Now Face to Face

by Karleen Koen

  Carefully, Thérèse set aside the folds of material, to follow the servant to the great kitchen of Leicester House. She was a favorite now, among the servants and with the Princess. But another year, perhaps two, and there would be the coins for her own shop. Come to Paris, Madame wrote. You can have a shop as easily in Paris as you can in London.

  “Outside,” said the servant. “He said he’s been sent here by the Duke of Tamworth.”

  Thérèse peered out a window. A gaunt boy stood there, clothes ragged enough to belong to a beggar. It seemed to her that her heart stopped beating a moment, so that she hadn’t the strength to pull open the door. But then strength came, and joy.

  THE DUCHESS sat dozing on her terrace. Leaning against a large stone vase, Tim watched over her. She was dreaming, a wonderful dream. June, thought the Duchess in her dream. She liked the month of June. Richard’s roses bloomed like mad things. Down the avenue of limes came Sir John Ashford, in a cart, with a young woman and children beside him. The Duchess smiled. It was the only time she saw her friend now, in dreams. There’d been a letter this year, from Virginia, from a Mr. John, who sent her a hogshead of his tobacco with his compliments.

  “Look, Your Grace,” said Tim, in the dream, “who is coming down the lane. It is Sir John and Mrs. Cromwell. Shall I tell Cook to put on the kettle?”

  Long ago, Harry and Jane had courted in the apple orchard. They thought she did not know, she who knew everything that happened at Tamworth. They had been in love. Calf love. Coming to nothing. Harry was dead. And Jane now, too, Mr. John had written. How Barbara had grieved. They had all grieved; even Tony, colder than ever now, even Tony was touched. Did you help with the escape? he’d asked her in that month or two afterward when it was all anyone talked of, before Walpole had his trial of the Bishop, and talk shifted to that. No, she could say truthfully. Others did, she did not say, but he knew. How could he not?

  Sir John and the occupants of the cart waved cheerfully to her as the cart and its horse rattled to a stop in the pebbled courtyard at the front of the house. What good things dreams were. Here, now, Jane was alive and well.

  “He has brought his grandchildren,” she said to Tim. They were as she remembered them the last time she saw them, the winter of Gussy’s escape. “Have Perryman send them here. Children ought to be outside on a evening like this one.”

  The soft dusk and the smell of roses would bless them. She knew what children needed. Yes, she did. Once she had had three sons. And they had grown from little boys to young men who towered over her, and now she watched over their graves the way she had once watched over their cradles, and in the fullness of time, such no longer seemed a curse, but rather a blessing. She had loved her sons. That love was in her heart still. No death could take it away. Loss made a body afraid to love again, but in the end there was nothing else but love…. “Charity,” wrote St. Paul, “beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things…. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”

  She had thought she would die when they had died, but she had not…. “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.”…She visited the many graves of those gone and felt only tenderness and gratitude to have had them for as long as she had…. “And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.”…Love.

  “It will do you no good to close your eyes and pretend to doze,” said John, her beloved friend. How she missed him. “I am here to visit, and you cannot ignore me.” He gave her a hearty smack on the cheek. “Amelia, Thomas, Winifred, come and show Her Grace your manners. Not that they have many.”

  She smiled at what was in his voice, and as Dulcinea leaped up and away from her lap, the Duchess looked at the trio bowing and curtsying to her. Then Jane walked forward, Harry Augustus in her arms. There was another, the one she’d borne in Virginia, but they must have left it there. Jane looked all of fourteen—perhaps she was fourteen. After all, this was a dream. Jane leaned down to kiss her.

  “Your father wrote me you’d died,” the Duchess said.

  “Yes.”

  “I am so very sorry. Barbara was wild when she heard it. She left the King’s service, took herself off to France. She is marrying a colonel in the French army, wants me to come to the wedding. I’m too old, but she says she will come and fetch me herself, or send Colonel Perry to do so.”

