Through A Glass Darkly

by Karleen Koen

  Richelieu, Louise–Anne in his arms, walked over to the bed. St. Michel stood up hesitantly, watching Richelieu. Richelieu nodded his head, and St. Michel stumbled in his haste to join them. Louise–Anne lay now in the bed's center, her eyes closed, as if she had swooned. Richelieu leaned against the carved headboard of the bed, his face slack and empty.

  "We want to hear more of your dream, Henri."

  St. Michel swallowed and sat down on the edge of the bed. Louise–Anne sat up and turned her back to St. Michel, who licked his lips.

  "Unlace me," she said to him, her eyes on Richelieu's. "My gown feels too tight."

  Richelieu leaned his head back and watched them with narrowed eyes. St. Michel's hands trembled as he unlaced Louise–Anne's intricate corset. She sighed as it loosened and let her gown slip down her shoulders. Her slight breasts were white just above her chemise. She reached up and began to unfasten the pins in her hair. It fell on her shoulders, tangled, luxuriant. She leaned back against St. Michel, her eyes closed, and his hands came around to touch her breasts. He fondled them, breathing shallowly. She slipped away from him, and shrugged out of her gown and hoop. Now she wore only her chemise and stockings and garters. Both men's eyes were fastened to her slender leg, to the soft white of her thigh and calf as she slowly unrolled her stockings.

  "Tell us the dream," Richelieu said hoarsely.

  St. Michel licked his lips, his eyes on Louise–Anne, who was kneeling near him.

  "I–I see her coming to me and crying…"

  "Yes?" said Richelieu. Louise–Anne had begun to caress her breasts through the chemise. Her eyes were closed.

  "Is she clothed or naked?" asked Richelieu.

  "Clothed for now," said St. Michel. "And I take her in my arms, and I hold her tenderly, softly, so that she trusts me, but all the while I want to hurt her, to pound her into nothingness…I lead her to my bed, and we lie down upon it—" he stopped and gasped. Louise–Anne had unbuttoned the front of his breaches, and her mouth was on him, sucking.

  "God!" he said.

  "Go on," urged Richelieu.

  "She–she is still crying…oh, that is good…and-and I slowly undress her…God, Louise–Anne, do not stop, harder, harder—"

  "Describe it," said Richelieu, his eyes closed, his body limp and relaxed.

  "I–I unfasten the front of her gown as she lies on the bed. Louise– Anne, why did you stop?"

  But Louise–Anne had moved to Richelieu, who lay with his eyes closed. She unfastened his breeches and began on him. Richelieu never moved. St. Michel groaned and pulled off his shirt and breeches and moved so that he was beside Louise-Anne. He put his hand under her chemise, on her small, white buttocks.

  "Her eyes are closed," St. Michel said. "I pull down her gown and turn her over and unlace the corset. Her arms are trapped by the sleeves of her gown, and so I turn her back over and begin to kiss her breasts—"

  "Describe them," whispered Richelieu.

  "They are young and firm and they have pink tips. I kiss them and free her arms from the gown, and she wraps her arms around me. I make her stand and I pull down the gown. I pull away everything but her chemise and stockings. Her legs are long, long and slim. I pull up her chemise…I see her most private parts, her hips swell gently…how soft and white her thighs are…the hair on her…I tear the chemise from her. Her eyes widen with shock, for I have been so gentle, but before she can react I throw her to the bed and enter her savagely—"

  Louise–Anne groaned, but Richelieu pushed her head away from him. He lay with his eyes closed. Louise–Anne lay back beside him, her eyes on St. Michel. She pulled up her chemise and opened her legs.

  "No kisses now," St. Michel said, crawling over Louise-Anne, and beginning to do what he had just described. "I make her cry with the pain, writhe under me, desperate to be free, but it does not—God!—matter. Only I matter, my need, my anger…I hurt her again and again and— God!—again." Supported by his arms, he thrust himself in and out of Louise–Anne viciously. She was making soft little cries, cries slowly escalating into screams. She reached over for Richelieu's hand and brought it to her breasts. She screamed louder.

  The valet, who had been sitting outside, ran into the cell, but stopped the moment his eyes caught the writhing bodies on the bed, for none of them had bothered to close the bed draperies. He turned at once and closed the door behind him, crossing himself as he sat down once more in his chair. The Princesse de Charolais screamed for a long time, but he stayed where he was. He knew better than to intrude.

  * * *

  No one was in Roger's apartments. Barbara opened the cupboard and felt under the pile of shirts. Nothing. She pulled the drawers and rummaged through the clothing there. Under a pile of stockings, she found a handkerchief. Opening it, she saw an embroidered initial in the corner, an S surrounded by tiny fleurs–de–lis. She smelled it; there was no fragrance. She ran to the small study next to Justin's room, in which Roger kept all his letters, and was just beginning to rifle through a box of letters when Justin said from the door, "Lady Devane, is there something I can help you find?"

