by Karleen Koen
Inside the carriage, she leaned over the makeshift board bed created for Roger and felt his pulse. It was weak, a thread. He lay with his eyes closed and his mouth drawn in, pinched and blue at the edges. She felt his forehead, but there was no fever.
"'This was a dreadful Sight to me, especially when going down to the Shore, I could see the marks of Horror,'" read Hyacinthe, curled up beside the Duchess and the dogs and Dulcinea in her big bed, "'which the dismal Work they had been about had left behind it, viz. The Blood, the Bones, and part of the Flesh of humane Bodies eaten and devour'd by—'" He stopped, lifting his head to listen, put down the book and got up to run to the window. He turned, his dark eyes shining.
"They are here! They are here!"
The dogs leapt from the bed as if they understood. The Duchess forgot about savages and blood and bones.
"Run down and see for sure. Hurry, boy! Run for me! And tell that rascal Tim to come and fetch me."
She leaned back against the pillows, feeling the tiredness begin from the little bit of excitement just experienced. She shook her head and closed her eyes. Tim walked in. She opened her eyes.
"It took you long enough," she snapped. "Hurry, now. Master Giles is home from school, and it seems an age since—" She broke off, aware from Tim's face that something was wrong with what she had just said.
"It is Lady Devane, ma'am," Tim said gently, "with her husband, who is ill. Master Giles is—" He did not finish.
"He is dead."
She and Tim were both silenced by her words. But Tim recovered first.
"Here, now. Lady Devane has come all this way just to be with you. Are you going to sit up here and brood, or are you coming downstairs with me?" And then, to her astonishment, he winked at her.
"Impudent—you have no manners! No manners at all! In my day, a footman would have been flayed alive for such conduct! My household is falling to pieces! To pieces, while I lie up here and rot!" She sighed. She felt better. Invigorated almost. She glared at him. "Take me downstairs."
The great hall bustled with activity. Perryman was loudly and importantly ordering footmen about. Hyacinthe and the dogs—yapping shrilly—ran from Barbara to Thérèse, clearly unable to make up their minds which of them to stay with. Barbara, her cloak and hair drenched, was ordering footmen to be careful as they carried Roger in, covered with blankets, lying on a board, Annie and a thin, neat man who the Duchess guessed was his valet holding a cloak over him to shield him from the pouring rain outside the door.
The Duchess pointed toward Roger, and Tim carried her over. Annie folded her lips tightly at the way the Duchess looked and glared at Perryman, who glared back (each had secretly missed the other), but the Duchess had eyes only for Roger. He looked worse than she had expected, and she had expected the worst from Annie's letters. He groaned and opened eyes of startling blue contrasted to the whiteness of his face.
"Alice…" he whispered slowly, and he tried to smile, but the effort cost too much, and he closed his eyes.
The Duchess met Annie's eyes. She met the eyes of the little man who was Roger's valet. She met the eyes of Thérèse. Then she looked at Barbara, dripping with rain, and Barbara smiled brightly back at her, Roger's hand held in hers.
"I have brought him home for you to nurse. Roger"—she leaned down to him—"you are at Tamworth. Where you are going to get better."
And then she was all movement, outdoing even Perryrman, as she ordered the footmen to be careful as they carried Roger up the stairs, called instructions to Thérèse and Annie and Justin, hugged Hyacinthe, bent down to pet the dogs, who kept leaping up on her skirts, shrugged out of her wet cloak, running her hands through her wet hair. All the while smiling.
"Take me upstairs," the Duchess said to Tim, and they followed behind Roger. She felt weak. Weak and sick at heart. I do not possess the strength to deal with this, she thought. Harry's death; it all has taken too much.
In the duke's bedchamber, Barbara rushed about seeing Roger comfortably settled. The room smelled of clean linen and lemon and lavender, and the fire crackled in the fireplace, but Roger shivered and moaned as he was laid on the sheet. Justin tucked blankets carefully about him while Barbara rubbed his cold hands and called for Annie and told him she would feed him tea and toast herself.
