by Karleen Koen
Inside the much smaller, narrower box was a fan, its end sticks frosted with tiny diamonds. It opened to reveal a pastoral scene, frolicking nymphs, blue water, green trees, fat clouds. A faint fragrance rose from it. Jasmine. The scent Roger wore. Barbara held the fan to her nose and breathed deeply.
"Oh! I am, so happy!" she cried. "How can I ever be happier than this?"
* * *
"Roses, pansies, violets," said Montrose to White. They were both huddled at Montrose's desk, a desk that was littered with papers. The fact that they were not in neat stacks showed how busy Montrose was.
"Add gilded rosemary," suggested White. "That will make her posy perfect. Is this the guest list?"
"Yes. Look how many people he has crossed off—" Montrose slapped his forehead suddenly. "The gifts! Her New Year's gifts—"
"Sent yesterday. It is all taken care of. Settle down, Francis."
"I do not see how I can have everything ready."
"You will do it. I will help you. By the way, does he want the drums and fiddles or not?" It was the custom for the bride and groom to be greeted with music at daybreak on the morning after their marriage unless the musicians were tipped not to do so. Butchers made their own serenade by striking their cleavers against marrow bones on the wedding evening to salute the bride.
"Are you mad? Absolutely not! I will take the money to the Marrow Bones and Cleavers Society and to the Fiddles and Drums the day before the wedding and make sure they understand they are not to follow the procession or stand outside the windows."
Roger's favors, knots of gold, silver, blue, and green ribbons, began to appear pinned to hats and sleeves. Even though the wedding was to be small, people were talking of it. The news that James III was going to be crowned King of England in the Scotch palace of Scone added relish. That Roger could so coolly marry a known Jacobite's daughter showed his power. Or his stupidity. It was whispered that he had withdrawn his petition sponsoring Lady Alderley's divorce. Barbara made her first appearance at court amid rumors that the Pretender was already on the march to London. She walked proudly between her grandmother and Roger, and bestowed her famed grandfather's smile on the king, who talked with her in French for several minutes. The Prince of Wales danced with her three times and was seen watching her wherever she moved.
The Duchess worked her way slowly through the crowd in the drawing room. She wore a black gown of satin (she always wore mourning for the duke) and rubies everywhere, in her hair, around her neck, on her bony fingers. Walking slowly, one hand on her cane, she had a word for everyone she knew, reminding them of old times, old favors. She was using all her influence to add dignity to the haste of Barbara's marriage.
* * *
Barbara floated through the days. Life was rich beyond imagining. She had only to count her new gowns, their colors like an artist's palette: cherry, sky, primrose, flame, dove, smoke, daffodil, topaz, violet. There were new petticoats to contrast with every gown; stomachers (panels that formed the top of the gown) so stiff and crusted with embroidery and jewels that they could almost stand by themselves, or else trimmed with a ladder of soft, gauzy bows. There were small caps of handmade lace; ribbon garters; chemises as light and thin as air; gold and silver hairpins; gloves, white, fitting to the elbow, perfumed; stockings of green and pink, scarlet and white. There were domeshaped hoops of rich damask and silk and velvet cloaks. Shoes of salmon pink damask with shiny, black wooden heels, or of white silk edged with gold lace or fawn–colored brocade with diamond bows. There were wedding presents to open, and teas and receptions and dinners to attend: Tony held one in her honor, as did the great-aunts and Fanny and Harold.
She had gone with her grandmother to meet Roger's staff. Roger's servants had stretched out in a long line, waiting for her. She had dressed in a new afternoon gown and worn the lovely velvet tippet and muff Roger had given her. All of the servants had watched her with shining, curious eyes as Francis Montrose introduced her. She had known exactly what to say to them all, from Caesar White, who had winked at her—she had ignored it in her best dignified manner—to the tiniest kitchen maid, who had stared at her, eyes wide in a grubby face, as if she were a fairy princess. Her grandmother had been sitting in a chair watching, and every now and again she would glance at her and she would see the love and pride on her grandmother's face and know she was doing well. She had not even blushed when she had met the housekeeper's disapproving glance.
"Mrs. Bridgewater," she had said clearly, so that all could hear and did not have to strain themselves, "how nice to see you again." Later, if it were necessary, she would dismiss her. Her grandmother had taught her how to deal with servants firmly but fairly. They were part of the family. They must be taken care of. A loyal one was worth his weight in gold; a disloyal or lazy one should be dismissed at once. Never keep a bad servant, the Duchess said. They are like a bit of yeast gone sour. They will ruin the whole loaf. Firmness tempered with a drop of mercy was her grandmother's motto.
The days were flying by. Barbara considered it an omen that her wedding day was St. Agnes's Day, when young maidens across the country would be fasting so that at night when they slept they would dream of their future husbands. When she slept that night, it would be by the side of her husband. Fanny had attempted to explain her sexual duties as a wife. Having grown up at Tamworth, which had its own farms, she had seen animals mate and knew what happened. She had also attended many a village wedding, where jokes and toasts to the wedding night were crude and graphic. She knew what was going to happen, and she was only a little afraid. She had been told it only hurt the first time because it was then that her hymen would be broken. To listen to Fanny, who would not look at her face, speaking of a wife's duty to submit—but never saying to what—in a high, breathless voice made Barbara want to giggle. Her grandmother had already cross–examined her and been much more forthright.