  Blushing scarlet from her shoulders to the top of her head, she stammered "no" and hurried from Roger's apartments, the handkerchief wadded into a small ball in her hand. Roger did not come home at all that night.

  The next morning, as soon as she was fully awake, she ran to his bedchamber and pulled back the bed draperies, half expecting him to be gone, but to her relief he was there, sleeping. She tugged on his shoulder. He tossed and muttered and after a moment opened his eyes blearily.

  "Jesus Christ, my head. What time is it?"

  "Seven."

  He groaned and turned over. She stood by the bed. After a moment, he opened one eye and looked at her.

  "If you are going riding this morning, I would like to go. My black riding habit is ready, and I could…I could join you…." Her voice trailed off.

  "Not this morning," he said. "The only thing I want to do is sleep."

  "'Well, I will see you at breakfast—"

  "Do not talk to me of food." He closed his eyes.

  She rubbed one foot against the carpet. "Yes. Well, I will just let you sleep."

  Once she was certain he was sleeping again, she rummaged through the pockets of his coat and breeches. Nothing. She smelled his shirt. Sweat, brandy, perhaps jasmine and orange water. Nothing more.

  * * *

  Curled up in an armchair in the window of her bedchamber, she thought about it as she embroidered. Her needle plunked in and out of the thin material. Was he being unfaithful? It seemed as if she had wakened from the first shock of her grief to find something changed between them… in such a subtle way that she did not trust her own intuition…and yet she had seen the look on his face. He wanted her gone. Why? She had thought he was growing fond of her, was loving her a little. And she had been so happy with that. And now she did not know what to think. He had never been more cheerful, more tender and solicitous of her. Why did she suspect him? Was it her imagination?

  S. The handkerchief was in the pocket of her gown. She took it out and stared at it twenty times a day. Who was she? The material she was embroidering tore as she thrust the needle through it savagely, and she threw the frame onto the floor in a fit of temper and stared out the window. Harry, who had been hiding under her skirts, leapt on the frame, got it between his teeth, and shook it back and forth, killing it. Charlotte crawled out at his growls and ran after him, barking. She managed to grab an end. The game was on. Barbara sat brooding, her face mutinous, the hard line of her jaw showing. Was he unfaithful? Was he? Outside, in the garden, Roger and Philippe walked into her view. They stood at the edge of the terrace talking. Philippe, Roger's dear friend. She realized how much time they spent together. She ground her teeth. Philippe sent her flowers, he never failed to inquire after her health; he did not intrude on her presence too often, and yet she disliked him. What is happening to me? she thought. Has my grief unhinged me? Am I seeing devils w
here none exist? She was pitiful. She was disgusting. To be jealous of a man who was Roger's friend. Roger would despise her if he knew, but not any more than she despised herself. Roger and Philippe were no longer in view. She leaned back in her chair. S. There was a reasonable explanation and she was making herself sick. I must have a child, she thought, I need something to love. Why did he want her gone? What had she done?

  "Why are you sitting up here alone?"

  She started. It was Roger. He walked into the room, and Harry and Charlotte dropped the embroidery frame (the piece of linen it had held was shredded satisfactorily to pieces) and trotted to him, whining for his attention. He leaned down and absently scratched their heads.

  "You should not sit up here and brood," he told her. "It is not good for you. It will not bring them back."

  She stared at him, anger rising in her. She had never shown him her temper before. She had always managed to control it before him but now the grief, the worry, the fear had loosened her hold upon it. And she did not care. It would feel good to scream at him. Very, very good. It rose in her like sap up a tree, filling her throat, her head, her mind.

  "I am not brooding." She said each word through clenched teeth, the line of her stubborn jaw plain through the soft youthfulness of her face. He stared at her, startled. At this moment, she was the image of her grandmother, or of Diana. She reached into the pocket of her gown, while he watched her, eyes narrowed, obviously trying to understand her mood. Well, let him understand this. She threw the wadded handkerchief at him. It fell softly to the floor a few inches from him.

  In that single instant, Roger's heart seemed to stop, then to explode with a roar, a dull pain that filled his ears. To give himself time to think, he picked up the handkerchief and unfolded it. The S, the fleurs–de–lis, stared up at him like his own sentence of death.

  "Justin told me you went through my clothes," he said calmly. The calmness came from shock.

  That calmness maddened her. It was as if someone had lighted an explosive in her mind.

  "Who is she?" She screamed the words at him. The two dogs froze. Their tails tucked under, and their heads ducked down. They looked at each other.

  "W–what?" Roger stared at her as if he did not understand.

  She wanted to tear his heart out. She wanted to chop it into pieces and eat it raw. She wanted to scratch his handsome face until it bled, like her heart.

  "Who is she?"

  She was on her feet, screaming the words so loudly that the blood rushed to her head, and she was dizzy. She was also murderous. The dogs skittered over each other in their efforts to be the first under the bed.

  Roger half laughed. I will kill him, she thought. She took a step toward him, but his next words stopped her in her tracks.