"You are home," she said to him. "You will be better soon. I promise. Tamworth is the cure for anything."
Roger's mouth was a grim line, as was Annie's when she came up behind Barbara to stare down at him.
"Give him more of the medicine," Barbara said. Then, "Annie, was I wrong? To bring him here? He looks so—" and she could not finish.
"He would be the same anywhere." Annie moved her to one side and motioned to Justin. "Help me to lift him up on the pillows."
Barbara walked from the room, and as she closed the door on Justin and Annie trying to lift Roger, she sagged a moment against it. Terrible, dark fears rose in her mind. She swallowed and breathed deeply in and out for a few moments until they went away. She smoothed back her hair and went into her grandmother's bedchamber. The Duchess lay back against her pile of pillows, eyes closed, one hand stroking Dulcinea, and Barbara sat down on the bed and held one of her grandmother's gnarled hands against her own soft cheek. Constancy. There was such comfort this moment in her grandmother's constancy. She could count on that, as she could count on nothing else. The Duchess opened her eyes.
"The journey tired him, Grandmama. We had rain these last two days. Pouring rain. We packed warm bricks all about him because Annie said it would be bad if he caught a chill. I know there must be a cordial or a draft somewhere"—she could hear herself babbling, but she could not stop— "somewhere in those recipe books of yours that will give him some relief, that will help him rest—"
"There is."
"I knew there would be. I had to take him from London. I had to. The news sheets. They were writing such things about him. They were—"
"Hush, now. Hush."
Childlike, Barbara laid her head against her grandmother's chest, feeling the brocade of her old robe prickle against her cheek. The Duchess stroked her hair, the drying curls. Now, she thought. While I have a little strength, now.
"He will be better in the spring, I think," Barbara said.
"And I do not. Listen to me, Barbara, and be brave. Roger—"
"Do not say it!"
Her ferocity surprised the Duchess. Barbara sat up in her arms, her eyes blazing.
"The last time someone said those words to me Harry was dead. I will not listen. Not again! Do you hear me? I will not listen!"
An edge of hysteria lay in that voice. The Duchess could feel herself reeling, somewhere far off in her mind. Hear this now, foolish people, and without understanding, which have eyes, and see not; which have ears, and hear not…Barbara will not hear…she will not see…Richard… and she closed her eyes and gray mists seemed to swirl in her head, bringing forgetfulness…blessed…she drank the waters of the River Lethe, which gave the gift of forgetfulness to those who drank from its cool depths.…Lethe…in Hades…Heaven and Hell…Someone was shaking her shoulders gently… bringing her back.…She did not want to come back, pain was here…more dying…Richard…
"I did not mean it, Grandmama. Please open your eyes! Please talk to me! But not of Roger. Later, we can talk of him. Please, Grandmama—"
The Duchess opened her eyes. "I must write to your mother of Harry and Jane," the Duchess said. "The match will not do—"
Barbara caught her breath, and the Duchess knew something was wrong. And then she know what. And she could not bear the look on Barbara's face.
"I remember, Bab. I do. Harry—" Her face crumpled like a child's, and she began to cry. "Harry is dead. I know. I remember. I am old. That is all. Old." And you will not hear me, Barbara, and my heart hurts for you.
Dear God, thought Barbara, holding her grandmother in her arms and rocking her. I am going to break. Like glass. Into hundreds of sharp pieces. She took a deep breath. I will
not break. I am strong. I can help myself. And those who need me.
"I loved him so," her grandmother was sobbing in her arms. "I should have given him more money when he asked me, but I did not. I did not understand."
"No, Grandmama," said Barbara, feeling tears for Harry swell up in her own throat, but refusing to shed them, knowing that if she began, she would never stop, not with Roger lying as he did in the next room. "None of us did."
"I am glad you are here," said the Duchess, clinging to her. "So glad you are here."
