by Karleen Koen
She started walking. She had a confused idea of where she was; she had never been out alone, and never on foot. But it was good to walk up and down the streets, to look into the shops, to smell baking bread and roasting meat, to look up at the huge signs hanging overhead, the painting on them bold and colorful to attract the eye, to listen to the street vendors. "Buy a new almanac." "A brass pot, an iron pot to mend." "New river water." To watch the sedan chairs and carriages coming by. To see other young girls like herself, obvi ously maidservants, bustling by on errands. Everyone smiled and called out, "Compliments of the season!" Several apprentices offered her free merchandise from their master's shop for a Christmas kiss. She had not felt so carefree since coming to London. She would just walk a little farther, then turn around, go back, slip through the garden gate. No one would ever have to know.
She realized she had walked into one of London's squares, those fine, open spaces surrounded by handsome town homes. They had begun to be developed in the reign of James I, when many noblemen, and a few London bankers with connections to the court, saw a profit in developing the fields around London and Westminster. Each one in its time drew tenants and surrounding shops and buildings, and as time passed, grew slightly unfashionable as another one took its place, all moving steadily out of the City of London and into Westminster, where the monarch lived. Now she was standing in the most fashionable, St. James's. She recognized it immediately by its central fountain. She walked across the cobbles to number seventeen, Roger's town house. I shall simply wish him a happy Christmas, one part of her was saying, while another part cried, what are you doing? But she knew. She knew what she was doing.
She lifted up the heavy brass doorknocker with its lion's head and pounded it confidently against the door, which opened. In front of her stood a stately man with a neatly tied black wig. A crest was embroidered on his dark coat. What have I done? she thought wildly.
She lifted her chin and said, "Lord Devane, please. Tell him it is Mistress Barbara Alderley." (To her dying day, she would never know what possessed her that fatal Christmas Eve; what made her ignore every rule of her upbringing and of society to call, without a chaperone, on a single man.)
Cradock, Roger's majordomo, pursed his lips. He was too experienced not to know that she was who she said she was, but he was distressed by the lack of a maid or relative with her, and even if she were not who she said she was, Lord Devane would be angry with him for leaving her outside on the step. Lord Devane was noted for his courtesy and his hospitality, and as his most important servant, Cradock had a duty to represent those qualities.
He bowed to her. "Come in at once, miss," and she followed him inside into a narrow hallway with a staircase ascending on the left-hand side, and two sets of doors on each side. Through the doorway to her right, she could see servants smoothing white damask tablecloths across tables. The chimney, which was in direct line of vision with the door, was wreathed with holly and ivy and had fat white candles set amid the greenery. It was Christmas Eve and he was giving a reception, and here she was. She was a fool, but she followed Cradock's gesture toward a door on the left.
"If you will wait here, Mistress Alderley, I will inform Lord Devane. May I offer you refreshment?"
"No," she whispered. The enormity of what she was doing made her feel faint. She was in a small parlor that reflected Roger's wealth and taste. It was called the Neptune Room because the patterned paper on the wall featured Neptune, his beard crusted with starfish and sea horses, rising from a cresting blue–green wave and blowing a golden horn while dark dolphins rose out of the waves. Every few feet of the wall was broken up by intricate, tiny fish and shells forever twisting in ribbons of wood. Armchairs of different sizes, their arms and legs carved in the shape of twisting, snakelike dolphins, were pulled up to five small card tables set about the room. In the center of each card table was a white candle surrounded with a rosemary and ivy wreath. Barbara sat down on the edge of a chair and tried to catch her breath. Her heart was beating so fast that she felt dizzy. What on earth was she expecting Roger to do—elope with her? Out of the question for her and for him. An elopement brought scandal and disgrace. Of course here she sat, doing something only slightly less scandalous. Please, please, please, she thought, and did not know what she was pleading for.
* * *
Cradock knocked on the library door.
"Come in," called Montrose, who sat at his desk rechecking the seating arrangements for dinner. White lounged in a chair near the fire rereading Alexander Pope's Iliad, the literary rage of the year.
Montrose made a hissing sound as Cradock whispered to him, and White looked up from his book to watch his friend return to his desk, frown and shift a stack of invitations from one corner to another—an unnecessary gesture and one that gave him away. Cradock left the room.
"What is it, Francis? Tell me. I know you. You are bursting with news." (If anything, for all his stuffiness, Montrose was a bigger gossip than White.)
Montrose could not contain himself. "There is a young woman downstairs." He paused a moment for dramatic effect. "A young woman without a chaperone who says her name is Barbara Alderley.
White's mouth fell open. Everyone in the household, from the kitchen maid to Cradock, knew that Lord Devane's marriage plans had soured. And White and Montrose both knew he had invested quite a bit of money in plans, surveys, permits, and loans to Lady Alderley. Even his renowned charm could not hide the fact that he was tired and shorter-tempered these days.
"But why did Cradock come to you instead of—"
"Responsibility."