  Annie grieved, too, the Duchess did not say. It was one of the only times the Duchess had seen Annie weep, the day they received the letter from Virginia.

  “A wedding; how lovely,” said Jane. “Tell her I will be there, blessing her.”

  Yes, of course she would. Once the Duchess would never have believed such a thing, but now she knew it was true. Those we loved were all around us, blessing us.

  Perryman and Tim were bringing armchairs out to the terrace, and another footman was carrying a small dark table. Annie came forward with a huge silver tray, and there was tea and milk and lemon tartlets and warm, freshly baked bread and Tamworth butter and honey and preserves. All became children and noisy confusion as Jane settled her three oldest ones onto the terrace, and Annie spread great white napkins into their laps.

  When the children were finished, mounds of crumbs and spilled milk on the terrace, Tim offered to take them onto the lawn to play in the dusk.

  “Tell me all your news.” The Duchess served herself a huge lemon tartlet in spite of the look Annie gave her. You ought to have been dead years ago, Annie would say tonight, when the Duchess would suffer from wind. Bah. Annie was a stubborn old stick. Paris, said Annie. I’d like to see it. Ridiculous to think they could travel to Paris. Tony was going. Do you think I would miss Barbara’s wedding? he said, but something in his face warned the Duchess. Family. They never behaved. Tony rose in the King’s esteem. He was not a minister yet, but he would be. He allied himself with those who opposed Walpole, open in his disdain of the man.

  “I farm beyond the falls, beyond the Huguenot settlement. It is good, rich land. I had my first crop of tobacco last year,” John said.

  As well she knew. He’d sent her a hogshead. The tobacco was labeled “Friendship.” It was the name of his farm.

  From the lawn came screams of delighted horror, and everyone turned to see. Tim had become a monster and was pursuing the three children. But he was a monster with a broken leg, and he dragged it slowly behind him, and the children screeched with pleasure and ran around him in circles, and he waved his arms at them, coming so close, trying to catch them, but always missing.

  The Duchess shivered under her light shawl. In the house, Perryman was lighting candles. I must go now, thought the Duchess, loath to give up her dream, her time with John and Jane. Tonight I will lie in my bed and think of this dream and remember the smell of Richard’s roses, the bittersweetness of this moment as my friend’s grandchildren play on my lawn, and his beloved daughter sits nearby.

  “Me!” screamed Amelia, daring Tim. “You cannot catch me!”

  Suddenly Tim’s leg was well, and he grabbed her, and she pierced the air with her bloodcurdling shrieks as he picked her up and tossed her high before catching her again.

  “They will sleep like logs tonight,” Jane said. In her arms, the baby, Harry Augustus, began to cry at the sound of his sister’s screams. Sir John stood up and held out his arms for him, and Jane gave the child to his grandfather, who walked down the wide steps of the terrace, patting the child’s back and speaking softly to him.

  “I did not want you to die,” the Duchess said.

  She died with us all around her, John had written. She was never alone, not a moment, in her dying, which is my only consolation. She could not get back her strength from the journey and the childbirth. She tried, but she could not. She was never strong.

  On the contrary, thought the Duchess, she was t
he strongest of us all.

  The baby was still crying a little, and he held to his grandfather’s wig with one small, grim fist, and he seemed to be listening, his little round face concentrated, to what his grandfather was saying to soothe him.

  “Do you know,” said Jane, “I think Harry Augustus is Father’s favorite,” and she smiled at the Duchess; it was a lovely smile, just a hint of mischievousness to it. No, John had not liked Harry, had thought him a wild rogue who would break his daughter’s heart. The Duchess remembered when Jane and Barbara and Harry had run wild over Tamworth and Ladybeth Farm. Not so long ago. It was good to have children running again on her lawn.

  “I should have allowed Harry to marry you,” she said.

  “No. You were correct.” Jane’s voice was gentle.

  Calf love, Diana had said.

  “Harry would have broken my heart.”