* * *
The November rains brought sleet and frost, a prelude to the coming snows of December. Tamworth opened its wintry arms and sheltered those who needed it. Barbara now led the evening prayers. Barbara oversaw the last winter chores of candle making and hog killing. Barbara decided when the weather was mild enough for the Duchess to be carried to chapel. Barbara met with the vicar to talk of Advent sermons. Barbara sent to London for a special book for little Jeremy, still ill, a book with brightly painted pictures and characters which folded out. Barbara sat for hours in the stillroom, deciphering the spidery handwriting of some long ago Tamworth housewife, reading of angel salve and oil of St. John's Wort and waters to preserve the sight, cure the stomach, prevent consumption, plague, apoplexy, scurvy, reading of cordials and drafts and pastes, and trying any of those that Annie approved for Roger. Barbara cajoled the cook into preparing plums stewed in wine and the white meat of capons and delicate stews and broths for Roger and for her grandmother.
Barbara listened to the complaints of the household staff and decided what should be done. And as the days grew colder and the nights grew longer, and the ancient corners of Tamworth made people shiver with their drafts, Barbara ordered Hyacinthe to begin reading aloud, to any of the household who should wish to listen, the amazing and fantastic adventures of Robinson Crusoe. Grooms and stableboys and housemaids and footmen could talk of nothing else through their dreary winter chores. His adventures were the exciting rhythm to which the household moved as November faded into a leaden December. Roads became mud–filled mires. It was a chore to walk to a neighboring farm. The sun set early. Frost covered windows and doors. Cold household corners were avoided as all sought the warmth of the fire. The only news of the outside world came through letters, letters not easily delivered, sometimes a week or more late, and therefore all the more treasured.
* * *
The Duchess did not recognize the handwriting or the seal of the letter before her, and she slapped at Dulcinea, who was determined to play with it. Dulcinea leapt haughtily to Barbara's lap, staring with slitted, green– gold eyes at the Duchess.
Madame,
I take a great liberty in writing to you, but I have heard much of your fairness and strength, and I knew your husband long ago. He was the finest general I ever had the honor to fight against. And, therefore, I hope you will consider me, in an odd way, an acquaintance, and grant my request. I have recently heard that Lord Devane is gravely ill and is residing at Tamworth. It would be the greatest kindness if you would write me to let me know how he fares. I enclose my address in the hope that you will, and remain your obedient servant,
Philippe Henri Camille Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Soissons.
Well, thought the Duchess. Well, well, well.
She glanced guiltily at Barbara and folded the letter away before she should see it. Barbara frowned over the letter she was reading, and the Duchess recognized the handwriting; its neat precision could only be Francis Montrose's. Each week he wrote a long letter, and Barbara worried all day after receiving it and stayed up late into the night writing an answer. She and Montrose were trying to deal with Roger's debts.
"Mr. Jacombe is now recommending that we sell Devane House," Barbara said irritably. Mr. Jacombe had something new to recommend each week. "I will never do it. I will pull down every stone and brick myself before I allow anyone to have that house. We are going back there in the spring when Roger is well."
The Duchess did not reply. She knew better than to try to talk with Barbara about Roger's illness. She would not hear. Never had the Duchess seen such obstinate denial. She tried not to think on it too much, of all that lay behind it, tried not to think what would happen when Roger died. She prayed each night to the Lord for strength when that time should come. Because she would need it. Barbara would have none left.
She skimmed through Abigail's letter, without the heart now to enjoy its gossip—Parliament's opening; the king's speech; Neville and Pitt moving that the directors of South Sea be ordered to open their books before the house; a reference or two to Roger's flight, as his going to Tamworth was now called; Walpole's surprise and dismay; his speech, that he had a plan for restoring public credit that was more important than punishing those believed guilty; anger and catcalls from members; a suggestion later, from Lord Molesworth, that directors be tied in sacks and thrown in the Thames.
