Now Face to Face

by Karleen Koen

  “What do you mean by ‘false friend,’ my dear?”

  “Walpole, the King’s most gracious minister, our dear, fat Lord Treasurer, my mother’s paramour, Roger’s friend: Walpole allowed Roger to take the whole of the blame for the South Sea Bubble. Such is his idea of friendship.”

  “There was nothing else possible.”

  “No? Go and ask Tommy Carlyle, who was every day in the House of Commons during the investigations. Walpole allowed Roger’s estate to be ruined more utterly than anyone else’s. Why? Because there must be a scapegoat—and who better than a dead man? There must be a scapegoat who takes the attention of the mob, and thus others—those alive—creep by while everyone else is looking elsewhere. Lord Sunderland told the Bishop of Rochester that it was agreed among the King’s ministers that they would fan the flames against Roger, see how large the hatred grew, how it might be useful. It was agreed to reluctantly, I’m told, but that isn’t the point. The point is that they agreed at all. You’re a man of subtlety. Don’t you see? There was anger against Roger, yes. But so much anger that his fines were among the largest? That his face was drawn on broadsheet after broadsheet? That he was made the largest villain? No, I think not. That anger, that vileness, was helped along, not by his enemies, but by his friends, so that they might survive.”

  “I do not believe you.” But his face was pale.

  He does believe me, thought Barbara. “There will never be anything built as glorious as that which Roger built, and all of it was needlessly destroyed so that those still living might have smaller fines or keep their places in service to the King. Devane House would have been a monument to Roger, and the house is gone because it satisfied the mob to see it gone, to see it dismantled. Roger’s name is forever besmirched, and why? For the same reason you imply I would bed a frog. Ambition. Expediency. Roger was dead and others were alive. Ask the Bishop of Rochester. There he is, in the courtyard. Go and ask him before the King’s soldiers drag him off to the Tower and he is forever silenced. Ask him what the Earl of Sunderland said about it all. Ask Tommy Carlyle. Go on, sir, see if this woman you so despise knows of what she speaks.”

  She watched in satisfaction as he approached Rochester. The two men moved, Rochester slow because of his crutches, to a quieter place to talk. She leaned her head back against the stone of the archway. It was set in motion. Her first powerful move against Robin. Easy enough, perhaps too easy.

  She touched her face. Tears. Why? Because she began a dangerous and ruthless game? You might need years, said Tommy. Could she give it years? Would she? Roger, to build it all back is hard. More, sometimes, than I think I want to do. She moved to a door, opened it. An empty chamber. Good. She closed her eyes and put her arms around herself, as if to give herself comfort. Her stepfather wished to loan her funds to finish the church in Devane Square.

  “Why do you do that? Is there no one you trust to comfort you?”

  It was Slane, actor, hero, spy, Jamie’s favorite. When had he returned? She’d dreamed of his return. She’d not heard his approach. He closed the door to the chamber.

  “What is this?” she said to the bunch of dying wildflowers he held out to her.

  “Rose-a-ruby.”

  “What am I to do with it?”

  “Put it under your pillow until your sweetheart comes.”

  She looked at him. These last weeks in the King’s household had brought forward the hypocrisy that was court. The rumor that she was to have a place in the household meant that everywhere she went people gathered to compliment her and be her friend. It was good to feel, to see, after the disgrace of the South Sea, after all that she’d lost, but something in her warned, over and over again, Beware, know the flattery is for a purpose, not your purpose but theirs. Pick and choose friendships with care. Trust nobody.

  “I want to come courting. Have I your permission?”

  “Courting whom?”

  She knew whom. I want this, she thought, never mind it might end tomorrow.

  “Thérèse, of course,” he said.

  She laughed. “She won’t tell you anything of the King’s household. Her lips will be sealed.”

  “I won’t be asking her of the King’s household, and I’ll be kissing those lips, instead.”

  “She has been betrayed before. It has made her wary and unforgiving.”

  “She will have nothing to be wary of, nothing to forgive.”