  “He was a bad boy, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why did we love him?”

  “We are fools.”

  “Well, come here and let this old fool kiss you.” The Duchess kissed both Jane’s cheeks. “Go and walk in Richard’s rose garden awhile. The roses are in their finest blooming, and you need some roses of your own in those cheeks. Go on before the sun leaves us. Pick as many roses as you want…. Pick a bouquet to take to…” She stopped.

  Pick a bouquet for yourself, Jane, and for Harry, and for your Jeremy and my Richard, for all of those gone on before us…. What did the psalm say?…”Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies.”…lovingkindness, tender mercies: the lime trees in the avenue, her roses, this dream of John and Jane, her old friend walking toward her in it with his small grandson gone to sleep in his arms, Dulcinea atop the table now, picking her way through the food to find and eat the last crumbs of lemon tartlets. In the end, there were great deeds, but there was also, most important, this….

  THE DOOR was open. Thérèse and the boy stared at each other before, finally, she was able to say his name.

  “Hyacinthe.”

  They were in each other’s arms now. He is as tall as I, thought Thérèse, and the tears streamed down her face.

  “Where,” he said—his eyes were dark, fierce, sad, as deep as an ocean; Old, thought Thérèse, he has old eyes now—“is Madame?”

  THE DEAD are not dead…. They are in the fire that is dying, in the grasses that weep…in the whimpering rocks…. The dead are not dead…. Listen…listen…listen.

  TIM SHOOK the Duchess hard by the shoulder, not liking the way her head lolled to one side. She wasn’t…she couldn’t be…it was what they all feared.

  The Duchess opened one eye. “Things have come to a pretty pass when footmen behave as you do. I ought to have you beaten for the dream you have just waked me from.”

  “I thought you—”

  “Dead? Bah!”

  But which was the dream? That which she’d just left, or this, now? Paris. She was too old….

  LISTEN. LISTEN. Listen.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This scene came to me long before Now Face to Face was finished. I wrote it quickly and always loved it. It reflected my interest in women’s history, women’s bravery, and how women’s biology so affected their lives in the past. In 1994, my sister’s cancer metastasized. Before she died, I wanted her to read the manuscript for this book. I deliberately cut this scene—a scene I had always written toward in the plot—and reworked the timing of Jane’s pregnancy because I didn’t want my sister to read a fictional death when she was dying a real one. Now Face to Face, particularly the last chapters that I reworked with her reading them in mind, is filled with the spirit of my sister. I am so happy to include Jane’s death scene here…and just as Now Face to Face was dedicated to my sister, so, too, is this…for Carmen.

  [Gussy’s escape is taken from an actual one, planned by a woman for her husband in 1715. And I’m glad to say, that just like Jane, she, too, was successful in freeing her husband from the dreaded Tower of London.]

  K.K., 2007

  THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE…JANE LAY floating above herself, perched on the ceiling, like a small bird, looking down to the bedchamber below, to the pale woman on the bed in a tangle of bloodstained sheets, to the women surrounding her, their faces intent with a concentration which made clear what was happening was something of importance. Their movements were sharp, no jesture wasted. They spoke to one another in a low, rapid, staccato voices.

  Have I died? thought Jane. She felt a rush, a flutter, a dip of wings.

  THE PRESSURE…building again…not like the fierce pressure of childbirth when her body felt split in two, but a hurting pressure, too much, too large for her to pass…her fingers clawed the sheets, as her body arched and she strained and pushed…In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children…she had never liked childbirth…God help me…Jesus have mercy, Lord have mercy…what is happening…how this hurts…how hard this is…am I having the child?…it is too soon, too soon…Dear Lord…Dear Lord…Dear Lord…the taste of blood was on her lips and she knew she could not push this poor, weak child through…she was too weak herself…they would both die…ah, the pressure…almost unbearable…but not childbirth, thank God, when she felt like the wishing bone of chicken being pulled apart…between her legs such a force…her body arched on the bed. And then there was a blessed, stupifying gush.

