by Karleen Koen
There was silence. Cousin Henley hurried into more speech. "Barbara is most difficult. She will listen to no one and runs wild half the time. I do my duty, as best I can, but—"
"Obviously your best is not good enough. You were to teach my daughter French, geography, and proper deportment. You have failed in deportment, I see. Let us hope she can speak decent French." Abruptly, Diana dropped the subject of her eldest daughter. "And how do my other children do?"
Cousin Henley reported on her other charges: Harry was down from school for dueling, as Cousin Diana already knew; Tom was at Eton; little Kit had enough Latin to be ready next year; Charlotte had stitched a sampler for her mother; Anne was learning her prayers; and Baby had a cough.
Diana dismissed her, whatever motherly feelings she might possess now satisfied.
"Tell me of Barbara, Mother."
Her words caught the Duchess off guard. Her daughter had no regard for her children; she had borne them as thoughtlessly as a cat and left them as soon as she could. If anything, Barbara was the true mother of Diana's brood, in spirit if not in body, and the Duchess herself had raised all of them here at Tamworth. This sudden interest in Barbara, her pet, boded no good. What more was there in Diana's visit than Harry?
"She has grown since last you saw her—"
"Not taller?"
"Yes, taller. She looks more like your father than ever."
"Well, perhaps it will not matter."
Diana said the words as if she were not listening to what her mother was saying, but was rapidly refiguring a balance sheet in her mind. "Is she still thin as a rail?"
The Duchess pursed her lips. Of course. Diana must be on the scent of a husband for the girl. Well, pray God the man was not blind or crippled. She put nothing past Diana when she was this desperate.
"Her bosom will fill out. She's a late bloomer, as I was. She is not yet sixteen. She will fatten up."
"Is she pretty?"
"She is not the beauty you were, Diana, but yes, she will do." Privately, she considered her granddaughter beautiful. Not with Diana's rich, dark, florid beauty but with Richard's—light, fair, angelic. His blue eyes. His red–gold hair. His sweet, heart–shaped face crowned with a smile so charming that it made you forget what you were thinking…ah, Richard…of course, there was also Barbara's stubbornness and pride. And her impulsiveness. And her temper. She did not have her grandfather's angelic nature, only his face.
"Mother, you are not listening. I asked if she speaks French well."
"Of course she does," the Duchess said irritably. "I may be buried in the country, but I can still remember the needs of a young woman of good family. So, you are planning a marriage for her, are you?" She pretended that Diana had not taken her by surprise, pretended that it was only natural that Barbara be married. As it was. The girl was fifteen. Diana had been married and with a first child on the way at sixteen. (Of course it had been against her and Richard's wishes).
"I have an earl on the hook. Wriggling, straining against my line, but hooked just the same. He travels to France often. And until children or boredom sets in, he would naturally want his young wife to travel with him."
The Duchess waited breathlessly. Damn Diana. This sudden announcement of marriage plans for Barbara caught her unprepared. And she did not want Diana to see it. She had thought to begin handling it herself, next year perhaps, when some of the scandal had died down. Now, with the surprise of Diana's visit, the worry over Harry and this new piece of news, her legs were aching. She could feel the ache spreading up to her hips. She tried to hold on to herself. It would take more than any of these irritations to make her lose her composure. She was the widow of a soldier—England's finest soldier. Her sons were dead. And in the last year, her son–in-law had proclaimed himself a traitor and her only daughter had petitioned for a divorce. What was a marriage proposal after those? Nothing. Nothing. Except that she loved Barbara. And Diana did not. Diana loved no one but herself.
"It is Roger Montgeoffry," Diana said, watching her mother to see her reaction.
Roger, thought the Duchess, surprise filling her, as his handsome face formed itself in her mind. He was an old, dear friend; he had been Richard's military aide for years, had visited whenever he could to see the dying Duke… even though he was dividing his time between England and Hanover, a fact that had not endeared him to the late queen, but which had paid off handsomely with a Hanoverian on the throne. An earl…yes, she knew Roger had been given an earldom, though she could at this moment remember none of the details. But this…sweet Jesus! She was getting old to let Diana surprise her with such news. Why had no one written her? Was Diana so clever that none knew? Bah! Diana would never be cleverer than she, no matter how old and forgetful she became. Roger. A memory nudged at her mind. Something faintly disturbing. She felt unease prickle itself along the corners of her memory, but then Roger's face was before her again, smiling as only he could, and the unease evaporated. Roger was the essence of all that was charming and gallant in a man, and he knew it; he was the clever one. He was far too old, however, for Barbara…and yet Roger smiled at her in her mind's eye.
Diana laughed, pleased with the effect of the news.
"Bah!" said the Duchess, moving to summon her tirewoman to help her to her bedchamber. "How like you to drop this on me. We will speak later. After I rest. I am tired. Too tired to think. What is Roger's title? I forget."
"He is styled the Earl Devane."
"The Earl Devane. Yes, I remember now. Well, Roger Montgeoffry has come a long way to think he can ally himself with our family. But it is interesting…interesting. I make you my compliments, Diana. Disgrace always brings out the survivor in you."