"The ministry is upset by the Commons' determination to pursue an inquiry," wrote Abigail. "And I agree. The names on the directors' lists for special preference would be embarrassing. I know my name is there, and I should not wish it bandied about by the Commons."
She closed by asking of Roger's health, and then, almost as an afterthought, she wrote that Charles and Mary had signed marriage contracts. "We are planning a quiet wedding by special license in a few days, out of deference to our mourning for Harry. I know you will understand why I ask you to break the news to Barbara. Both Mary and Charles send their love to her, as do I, and we all pray for Roger's recovery."
I would imagine you do, thought the Duchess, folding the letter. Now, how do I begin to tell Barbara this?
"Here is a letter for Roger from Tommy Carlyle," said Barbara, smiling. "I will read it to him when he wakes." She looked out the window, but it was misted with cold. She could see nothing. It was like looking out at nothing. As if there were no world past these windows. "Last spring when I first saw Roger again, I went to a great fête he held at his pavilion of the arts, and all London was there, Grandmama. They hung on his every word; they followed him with their eyes; they admired his wealth and taste. Lord Sunderland stood on one side, and Lord Stanhope on the other. In the gardens, the king strolled with his mistress and his secretaries and his Hanoverians. The prince and princess were there, and Walpole and Townshend and Montagu, and I was so proud. In spite of my anger, I was so proud—" She stopped. "Only Carlyle and Walpole have written him. I do not think I will ever forgive all the others."
"It is politics, Barbara. Those who fall from power are always shunned by all but a few true friends. We were, the Marlboroughs were, even Walpole went through his hours of darkness. A year ago he had nothing—"
"But my mother. Speaking of whom, I have a letter from her. Let me see what she writes."
"—and today, Walpole's name is on all lips, and he has a position again in the ministry—"
"Good God." Barbara looked up at her grandmother, a stricken look in her eyes. "Charles and Mary are going to marry…Mary, I never thought of Mary!"
"Give me that letter."
She read Diana's brief, curt, tactless scrawl, no date, no greeting, just the words:
Congratulate yourself, Barbara. I know I do. Charles Russel will marry your cousin Mary in a few days. Abigail crows with pride, and so she should. It did not have to happen, as well you know.
Your mother, Diana, Lady Alderley
God curse her, thought the Duchess, stealing a march on me, dropping the news like a cannonball into Barbara's heart. God curse her.
She leaned forward. "Barbara…" But Barbara was standing up, dropping Dulcinea out of her lap like a stone. It was too much for Dulcinea, who mewed loudly and jumped to the windowsill.
"It hurts me," Barbara said. "I never thought of Mary." And she left the room.
* * *
A week before Christmas, when the sky was low and gray, threatening snow, Barbara rode to all the neighboring farms to deliver handwritten invitations to Tamworth's
Christmas Eve play, in which she herself would figure, as she had done in the old days. The Duchess was glad to see her go out of the house, away from Roger and her nursing of him. She came back from her outings with bright red cheeks and a brighter red nose and high spirits. She is taking the news of Charles and Mary well, thought the Duchess proudly, as she watched her ride away to Ladybeth Farm to deliver the last of her invitations.
An hour later, Barbara walked into the Tamworth kitchen, her fur–lined cloak hood pushed back from her head. Thérèse and Hyacinthe, preparing mincemeat pies for Christmas Day dinner, looked up at her.
"Did you give Lady Ashford the recipe for Jeremy's cough?" asked Thérèse. "And the New Year's gifts—"
"Jeremy—" Barbara began, but her throat closed. She went out the door, toward her grandmother's bedchamber. They had all been crying at Ladybeth when she arrived, the maidservants, Jane's younger brother and sisters, her mother and Sir John. There was a note from Jane. Jeremy was dead. He had died two days ago. Only last night, she and Thérèse had spent the evening wrapping New Year's gifts for Jane's children, hair ribbons with mottoes on them, wooden animals, a hoop and a stick for Jeremy when he was well. She held a note in her hand. A note from Jane to her. It said: