by Karleen Koen
"The one who killed D'Arcy last year?" St. Michel interrupted excitedly, forgetting his anger.
"Yes. And before that he killed Montreal." Louise–Anne shivered. "The only time he was ever human was when he and Roger were friends. I always thought he killed Montreal because of Roger."
"Roger? Roger Montgeoffry?" said Richelieu.
"Yes, Roger and Uncle Philippe were fast friends, and then Uncle Philippe killed Montreal and Roger left Paris, and my uncle…" She stopped, unable to explain. "You would have to know my uncle.
"I am glad I do not," said St. Michel.
"Well, you will have another chance. He said in a letter to Mother that he is coming to Paris for new clothes and the theater and to see our wonder of wonders, John Law. But I think he is coming to see Roger. Maybe they will duel. That would be something to see. They are both real men. One of them would die." She shivered again and put her arms around herself. The tip of her little red tongue touched her upper lip. Through the fabric of her gown, her breast tips had become hard. Richelieu stared at her.
* * *
It was the last afternoon of a week in which the Duc and Duchesse du Maine had thrown open the doors of their estate to celebrate the coming of spring. All week long guests had driven up the long front avenue to be fêted with poetry readings and theatricals in which the guests had learned the parts and played them on the private stage built at Sceaux. There were concerts in the ballroom, dinners (observing the Lenten fast, with fish fresh from the Seine each morning), hunting and riding expeditions, strolls in the budding gardens, gambling, and dancing every night.
Now, Barbara and Roger strolled along the edge of the landscape pool at one end of the terraces at Sceaux. They had been invited to spend the night, after the dancing, for Roger was buying two Arabian stallions from the Duc du Maine, who had been given them by an illegitimate son of the late king.
He was talking to Barbara of Bentwoodes, and she listened, adoring, aware at some deep level she could not give words to that he was beginning to make a place for her in his life. He was sharing his dreams. He liked the lavish hospitality, the talk of art and literature, the fine wines and foods mixed with scandal and politics at Sceaux. It was a French, rather than an English, tradition. Even at Saylor House there was not this complexity, this magnificence. They were talking of this as they walked, arm in arm, down the graveled paths, paths punctuated by straight rows of young chestnut trees, which led to the fountains, spurting water that glinted like crystals in the fresh, cold, early spring air.
"It will take ten years to complete the house as I envision it," he was saying. "The first part I want to build is the temple of the arts—imagine it, Bab, a graceful, classical building filled with the finest paintings, statuary, ancient busts and drawings, a building that will uplift the spirit by its very essence. We will entertain in it, and the grounds surrounding it will be magnificent. I will link it with an arcade to the house, a house that will be the most beautiful in England. It will become the most famous in the country. Men of learning and sophistication, of talent, will always be welcome. Our hospitality will be as lavish as this." He spread his arms to include the gardens and main house of Sceaux.
In ten years, Barbara thought, I will be almost twenty–six…and we will have children. Charlotte and Anne shall be married, and Harry and Tom. Roger will be fifty–two, that made her shiver—her grandfather had died at fifty–eight, and was considered to have lived to a ripe old age. Her grandmother, now in her sixties, was thought to be a miracle of health. Impossible that in ten years, Roger might be dead and she a widow. To look at him now, with the sun shining strongly on his face, was to see a man who looked to be in his thirties, no more. He was handsomer than he had ever been in his life. Everyone commented on it, and he accepted the comments with the natural grace of a man who has never heard anything else. Barbara hoped it was her love that was making him younger. Only the myriad lines about his eyes suggested his true age. She shivered again and squeezed his arm.
"Make love to me."
He stopped in the middle of the path and stared at her. His eyes were bluer than the spring sky. "Now? In the afternoon?"
"Yes. Now."
* * *
The candles in the huge crystal chandeliers of the ballroom at Sceaux sputtered and dripped hot wax onto the shoulders of the guests. At almost midnight, the ball showed no sign of ending. The servants would have to replace the candles in the chandeliers before the first guest climbed into his carriage and drove back into Paris in the early hours of the morning.