"You know what he is going to do, do you not?"
"Yes, Grandmama."
"It is the same as the animals you have seen mate, except one hopes Roger will have more finesse."
"Grandmama, please!"
"Are you afraid?"
"No, Grandmama…well, perhaps, a little."
"Some women find relations with their husbands offensive, Bab. The Lord above only knows that Roger Montgeoffry should have enough experience with women to know what is pleasing—what is that look on your face, chit? Are you jealous? You ought to get down on your knees and thank your lucky stars he knows how to kiss a woman the way she likes—what is wrong? Has he kissed you yet, has he?"
"No, Grandmama."
"And you are sorry for it, are you not? Baggage! I wonder if I should warn Roger what is in store for—"
"Grandmama, please!"
"You just tell him what you like and do not like, girl. He is experienced enough to take it from there."
"Grandmama!"
Not all of her modesty was real. She looked forward to her wedding night, when, finally, Roger would be concentrated on her. For that, she would endure whatever pain came with bedding a man. Though they were to be married, she never saw him, except for a few moments at some reception. The most time she had spent with him was the afternoon she had been presented to the king. She knew he was busy, she knew he was important, but he had never so much as kissed her! Of course, how could he, when they were never alone? Still, she imagined that a man such as Roger would have known ways to get her alone if he wished to. He was not in love with her. She knew that. But he would be. She was going to use every wile she possessed, and any she could learn. Unfortunately, she had to wait until she was married before she could begin. Now, as a virgin, as a modest girl of a noble family, she was surrounded with rules, restrictions, family always guarding her, as if she were a precious jewel that could be stolen at any moment. Marriage would bring some freedom.
* * *
"Merciful God in His heaven above!" Maude cried. Jane, who was helping the maid bake pies and had flour up to her elbows, came
running into the hallway. Her Aunt Maude stood clutching an invitation to her heart.
"It has come!" she said to Jane, waving an envelope of cream-colored parchment sealed with red wax. "It has come."
"What, Aunt Maude, what?"
"An invitation to her wedding!" Maude ripped under the seal with one of her razor-sharp nails, even though Jane could see that the envelope was addressed to her. Maude had been dumbfounded when the news filtered down to her that Lord Devane was once again going to marry Barbara Alderley, and in indecent haste. She had told the tea party story to anyone who would listen; in fact she had become a minor sensation among her friends and in her neighborhood.
"I could tell straightaway," she said to her mesmerized listeners, building her story step by step, detail by detail, so that they could see themselves the white, sick look on Barbara's face, the flashing blue of Lord Devane's angry eyes. "I could tell that something was not right. I could feel it in my bones. The atmosphere in that great house was heavy. I had a feeling of doom—of doom, I tell you! And I was correct."
Maude had the gift, people were saying. They had begun to come to her about advice for arranging marriages, she was said to have the gift of foretelling whether or not they would be happy. So when the news of the wedding was once more current, Maude declared she had felt that too, in her bones, a lightness, a kind of happiness, but she had not known for whom or what. Then she had heard about Lord Devane and Barbara. She was happy for them; she blessed them. She retold the story. People listened a third, a fourth time. And she dreamed at night of being invited to the wedding.
"Saturday, the twenty–first of January at eleven–thirty. It is the reception, Jane," Her aunt sounded aggrieved. "You might have thought we would be invited to the wedding. However…let me see, I will need a new gown and hat and shoes and gloves. Edgemont has his good suit. You will need clothes also. We cannot go in rags. A list. I will make a list of what I need. Now where is some, paper? Peggy! Peggy? Where is that girl when I need her? I tell you, Jane, you cannot get good help these days! No matter what you pay. Peggy!"
Handing her the invitation, her aunt went into the kitchen, still talking to herself. Peggy was probably in the cellar, hiding. Peggy was a poor housekeeper, and she knew hardly anything about cooking. She was just a big, ignorant country girl who had come to London to earn a living. There would be much fussing and swearing from her aunt, who would threaten to replace her, and Peggy would cry, and somehow they would find a pen and paper. Jane knew where both were, but she said nothing. She set down the invitation carefully and wiped the flour from her arms and hands with her apron. Then she read the invitation:
The Duke of Tamworth and his family request the presence of Mistress Jane Ashford and Master Augustus Cromwell at the reception honoring the marriage of Mistress Barbara Alderley to the Earl Devane. Saturday, the 21st of January at 11:30 of the morning. Number 17, Saint James's Square. The favor of an answer is requested.
Aunt Maude was not invited, but Jane knew better than to try to argue with her aunt. Wild horses would not keep her aunt away. It was kind of Barbara to invite her and Gussy. She felt sick. Harry, Harry, my love. She swallowed. Where are you? What are you doing? Do you ever think of me?
