by Karleen Koen
There was another knock. The footman again. "Lord Devane is below."
Barbara stood up abruptly, knocking over the dressing table stool. Harry and Charlotte, their tongues hanging out, waited expectantly by the door; they wished to go downstairs with her. She knelt down to pet them while Thérèse slipped three black feathers in her hair and clipped them with a pearl clasp.
"Will Monsieur Harry join you in Tamworth?" she asked.
"I am sure he will, Thérèse, if only to escape his creditors. Be ready when I return. I want to leave immediately." Barbara stood up. "Hyacinthe, go downstairs and tell Lord Devane I am coming. Then wait in the hallway for me until I call you." She clapped at the dogs to lead them into a small adjoining room and shut the door on them quickly. At once, they began to whine and scratch at the door.
"Go with God," Thérèse said softly. "I will pray for you."
"Do that. God does not seem much in my life these days. I think I need him." Barbara was out the door.
Thérèse leaned in the doorway to watch her go down the stairs. The dogs had begun to howl. In the middle of the staircase, Barbara stopped a moment and took several deep breaths, then ran rapidly on down and out of sight.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed are thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Thérèse took a deep breath. She felt better. Barbara was now in the hands of the Blessed Virgin, and after Thérèse had finished her packing, she would kneel and say her rosary several times just to ensure that the Holy Mother continued to intervene as long as need be. Blessed Mary, ever virgin, had once been a mortal woman. She would know. She would understand. The dogs were now yelping, Harry the loudest. Thérèse opened the door and they bounded out, running all the way to the other door, but it was closed. They looked hopefully at Thérèse, but she ignored them, so they satisfied themselves with going to lie wherever she needed to step.
"Bad dogs!" she told them, shaking her finger at them. They watched her, their eyes as bright as little black buttons. She began to sort jewels carefully into the compartments of Barbara's jewel case, thinking of Barbara as she did so. Some women needed children, and some, such as herself, did not. She would never forget the small bud that had formed within her or the way of its dying…or the necessity that it die. She stopped to cross herself. Always she lit candles; always she said the prayers for its soul, and for her own, which would pay in Purgatory; she had accepted that penalty at the beginning. But she never ceased to believe that the Blessed Virgin, the Holy Mother, a woman herself, would intervene with the Lord when her time to pay came. And truly, Hyacinthe and Madame Barbara and Harry were enough for her. They were her family. She felt no need of a child, and the older she became the more she realized that, indeed, if her soul was damned, her life on this earth was blessed. Never again had she to worry about bearing a child she could not raise, whose birth would pull her down into disgrace and poverty. She had only to walk down any street in London to see the women, hundreds of them, like herself, but dirty, unkempt, old before their time, watching with eyes that were bitter and tired, watching children—the destiny that damned them—play in street gutters, as filthy, as abused as the women themselves. She always said a prayer when she looked into one of those women's eyes. How many of them had once been ladies' maids like herself? She knew the answer. Too many. One fall from grace was all it took. One rape. Or yielding to temptation. And their lives changed forever. But not hers. The Lord in His mercy, the grace of the Blessed Virgin sheltered her. She was her own mistress.
How many times had Harry begged her to let him set her up in lodgings? She should abandon her position and become his, he told her. And when she lay in his arms, she was tempted. She did so love him. But when she was home again, dressing Barbara or directing the chambermaids or teaching Hyacinthe to read, she knew deep in her heart that if she did, he would cease to love her as he now did. That she would lose something essential. She did not blame him; it was human nature to desire what one could not have and to take for granted what one possessed. If she had been a woman of his station, she might have yielded. But then, if she had been a woman of his station, they might have married. But would she have married him? He neglected his estate and gambled and spent money he did not have, and as a wife, she would have resented such ways, for his future would then also have been hers. And his unfaithfulness. As a wife, there would have been that, too. As it was, and God was so infinite in His wisdom, they were both free. They loved each other freely. She knew he was unfaithful, and yes, there were times when it hurt her. But she also knew that she did not want to lose him, that his heart was hers; and she comforted herself with that, finding patience and acceptance through her prayers. Harry had not the strength, or the mind, to be faithful. Yet, always he returned to her. Always. And loving him had been her choice. After the duel, there could be no other choice. Not for her. He had not forced her. How she loved him for that. And for the deliberate, delicate gentleness and delight with which he had first made love to her.