Barbara yawned behind her fan. She and Roger were both tired. As soon as he returned with her glass of champagne, she was going to suggest they excuse themselves and go to bed. No one would miss them. Everybody was too busy gossiping about everyone else. John Law was here and people surrounded him as if he were a magnet. She caught bits and pieces of talk about his national bank, a miracle that would make everybody rich, that would make the national debt disappear, that would provide cheap money, increase trade, fix prices on goods and lending. She could feel the excitement pulsing in the room, pulsing from Law. But after two or so months in Paris, she had decided that the Parisians were always excited over something. If they could not find something, they made it up. She began to work her way through the crowd to find Roger and tell him she was going to bed.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder with a fan. She turned. It was Louise–Anne de Charolais, which surprised her. She knew the princess did not like her; she was jealous over Barbara's visits to Richelieu and her sudden popularity. (Richelieu had told Barbara just the other day that she must not, under any circumstances, stop visiting him in the Bastille. "My love life with Louise–Anne has improved immensely," he said, "and I owe it all to you. Swear you will continue to visit me.")
"I have been looking for you," Louise–Anne said, running her eyes up and down Barbara's lilac silk ball gown, trimmed in green and silver bows. The lilac was as pale as the buds on the lilac trees in the gardens, and Barbara wore a thick rope of pearls twined around her neck, and another twined through her hair, which was unpowdered, unlike that of the other women in the room. Heavy pearl earrings hung down on each side of her slim neck. With her rouged lips and cheeks—"Lightly, madame, lightly," warned Thérèse. "Your youth does better than any rouge"—and her darkened brows and lashes, she looked lovely, fashionable, and best of all, unique. Louise–Anne, with her hair powdered chalk–white, two vivid streaks of rouge across her cheeks, and her red slash of a mouth, looked haggard and shopworn beside her.
"Someone wishes to meet you," Louise–Anne said. "Lady Devane, may I present my uncle, the Prince de Soissons. Uncle Philippe, may I present Lady Devane."
He bowed over her hand. He was tall and heavy without being fat, with a proud, handsome, full–fleshed face marred by a dueling scar that drew his mouth up to one side. His eyes were brown under heavy eyebrows—the eyebrows and the scar gave his face an ironic expression. He seemed to be in his forties. He was staring at her with a curious expression—part interest, part admiration, part something else she could not read, but perhaps it was just those eyebrows. When he smiled, she saw that he had white, even teeth, and that, combined with the smile, took her breath away. He was a very attractive man.
"I admired your grandfather. I cannot tell you how I have looked forward to this meeting," he said.
There was something odd in the way he spoke, as if he were making fun of her. She did not understand.
"You knew my grandfather?"
"We fought on opposite sides, but it was an honor to be his enemy; he was as famous in our army as he was in yours. The king used to throw vases at the campaign maps each time your grandfather besieged a city, for everyone knew it was as good as captured. Once I was his prisoner, and I was treated as handsomely as any guest. I felt honor–bound to stand by my pledge not to escape, even though your grandfather beat me regularly at chess. I assure you I came here tonight only to meet you. Louise–Anne will tell you
that I have stayed on my estate the last year, and now I am like a country bumpkin in the city."
He did not seem like a country bumpkin. He spoke with assurance, seeming unusually polished and urbane. There was a slight touch of irony in everything he said, as well as in the way he looked at her. Surely it was more than the set of his eyebrows and the way that scar drew up his mouth.
"How long are you to be in Paris?"
"Who knows? I am tempted to go back to the country; the city is too much for me. I had forgotten the noise, the confusion, the people. I would have stayed home tonight, but I could not pass up the opportunity to meet the granddaughter of the famous Duke of Tamworth. A young woman— most lovely, may I add—who shares the distinction of also being Roger Montgeoffry's wife."
"You know my husband, then—but, of course, you must if you knew my grandfather."
