Now Face to Face

by Karleen Koen

  “And what was that?”

  “Regard in his eyes when you spoke. Respect. He seems more a man, somehow. I won’t take Tony from you.”

  “Perhaps you can’t.”

  Barbara laughed. “Marvelous! I have no doubt he is yours…. Virginia was an interesting experience for me, Harriet. It was wonderful and awful at the same time. I made a dear, dear friend, one I will have with me always, and I learned what I wanted there among the river and trees—trees so huge, Harriet, that three men could not encircle their trunks.”

  “And what is it you want?”

  “To live a life of honor, as I have not always done before. To hurt no one and to try to see that no one hurts me. You might let the Princess of Wales know that—that I do not wish to hurt anyone. I’m going on alone now. I may well walk for hours. Sleep well, cousin.”

  In the moonlight, the two women separated, no parting kiss between them. Barbara walked on toward Ladybeth Farm, and Harriet went back toward the house, a dark bulk in the night, with candles in some of the windows, in the window of the bedchamber she and Tony shared. He was still awake. Thinking about Barbara, no doubt, thought Harriet. On the late-night journey back from Lady Mary’s fête, Tony and Charles had both sat like two lumps, not a word from them about the fact that the woman they both loved had just reappeared in their lives. The next morning, Lindenmas was a hive turned to one side, and Barbara was its buzz. Mary came into Harriet’s bedchamber to cry and say that Charles would take Barbara as his mistress again, that she just knew it. Harriet’s mother and her sisters came to her, separately, but in essence saying the same thing: Poor Harriet, they said, what will you do now? And in their pity, Harriet had seen a kind of perverse satisfaction. Why? Because she and Tony might be happy, or had been happy. What a sad, narrow little world, in which one begrudged any other person happiness, no matter how slight. She’s back, Wart had said to Harriet. Let’s you and I elope, leave England together and shock our friends. What had the Duchess said at the wedding? Something about the greatest love flying out the window without truth, duty, and honor to anchor it down.

  She and Tony had not started with greatest love—or any love, for that matter. Theirs was a mating of families, of land and pride, as were most marriages between people of their station. But Tony was unexpectedly kind, and she liked that grave smile of his. There was passion between them when they lay together, a passion that surprised her. She found that she increasingly liked him; it was an unexpected gift, that liking, something to build more upon. She’d known when she married him that he loved someone else. She understood quite clearly that love between husband and wife was not a duty of this marriage. So it really wasn’t fair to be angry at him now that the someone else he did love had reappeared. The time to be angry might come later, depending on his behavior. Would he humiliate her by openly courting Barbara? Would he grow cold and rude, the way Charles had, despising Mary’s least gesture, so bored by marriage that he could not be still? Would he be quiet and hidden about his passion, leaving her to imagine anything and everything and then be told what was happening, as surely she would be, by others?

  She’d wait to feel anger. She’d see what happened, how he behaved. If he remains a friend to me, then I will be a friend to him, she thought, and felt better immediately. It would be interesting, she thought, stepping up onto the terrace, to see if Barbara was a woman of her word. So many things were said of Barbara. Which of them was true?

  UP ABOVE the porch at Tamworth’s front entrance, a candle showed in the window.

  “Walking across toward Ladybeth,” Annie, at the window, reported to the Duchess.

  “Alone?”

  “Alone. Her Grace has returned to the house.”

  Leaning back into her pillows, the Duchess looked up at the canopy over her head. The big, four-poster bed she lay in had been her mother’s. Her grandmother’s mother had embroidered the curious, fanciful pattern of flowers and birds that decorated the bed curtains, something done all those years ago that had lasted. There was a continuity to it, a rightness in this passage, from mother to daughter and on. The woman who had bent over her needle, to push the brightly colored silk threads, crimson, yellow, green, gold and silver gilt, to push the heavy purl made of twisted gold and silver wires, in and out, in and out, was long gone. What patience it had taken. What time. But the woman had persisted. She was dead now, but not her work, which lasted past lifetimes.