Now, when would she see him again? There were so few times to treasure these days. Once she had spent the whole day with him at May fair. She smiled at the memory…striped tents, sausages, ale, blood puddings, acrobats, freaks, mimes, Scaramouche, the harlequins, the summer sky, a pair of soft, green–leather gloves he had bought her as a souvenir. How happy she had been for that whole day! (That was the day she had seen Caesar White again. She had been laughing at the antics of the puppets in a Punch and Judy show, and there he was, staring at her through a crowd of people. She had smiled and called his name but he turned away. It had made her sad to see that after all this time he had still not forgiven her. And she had looked at Harry, who had never said one word about LeBlanc, who had never questioned her about Caesar, who was simply Harry, and she had thanked the Lord for her blessings.) And now she must wait until he came to Tamworth. Well, what was, was. It did no good to brood. And she had much to do and the time would pass, and before she knew it, there he would be, grinning at her in the doorway of her room while she opened her arms and held him close to her breasts and loved him carnally with her body—the love sweeter for the absence—as she loved him spiritually with her heart. She closed the jewel case, and before she realized it, she was humming a little tune as she began to pack the last of her mistress's belongings. In the midst of her humming, she stopped suddenly and said out loud, "Be well, Caesar." I will add his name to my prayers, she thought, and the thought soothed her again, and happily she resumed both her humming and her tasks.
* * *
Roger stood at an open window, one foot up on the low sill, when Barbara opened the door. She walked in easily enough, but stopped in the middle of the room, unable to will herself to move one step farther. They stared at each other, and then, very slowly, he smiled. Why is he always so handsome? she thought, and she felt as if her heart were going to jump out of her body. In her mind, it was a bird fallen from its nest and fluttering frantically in circles on the ground. She noticed that he, too, wore a black armband, just as she and Hyacinthe did, and that courtesy touched her. He proclaimed to the world that Jemmy Landsdowne was a mutual friend, that the loss was shared. His gesture would muffle some of the scandal. It was the gesture of a generous—and confident—man.
He straightened up and walked toward her. Surely he sees my heart, she thought wildly. It must be visible leaping just beneath my skin. He stopped an arm's length from her. Too close, and yet so far away.
"You look beautiful," he said, and his eyes were like sapphires, polished to a fine glow, burning, burning her with all that was in them. He took a step closer. In spite of herself, she stepped back. She might never have been alone with him before. He was a stranger to her, and yet, this was the same man she had loved with all her young heart. He had been the first to make her cry with passion in his arms from the skill of his lovemaking and from the love she felt for him. If
be kisses me, she thought…and she could not finish the thought.
"Barbara," he said. "You are trembling. Are you ill? Shall I call for your maid?" It was as if cold water were dashed in her face.
"No," she said calmly. "It is nerves. Thank you for coming this morning, but I have decided your accompanying me is unnecessary. I can handle myself—"
"I am certain you can," he said. His tone was cool, detached, self– assured. It threw her off guard. "Whatever may have happened between us, Barbara, you are still my wife. I would be a cad not to offer you the protection of my name and presence at such a time as this. Are you ready? Good girl. You look superb. My carriage is just outside."
He went out to tell Hyacinthe to call the carriage forward. She stared after him. How dare he be so cool and collected? She raised her chin. When he came back inside for her, she swept by him without a word.