  "That handkerchief is Philippe's."

  It was as if she were an inflated leather ball, filled with fire, and someone had just stuck a knife in her and all the fire fell out, leaving her empty. She could only stare at him.

  "I thought—" But she could not finish.

  He laughed out loud then, throwing back his head, looking like a handsome god. The sick, white color of a moment ago was gone.

  "You thought I had a lover," he finished for her. "Who? A dancer from the opera or a fat little serving maid? Thérèse, perhaps?"

  He crossed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms. She felt like a rag doll, all her stuffing gone. That instant from fury to relief had been too sudden.

  "There is no woman in my life who means anything to me but you," he said into her hair.

  She burst into tears and pushed him away. "I thought you were unfaithful! I thought you had someone else! I wanted to kill her! And you!"

  "Barbara," he said, laughing at her tenderly. She held her hand up.

  "No. Listen to me. I am not meek or obedient or good. I am not patient or dutiful. Grandmama tried to make me so—truly she did— but it was no use. She said I would just have to muddle through life as I was: feckless, impatient. You are right to want me gone out of your life. I would not blame you if you sent me away. I am not always a good person, Roger." She wiped her face with fierce swipes, but the tears continued to pour down.

  He pulled her to him. "Barbara," he said tenderly, holding her close, stroking her hair. "My dear, dear child. I adore you."

  She began to cry harder than ever. He tried to choke back his laughter. He felt so tender toward her that he laughed to cover deeper emotion—at her love, her innocence, and at his reprieve. The relief was so intense he covered her face with kisses, her jealousy dear and sweet to him. His dearest child, crying for the moon. I am her moon, he thought. He closed his eyes in bittersweet pain.

  "I love you," she said. "I have always loved you. I know I am young and foolish, but I would be anything you say, do anything you wanted me to. You are everything to me, Roger."

  He stepped back from her, tenderness gone now. In its place was guilt. Heavy. Interminable.

  "Do not say that," he told her, his face hard and cold. "Never say that to me again. I am not worth it. Dear God, Barbara, no one is."

  She tried to hit him. His words made her crazy. She had offered him everything, and he had refused it. He managed to catch her arm.

  "I hate you!" she screamed, struggling, trying to claw his eyes. "I hate you!"

  She was like a madwoman. He managed to pin her arms back. She tried to kick him, to bite him. He grabbed her and held her. He was panting. He managed to wrestle her toward the bed, she shouting and kicking the whole way. He picked her up and threw her on the bed, falling with her. The force of it knocked her breath away. The two of them lay there breathing heavily.

  She lay still, deflated, too exhausted by her emotions to move. He sat up, letting go of her gingerly, as if he expected her to strike him at any minute. He stared at her as if she were an escapee from Bedlam, a madwoman who ought to be in chains.

  She giggled. The expression on his face when she had tried to hit him… she laughed out loud.

  "Are you insane?" he said.

  She bellowed with laughter. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

  Laughter was better than tears.

  "Y–your f–f–face," she tried to tell him.

  He threw back his head and laughed too, laughing until he hurt. Finally, they lay side by side, every now and again laughing; but the storm was past. Roger wiped his eyes. It had been a close call, and not even Philippe amused him this much, but none of it could last. Choices were being forced upon him. Not yet, he thought. Let me savor it just a little longer.

  Barbara lay relaxed, the tension, the tears, drained from her. It was a wonderful release, her bad temper. A wonderful release.

  "Why did you try to hit me?" he asked her. "Was it because it was Philippe's handkerchief? I know you do not like him."

  "He does not like me."

  Roger was silent.

  They would never agree on this point, thought Barbara, and he can have his friend. I tried to hit you, my dear, stupid husband because you told me not to love you. And I do. I always will.

  "I am supposed to go to the opera this evening," Roger said, staring up at the bed canopy.

  "Tell me again." Barbara's voice was low, throaty, seductive.

  He half sat up, leaning on his elbow to stare at her. She stared back at him, her lips parted.

  "Tell me again."

  He touched her face. "There is no other woman but you."

  She opened her arms. "I want a child. Give me a child, my darling, darling Roger. And then you may go to the opera if you have the strength."

  * * *

  She kept busy. She readied her household for Passion Week and Easter. There must be plenty of bacon to eat on Good Friday and Easter Sunday, as well as the traditional Good Friday hot cross buns. Eggs must be boiled and dyed different colors with herbal juices and then painted with gold leaf. Hyacinthe was excited about the eggs, and she gave him the job of seeing that they were decorated and displayed in a serving dish in one of th
e salons. She ordered mutton, ale, fish, and loaves to give to a certain number of beggars (she and LeBlanc decided on one hundred) whose feet she and her household would wash on Maundy Thursday, the Thursday before Good Friday. Thérèse told her that the Parisians dressed in their best clothes on Maundy Thursday and went from church to church saying prayers in each and giving beggars alms.