Now Face to Face

by Karleen Koen

  “Someone high up? Who? This is a trick. You try to rob me—”

  He heaved himself toward the carriage door, but was stopped.

  “Do we have to hurt you?” asked the first man.

  “Anything but my face. I am an actor. Take what coins I have. They are in this pocket, here. Then let me free. I’ll say nothing. I swear it.”

  “We’re going to blindfold you now. Easy, easy, no tricks from you, no tricks from us. Hold his arms. I don’t trust him.”

  He made a last attempt, but they hit him hard enough to let him know they’d hurt him if they had to.

  “Careful of his face, now,” one of them said.

  When the carriage stopped, he was helped out, his arms held tight, one of the men on each side of him, and led into a building, up stairs, into a room. Once their hands left him, he pulled off the blindfold. They sat in chairs on either side of the door. Behind him was a cot.

  “Lie down,” one of the men said. “Him who wants to see you will be a while. He has other business to take care of today.”

  THE KING stood at his fireplace. Through a small door, set so beautifully into the wall that it did not show, came one of the King’s personal servants, Mehemet. He nodded to Tony and the Duchess, smiled at Barbara.

  Then Walpole and Lord Townshend were ushered in, and for the briefest of moments Walpole’s face went blank at the sight of Barbara and her family. So. The King had given them no warning of this interview I’ve requested, thought Barbara. Good.

  Walpole smiled, came forward to kiss her cheek as if nothing were wrong. Barbara turned away from him. He looked surprised.

  Clever man, thought Barbara. And so dangerous.

  Walpole glanced at the faces of the other members of her family, his expression questioning, perplexed, innocent.

  “There has been an awkwardness, a misunderstanding. His Majesty feels his English is not enough for all that will be said, and the subject is too delicate to entrust with another minister,” said Mehemet. He was very grave, very dignified. I am praying to Allah of this, he’d told Barbara when they’d met in a palace corridor, that all may go as it should. There were few secrets from a personal servant. That’s why a good one who could keep secrets was so valuable.

  “I have been asked to speak for him. There has been a certain handling of Lady Devane’s former French maidservant which seems to involve Lady Devane herself. She has come to us—I speak, of course, for the King—with her cousin and their grandmother, to ask that whatever suspicions are held of her, she be allowed to address.”

  “Suspicions?” Walpole said.

  “Her maidservant has been ruthlessly snatched up, ruthlessly questioned, and also threatened to keep silence,” said Tony.

  Tony was angry. Barbara had never seen him so angry. Hero, she thought, defending family honor. Bravo, cousin.

  “There were questions, as I understand,” Tony was saying, “to the maidservant about Viscount Alderley and Lady Devane, about their activities several years ago in both Paris and Rome. There was also, as I understand, a certain slanderous accusation—which I will not repeat because I find it too offensive—about her time in Virginia.”

  Softly, Mehemet repeated this in French, but, impatient, the King cut him short with a gesture. He understood.

  “My grandson’s Jacobitism, his father’s, is no secret,” said the Duchess. She was dressed in black, with diamonds everywhere, the medals of her husband’s honors pinned among the diamonds like beacons. “If you begin to suspect those of us with relatives who are Jacobite, you suspect over half the families in England. One of our own—Lord Russel—is in prison even now, but that does not mean that we share his sentiments.”

  “Nor does it mean,” said Tony, “that he is guilty. He has been accused by Layer, who, as we all know, is half mad. An accusation is not proof of guilt. At least, not by my understanding of English common law. If there is an accusation against Lady Devane, we wish to know of it at once. I want no more of my family imprisoned in the middle of the night, with no writ of charge, with no opportunity to go before a magistrate and show just cause. My sister still has not recovered from the manner in which Lord Russel was arrested. I will make no excuses for Viscount Alderley, who lies in his grave and therefore can harm no one, but I will say there has never been so much as a breath of rumor or a single fact to indicate that Lady Devane ever joined him in his sentiments. That she loved her brother, no one will deny, but to love someone is not to support them in treason.”