  Barbara was likely to have a position at court. It was heady news. What influence she might wield. The Duchess thought of her own years at court, of her own rank and power, her deceits and machinations, the twists and turns. She had loved every moment of it, until Richard broke from it all. Richard, her fair Richard. You killed him, Louisa had said, you and your ambitions. She stared over at the portrait above the fireplace, not even knowing a tear was rolling down her face, until Dulcinea touched it with her paw. Had Walpole betrayed friendship, betrayed honor for expediency, as Barbara said?

  She ought to know; she of all people should recognize betrayal. She had forced Richard to do what he had not believed in. He would have followed King James across the sea into exile, but she wouldn’t allow it, told him he must choose between James and her. Richard had believed in his heart that James II was the true, the rightful king of England. That was what had destroyed his mind, in the end; he saw his sons’ deaths as punishment, he told her, for his sin.

  Richard, most honorable of men, she thought, what possible sin could God have punished you for, save the one of loving me too much? Regrets, regrets, life was filled with them. Of them all, this was the one she found impossible to bear, this was the one she must keep buried. She was too old to face it. She sniffed, and with all the will she was capable of, and it was much, pushed her mind to another place, so that Richard and James and herself in those old days might never have been.

  Thank God Tony is married, she thought. The marriage likely wouldn’t dissolve before there was an heir. She could only hope he and Barbara didn’t break Harriet’s heart, but if they did, well, it was not her trouble, was it? That was what she’d known downstairs, that she was too old to make it all right again, to send Tony one way and Barbara another, as she’d once done. Life could be cruel. She’d done her duty. No more could be asked. The family was preserved.

  WHEN BARBARA returned from Ladybeth Farm and walked into her bedchamber, candles were burning, and flowers were everywhere—thistles, dandelions, dog daisies, rose-a-rubies, convolvuses, and bearbine. Shades of white, silver, crimson, blush—shy, difficult flowers, half weed. Mixed in among them were water flags and mint.

  She picked up a candlestick and went upstairs. Knocking softly, she walked into Bathsheba’s tiny chamber. Bathsheba was awake. She knew I’d come, thought Barbara.

  “Thank you for the flowers.”

  Bathsheba didn’t answer.

  “There is a dog at Ladybeth. Have you seen it?”

  A look of intense relief came over the woman’s face. “Yes. Danger.” Barbara nodded and left.

  She walked into her grandmother’s bedchamber, set the candle on the bedside table, and shook the Duchess awake.

  “Richard, we’ll do as you say, we’ll leave court and follow King James—”

  “It’s me, Grandmama.”

  “Who?”

  Barbara tried not to be impatient. Sometimes her grandmother’s mind drifted. It always came back. “Barbara, Grandmama. Roger is dead, and I went to Virginia and now I am returned.”

  “I was dreaming, a lovely dream of your grandfather. When did Roger die? Never mind. You know how my mind does, Bab, I can’t quite remember, but I will. What’s happened? Has Abigail killed your mother?”

  “Grandmama, when was the last time you were at Ladybeth?”

  The Duchess pursed her lips, a sign of stubbornness Barbara knew well. “Sir John and I have quarreled.”

  “He has the sweetest little dog with him, Grandmama. A tiny dog, with spots on it. Its leg has been hurt, ho
wever, and it limps. Yes,” said Barbara, as comprehension came into her grandmother’s face. She might not remember when Roger had died, but she well understood this. “The Bishop of Rochester is implicated in treason by reference in letters to the gift of a little spotted dog. Or so the rumors say.”

  John’s a Jacobite, thought the Duchess. Certainty went flooding through her. I should have known. Sweet bloody hands of Jesus Christ our Savior. Like pieces of a wooden puzzle, certain things, certain events slid into place, made sense. Gussy was clerk to Rochester. It all fit.

  “A new pet? I asked him. ‘I keep it for a friend,’ he said. I told him the rumor, Grandmama. He hadn’t heard it. ‘I’ve been staying close to Ladybeth,’ he said, and though he tried to hide it, I could see he was upset. What do you suppose he’s done?”

  “There is no telling. Bathsheba mentioned strangers coming at night. He’s been collecting coins, most likely, to finance the invasion—”

  “And weapons. I would bet there are weapons hidden all over Ladybeth.”

  “He’s in it up to his neck. He does nothing halfway. Oh, Barbara.”

