by Karleen Koen
She assembled them afterward, when the last guest was gone, and the duke's body was in a waiting hearse pulled by six horses, wearing black feathers in their harnesses. She thanked them for their service and loyalty. She shook each of their hands, gave them money from her own purse, remembered everyone's name. She said she would understand if any of them wished to leave, even though she hoped they would give the same loyalty and service to the new young duke. And they had stayed. Their loyalty was to the house, as well as to the family. Saylor House was as much theirs as it was the Tamworths'. They loved it. It was home.
The hall was quiet now. Annie had grown soft with the wine and memories. The housekeeper wiped at her eyes. They all shook their heads for the good old days, while those younger servants who had stayed to listen stood up, yawned, rolled their eyes at such open sentimentality, and went to bed. Annie promised the housekeeper she would give her the Duchess's treasured recipes for washing white lace and mending china. The housekeeper nodded. Soon, in return, she would tell Annie all she knew of the present crisis with Mistress Barbara and Lady Diana, as would Bates and the senior footman and cook. It was not something to discuss in front of the younger, newer servants, who had not the old loyalties. But among the few who cared, the family upstairs was their family also. And Mistress Barbara had won hearts with her lively spirits and kindness to little Mary.
* * *
The Duchess lay thinking in her bed, the pillows all packed behind her and her huge, favorite lace nightcap, the one that resembled a limp pancake, on her head. One hand stroked Dulcinea, who was tired after her confinement in the carriage with two noisy children and after the humiliation of having to perform natural functions in a marble hallway. The other hand stroked Barbara's red-gold hair, brushed to shining vitality by Annie herself. The girl was asleep in her white, virginal nightgown, her hair spread out over the pillow, one hand clutching the edge of her grandmother's gown. The first sight of Barbara's thin bruised face had been almost more than the Duchess could bear. She had had to hold on to herself with all her control not to tear Diana and Abigail to pieces then and there. But that would come later, when she knew more of the story than Barbara's version, told to her tonight in sobs.
"Well, young lady!" she had snapped, irritation covering her love and worry and aided by the pain in her legs. "I understand you have been conducting yourself in a thoroughly unbecoming manner!" Thinking to herself, as she watched Barbara's face, Did I give the chit too much freedom? Did I not train her properly? Sweet Jesus, is this yet another mistake I have made?
Bits and pieces of the story tumbled from Barbara's lips; she spared no one, least of all herself. "There I was, Grandmama! At-at his door. And I w-w-went inside. Oh, I know I should have been beaten, more so than M-M-Mother did but oh, Grandm-m-mama, I love him so-o-o. He is s-so kind. Please make it right! I k-know you can!"
The Duchess had never seen her granddaughter so distraught, so unlike herself, as she sobbed helplessly into her thin hands. Gone was the happy, confident child she had given to Diana, and in its place was this.
"I-I do not know what is the matter with me," Barbara was saying. She tried to wipe away the tears that kept streaming down her face. "I will do what you s–say of course, Grandmama." And she had lain sobbing against the Duchess's chest while the Duchess stroked her hair and thought. So the financial arrangements had gone awry, had they? So Barbara had gone to see Roger on her own, had she? A shocking thing to do.
If she had not looked so pitiful and been crying so hard, the Duchess would have caned her for it herself. But instead, she found herself only sighing inside, at the heat and impulsiveness of youth. At Barbara's naiveté. At her own lack of moral fiber. Tomorrow she would summon the cook and prepare a special menu for Barbara. Some flesh had to go back on that child's bones. She would tour the house and she would hear what the others involved had to say for themselves. She would even go see Roger—though not tomorrow. No. Not yet. She smiled at the thought of that, at the surprise and dismay of the others…Abigail, Diana, possibly Tony, if he had the brains to be part of it all. If it were not for Barbara's heartbreak, she would have enjoyed watching them squirm before her. Sweet Jesus, how she hated double dealing. It was something she had learned from Richard, who had despised lying and deceit. She had adopted his standards as her own, but she had not his inherent sweetness, his love of his fellow man, to temper her. She was like an avenging goddess, without mercy. She knew it and did not care.
The only person who mattered in this entire mess was Barbara, her most beloved, her most dear granddaughter. It did not matter what Diana or Abigail or even Roger thought. Dear Lord above, it did not even matter that Barbara had gone to see Roger without a chaperone. I am old, thought the Duchess, that I should no longer care for society's standards, standards I raised my own children on. But she did not. She loved Barbara with all her heart. Barbara was a gift the sweet Lord above had given her to help her mend over Richard. And she was going to do whatever she had to to make sure her granddaughter was happy. And woe to the man, woman, or child who tried to stop her. She felt better immediately, acknowledging that so clearly in her mind. It made her ruthlessness easier. Her mind relaxed somewhat as she lay between her sleeping cat and her sleeping grandchild. Sleep was hovering, its great, black, soft cape extended on the edge of her mind. She was dropping off, and it seemed to her that Richard—not the kind, gentle stranger who had lived with her the last four years of his life—but Richard the man, Richard her lover, young, handsome, ardent, was in the room with her, sitting on the bed, watching over her as she drifted off. It is this house, she thought on the edge of sleep. Our house of glory. She fell asleep with a smile on her face.