  Water, darkness, blood, life, pain, surged between her legs, like water bursting through a dam, a red wave upon her being, which lifted her up above the bed, above the room, above the sky, above the world, too much, too much was leaving, out, gone, good-bye, never more, and she was beached in the bed where she had begun…no, it was the carriage where she had begun, no, it was Gussy’s cell where she had begun…she felt unable to move, to draw breath, upon the shore of her complete exhaustion.

  “There it is now,” said her mother. “Annie, wipe that blood from her mouth. She bit her lip.”

  “Afterbirth,” said Annie. “Push now with me, Lady Ashford, there on her stomach. A while longer, Janie, my pet, just a while longer and then you can rest for as long as you need, my sweet.” Annie’s thin, weary face smiled down, but Jane did not for a moment recognize her.

  Sharp spasms filled her…she knew this…the afterbirth…hurts…there was an old woman who lived in a shoe…long cramps took hold of her insides and squeezed and she had not the strength to even tremble…she had so many children, she didn’t know what to do…she gave them some broth with out any bread…where was the baby?…listen for the child’s cry…she whipped them all soundly and put them to bed…

  “Such agony for a dead child,” her mother said.

  “She hasn’t any strength,” Annie said grimly, her gray hair awry under its cap, as she panted with her effort to push the afterbirth from Jane’s abdomen. If all the afterbirth was not expelled, infection and hemorrhage would follow. It was several hours before dawn now. All this night, they had been working with Jane. King’s messengers, Annie thought, should be here soon, for surely by now, Gussy’s escape was discovered. Over in a corner, a tavern servant gently washed the tiny body of the baby and dried it and then began to wind a narrow band of linen around and around the body.

  There was a knock on the door, but Lady Ashford and Annie were busy with Jane, cleansing her with warm water and laying thick, hot linen cloths over her, over the swelling and sore places, to comfort her. The servant laid down the baby to open the door; the linen-wrapped baby looked like a parcel to be sent away.

  Gussy walked in, stopping a moment at the sight of Jane. She had always dreaded childbirth. It was one of the sorrows of their marriage, her fear of it. He was afraid of it, too. She lay there so white, so pale in this strange room. Their celebration was turned awry. Her mother had found one hundred pounds in a pocket. They had no idea from where it had come.

  “She…?” He could not seem to form any other word.

  �
��Sleeping,” said Lady Ashford.

  “What do we do?” he said.

  “Talk with John. Decide.”

  He walked to the bed and leaned over. Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil. You must leave, said his father-in-law, take two of the children and leave before they find you. There was a ship waiting. It was all planned. This small woman’s plan. There was a furious pounding at the door, and when Gussy opened it, he stooped down to be on the level of his eldest daughter. Her face was red and blotched with crying.

  “I—I want…to…see…Mama…now.”

  She could barely get the words out. She had seen Tim carry Jane in last night. All night long, Gussy had held her and tried to comfort her. Mama must rest, he kept telling her. He took Amelia up into in his arms.

  “Of course you shall. But Mama is sleeping. Will you be very quiet, Amelia, as quiet as you have ever been in your life?” It was not to have been like this. They were to have all been together in celebration this night, dividing this morning at dawn to make their journeys. One hundred pounds. Where had she gotten one hundred pounds? Gussy carried Amelia over to the bed.

  “May I kiss her?”

  Such a small whisper. Gussy held his daughter so that she could do so.

  “I want to stay.”

  “No,” said Lady Ashford.

  Amelia’s face crumpled up, but Gussy pulled a chair to the bed and placed her in it. “You sit here, Amelia, while I get Thomas and Winifred. But then you must go. You must go so Mama can rest and become well. Remember, we are going on a journey today, and I need you to be my big, strong girl.”

  Amelia sat as still as she could be, eyes never moving from her mother, until her father came back.