* * *
Irritably—very irritably—Abigail eyed Tommy Carlyle, the only other person sitting in the antechamber in Richmond Lodge that was used for the Prince and Princess of Wales's drawing room receptions—the chamber those who had an interview with their royal highnesses in the private apartments must first pass through. Carlyle fanned himself slowly with a huge fan that had dangling silk tassels, and he wore the usual large diamond in his left ear and an impossible wig. Even Louis XIV would not have worn such a wig, thought Abigail, unable to pull her eyes from it. Carlyle smiled at her, and to Abigail the smile seemed to say, I know why you are here, and I am here for the same reason. I would not miss it for the world. Unfortunately, it was beneath her dignity to inform him that she was here only because her daughter, Mary, now sixteen, was a new maid of honor to the Princess of Wales, and she was merely waiting for Mary to finish her day's attendance. She had no wish to see her own niece humiliated (even if she did deserve it). Barbara was, after all, still family.
Of course she had been appalled when she heard of the duel, so much so that she sat down at her desk and composed an impulsive letter of indignation and outrage to the Duchess and posted it to Tamworth by special messenger. Let the Duchess see what her pet was doing now, she had thought. Let the Duchess read about the latest scandal and weep! Barbara was growing into a copy of her mother, she had written with angry, sweeping, underlined capitals, and four years ago she could have told them when they insisted on marrying her to Roger Montgeoffry that no good would come of the match. Had anyone listened then? No. The Duchess had come marching up from Tamworth and scattered them all about her like so many billiard balls. Time has proved her correct, she had written. Part of her livid anger—and she would be the first to admit it—had to do with the fact that her niece had somehow snatched the single most eligible man at court, a man Abigail had been cultivating for some years, waiting patiently, carefully, until Mary was old enough, before she set anything into motion. She had laid her plans so well. As she always did. Charles's mother and she were old friends, and they had agreed between themselves that the match would be perfect on all sides. Mary had only to reach sixteen, and then the pair of them would begin their work. And who had shown up a month after Mary turned sixteen? Every time she saw Charles Russel grin like a lovesick fool at her wicked, immoral, rude, headstrong, and already married niece, she wanted to smash something, preferably on Barbara.
Barbara. The stories that had reached them from Paris. Shocking. She could not even think of the scope of some of them now without blushing, such as the one intimating that Roger and his distinguished friend, the Prince de Soissons, were lovers. Roger had his faults, and she would be the first to name them, but he was no effeminate horror like Tommy Carlyle, even now smiling at her across the room with his ugly, rouged face. And he was family. (She had forgiven him for Bentwoodes, having bought up the surrounding property and having sold it to the Cavendishes for a pretty penny last year.) And as for the Prince de Soissons, well, she had never met a more charming and sophisticated and masculine man in her life. Philippe was poised, well–mannered, of an impeccable background…even if he was French. It was certainly too bad she did not have a daughter to marry off to him. Mary was far too young; the Lord above knew Roger and Barbara had proved the mistake of that great a difference in age. (She also realized the closer she became to him that Philippe needed an older woman, a seasoned woman, a woman of calm reasonability. Those attributes all took time to develop. No girl would have them.) Not only was he an interesting and intelligent conversationalist, he was an expert dancing partner, and a perfect addition to any long dinner party…and a very attractive man. She could not say enough good things about him, and she was glad that at least one of Roger's friends had some refinement. The older Robert Walpole became, for instance, the more vulgar he was. As much as Abigail disliked Barbara, to be fair (and Abigail prided herself on her fairness), some of the blame for her conduct had to rest on Roger's shoulders. He was her husband. It was his duty to guide his wife, his duty to correct her conduct (instead of allowing her to romp around as free as a bird snatching up eligible young men).
