone in the village and nearby houses would know it.
“The Prince!” said Diana, reviving at once and interrupting Barbara’s greetings to servants. “You’ve seen the Prince of Wales? Good. What did he say?”
“Nothing of importance. Ah, I must take off this gown, these shoes, all my feathers and froth. I’ve made a report for you about Virginia, Grandmama, a long report. I’m draining marshes and freeing slaves and making a special tobacco.”
Barbara stood. I want to walk to chapel, she thought. I want to explore every room of this house. I want to lie at the foot of Grandmama’s bed and tell her everything about Virginia. I want to see Jane, my dear and true friend.
“Is Jane at Ladybeth?”
The Duchess shook her head. Barbara kissed the top of Diana’s head, kissed her fingertips at her grandmother, ran up the steps.
“She saw the Prince,” Diana said to the Duchess. “I could not have arranged it more perfectly myself. ‘Nothing of importance.’ Bah. I would imagine he was astounded. She is more beautiful, is she not, Mother?”
“Leave her be. She has only just arrived. You have your own business to contend with, Diana.”
“She is my business.”
It begins, thought the Duchess. I haven’t the strength for it, but it looks as if my Bab has. What happened to you in Virginia, my pet? More than we imagine.
In her grandmother’s bedchamber, Barbara could hear Annie and Thérèse in the next-door chamber, her grandfather’s. Annie was questioning Thérèse, gathering information to be duly reported later. Barbara smiled. She went to the footstool on which, as a girl, she’d sat listening to many a lecture. She touched all the items on her grandmother’s bedside table: the miniatures; the books; the vase filled with roses, a mix of wild ones and ones from her grandfather’s garden. She went to the large portrait of her grandfather that hung over the fireplace, put her hand against the dried paint, smiled up at him. She had no idea how much she favored him at that moment.