He laughed, a laugh that was as rich, as full, as melted chocolate.
"Yes, Lady Devane…may I presume and call you Barbara? Thank you. I know him well. He and I were once very great friends. There he is now—against the terrace windows—still looking ten years younger than I. Marriage must agree with him. I always found his eternal youth most annoying. I still do. Take my arm, Barbara, and we will walk over and surprise him. Run along, Louise–Anne, my child. You have been a most helpful niece. You must walk slowly, my dear, for I limp—an old battle wound of sorts."
Again she was conscious of irony in his tone. With one hand on his arm, she began to make her way through the people standing along one side of the ballroom. Roger had her glass of champagne, but was sipping from it as he talked with their host, the Duc du Maine.
"Roger," she called when she was close enough, "look whom I have found."
He turned, smiling, still talking to the duc, but when he saw her with the Prince de Soissons his face went white. The champagne glass dropped from his hand, splintering into fragments on the floor. Barbara hurried to him.
"Roger! What is it? Are you unwell?"
The expression on his face frightened her.
"Roger, my dear friend, is something wrong?" asked the Duc du Maine. A servant was kneeling in front of them, wiping up the fragments of glass, the spilled champagne.
"Nothing," Roger said, in an odd voice. "I felt a sudden pain. It is gone now."
Barbara noticed he leaned against the terrace door, as if be needed the support. The color of his face made her afraid.
"At our age," the Duc du Maine was saying, "we must be careful. That young wife of yours is exhausting you. Ah, Soissons, my wife told me you were in town. An unexpected pleasure and surprise. You already know Lord Devane." The Prince de Soissons smiled; the smile filled his face, lighting his eyes.
Roger was silent. Barbara glanced from one man to the other and could feel the tension. She put a hand on Roger's arm, and her gesture seemed to wake him.
"Philippe," he said. "I did not think to see you."
"But here I am. Ready to revive old interests…old friendships."
"Roger," Barbara said quickly. Something in his face made her say it. "I am so tired," she babbled. "I was just coming to find you when the prince introduced himself. Could you escort me to my bedchamber? Gentlemen, you will forgive me, I know."
Roger straightened up and pushed himself away from the wall. Barbara could see the effort he was making. They left the Duc du Maine and Prince de Soissons and made their way through the ballroom; it was she who was supporting him.
"Shall I call a footman?" she asked him. No color had yet returned to his face. He looked terrible.
He shook his head, and they slowly climbed the stairs. Sweat had broken out on his face; he was ill; he had said something about a pain. As she opened the door to their bedchamber, he sagged against her, and she called for Justin and Thérèse, who both came running. The three of them helped Roger to the bed and laid him down. Justin began quickly to loosen his cravat, while Thérèse ran for a glass of brandy. Barbara stood at the edge of the bed, wringing her hands.
"What is wrong?" she asked him. "Tell me! Ought I to call a doctor?"
"No, no,"' Roger said breathlessly, trying to sit up. "I had a sudden pain in my chest. I am better now. Leave me alone for a while, Bab… Justin knows what to do…leave me alone."
He was not better. He could not catch his breath. She bit her lip, but did as he asked, going into the adjoining bedchamber with Thérèse behind her. He looked so white, so pale. They had done too much this last week. She could hardly be still long enough for Thérèse to unhook her gown. Once she was out of it, she ran to the door and peeked in. Roger was sitting up, leaning against Justin and drinking a glass of brandy. But when he sank back down onto the bed afterward, he groaned.
"Sweet Jesus," Barbara said. "He is truly ill—"
"Madame," said Thérèse, hanging up the gown and coming to her and making her sit down on the bed, "I will go downstairs and have a cordial mixed. I know a soothing recipe. And if he is still ill tomorrow, you will send for the physician and have him bled. That will make him better, if a good night's rest does not do so. He has been doing too much. That is all, madame. He is not as young as you, and he needs more rest."