She wiped at the tears that trickled down her cheeks. Sometimes now she could go for hours without once thinking of him. She found comfort in mindless routines: kneading bread dough, feeding the fire under the giant kettle for the hot water they needed on washing day, mending sheets and stockings. There were spaces of time when her thoughts were calm. But they were just that, spaces between the pain. Something, anything would set her off, and she would be thinking of him again, and then she would long for the quiet times when he was not on her mind. She wandered into the tiny parlor that her aunt considered the best room in the house, sat down in a chair and looked out the window. Across the street, a cart was delivering coal. Two men were dumping wheel barrow loads into the chute that led to the cellar. Gussy came once a week and sat with her here in the parlor. He had found an obscure reference to one of the earlier popes and was elated. His thin face became flushed when he was excited. Of course, then he also smiled and she saw his rotting teeth. Next month, her aunt was planning a betrothal party. It was old-fashioned, but her aunt was excited about it. She and Gussy would exchange betrothal rings, the rings that each would wear, but that could be interconnected to form one ring, a symbol of their future. Joining together as one. They would go to church, and one of Gussy's friends would pray for them, they would take the sacrament, then come back here for cake and punch and dancing. Her parents were coming up for it. And then a month or so after that she would marry. She looked at the cream–colored invitation, its dark ink, the embossed pattern of lilies and roses on the border. Oh, Barbara, she thought. You are so lucky. Why are you always so lucky?
* * *
Barbara was awake long before the sun rose on the morning of her wedding, even though she had been up late the night before. Cousin Henley had arrived with Tom and Kit and Baby, and there seemed to be children and trunks everywhere. Then Aunt Cranbourne and Aunt Shrewsborough had arrived, and Fanny and Harold and their three children, and there had been much laughing and talking and hugging. Somehow Cousin Henley and Mary's governess had gotten the younger children upstairs, her Aunt Abigail had retired early with a headache, and she had sat up late with her two brothers—Tom was as tall as she was, Kit nearly so, they were growing like weeds—protecting her, proud of her, while her younger sisters and Mary hung on her every word. As had Tony. Dear Tony. He had been with her everywhere these last weeks, by her side at all times, looking out for her, introducing her, buying her silly little things, fans, books, ribbons. She had felt bathed in love last night, with her half–grown brothers and her adoring sisters and Mary and Tony and her grandmother and ancient aunts arguing over some long-forgotten, but remembered differently by each, incident at the court of Charles II. In just a few hours she would belong to Roger. It was impossible that three months ago she had been running the halls at Tamworth with her hair hanging down and her thoughts on simple, everyday things, like some child. Roger had simply been someone she loved the way she loved her absent father. Neither was ever there; she could not remember the last time she had seen her father, and surely it had been sooner since she had last seen Roger, but she loved them nonetheless. She did not miss them or pine for them; they were not part of her life. But she loved them with the same clear surety with which she loved her grandmother.
A chambermaid tiptoed in to freshen the fire. Barbara sat up and stretched. Soon Martha—Martha, her wedding present from her aunt, who had paid her wages for a year to be Barbara's personal maid, bah!—would oversee her bath. And she would dress slowly for her wedding day, for Roger, for her beginning in life as a woman, as an adult. The chambermaid smiled timidly at her. She smiled back.
"A box has come for you, ma'am," the girl said.
"Send it up!" Barbara cried. She could not accustom herself to the sudden excess of wealth in her life; she knew, of course, that her grandmother had money, but they had lived simply at Tamworth, though, of course, she had had every kind of lesson imaginable, French, Italian, drawing, watercolor, dancing, but still, now she could have as many gowns as she wished, and so many presents came to the house and she loved opening each and every one of them. And now here was another. The chambermaid came back in with a box and placed it on the bed.
"Light some candles," cried Barbara. The girl hurried to do so, obviously as excited as Barbara was by the box.
"Look! Oh, look!" she cried.
Inside, nestled in lightly moistened gray moss, was a posy of pink and white roses, mixed with winter violets, pansies, and rosemary. Around the posy lay a matching wreath for her hair. Green and silver ribbons were woven through the lovely, delicately tinted purple and white and pink blossoms. The chambermaid gasped and clasped her hands together as Barbara carefully lifted out the wreath. The green and silver ribbons unfurled themselves down her
hands and arms. Gently she set it on her head. Today, and only today, she would appear before Roger and the world with her hair down her back and shoulders, a symbol of her purity, the purity a bride should bring to her husband. Tomorrow, and for the rest of her life, she would wear her hair up, in whatever the style. Only in private, in bed, would she ever again wear her hair loose. She smiled at the chambermaid whose hands were on her cheeks and who was looking at her in delighted awe. (She would never know that Roger had not seen her flowers, but had left the choice to Montrose and White, who had fussed and argued, and agonized over the choice as if it were their wedding. She would never know that they had been as excited as she when the florist had shown them his finished work; that Montrose had actually held the posy against his waist and walked up and down the library while White watched critically, and that the two of them had decided unanimously that there must be longer ribbons and that silver must be added to them, to the florist's disgust.)