At that moment Diana swept into the room. She and Abigail nodded coldly to each other, and Abigail noted critically that her sister–in–law wore a tight gown of royal purple with a ridiculous matching turban and, naturally, too much rouge. And, unfortunately, she looked far better than she ought to. Abigail sighed and stared at the rings wedged on her own pudgy fingers. Nature gives you the face you possess at twenty, she always quoted to her daughter Fanny. Life the face you possess at thirty. But the face you have at fifty is the face you deserve. Diana was some ten years from fifty, and if she was going to receive the face she deserved, all Abigail had to say was that nature had better do some fast stepping. She herself was settling along decidedly matronly lines—yes she accepted it. She was not one to run away from the truth. Besides, as Philippe reminded her, it was a woman's character that was important, not her face. He had such charming manners. She smiled and smoothed the collar of her gown—a gown cut low at the bosom. At least her bosom had not failed her.
Abigail watched as Diana knocked haughtily on the prince's private apartments door, gave her name, and was instantly admitted, as if she were a queen. Mary said that Diana had spent most of yesterday evening closeted with the prince in his private chamber, and Abigail knew what she was doing. Trying to repair the damage her daughter's latest scandal had caused, as if such a thing were possible. Like mother, like daughter. Diana had dragged the family name in the mud of scandal for years, and it looked as if Barbara was going the same way. Well, she had tried to warn them. She had told the Duchess Roger was too old, that his morals were unstable, his friends unsuitable. Had that stubborn old crone listened? No. Abigail could not blame herself. She had done her duty. As she always did.
She frowned. Tony and his friend, Lord Charles Russel, had walked onto the terrace outside and were deep in conversation. Carlyle, sitting opposite her like the repellent reptile he was, caught her frown and swung around to see what she was staring at. When he turned back around, he smiled at her with an expression of complete understanding. She felt an urge to slap him. Of course she was upset to see Charles here. He was like a son to her; his mother was an old friend. He ought to be on one of his father's estates, letting time heal the damage to his reputation that the duel had caused—not that it was his fault. It was Barbara's. Where there was smoke, there was fire, she always said, and the things that had come filtering on to them from Paris. Well! No wonder Charles was infatuated. At least nothing would happen to him now, even though there was a law against dueling, because who would bring charges against the son of a duke? The prince had summoned him here to reprimand him. She only wished he had summoned Charles at a different time from Barbara. But the ruling family had no tact. It was their German blood.
She sneaked another glance at the terrace. Charles and Tony were still talking. Or rather—naturally—Charles was talking and Tony was listening. Abigail's ample bosom swelled as she contemplated her future: one son a duke, one potential son–in–law th
e heir to a dukedom, one daughter therefore a duchess. (And then there was Fanny. She should have looked for a higher title, but she had been younger in those days, less experienced. She would see that Fanny's children made good marriages. If only Fanny would stop having children…but that was neither here nor there. At least, for the time being. Now she must concentrate on Mary. Fanny was pregnant again and so could wait.)
As a brother–in–law, Charles would be an example to Tony. She looked him over approvingly. He was as big as, or bigger than, Tony, who was now one of the tallest men at court. And for her part, she did so like a tall man. So solid. So…well…big. Philippe was tall. And William had been tall. (Time was making her memory of William's physical attributes hazy, but she always thought of his height—if nothing else—fondly.) She hoped Charles was unburdening himself about Barbara, repenting his mistake. It was time Tony's own eyes were opened about his cousin, as Charles's must surely now be, for Tony had retained his foolish infatuation over his cousin, not that he ever said one word. (But when did he say more than a few words at best?) Abigail knew, however. She could not be fooled. She had a mother's instinct.
Tony looked up and saw her. A slow smile spread across his face, transfiguring it to something near handsomeness. In spite of herself, she smiled back. The Duchess had done wonders with him; Abigail had to give her credit for that, and she always was one to give credit where it was due. It might make her heart burn with jealousy, but she encouraged his relationship with his grandmother. The old witch was good for him. She could not deny it. He was still very quiet, but when he spoke, it was in complete sentences, and his sentences usually betrayed a good deal of common sense. Perhaps the sense had always been there, and she had been so busy trying to change him into something he was not that she had missed it. Well, she had her faults. Who did not? And behind her pushing had been a mother's love. Always. Tony was so much improved these last years….