"As everyone but me realizes. Go and make his cordial, Thérèse. I will just check on him once more."
She crept into the other bedchamber. Justin was sitting by the bed, and Roger appeared to be sleeping. She took one of his hands and rubbed it; it felt cold, clammy. Roger opened his eyes.
"Are you better?" she whispered.
"Yes," he said. "I need to be alone, Bab. Please."
She nodded and put his hand back down on the bed, patting it. "Thérèse is bringing a cordial," she said.
She went back into the bedchamber and sat down. He wanted to be alone. This was understandable, and there was no reason to feel hurt by it, and it was ridiculous to be reminded of her father. Roger was not like her father. She could sleep in here, and tomorrow he would be better. They would return to Paris, and she would nurse him, if need be, until he was better. And she would remember, from now on, that he was not as young as he looked. She closed her eyes. If something should happen to Roger… but nothing was going to happen. Everything was going to be fine.
Roger drank a few sips of the cordial Thérèse had prepared, then sank back down on the bed and closed his eyes.
His chest still hurt. He had felt as if it were exploding when he looked up and had seen Philippe. Dear God. Philippe. Memories rolled over him, like waves pounding a beach. He was held by them, bound hand and foot, their captive. The darkness and forbidden desires, the arrogance and love. The blood pouring from Montreal's mouth and nose. The futility and anger. The despair. And the passion.
Chapter Fourteen
Annie sat in the Duchess's withdrawing chamber, guarding the Duchess against well–meaning, but intrusive, visitors. They had been coming—one by one—all morning. Squire Dinwitty, Sir John Ashford, Vicar Latchrod, tenants, some of the principal villagers. Braving the sickness, as soon as word spread. Annie gave them ale, listened to their condolences, and sent them away. Only Vicar Latchrod stayed, in a drawing room, murmuring prayers. There was nothing anyone could do, and they must look to their own households, for the scourge lay coiled like a serpent in the brush, striking randomly and without warning. Many households had someone sick, someone dying. They could only pray, beseeching the Lord God Almighty, that soon it would disappear
Annie could hear the Duchess sobbing. She brushed tears from her own eyes and got up to shut the door more securely. In the bedchamber, which was dark and dusty—vases of dead flowers lay on tables littered with teacups and papers—there was no sound except for that of weeping. It was clear, high weeping, such as a young girl does, except that it was not a young girl. It was the Duchess, and she was weeping for her grandchildren, the last of whom had died this morning of smallpox.
The sound filled the dark bedchamber with its desolation, its despair. On the other side of the door, Annie put her face in her hands
. Sometimes life seemed nothing but a hard and weary burden. And there was much to do. Even now, Henley was laying the little bodies in the lead–lined caskets. No one else would do it; they were afraid of catching the smallpox. It would leap right out of a casket and kill you. And all the bedding and nursing clothes had to be burned. The house had to be disinfected with a mixture of pitch and frankincense. They would dispense with much of the ceremony; the bodies would not lie in state but would be buried as soon as possible, to keep the chance of spreading infection as low as possible. There would be no funeral invitations; the Duchess would write the necessary letters to the family.
A bell began to toll, the bell of Tamworth church, informing the village and countryside of the deaths. Annie wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Black hangings must be put up in the rooms, the mirrors covered. And the letters must be written. The one to Lady Diana and, especially, the one to Mistress Barbara…writing that one would be a test of faith.
* * *
Diana lay like a goddess, lolling on her new settee. She wore no hoops, so that her guests, Walpole and Montagu, could see the shape of her legs through the material of her gown. She stretched herself before them like a feast neither of them could have. It had been her custom lately to invite Walpole to a late supper, but only when the Duke of Montagu was also present. She then flirted with whichever man caught her fancy that evening. If it was a ploy to spur Montagu's cooling interest, it worked, for he found himself whipped into new frenzies (and new promises) by the sight of Walpole watching Diana with desire in his eyes. Walpole took it all like a good–natured bear: growling, cursing, but as yet safe.