  His words made her heart stir. Actor, hero, spy, Jamie’s favorite. Man of honor, they’d called him in Italy. Harry had honored him, been like a boy in his worship of him. There was that in her regard for him, respect.

  “May I call on her? Allow me to call on her tonight.”

  She liked that, the way he pushed for what he wanted.

  “I do not know how much time I have,” he said.

  “She’ll be at St. James’s Palace. Won’t that be dangerous?”

  “I like the danger.”

  “And if they arrest Rochester?”

  He stopped smiling.

  “I’ll be late.”

  She took the rose-a-ruby, and before she could speak, he was gone. She was alone again in the chamber. Later, on her way to the carriage, she saw a bloom of it atop a gravestone, as if waiting for her. She went to it, stood a moment reading the words carved there in the stone: “Honor is like an island, rugged and without a beach; once we have left it, we can never return.”

  Harsh words, untrue. She’d left honor and returned. So must others.

  The sweetest wooing she’d ever know was about to begin.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  THREE WEEKS LATER, AT THE END OF AUGUST, A PLEASANT TWILIGHT descended over the first day of Bartholomew Fair in London. The open square of Smithfield Market, at the northeastern edge of the city, was filled with tents and booths. A cattle and sheep market, Smithfield was surrounded by narrow streets and houses that crept up from St. Paul’s Cathedral and Aldersgate Street, and it was the center for this fair, celebrated for as long as anyone could remember.

  A bedlam of sights and sounds, everywhere were tents and crude wooden booths in which, for a coin, one could see puppet masters, the woman with the beard, the dancing dog, the fortune-teller—and plays. Outside the tents, acrobats walked daringly high in the air across ropes strung from one booth to another. Anyone and everyone came to Bartholomew Fair, from the boatmen who made their living rowing up and down the river to the Prince and Princess of Wales themselves.

  Looking for the tent in which Slane would perform, Barbara stopped to watch a masked harlequin dance to the sound of a flute. The harlequin wore a wonderful costume, diamond-shaped patches of different colors, and Barbara felt happy, like a child. There was so much to see, to do, and in another hour she would be in a crowded tent, one of the many watching Slane. She loved to watch him.

  The way he walked, held his head, smiled, pleased her. How much she liked him. Liking, respect, desire: what a powerful mix of feelings. Sometime this night, he would find her—he always found her—and take her somewhere quiet—he always knew somewhere quiet. He would hold her hands in his as he told her of his boyhood in France, of James and all he felt for him; and she, in turn, would talk of Tamworth and her marriage and Virginia. And they would end with kisses; it was as if they put everything they did not yet say into those kisses; she dreamed at night of those kisses. They had so little time together. He was gone for days on end. When he appeared, he looked exhausted. I call on the faithful, he said, and offer them aid. Then he would be off, again, for more days at a time.

  Rochester was not arrested; no Jacobites were. There was the possibility that all would simply fade away. So Aunt Shrew said that Walpole couldn’t make good his threats. That they’d won. By October, when Parliament began, this would simply be an embarrassment to the ministry, something they could not prove, a festering sore upon the body of this reign, she said.

  That meant Jane was safe, and Gussy and Wart, and he whom she now waited to see, Slane. It meant Wa
lpole would be dismissed. That was the rumor again. Was it so simple, that Robin would so soon be out of office? She wanted to crow at how easy it was, far easier than building Devane Square again.

  The King had told her he wished her to become a lady-in-waiting to his granddaughters. It was official, everyone knew. It was a triumph. Her grandmother was proud, told her so, told her she continued a tradition her great-grandmothers had begun. Her mother was beside herself. Even Aunt Abigail gave stiff congratulations. I at last do as I am supposed to? Barbara had asked her. Yes, replied Abigail. Her mother’s townhouse, where Barbara stayed when she was not at the palace, was filled with callers.

  Wonderful, said Carlyle, who was her guide in this. Act docile and obedient; quietly remark against those you wish to harm, so that your words are like tiny drops of poison.