  “Lady Devane,” Mehemet said, “will you please repeat what your maidservant has told you.”

  Barbara kept her eyes fixed on both ministers as she repeated Thérèse’s story. Neither spoke, though Townshend showed irritation and embarrassment.

  “Have you any firm reason to suspect Lady Devane?” said the King in English to Walpole, his accent heavy, the words clear.

  “No.”

  “Is there any evidence, any letter to her, any description of her, any reference, anything apart from her relationship to her brother?” asked Mehemet for the King.

  “No.”

  “Then how dare either of you imply—” began Tony, but the King turned sharply, his expression stern, so that Tony was silent.

  “Will you withdraw a moment while I speak with my ministers?” the King asked Barbara and her family. And to Mehemet: “You also.”

  When he was left with Walpole and Townshend, the King said, in English, “You did not come to me?”

  “We desired more evidence concerning Lady Devane, Majesty, before burdening you,” said Townshend.

  “Have you more?”

  “No.”

  “The maidservant?”

  “French, a Catholic, with them in Paris and Rome.”

  “And before service to Lady Devane?”

  “In Paris, among the servants to the daughters of the Prince de Condé.”

  “The Prince de Condé is suspected?”

  Walpole ignored the King’s irony. “The overseer in Virginia—” he began, but the King stopped him with an abrupt gesture.

  “Nothing else other than a colonial overseer who is Jacobite—”

  “And a father and a brother,” put in Walpole. “All the Jacobites courted her in Italy.”

  “—to make you suspect her?” finished the King, as if Walpole had not spoken. “I wish to be certain upon this.”

  “The matter of the gosling,” began Townshend. “He—we thought perhaps it might be someone known to us, a woman, perhaps…”

  Townshend stopped speaking, as if he heard how feeble he sounded.

  “The woman being Lady Devane? She was in Virginia all of the spring. How long has she been this dread Jacobite, this gosling said to have penetrated my kingdom? Before Lord Devane’s death? After?”

  The King picked up a bell and rang it, abruptly, impatiently. Mehemet appeared. The King began to speak to him in clipped French, and Mehemet translated, his voice soft, his expression wooden.

  There was no need to translate anger, an anger large enough that the King had been unable to continue in English.

  “Then why did she go to Virginia?” Mehemet said. “To plot uprisings in my colonies? Did she devise the taking of her servant boy so that she would have a reason to return? You’ve been clumsy. If I am not mistaken, you have made enemies of the Duke of Tamworth and his grandmother.”

  “I can win the Duke around again, if need be,” said Walpole, quickly.

  “If you wish us to halt our investigations—” began Townshend, stiffly, almost arrogantly.

  The King cut him off. “Tell me now, once and forever, if there is any reason to suspect Lady Devane?”

  Neither man answered.

  “Then you will issue personal apologies to her in my presence and in the presence of her cousin and grandmother, and you will leave the maidservant in peace.”

  The King smiled. Anger vanished. “You persecute the enemies of my house. Your zeal is appreciated, although clumsy. I have a
high regard for Lady Devane. I am glad she is guilty of nothing, but if she were…”

  The silence after his words told all. Walpole and Townshend responded like dogs chastened but then patted upon the head by their master.

  “It pained me beyond words to even contemplate that she might have Jacobite connections,” said Walpole. “She is like a daughter to me. A gift to the maidservant might mitigate our clumsiness. Fifty pounds, perhaps.”

  “Twenty,” said the King. At his nod, Mehemet fetched the others.

  Lord Townshend’s apology was formal, but Walpole shook his head and placed a hand over his heart.

  “I am a fool, and I ask your forgiveness. I have allowed my loyalty to the throne to overbear my good judgment. I would not hurt Lady Devane, who is like a daughter to me, for the world. Please tell me I am forgiven.”

  The Duchess and Tony were silent.

  Barbara said, “I was so frightened and confused by it all. I didn’t know where to turn.”