By the next morning, long before Diana and Abigail were even stirring in their beds, she had been on a secret inspection of the house (Abigail was not the manager she had been, servants were getting slothful, her visit would do them good) and had Annie carefully writing notes, notes that would be delivered throughout London this afternoon by several of Abigail's underfootmen, telling friends and acquaintances that the Duchess of Tamworth was in town and would be receiving visitors. By tomorrow, the door would be sounding constantly with messages, flowers, and invitations, all for her. She might be retired, but she was a retired somebody and it was time Abigail was reminded of that. This afternoon, she was going to round up her young granddaughters, Barbara, Mary, Anne, and Charlotte, and go over to St. James's Palace. She had a feeling that his majesty, even though busy, would take time to see her, and she was furious that Barbara had not yet been formally presented at court. This would be no formal presentation, but it would be a reminder of whom Barbara was related to. After that, they would stop at the New Exchange and buy New Year's gifts. Tomorrow was New Year's Day, and the Duchess had no gifts for family and friends. Except for the one or two that she would be giving Diana and Abigail over the next few days. Now she waited for Tony. She had a few words she wished to say to him.
"Grandmama," he said hesitantly, as he crossed the room to her chair.
She sighed as she watched him. He had none of his father's or his grandfather's handsomeness. This was the second Duke of Tamworth, heir to all she and Richard had amassed. This boy had taken Dicken's inheritance, had taken Dicken's baby son's inheritance. Abigail's fair, stupid boy, the least of her grandchildren. The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, she thought to herself, looking at Tony. Neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all….I have not been kind to him, she thought. Richard would have been kind.
"Grandmama. Are you well?"
"Of course I am well. Do not just stand there staring at me. Give me a kiss. Here!"
She touched her lips imperiously with her fingers. Gravely, Tony leaned forward and kissed her. Then he stepped back quickly, as if he expected to be caned for it.
"Sit down," she snapped. "Barbara told me what you did for her, boy
. I am grateful. Grateful and touched and surprised. Is there more to you than I thought?"
"No, Grandmama. I am sure there is not." His surprise betrayed him into complete sentences.
"Nonsense. There must be. You are Richard Saylor's grandson. The least of them, perhaps, but his grandson nonetheless. I want to thank you for your care of Barbara. I would have thought you so under your mother's thumb that you would not say boo to a goose. I was wrong about you, boy. I freely admit it. I am proud of you, Tony. You acted like a gentleman. You acted like the best of Richard Saylor's grandsons!"
Tony's face had gotten redder and redder with each word. He mumbled something, out of which the Duchess understood only "Did what I should" and "Love Barbara, also."
She stared at him with narrowed eyes. What did he mean? Could he… had he…had her Barbara captured Tony's heart, the heart his mother kept in safekeeping, under lock and key?
"Speak up, boy," she snapped. "Spit it out."
"Love Barbara, Grandmama," he got out. "Have for weeks. Almost since I first saw her. Would marry her if Devane will not. Damn fool if he does not."
Sweet Jesus in his heaven above, thought the Duchess, what have we here? Tony and Barbara. They were cousins, but it was legal. And it would make Barbara the Duchess of Tamworth. But then, there was Tony as the duke.
"How does your mother feel about this?"
Tony looked down at the buckles on his shoes.
"I see," said the Duchess. "You know Barbara has deep feelings for Lord Devane, do you not?"
Tony nodded his head and, in a surprising burst of eloquence said, "It does not matter. I do not blame her. He is a handsome man. Elegant. Everything I am not. But I love her, Grandmama, and I could take care of her. I would."
"Tony." The Duchess smiled at him. "Give me another kiss. You are your father's son after all. No, I will not give you permission to court her yet. It is too soon. But I love you for it. Now go away."
* * *
Abigail wiped at the perspiration on her palms once again. In one hour, she had fifteen guests arriving to celebrate the arrival of the new year. Since six this evening, the knocking at her door had not stopped and each time it was something for the Duchess: flowers, presents, invitations, red roses from the king himself. How did they know she was in town when she had only arrived day before yesterday? And she had had to spend thirty minutes this afternoon listening to her housekeeper explain that she did the best she could and that if the Duchess of Tamworth was not satisfied she would, of course, resign. This, before an evening party! And it seemed that Anne and Charlotte and Mary (Mary!) had gotten into the kitchen and eaten most of the candied fruit prepared for this evening, and the cook had taken twenty minutes of her time swearing that he would not work in such a disorganized household and moaning that his supper buffet was ruined.