  “I’m going to walk back over there tomorrow. I’m going to take the dog away, Grandmama. Where will we hide it?”

  Oh, thank God Barbara was here. Treason was so slippery within the bowels of their own family that John’s didn’t shock her. Barbara had nerves of steel. She always had, even as a girl. It had been she who arranged the details of her father’s burial in Italy; Harry had been too distraught to do it.

  “In the chapel vault.”

  “Good, yes, that’s good. Oh, Grandmama, the flesh on my arms is prickling. I feel afraid for Sir John, for us all.” Gussy’s in it, thought Barbara. I know it. Jane, what is your part?

  She crawled up in the bed beside her grandmother, just as she’d used to do when she was a girl and needed comfort. At the foot of her bed was the book on Virginia, which now seemed far away and long ago, another world from this one.

  Chapter Forty-five

  BARBARA TRAVELED TO PETERSHAM TO SEE JANE. HER THOUGHTS were a mix—Sir John; Jacobites; Duncannon, who was Slane; Gussy; the dog; Robin—so that even though she stared out the window, she did not notice the fields on each side of the road upon which the carriage moved. Thérèse sat quietly in the carriage with her. Is it only eight days since I’ve been home? Barbara thought. It feels like forever.

  The dog was in the chapel vault. Tim would secretly feed and walk it. Her grandmother and Sir John had met in Tamworth’s woods, like conspirators, Barbara standing guard while they whispered angrily to each other:

  You’re mad.

  You’ll say differently when James is upon the throne.

  Bah. The dog is evidence; kill it, said her grandmother.

  I can’t, said Sir John. Neither could anyone else. That is why I have it.

  I’ll kill it, said Barbara’s grandmother, but she couldn’t either.

  Amusing, thought Barbara, that we can plot treason and prepare for war, but we can’t kill a dog.

  They were quite close now to Petersham. In another quarter of an hour, or less, she would see Jane.

  Fly, ladybird, fly, fly to the man I love best. So she and Jane used to chant as girls. If in October you do marry, love will come but riches tarry. Good St. Thomas, do me right and let my true love come tonight. All the sayings of girlhood. Girlhood was Jane, and now Jane was involved in treason.

  Keep her safe, dear Lord. Barbara thought of Jane’s children. The jest was that Gussy had only to drop his breeches for Jane to find herself with child. In the Bible, Sarah was barren, she had no child; Abraham’s Sarah and Roger’s Barbara. Jane had the children for Barbara, one after another. Suffer the little children to come unto me. How shall I bear it, Barbara? Jane had said when her son Jeremy had died. She and Jane had planted pansies and wood violets around his small grave. Kit be nimble, Kit be quick, Kit jump over the candlestick—so she’d used to say to Jeremy and also to her brothers and sisters. What a sweet little boy Jeremy had been.

  Something red caught her eye. Gooseberries were in season. They hung bright crimson and tempting on passing shrubs. July was a month of red—pimpernels, poppies, gooseberries. Red for blood. Would Rochester be arrested? Who else? Barbara sat up straighter in the carriage seat. The woman walking upon the road looked familiar.

  “Stop the carriage.”

  Stepping down from it, Barbara recognized the woman as Cat, one of Jane’s maidservants.

  “Cat, I’m Lady Devane, do you remember?”

  “Lady Devane. We’re looking for Mistress Amelia. She’s run away.”

  “Thérèse, go on to Jane’s. Tell her I too am looking for Amelia and will join her soon.”

  “Your gown will be covered with dust—” Thérèse said.

  “It doesn’t matter, Thérèse.”

  The carriage rolling on without her, Barbara questioned Cat as to where she had looked, then stood a moment, thinking about Amelia, about where she might go.

  Petersham was a hamlet, a stop on the road to Richmond; Richmond itself had once been a quiet village, not so quiet now that the Prince and Princess lived at Richmond House part of the year. There were only a few houses in Petersham, and the chapel of ease for those who lived too far from parish churches. Gussy conducted services in the chapel on certain Sundays. Nearby were the river and Richmond Park. The river, had Amelia fallen into the river? Into Barbara’s heart came a sudden, jabbing pang. Hyacinthe. She could see the boy’s body, lying in the barn. Jane must be frantic at Amelia’s absence. Jane would have thought of the river, too.