White understood at once. Great houses, staffed by many servants, were hotbeds of dodging responsibility.
"Carlyle!" he exclaimed after a moment. "It has to be one of his tricks! Think, Francis. Remember when he paid two whores from Shoreditch to call and insist they were ladies–in–waiting to the princess with a personal message to Lord Devane? We lost him for days." He jumped up and grinned at Montrose, like a mischievous boy. "Let us both go downstairs and examine her. If she is genuine—which is impossible—I will tell him for you. I take full responsibility." He darted from the room.
With a sigh, Montrose followed him.
* * *
At the light, neat sound of a knock on the door, Barbara jumped up, her heart choking her. She was having trouble catching her breath. The sight of two strange young men, both now staring at her as if she were a freak at a country fair, made her feel faint. The room was too hot, she was going to fall—
White caught her just before she toppled to the floor. Neither he nor Montrose thought it a joke anymore. It was obvious that this thin, pretty girl was someone respectable. What she was doing here without a chaperone—and looking like death—was something neither man wished to know. Everyone was in trouble. Lord Devane should have been summoned at once. White helped her sit down and patted her hand. She put the other one to her head.
"Who are you?" she said.
White bit his lip. "Go upstairs at once and fetch Lord Devane," he ordered Montrose, who was rooted to the floor. The urgency in his voice propelled Montrose out the door. It was only as he was knocking on the door to Lord Devane's bedchamber that he remembered that White had said he would be the one to tell Lord Devane, that he would be the one to take full responsibility. Before he could run back down the stairs, Justin, Roger's valet, opened the door. Like a man going to his doom, Montrose went in.
"I am Caesar White, Lord Devane's clerk," White said to Barbara. "And that was Francis Montrose, his secretary. Forgive me, Mistress Alderley, but you look ill. Is there something I can get for you?"
Barbara pulled her hand out of his. "Go away," she said. She felt so ashamed she thought she would die. She was in Roger's town house, and she had no business being there, and now two young men besides the majordomo had seen her, and she was in the worst trouble she had ever been in in her life.
* * *
"It is private, sir."
Roger sig
naled for Justin to leave the room. He had been dressing for the reception he was to hold this evening, and he wore a pale blue satin coat that matched his eyes. He looked extraordinarily handsome.
"Mistress Barbara Alderley is in the Neptune Room, sir. Caesar is with her."
Roger's eyes widened. He stepped closer to Montrose. "What do you mean, Mistress Alderley is in the Neptune Room? Is this someone's idea of a joke? Carlyle—"
"I wish it were, sir. There is more, sir." Montrose swallowed. "She is alone, sir."
"Alone!"
Never, in all the years that Montrose had worked for Lord Devane, had Lord Devane shouted at him. He shouted now. "Why was I not informed immediately?"
"Cradock came to me, sir, not knowing what to do, seeing as the young lady seemed to be without an escort!"
"Then why in God's name is Caesar downstairs with her? Who else have you told! Jesus Christ, man, I could kill you both! Get out of my way!"
Roger walked swiftly from the room. Montrose wiped at his perspiring face with his handkerchief. He made no move to follow. Lord Devane would dismiss him later.
White was patting Barbara's hand when Roger burst into the room. At the sight of him, White quickly stood up. Barbara said faintly, "Roger, I am so sorry. Please forgive me—" Roger jerked his head at White. "Tell Mrs. Bridgewater to join us immediately and"—he looked at Barbara, drooping in the chair—"tell Cradock, no one but Cradock, to bring some brandy and food immediately." His words were clipped and short, as if White were a soldier under his command. And like a soldier, White ran to do as he was told, relieved to give responsibility to someone who seemed to know what to do.
Barbara was crying. "I do not know how this happened," she was saying. "I was walking, and then I was here. Please do not hate me, Roger. Please!"
The angry expression on his face faded. Whatever he must have felt at seeing a sobbing fifteen-year-old, unchaperoned, in his house, paled beside her tears. She looked pitiful, and he had always had a soft spot for her, ever since she was a little girl.
"Y-you are a-angry with me, and I do not blame you. It was a stupid, wild thing to do! Now I have disgraced my-myself in your e-e-eyes!"
The last word turned into a wail. She covered her face with her hands. Roger, accustomed to years of women's tears, knew exactly what to do. He knelt down in front of her and held her. She gripped the lapels of his coat and sobbed against his shoulder. Part of him now wanted to laugh; the situation was really amusing. Justin would die when he saw what she was doing to his coat, yet she was crying so hard, and he would never hurt her feelings. He comforted her as expertly as he had comforted many a woman before her, thinking that with all that had been going on between Diana and him, they had completely forgotten the feelings of this child.
"Hush, now," he comforted. "Hush now, my sweet girl."