  Walpole took her hands in his.

  “Tell me how I can make it up to you. Tell me how I can repair our friendship.”

  “Reduce the fine in the House of Commons, now, before Christmas,” answered Barbara.

  Walpole smiled. He understood bargains. “Consider it done. With His Majesty’s permission, of course.”

  “It has always had my permission.”

  The King dismissed the ministers, listened to Tony’s stiff thanks. It was clear the Duke was unsatisfied and still angry.

  “A moment alone with Lady Devane,” the King said.

  “I thank you for this, sir, for the opportunity to face my accusers,” said Barbara when the others had left.

  “Too harsh a word. You were accused of nothing.”

  She met the King’s eyes directly. “It felt as if I were.”

  “I give you a gift.”

  “I don’t require a gift, Your Majesty.”

  “Your Jane Cromwell may have one night, one night only, with her husband before his trial.”

  “Do you do this to please me, sir, or to annoy Walpole?”

  “You are too clever. Both.”

  “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. This means a great deal to me. She is my dearest friend.”

  Just as she was opening the door to leave, he said, “There’s more.”

  Barbara waited.

  “The date of execution for Augustus Cromwell has been set. We decided it yesterday.”

  “Your Majesty, there’s been no trial—”

  “Ah, but he will be found guilty. I’ve gone over the evidence myself. We will take his head from him the last day in February. And on the next day, we begin against the Bishop of Rochester…. You’re on duty this night?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her throat felt closed. She could barely speak.

  “You’ll come and read to me after the Princesses are in bed?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  “No voice pleases me as much as yours.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “What will you do when you do not have the fine to worry over?”

  “I will sing like a lark in the sun.”

  In the carriage, with her grandmother and Tony, Barbara would have liked to have wept. The King gave with one hand and took with the other.

  “Was that one of the King’s Turks?” asked the Duchess.

  She meant Mehemet. “Yes. He is the King’s personal servant, captured when he was a boy. He handles all of the King’s private accounts, and the King is very fond of him.”

  “So it is a good thing that this Mehemet was there.”

  “I think so. It meant the King wished to keep everything discreet.”

  “I have no intention of being discreet,” said the Duchess. “I intend to tell everyone who calls upon me of Walpole’s conduct toward you. I will never forgive him, not until the day I die.”

  “Do you see of what Walpole is capable?” Barbara said to Tony. “Do you see that he will, in the end, betray anyone?”

  Tony looked at her, his expression set. “I am his enemy now, Barbara. Be assured.”

  That’s how they’re alike, thought Barbara, looking from him to her grandmother. That implacability, that stubbornness. How glad I am to have them, their steadfastness. Oh, Gussy.

  “Assured,” said the Duchess. “There is no assurance at court, among ministers or favorites. Either can change in the blink of an eye. I was there when the Duchess of Marlborough led Queen Anne around by the nose, and the Duke of Marlborough and Richard won victory after victory, and I was there when Queen Anne refused to so much as nod in the direction of her friend, when Marlborough was relieved of his command, never mind the victories. Put not your trust in princes.”

  Except, thought Barbara, occasionally. I intend to weep very quietly when I tell the Prince of Wales about Robin and today.

  At her mother’s, Barbara rushed up the stairs, knocked upon the door of her mother’s bedchamber and entered without permission to do so. Andreas, in the midst of buttoning his breeches, stared at her, appalled.

  Barbara sat in a chair near the bed, as if this were the most natural thing in the world, and waited. After another moment, in which it was clear she was not going to leave the chamber, Andreas finished dressing, pulling on his coat, picking up his shoes.

  Her mother lay on her side. Was she asleep? Andreas said good-bye in firm tones, so that it was very hard for Barbara not to laugh. Her eyes danced at him. The moment the door closed behind him, Barbara shook her mother’s shoulder.

  “What?” Diana didn’t turn over.

  “Robin tried to label me a Jacobite.”

  Diana turned over at that, her face slack, tired.