  Crossing a field, dirtying her gown, as Thérèse had said she would, Barbara came to the river and walked along its bank, her mind ranging as she looked for Amelia.

  Her mother was gone. She’d left Tamworth yesterday, a day after the others, with all the suddenness of a summer storm. Her mother would not talk much about Robin. I’m not well, Bab, she said. I need time to think on what you say.

  The King had set the date for the Duke of Marlborough’s funeral. It was to be in London ten days into August. The Duchess had received a formal announcement from Marlborough’s widow. We’ll have to go, she said. It will be expected. The river flowed by, cool and green.

  Hyacinthe, thought Barbara. She had to stop, stand there and breathe in and out for a moment. Amazing how deep, how clever pain could be, hiding away, then striking out. Amazing how swift and hard it did strike when it reared its head. Hyacinthe, I miss you so, Barbara thought. What happened to you, my dear boy and servant and companion and friend? Are you alive? Be alive.

  Was that crying? Surely it was. She followed the sound.

  And there was Amelia, crying, sitting before a gooseberry bush, her gown wet, dirty, as was her face. There was a red stain all about her mouth, as red as the ribbon on the letter from the King.

  The King had sent a special messenger to Tamworth Hall with a letter asking Barbara to come to Hampton Court as his guest and his granddaughters’. It was a great honor to be asked. The letter had arrived as everyone was leaving for Lindenmas. They all had had to read it—Tony, Harriet, Charles, Mary, her aunt, her mother, her grandmother. She was on her way now to Hampton Court. But she had to see Jane first.

  “Amelia.”

  “Bab!”

  The child hurled herself into Barbara’s arms, no question from her that Barbara should show herself again after so long a time, just gladness she was there. Barbara hushed her.

  “What is it, my sweet? Why do you cry?”

  My child, too, she was thinking. In her mind were Jane and Harry, all the times the three of them had run wild through Tamworth’s fields and woods, never knowing they would grow up and away, never knowing one of them would die. There would be no children for Harry or for her. Jane’s children were their children. Always, Jane had shared them because she was a friend. Friendship, the integrity of it, had never been more important.

  “I’ve torn my gown and fallen in the dirt, and I can’t
find my way home.”

  “I will show you the way home. Plump Amelia,” Barbara whispered into the child’s neck, kissing its round sweetness, “round Amelia, sweet Amelia, gooseberry Amelia.”

  But best of all, Jane’s Amelia.

  Chapter Forty-six

  HOME FROM HIS VOYAGE, ANCHORED IN WILLIAMSBURG, KLAUS Von Rothbach paid his crew just enough of their earnings to allow them an evening in the tavern, but he stayed on board awhile. It took him time to untangle the threads of himself from the sloop at the end of a voyage. It was always as if he must give the sloop an extra portion of time, as if she were a mistress he must assure of continued loyalty before he abandoned her for shore.

  He walked the deck of the sloop, looking her over, making notes to himself of what small repairs she might need, then went below to his cabin and wrote them in his logbook, going over his account of the voyage there. A good voyage. He was a good captain, though these days were ending. When he wed Beth Perry, he’d sail no more. There would be too much land to see to. Had his uncle realized that yet? That when he married Beth, he became an equal in land? Those thoughts in his head, he took a nap in the small bed built along one side, waking to the hush of a hot July afternoon, birds calling to one another, water lapping placidly at the hull.

  “I’ll be going in now,” he told the man left on board, who helped him lower the other rowboat and rowed him to the storehouse on the creek, a squat square of clapboard hastily built, the earlier building having been burned by some of the convicts those in England insisted upon settling here.

  The keeper of the storehouse, knowing him, came out to greet him. They talked about the Assembly of Burgesses, which had just ended its meeting. They had appointed Spotswood to go up to the colony of New York to make a treaty with the Iroquois; they’d set bounties for the making of naval stores; they had passed an act to improve the staple of tobacco. Now none could be planted after the end of June, and any who received tobacco must obtain a certificate from a justice as to its quality.