* * *
The dark bulk of the house, with its steep gabled roof and tall, twisted, brick chimney stacks, loomed ahead in the twilight as Barbara made her way back. The wind whipped at her gown and cloak so wildly that she could scarcely walk. Candles glimmered in one of the two–story octagonal bays that decorated each side of the house, but the rest of it was dark. Supper had been eaten, and her grandmother was most likely in her bedchamber reading a book of sermons. Her mother would be in her rooms, ready for bed. With any luck, she could creep to her own room in the upper stories without being seen. At the most, her grandmother would lecture her for missing supper and evening prayers, but she would tell her she had been visiting with the tenants, which would please her grandmother because seeing after one's dependents and those less fortunate was one of the duties of a gentlewoman. She laughed to herself at her cleverness in bypassing her mother today. It was more than possible she would return to London tomorrow without bothering to send for her. She had done it before. Harry had been her mission. And she had accomplished it with her usual ruthless skill. There could be nothing she would want her daughter for. She paused near a hedge, then darted down the path that crisscrossed the kitchen–garden, her feet crushing some of the rosemary and chamomile and marigold that edged the paving stones. Swirling leaves, and the pungent scent of the herbs she had stepped on, followed her inside. Carefully she crossed the hall, then ran up the back stairs to her room. Hands trembling with chill, she struck the flint and breathlessly tried to light her candle.
"Barbara…how enchanting to see you again."
Her mother's voice paralyzed her for a moment. She stood motionless, still holding the unlit candle. She could just make out her mother in the shadows.
"I wish to speak with you. Wash your hands, then come to my bedchamber."
Her gown whispering against the floor, Diana left the room. A serving girl immediately entered and set a bowl of water and some cloths on a table. Barbara strode over to the girl, who had been training as her personal maid, and did not raise her eyes.
"You tattling slut," Barbara said coldly, her voice low and husky, unnervingly like her mother's. "You might have at least warned me. Bring some cheese and bread. I will not face my mother on an empty stomach." She shed her cloak and began to wash her
face. Her hands were shaking. Her mother was cleverer, after all.
* * *
She walked slowly down the gallery. The portraits stared at her, their eyes dark and furtive, like rats, or wide and fixed, like idiots', depending on the artist's skill and his subject's expression. Diana's bedchamber lay near this long, echoing corridor, once so integral to the life of the house, but now simply another space sharing time with the spiders and mice. This wing, this very gallery she was now walking through, had been especially created for laughter, dancing, games, for the many guests his grace, the first Duke of Tamworth, had once housed. Her grandfather's importance, his position, was emphasized by some of the portraits: Charles II was there, and his brother, James II, and two of James's wives, the English one and the Italian one. King William and Queen Mary were there, and Queen Anne smiling like a fat, broody hen. All staring mutely at her, their expressions somehow all the same. Put not your trust in princes. These were all dead. Like her grandfather. She could still remember a time when the warrens of bedchambers were all filled, and she could peek into them and see the heavy brocades, the ornate tapestries, the dark furniture; when servants bustled throughout the day to satisfy any whim of a guest; when family and friends dined in state each afternoon in the great hall, with her grandfather, like a king, presiding at the head of the table. And she also remembered the time when all the rooms were closed, draped in black for the death of her uncle, the oldest son. Her grandfather had changed after that; so had this house. It had become a sadder, quieter place.
She entered her mother's bedchamber to find her sitting like an empress in a small straight–backed chair placed at the foot of the bed. The room smelled musty, seldom used. It was one of the state bedrooms, added to the house years ago when her grandfather had been alive and vigorous and laughing. Its walls were covered with rich red damask, and the same damask covered the chairs in the room and the bed cover and curtains. On the hand–painted ceiling, a bevy of nymphs in flowing, sheer gowns trailed ropes of flowers as they ran nimbly toward a center blue and golden oval in which sat Zeus himself, his wife, Hera, at his side. The painter had made the features of the god and his consort resemble the Duke and Duchess. As if stunned by their elevation to Olympus, the pair stared off into the distance, at some corner of the room divorced from Diana and Barbara. Barbara did not like this room. It had none of the shabby, cramped comfort of the rest of the house. It was always cold. Her mother used it whenever she visited. Red was her favorite color. Even now she had on a red dressing gown that made her blend into the chair she sat on.
Diana motioned her daughter to a heavy, armless chair. So I am to sit, am I? thought Barbara. Why has she summoned me? She searched her mind to think of what she might have done, but there was nothing, except for missing supper and prayers, and she was ready for that. Besides, such things did not interest her mother; it was her grandmother who had raised and trained them all. She would be surprised if her mother knew everyone's name correctly. Barbara, stop that immediately, she heard her grandmother say in her mind. Her grandmother's lectures were always popping into her head to remind her of her duties, her obligations. Honor thy father and thy mother, her grandmother's voice was saying this time, which is the first commandment with promise; that it may be well with thee, and thou mayest live long on earth. Honor. Do it, Barbara.