  “He was gathering evidence against me. I confronted him before the King, and he backed down, admitted he had nothing but Harry’s old adventures and his own hope.”

  She doesn’t look well, thought Barbara. Where is her old vehemence, her fire, her cursing, her shouting?

  “Have you nothing to say, Mother?”

  “You won.”

  Is it my brother who takes away your strength? Barbara thought, and for the first time, she considered the possibility that, in spite of tea leaves, her mother really might die in childbirth, was perhaps dying now. Women did die so, it was true, all the time. And she thought about Andreas, this scene she’d just witnessed a portion of. Her mother was sapping him, taming him. Why? Then she knew. For her. In her own way, Diana loved.

  IT WAS late afternoon now. Robert Walpole sat before a table, some papers on it, a decanter and two glasses. At one end of the table was a clerk, pen poised.

  “Sir,” Slane said, “what is the meaning of this?”

  “Allow me to introduce myself.”

  “Everyone knows of you.”

  Walpole smiled, cold, cordial. “Wine?”

  “No, thank you.” He’d had time to think. If Walpole knew he was Duncannon, he’d have been taken at once to the Tower. He felt calmer at that. What happened in your confrontation with my love today? I can’t tell a thing from your face. Did my love best you, Walpole? She’s a wiser man than either of us. She told me to leave, and I wouldn’t listen.

  “Just a few little questions answered, that’s all I need,” said Walpole.

  “I’ll answer anything you please, but did I have to wait all day?”

  “Had you something better to do? Where were you off to at dawn? Dawn was what they said, wasn’t it, Bone?” He spoke to the clerk.

  “I was going fishing.”

  “I myself like to fish, but there is never time for it. Well, we’ll be finished before we begin, and you can be on your way again, I’m sure. Where were you on September twenty-sixth?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You’ve been in London, what, two years? Are you comfortable with your lodging?”

  Slane folded his arms, impatiently. “Very comfortable, thank you.”

  “Not wanting to move?”

  “I move a
s I need to.”

  “That need being?”

  “To hide from a jealous woman or someone I owe. My life has its ups and downs.”

  “You go to Leicester House to play cards with the Princess of Wales. You are a favorite of Lady Shrewsborough. I see more up than down.”

  “I am fortunate sometimes.”

  “I’ve a Mrs. Modest Welsh here who says you came to her at the end of September and asked about lodging. She remembers you quite well.” Walpole peered at the paper. “‘A handsome man, dark eyes, dark brows, a scar.’ Since she doesn’t run a boardinghouse, it was strange to her to have a stranger ask.”

  “It wasn’t I.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I ask Mrs. Welsh, will you?”

  “No.”

  “Excellent. Bone.” Walpole motioned to the clerk, who rose and walked toward a door set in a side wall.

  Mrs. Welsh came into the chamber.

  “It’s him,” she said to Walpole. “That’s the man.”

  Slane stood, bowed to her.

  “I’ve never seen this woman before in my life. I’ve never seen you before, madam.”

  “I opened my door and there he was. He asked if I kept lodgers.”

  “You have mistaken me for someone else.” Slane was patient, but only just.

  “No. It was you.”

  “I think not.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Welsh,” said Walpole. Bone closed the door behind her.

  “May I leave now?” Slane asked.

  “Let us talk until I have this a little more clearly in my mind. You did not ask Mrs. Welsh about lodging?”

  “I did not.”

  “Are you certain you remember nothing about September twenty-sixth?”

  “Quite certain.”

  “I am going to bring Mrs. Welsh in again. Bone, one more time with Mrs. Welsh.”

  “It is her word against mine. You’ll get nowhere with this, sir.”

  But Mrs. Welsh was not the person who walked through the door. It was the man Slane had asked about Neyoe.

  Slane felt himself go slack.

  “Bone, I asked for Mrs. Welsh. You’ve made a mistake. Ah, well, Slane, I believe you know Mr. Webster Adam. Mr. Adam, is this the man who asked you about Philip Neyoe?”