Through A Glass Darkly

by Karleen Koen

  "Oh, yes. Roger is good and kind and generous. I am so happy." She did not look at him.

  He cocked his head to one side. "Barbara…"

  She tossed her head again. He waited, knowing her. She gestured impatiently as the words spilled from her. "There are no children yet…and he is so busy…and sometimes I feel so alone…and oh, Harry, I love him so!" She threw herself into his arms. They almost fell backward into the pool. Harry stroked her hair. She was crying. The old Barbara never cried this easily. What had softened her? The deaths? Or time? Or love?

  He comforted her. "What is it, Bab? Tell me. Why are you crying?"

  She sighed and wiped her eyes. It was good to have Harry here. Shades of late nights at Tamworth, when she had crept into his room, or he into hers to talk. When there was always someone to make things better, to bandage her wounds, to send her smiling on her way. When she had not had to worry about her life, but lived day to day, happily, like her grandmother's latest cat.

  "I do not know how to explain. I-I just feel alone. Roger is so involved with all his projects. He is always gone."

  "Does he neglect you?"

  "N–no. But sometimes I feel as if I must make an appointment to see him, to be with him. I am in mourning, of course, so I do not go out as I used to. It is probably my imagination. The deaths and all. But I want so much, Harry. So much. And Roger does not." She trailed off, not knowing what she wished to say.

  "He is a man, Bab. Men and women have different lives, different needs."

  "I understand that. But sometimes two people—together—build something. Between themselves."

  "You are too impatient. What you want comes with time—"

  "And how do you know? When did you become so knowledgeable in things between men and women?"

  He grinned at her. "In Italy, I learned a lot about things between men and women!"

  "Bah! I am not talking about that! I want a husband who shares my life with me, who shares his life, who talks to me, who—"

  "Only lovers do that together."

  "Grandmama and Grandfather had it! And you and Jane! And—"

  "Jane was a passing thing. A first love. Nothing more. What a romantic fool you are. And what our grandparents had happens to few people, Bab. At least, few people who are married to each other."

  She said what was in her deepest heart. "I thought, for a while, Harry, that he had a mistress. But then I decided it was my grief and my jeal ousy. Now I am not so sure. I think there are other women in his life. Meaningless, perhaps, but there. And I hate it! I hate it!"

  "A wife and a mistress are different things. Roger is years older than you, set in his ways. You cannot expect him to give up everything for love of you."

  "Why not, Harry? Oh, why not?"

  He laughed at her. "What a baby you are."

  She did not reply. He put his arm around her. They sat together in the twilight. The sun still sparkled through the trees, but the sparkle was softened by evening. Birds were singing, and the night insects had begun that first raspy practice before their symphony began.

  "You have not asked me about Italy," he prodded, trying to steer her mind in another direction. Dutifully, she asked. He described it, the colors of the sky and mountains, the rivers. The cities of Rome and Venice and Milan, their statues, their churches, their society. Carnival. She listened to him, thinking, Who is he? He has experienced things I have not, and now I do not know who he is. But perhaps it was only the twilight, which could bring a wistful mood, and her own melancholy. Part of her grief, Roger had assured her, when she tried to talk to him of these strange, sad feelings she experienced.

  Harry told her about Wart, about what a good friend he had become, how he lent him money and had been his second in a duel.

  "You have already fought a duel!"

  "Yes." Harry's face was proud.

  Wharton was seventeen, extremely rich, and had married against his parents' wishes. So they sent him abroad. He and Harry had met in Rome and liked each other immediately, Harry being attracted to Wart's money and background and good manners, and Wart being attracted to Harry's success with women and hot temper. Wart was shy and admired what he considered Harry's boldness. They had become good companions. And when Roger had written for Harry to come, Wart had come along. He would stay in lodgings his parents' agent had already arranged for him.

  "Roger asked you to come? For my sake?" She felt better. Roger cared for her more than she allowed. If only she could learn to be satisfied with what she had.

  Servants were lighting lanterns that were strung in the trees.

  "Who is this Soissons?" Harry asked her as they strolled back toward the house.

  She could not see his face in the dark, but she could hear the dislike in his voice. Already. Sometimes she and Harry were very much alike.

  "Why do you ask?" "I did not like him."

  "Do not let Roger hear you say so! Philippe is his dearest friend." "Well, then, let me say I do not approve of your husband's friends."

  "Harry, do not be difficult. You are going to be staying with us, and it would be awkward if you quarreled with the prince."

  "Well, you have Roger tell the prince that he had better watch what he says to me. I take nothing from anyone anymore, Bab."

  She felt, rather than saw, the movement of his hand to his sword hilt. She was silent. Italy had changed him. The softness of boyhood was gone and in its place was a man. And not all parts of the man were admirable.

  The next morning, he strolled, whistling softly, into Barbara's apartments. The antechamber was empty, and the door to the bedchamber was open. Hands in his pockets, he walked in, and the whistle died in his throat. Appreciatively, he stared at the shape of a woman's posterior, as she, on her hands and knees at the bottom of the foot of the bed, slapped a slipper against the floor and exclaimed, "Harry! Come out at once! Now! You stupid dog!"