  I do not know if I can be docile and obedient, she said. You must, he replied, if you want what you want. Look at the Princess of Wales, how clever she is, how strong. Yet she never appears too openly so, for she knows the men in her life would crush her, despise her, stop listening. You will not get what you desire from the King or his son another way.

  Gideon Andreas circled like a hawk above Devane Square, but the circling did not frighten her much. Her position at court, her favor with the King, protected her.

  Philippe was gone from London, disappeared.

  And in the midst of all, was this romance with Slane.

  Barbara laughed a little, now, thinking what her mother, her aunt, Tony would say to her treacherous liaison with a Jacobite when troops to fight Ormonde were yet in Hyde Park. You build with one hand and try to destroy with another, her grandmother would have said. Barbara knew it, did not understand it yet, simply followed her heart, which began to love this man in a way unlike what she’d felt for anyone before, even Roger. Roger she had loved with her girl’s heart. Slane she was beginning to love with a woman’s heart, in which the girl had a part, but was not the whole. This love was deeper, more complex: If she gave herself to him, everything would change. Somewhere deep inside herself she knew that: The place at court, the rebuilding of Devane Square, all would shift because of alliance to him. She could accept the shifts, but others in her life would not be pleased.

  Someone touched her arm. Wart. Before she could speak, he was dragging her toward a tent. Upon a crude board scaffolding set up overhead outside the tent, Slane and an actress performed just enough of the play to entice anyone passing to buy a ticket. Near them, another actor blew upon a trumpet every few moments to attract attention.

  Slane, gesturing with a sword in one hand, holding the actress with his other arm, declaiming his love for Helen, his determination to take the city of Troy, looked down and saw Barbara and Wharton.

  His mind went to this night, to the later hours, when he would be with her. She filled his thoughts, as much as they could be filled past the endless waiting to see if there was to be anything to come out of Walpole’s special, select committee to investigate the invasion. It was as if King George had great suspicions but very little proof. Already, some here were puffing up their feathers again, talking invasion, taking up the threads of the plot again.

  “Bab,” said Wharton, “the Bishop of Rochester has been arrested.”

  “When?” In a single moment her world tipped.

  “This morning.”

  Fool, thought Barbara, furiously, I am a fool. I thought because nothing was happening that nothing would. “Are you safe?”

  “I have no idea. He is already in the Tower. They took him this afternoon, in his own carriage rather than a state barge. Walpole was afraid a mob would form to defend him. People are gathering at the Tower even now, outside its walls. The Bishop was still in his dressing gown this morning when they came. An undersecretary of state, and messengers, burst into his study at Westminster. They rummaged through every drawer and cupboard. They even took the paper from his close stool. He was not allowed to dress, but went in his dressing gown to the Cockpit. Walpole and his committee accused him of high treason.”

  High treason. The penalty was beheading.

  Death.

  She felt the flesh on her arms prickle, the hair at the back of her neck rise. Not an echo of this from the King and the Duchess of Kendall, from Robin and Lord Townshend, whom she’d seen only yesterday. She, who should know, forgot what sharks swam beneath the quiet waters of court, forgot that when the waters were quietest, they were also most dangerous. To think that only a moment ago, she’d thought she had Robin where she wanted him.

  “You must leave London, Wart. Take the first boat to France.”

  He smiled crookedly, and she saw how frightened he was. So he should be.

  “That would be running away.”

  “If the Bishop of Rochester confesses, you will be arrested, too.”

  “Tell Slane for me, Bab. He must know as soon as possible.”

  He pointed up toward the scaffolding, and Barbara saw that Slane, the actress clinging to one arm, was declaiming his speech but watching them, too.

  Wart kissed her cheek. “I mustn’t be seen with him.” And at Barbara’s look, “Not for my sake, damn your bad thoughts of me, Bab, but for his.”

  He was walking away before she could answer. She looked up at Slane, anger filling her. Why did you not begin with me sooner? she thought. Why did you begin at all? Now I may never know you. I may lose you before I really have you. Damn you, Slane, damn all men everywhere with their machinations for power, their need to make war and punish and refuse to let bygones be bygones.—Wart, I may not see you again! Where are you? I didn’t tell you good-bye.