He felt tender toward her, an emotion that caught him off guard. It was a foolish, stupid, impetuous thing she had done, and she had his household in an uproar, and as he knelt there letting her pucker the satin on his coat, he had guests arriving in an hour—he had never felt more like laughing in his life. For the first time in weeks. But, of, course, he could not. She hiccoughed against his shoulder. He bit his lip and stroked her back. Through her cloak she was skin and bones. Were they starving her over there at Saylor House? Once again, he was struck by the realization that there was else besides himself involved in the marriage negotiations. That she might have been punished by her mother or her aunt; that he had never given it another thought as he walked out the door that afternoon at Saylor House. His selfishness appalled him.
A cough sounded behind him. Mrs. Bridgewater, his housekeeper, stood a few feet away, taking in the fact that her employer knelt on the floor holding a weeping girl in his arms. Behind her, Cradock, his face perfectly expressionless, held a tray with brandy and food. Roger stood up, but he still held Barbara's hand. She was mortified at the way Mrs. Bridgewater was looking at her.
"Mrs. Bridgewater," Roger said smoothly, "this is the daughter of a friend of mine, and she became lost on her walk. Luckily she recognized my house— her father and I are old friends—and knocked on my door. As you can see, the experience frightened her. I depend on your kindness to help me." He had neatly skipped over why Barbara should be taking a walk without her maid. "There is an adjoining room just here, Mrs. Bridgewater. Will you wait for me while I calm my young friend?"
Mrs. Bridgewater did as she was told. Cradock had already laid down the tray and left the room. He had been a majordomo for too many years not to know when a crisis was at hand. He would pay for his part soon enough.
Roger poured Barbara a little brandy. She managed to choke some down. He made her eat a little baked chicken. She ate it, and it stayed down. He pulled a chair beside her and watched her eat. If they spoke softly, Mrs. Bridgewater would not be able to hear every word. He had the feeling Barbara was about to say many foolish things. It came from years of experience. He wished to spare her as much humiliation as possible. Barbara had finished the chicken leg and ate another one. She felt better, if that were possible. She was in total disgrace and had made a complete fool of herself, but she felt better. Roger was amazingly kind.
"You-you are leaving, soon," she said.
"Yes, Barbara, I am. Did you come to say good-bye?"
She blushed at the irony in his voice, but it also made her laugh a little. She looked around for something to wipe her hands on. Roger handed her his handkerchief. After she had wiped her hands and mouth, she blew her nose in it. He watched her without a word, but declined to take the handkerchief back. She wadded it into a ball in her hand.
"I know you would like to kill me for coming here—"
"You exaggerate, my dear."
"But not any more than I would like to kill myself. I-I should not have, come alone. I-I know that. I really do not know how I got here—"
"But here you are."
"Yes." There seemed nothing more to say.
"'May I take you home?" he asked gently.
She nodded her head. The tears were welling up again. "You are not going to marry me, are you?"
"No, it is not possible now. And may I say, that after today, I think I regret it very much."
She smiled at him. Her face was swollen and her nose was red, but it was still the Saylor smile.…He was touched again as he had been that first time he had seen her and she had reminded him so of her grandfather.
"You are very kind, Roger. And—and I know you do not mean a word of it. You might have someday. I thought I would make you fall in love with me if I had the chance. But now—well, since I am here, and it is Christmas Eve, and when I go home, I will most likely be killed—"
He laughed, but she plunged on.
"I have something I want to say." She looked down at the crumpled handkerchief in her hands. "I love you. I always have. I hope that your life is long and happy. That—that your future w-wife brings you joy and happiness, as I wished to. Please do not despise me for coming here today, and please do not despise me for what I am saying. I may never again have the chance, and I-I just wanted you to know." Tears were rolling down her cheeks. They fell with fat plops onto her hands.
He could not speak. Of the many things that had been said to him, he could think of none that made him feel the way he felt at this moment— wistful, poignant, very, very old. He leaned forward and took one of her hands and gently unfolded the fist she had made in her earnestness and fear and held the palm to his mouth. Like a lover would, he kissed her palm tenderly, and then held it against his cheek. They looked at each other, and for that moment they were close. (All her life, no matter what happened, she would always remember that moment.)
"I must take, you home, my dear."
She nodded her head, and he released her hand. It tingled. She stood up, obedient, quiet, her cloak hanging down her back like a little girl's.
He called for Mrs. Bridgewater and gave Barbara his hand. They walked out into the hallway, M
rs. Bridgewater following. White and Montrose and Cradock were huddled at the front of the stairs. At the sight of Roger, they broke apart like guilty children. He strolled over to them. Montrose could not help backing away slightly.
"I want to present my dear friend, Mistress Barbara Alderley. All of you met her earlier under distressful circumstances. Mistress Alderley lost her way walking and recognized my house. I am taking her home. Cradock, send for my carriage and fetch my cloak, and one for Mrs. Bridgewater, who will accompany us. White, tell Justin I have ruined his coat. I spilled water on it. I shall need another when I return. I leave you and White to entertain any guests who might show up in my absence. I need not remind any of you that Mistress Alderley is quite embarrassed and does not want to be reminded of what has happened today."