  "I protest at being called a stupid dog."

  Thérèse turned around in surprise and then, when she saw who it was, sat back on her hands. They stared at each other…the way they had stared at each other yesterday, the first time their eyes had met, and held.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God, thought Thérèse, her heart pounding in her ears from the effect his eyes had on her, he is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. Not beautiful in the thin, angelic way of Lord Devane, but beautiful in a different, lustier way. His lips were firm and full, his cheeks smooth and flush with youth, his eyes the shade of the blossoms of a wood violet, his lashes long, his nose straight and full. He grinned at her, a grin that acknowledged her femaleness, and its effect shocked her. For the first time in a long time, she felt alive, well, and full of her old youth and vigor.

  He strolled forward, very much at ease, very much aware of her embarrassment, and held out his hands. She allowed him to pull her up. For a second, their faces were close enough to kiss.

  "Tell me who you are again," he said. "I saw you yesterday and last night all I could think of was your face."

  She became prim and proper. She stepped back, shook out her white apron, settled her little lace cap, the efficient lady's maid. "Thérèse Fuseau," she said shortly. "Lady's maid to your sister."'

  "And I am Harry Alderley."

  "I know." His silence made her nervous. "I was calling the dog. He got into madame's box of bonbons, and now he will not come out from under the bed."

  "'Madame'? You call my sister 'madame'? I love it. Little Bab Alderley, her hair knotted, her dress torn, is now 'madame.' And the dog's name is Harry?"

  "Madame named them for you and for your sister Charlotte."

  He stepped closer to her. "But how will I know which of us you are calling for?" His tone was teasing, provocative.

  "You will be Monsieur Alderley, and he will be Harry. It is simple, no?" She knew how to put fresh young men in their place.

  He stepped closer still. She did not back away. She came to his chin.

  "And what if—for some absurd reason�
�you should begin to call me Harry? Then where would we be, Thérèse?"

  "We can only trust that will not happen, monsieur." Adroitly, she stepped around him, leaving the room with great dignity, which she spoiled by glancing back at him. He was watching. He grinned. She hurried away.

  * * *

  Richelieu leaned down, his arms on each side of the armchair, trapping Louise–Anne.

  "Are you certain?" His eyes gleamed at her, frightening her. "Are you absolutely certain?"

  "I saw them," she stammered. "At de Berry's I stumbled into the wrong room. They were making love. They are lovers, Armand."

  Richelieu turned away from her and stared at the linnet in its cage. It preened itself, ruffling out its feathers, and began to sing. Its song filled the cell, clear, sharp, high, almost hurting the ears.

  "What are you going to do?" Her voice was as shrill, as sharp, as the bird's song.

  "I am going to compose a poem."

  "Will it hurt Barbara?"

  "Yes. Yes, it will."

  "Good. Let me stay. Let me—"

  "Go away, Louise–Anne. I cannot work with you distracting me." He looked up and saw her face. In an instant, he had her arm and was twisting it. She cried out.

  "You will leave this alone. Do you understand?" His face was inches from hers. His eyes glittered. She was afraid. She nodded her head.

  "Go home," he said, his voice now caressing. Still holding her arm, he kissed her lips. She shivered.

  "Let me stay."

  "No."

  She walked to the cell door, lingering a moment, but he was hunting for a pen and paper and she might never have existed. She slipped through the cell door like a shadow.

  "A rhyme," Richelieu said to himself. "Just an ugly little rhyme." He hummed, thinking of its effect. Lampoons, scurrilous poems, and obscene rhymes were printed about everyone in society. They were printed on presses secretly at night and by morning hundreds could be found pasted to public statues, walls, buildings, in bedchambers, drawing rooms, and council cabinets. The great Louis XIV had tried unsuccessfully to have them stopped. His court was a favorite topic. Suspected writers were imprisoned, presses were destroyed, but the rhymes continued. Their source was inexhaustible—gutter poets, gutter noblemen. There was a new writer of particular talent; his verses stung. His name was Arouet, and he was the son of a notary. He had been imprisoned, but nothing stopped him. The Bourbons suspected him of composing the latest rhyme about Louise–Anne, but Richelieu felt the verses were too mild to have been written by Arouet, who was said to be thinking of changing his name to Voltaire. The Arouet rhyme about Louise–Anne went:

  If frisky and young Charolais,

  For Richelieu love doth display,

  Why, 'tis bred in the bone;

  But what trouble for one,

  When her mother had more

  At her age than a score!

  Everyone had loved it, for her mother, a princess of France, was notorious for her love affairs, as Louise–Anne was becoming.

  Richelieu sharpened the point of a quill pen, quoting softly to himself, "'A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband; but she that maketh ashamed is a rottenness in his bones.' I covet thy crown, Roger." He bent over a piece of paper and began to write.

  * * *

  Harry talked Barbara into accompanying him to Marie–Victorie's afternoon reception. It was the first time she had gone out other than to visit quietly with friends, or to shop, or to stroll in the Tuileries with Marie–Victorie and Thérèse and White. She was excited. Harry was good for her. And Thérèse had seen a charming gray hat with black ribbons and roses that were a shade of pink that was almost gray. She wore it.