  Standing on tiptoe, turning round and round, she looked for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. She saw that her mother and new stepfather, Pendarves, were close—they would see her if they only turned around themselves—so she walked to the side of the tent, out of their sight. She must somehow get word to Slane. How? Then, there he was.

  “I’m to tell you Rochester is arrested—”

  He put his finger to his lips to hush her, took her hand, and led her wordlessly around tents until she wasn’t certain where she was. Some caged pigs grunted at them. A man fumbled to light a lantern. It was not quite dark yet. The fair was transformed to something magical when lanterns were lit. The noise and din hovered somewhere behind them.

  “When? When was Rochester arrested?”

  “This morning, Wart said. They came for him at Westminster, took him in his dressing gown to the Cockpit, and he is now in the Tower.”

  She was shivering so, she could hardly speak. She saw her last words shocked Slane. What will happen to you? she thought.

  “Already in the Tower?”

  “So Wart says. He was taken by private carriage, so few people would know of it. Robin and Townshend do not want public outrage over this. The last time a king or queen of England tried to prosecute an official of the Church, there were riots everywhere, and the man finally had to be released. I was a girl then, but I heard about it even at Tamworth. Perhaps he will be released, Slane. Perhaps all will be well.”

  He wasn’t listening. In his mind was a memory from boyhood, of sitting with his father, who read a tale of Rome. The book had an inked drawing of the emperor standing in the Colosseum, an arm extended: “Let the games begin.” Walpole had begun the games.

  What was Barbara asking? Whether Wart would be arrested; whether he himself would. He had no idea. Rochester knew enough to bring down every Jacobite, high and low, in England.

  “Can you make your way back alone?” he asked her. He must return to the tent, must continue the play—the one inside the tent, and the one outside, in life. He could feel all his senses move away from her, to protect her, to enable himself to pull away, to let her go.

  Were His Majesty’s soldiers even now surrounding the streets and alleys of Bartholomew Fair? What was she saying, this beautiful woman? Had he been selfish to begin a courtship? Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, / Old Time is still a-flying
, / And this same flower that smiles today / Tomorrow will be dying.

  “Slane, go to Devane Square. Hide there. You can pry boards off a window and stay in the church or a townhouse if you have to.”

  She would risk her head for him. Was there time to kiss her the way she deserved to be kissed? Was there time to show her all that was in his heart?

  He took her slim white neck in his hands, cupped her head, tilting it back slightly, as if her neck were a delicate stem and her face the full flower he must view. She allowed it, was yielding in his arms, with the same graceful yielding that Slane knew would be there in coupling. There were tears in her eyes—like stars dropped there, to his mind. One fell. He put his thumb to it, his purpose to have it mingled in his skin.

  Tender woman, he thought, I have wished to know you for the rest of my life, but I do not know if I have more life. Is this good-bye? I do not know what lies ahead. Rochester can implicate me.

  “I must go, Barbara. Can you make your way back?”

  She nodded, and he was gone, walking off back into the fair, lost after a moment among the tents. Anger, loss, fearful uncertainty was in her. And then into her mind came a picture of Jane. She stood, then, the shock of her next thought sending her running into the fair like a thief.

  Gussy would be arrested, if he had not been already.

  SLANE HAD missed his cue. It didn’t matter; the actors had gone on without him, and half the audience had been drinking gin and did not care, anyway. He walked onto the stage and began his part, the entire time considering whom he must see—Louisa or Wharton, Shippen or Oxford; what he must do—get immediate messages to Paris and Jamie, alert everyone. Awhile later, to his surprise, the play was ending. It looked to be pretty much of a failure. The fragment of the audience that remained—most had left sometime during the performance—booed and threw the remains of their food at the actors. He could not remember saying a single line, so aware had he been the entire time of the tent’s entrance, of who came in and out, so aware had he been of Rochester, alone in the Tower, faced at last with what he had most feared. Would he hold fast to his vows of silence, easy to make when a man was free, harder to keep inside a prison?