Skillfully—it was years of practice—she ignored the voice because it was more important to concentrate on her mother; she had been the victim of her temper too many times not to have learned she must study her face and gestures as carefully as her grandfather had his campaign maps. She noticed there were lines of fatigue about her mother's mouth, and her hands twisted nervously. Was it Harry? Was she going to question her about Harry? Diana frowned, and Barbara realized her mother expected her to greet her. I will not, she thought, her chin lifting, ignoring the immediate start–up of her grandmother's voice again. For Harry's sake, I will not.
As if she divined Barbara's thoughts, Diana smiled.
Barbara could not repress a shudder that her mother could read her so easily. She would have to do better.
"My dear girl," Diana said caressingly (under the caress was a sarcasm that made Barbara clench her teeth), "how are you?"
"Very well, Mother."
"Very well? I should think it dull in this old house. Do you not want to escape? I always do when I visit. You should, too."
She considered her mother carefully. What was behind that white mask of a face, that smiling red mouth? Surely not some invitation. Diana never hinted that her children would be expected, much less welcome, to return with her to London. She came down once, perhaps twice a year, and stayed for less than a week. Her children were brought to her for an hour each day, and if they bothered or fretted her in any manner, she slapped their faces and called a servant. The only time Barbara saw her mother for any length of time was during her lyings–in for childbirth. Diana would sit faint and fragrant afterward and wait for visitors to call. When Barbara was small, she would be dressed up to visit her mother and her guests.
"Here she is," her mother would say. "Give me a kiss, oh, do not squeeze so hard. You crease my gown. Take her away." And she would be carried away until the next day, unless she was bad, as she'd taken to being the older she became (screaming and stamping her feet, to the delight of her younger brothers and sisters), and was banished to her room altogether. It did not matter; Diana was soon gone anyway, and the latest addition to the nursery joined the others, perhaps making it safely into childhood but sometimes dying. She could remember each of the four little deaths she had witnessed as clearly as if she had borne the babies herself. Each death made surviving children more precious; it made each day of life more precious. She loved her brothers and sisters with all her heart. And they loved her in return, for her bravery, high spirits, and care. She looked at her mother's waistline. It had been nearly three years since a baby. Nothing showed. Red blended into red.
"You are—is it fifteen? Yes, fifteen. Near to sixteen. Time to think of putting up your hair and meeting the world."
"Meeting the world?" She knew better than to venture any curiosity, any small piece of herself that might be hurt.
"Perhaps not the world, but a few friends, surely. It is time you learned some manners if this afternoon is any example of your conduct. This running about the estate as if you were a boy—"
"It matters little here, Mother. Everyone knows me. And I was visiting tenants, not running—"
"It matters in other places…such as London."
London! All the world, her future, was in that word. Diana laughed to see her daughter's careful facade crack. "London indeed, my girl. New clothes, new friends, dancing, the court, a husband…"
Of course, Barbara thought. A husband. It was time. She knew that. Whom had her mother unearthed? And why approach the subject in such a roundabout way? Why not present it in her usual forthright fashion unless he—she bit her lip. Harry had once told her and Jane the story of a French girl being dragged to the altar by her brothers while her bridegroom drooled and trembled and pawed at her, so ancient, so senile was he. I'll drag you willingly, Harry had teased, pulling on her. She had laughed. But behind her laughter was the knowledge that the same fate could happen to her, though not likely because her grandmother loved her so much. It was her duty to marry obediently, as her parents decided. She was not afraid of duty, and she looked forward to her own home, to children. But she had not expected to face it all today…and without the presence of her grandmother. That alone made a sudden fear pierce through her. She could feel it course from her head all the way to her toes. She tried to disguise it by lifting her chin and saying, "A husband? You have someone in mind?" Unfortunately, her voice shook.
"Yes, I do. Someone interested in you. The Earl Devane."
Her hands tightened in her lap. "I do not know him."
At this, Diana laughed again, and Barbara willed herself not to show any emotion. How like her mother to taunt her
this way. As she had done Harry earlier. She would not give her the satisfaction, she would not…she would not.
"It is Roger Montgeoffry."
She sat stunned, and she did not care if her mother saw. Roger, beautiful Roger, who used to come to visit Grandfather, who always had a kind word for her, a present. He was the handsomest man in the world. He was charming. He was everything. She had always loved him, always, and to think that her mother was arranging a marriage with him! It was like a holy miracle…it was too wonderful to be borne. She rose impulsively and hugged her mother.
"Thank you! Thank you!" she babbled.
Diana stared at her, nonplussed, then said slowly, "It is not final yet… only something he and I have discussed. He must see you, and there are a thousand details."
"I will charm him, Mother. You will see." Her face was radiant in its happiness.
"I had no idea you would be so…pleased," Diana said.
Barbara kissed her mother's hand and ran from the room. She felt she would burst with happiness. She wanted to run through the halls screaming his name. She could not believe her good fortune. Roger…Roger…Roger.