She had soothed the housekeeper and the cook. She had sent for the three little girls and talked severely to them, spasms she could not control crossing her face each time she looked at Anne and Charlotte. When she had rung for her footman to deliver a message, she had found that he was busy delivering for the Duchess—again. The Duchess had been gone all yesterday afternoon with Barbara and the girls without a word as to where she was going. But she had found time to reduce her housekeeper to jelly and to talk with Tony. And now Abigail was summoned, an hour before her first guest. She wiped at her hands again and surveyed herself in the mirror. She looked regal, majestic, mature. She wore a dark blue velvet gown, with white lace at the neck and sleeves. Her bosom swelled up satisfactorily, and her sapphires glittered handsomely there. She had done what she thought was correct, done the best for all concerned. She had merely suggested that Roger's terms might not be fair. Nothing more, nothing less. She had offered to find a younger, better husband. She had been—quite naturally—offended by Barbara's conduct. But she had never raised a hand against her. She had nothing to blame herself for. Nothing. Surely, Tony's feelings for Barbara were the result of proximity. They would fade when the girl returned to Tamworth with her grandmother. Thank God the Duchess knew nothing about it. Abigail wiped again at the perspiration on her hands. She had nothing to blame herself for. She had done the best for all concerned, as she always did.
"I only did what I thought was best, Mother Saylor," she said, standing before the Duchess, regal and calm in her blue gown, her soft, fleshy face betraying nothing of what she was feeling. It irked her that the Duchess should be seated like a queen, that she should have to walk across the room and wait until the Duchess spoke to her, for all the world as if she were a schoolgirl. But she betrayed none of her irritation. That would be playing into the Duchess's hand. She explained her position calmly and rationally. Montgeoffry was so much older. His reputation was dissolute. She felt that Barbara would be overwhelmed by his way of life, that she might be corrupted.
"And Bentwoodes!" snapped the Duchess.
"Bentwoodes?" echoed Abigail, not by so much as a blink indicating the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
"You had no interest in Bentwoodes, then?" asked the Duchess, her dark snapping eyes on Abigail. Abigail tried to ignore the feeling that they could see to the bottom of her soul. She carefully explained that she had merely made a suggestion that Diana do a little more research, that she not undersell the land. Nothing more, nothing less. She had no personal interest in the land. None at all. She had tried to do her duty toward her niece. Surreptitiously, she wiped her hands on the sides of her gown, still managing to look at her mother-in-law serenely.
"What will happen to Bentwoodes now, do you think, Abigail?"
She shrugged. It was, of course, none of her affair. "The land is worthless undeveloped. Diana ought to sell it and use the cash to finance Barbara's—"
"If the land is worthless, why did you not encourage Diana to snap at Roger's offer?"
She wanted Diana to get the most for the land, knowing as she did Diana's financial situation. She never meant for the negotiations to falter. But again, she was not too upset; because she had never felt Roger Montgeoffry was a man her niece ought to marry. He was too—
"Thank you, Abigail," the Duchess interrupted. "Inform Diana I am too tired to see her tonight. Give your guests my regards and tell them I wish them a prosperous New Year. I will not come downstairs tonight."
The Duchess sat back. Abigail, for all her greedy, managing ways, had a sense of duty. Roger might not be the husband for Barbara, whatever his riches. That snippet of gossip had come to her mind again. Ridiculous, but in the old days, he had gone from one woman to the next, kind, laughing, charming, but unfaithful nonetheless. Diana said he had settled. Who knew? It might be better for Barbara that she not marry the man. He was too old for her. Too old to change. Now that the marriage seemed to be botched, perhaps, after all, it was the Lord's will. Perhaps she ought to take Barbara back to Tamworth with her and live with her tears for a year.
There was a scratching at the door. Annie, glancing at the Duchess, who looked tired, shook her head, but the Duchess gestured that she should open it. Barbara came in, a tissue-wrapped package in her hand. Already today, to the Duchess's eye, she looked better. Still thin, but more light to her face, though when she did not realize her grandmother was watching, the Duchess had seen such a stricken look in her eyes that it had pierced her to the heart. She opened her arms, and Barbara ran and hugged her.
"Do you go to Abigail's party?" She patted Barbara's thin face fondly.
Barbara shook her head. "I am still in disgrace in Aunt's eyes, and, in truth, Grandmama, I do not feel much like celebrating. I will make my curtsies to the guests and retire with Mary and Anne and Charlotte. I came here to give you your gift early. Already gifts are piled up for you, and I knew mine would be lost in all the others. Here, Grandmama. Happy New Year."
The Duchess opened the rustling tissue. Inside was a pair of gloves, so soft they felt like rose petals, dyed a dark forest green.
"Smell them, Grandmama."
Th
e Duchess held them to her nose. They were scented with essence of jasmine.
"It is Roger's favorite scent, Grandmama."