  She and Harry made a striking picture as they walked together in Marie–Victorie's salon. Across the room, Louise-Anne, standing with St. Michel, watched Harry. She watched when he threw back a glass of brandy as if it were nothing and immediately called for another. She watched the way his eyes swept the room, lingering on the prettier women. She was ready when his eyes found her. She pouted and bit her full, red bottom lip. His eyes widened with interest. He dragged Barbara over.

  Reluctantly, Barbara introduced her brother to Louise–Anne and to St. Michel, wondering why Louise–Anne smiled at her in such an odd way. Why did St. Michel seem to be gloating? Harry noticed nothing. His eyes were full of Louise–Anne. He had meant what he said about Jane, Barbara thought. He was over her. Was love so easily dismissed? She thought of Jane's face that time in the apple orchard. Was she over Harry? And what did it all matter? She left them and went outside to stand on the terrace alone. For the first time in her life, she felt bitter. She could feel the doubts, the hurts, hardening her heart. If only she could have a child. In her search for solace, she kept returning to one chapter in Corinthians—St. Paul's definition of love, which bore all things, believed all things, hoped all things, endured all things. She wanted to believe if she were good enough, if she were patient enough, Roger would love her as she wanted to be loved. It seemed that once he had almost loved her. She had thought he did. She had no idea what had happened. Patience did not come easily to her, and she could feel all the stirrings of her nature fermenting. A child. She had to have a child.

  * * *

  Barbara and Hyacinthe and the dogs were playing in the gardens. It was a game of hide–and–seek and the dogs were worthless, for they followed the hider to his hiding place and then yapped shrilly until the seeker found it. But the sun was shining, and Hyacinthe was laughing hysterically as he chased after the dogs, and it made her feel happy inside, like a carefree child again. She hid herself behind one of the tall vases on the terrace and tried to shoo her stupid dogs away. Harry stiffened and growled. She turned to look at what he was growling at. Philippe stood at one of the salon windows staring at her, the dislike on his face so plain it startled her. For a moment, both of them stared at each other. Mischievously, Barbara stuck out her tongue at him. Philippe stepped back, out of sight. She covered her face with her hands and giggled. Poor Roger, Barbara mimicked what she thought Philippe must be thinking. Married to such a child. Why will she not behave, Roger? Why will she not grow up? Bah, bah, bah, thought Barbara. I am grown up.

  Hyacinthe came bounding up the steps.

  "I found you! I found you!" he screamed.

  The dogs barked and leapt up in the air. She grabbed Hyacinthe and turned him up on his heels while the dogs licked his face. He laughed, the sound so full of joy that it made her laugh. But her happy mood was disturbed. Philippe had destroyed it. He dislikes me as much as I dislike him. Why do we pretend? she thought.

  She and Roger quarreled later that night.

  "I do not like him!" she said, slamming her brush down on her dressing table. The top of her dressing table was cluttered with crystal bottles filled with scent, loose jewels, feathers, patch boxes, rouge and powder jars, ribbons, bits of lace. It was a lavish display that usually gave her pleasure. But not tonight. Nothing gave her pleasure tonight. Roger sat in an armchair. He had been watching her brush her hair. She saw his face in the mirror and ran to him and put her arms around him.

  "I am sorry, Roger. I do not know what is the matter with me. I did not mean it."

  He pulled her into his lap and his eyes searched her face. "What is it, Bab? Tell me."

  "I do not know. I feel so empty. So useless. You are always gone. I want children."

  He stroked her hair. "They will come. They will come. You are not over the deaths yet. That is all."

  She stifled the sudden, maddening urge she had to slap his hand away and scream. It is marriage, she thought. It is me. It is you. Nothing is turning out the way I expected, and I have not the character to make the best of it. Grandmama would be so ashamed of me. She would be so ashamed.

  "We will be going to Hanover in another month," he said, watching her face, guessing more accurately than she knew the moods passing through her. He was becoming too careless. Too many suppers at de Berry's or the regent's. Last week
, he had been so drunk he had made love with Philippe without their usual mask of a woman with them. It had been a stupid thing to do. He woke the next morning and wondered for a moment if Philippe had deliberately allowed it. Philippe. He wanted too much. As did Barbara. The choices. They were closing in.

  "I think it will do us all good to get away from Paris." He pulled her head to his shoulder. "I have not been a good husband, Bab."

  The old Barbara would have said yes, you are, you are. But this stranger that now inhabited her skin was silent.

  "Be patient with me," he said to her. "I need time. We both need time for everything to be better between us."

  She lay in his arms. Just once, she thought, I wish you would say you loved me. Charity…love…beareth all things; believeth all things; hopeth all things; endureth all things…I would endure anything for those words. I love you, Barbara. Such simple words. Sometimes I think you never will. And it hurts me, Roger. I am afraid. When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child, but when I became a man, I put away childish things. I am not a child, Roger. I am a woman. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face—now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.