Now Face to Face (84 page)

“What of a child?” he managed to ask, to see what she would have him do, before it was too late and he could do nothing.

“No children for me, Slane,” she said, very softly.

Later, he would explore the vibration he heard in her voice. Now, he closed his eyes to the pleasure. She was whispering his name, biting a little of his ear, saying “Ah” in a soft voice as she moved, kissing his neck, his ear, his cheek, his mouth, running her tongue over his lips, across his teeth. He twisted his hands in her hair. Barbara, you are a wanton witch who has my heart, he thought, I knew you would be generous in love. And then he stopped thinking; there was only her, only him, only this between them, and it wasn’t enough, there must be more, there would be more, he must have her again and again. He said her name as he moved toward that which his mother called the losing of souls, the intertwining of man and woman and desire and God into one.

When it was over,—the frenzy of the end left both of them laughing, then silent, chastened—he held her close. I cannot let her go, and I must, he thought. He stroked her hair, her bare back; the riding jacket had left her person, and somehow they’d pulled off her stays, in their need to touch each other’s flesh. Into his mind came the knowledge that this act was not random, that her being here when he’d arrived was not random, that there was now an allegiance between them. He remembered the day Jamie had knighted him, one of the proudest days in his life. His mother had wept, and his heart had been so full that he’d thought it would burst. Scots pipers had piped a song of valor and war, and the sound of the pipes rising up in the vaulted church hall was as piercing, as deep as walking into war beside men you loved. He’d been fourteen. I pledge you my undying loyalty, he’d told Jamie, and meant it. He kissed the top of Barbara’s head. She, too, had his loyalty.

That which was, intruded. Gussy, Rochester. Jane asleep in the house. Everything that must be done. She must have felt his thoughts, because she sat up and began to pull her stays about her. He wished he could see her face clearly, but he couldn’t.

“Let me help you,” he said, and together they tied the stays. At one point, he took her hands in his and kissed them, and she moved toward him and they held each other a long moment. How small you are, how slight, delicious woman, Slane thought. She put on her jacket, he his shirt, and, holding hands, they walked out of the barn.

In the house, she lit a candle, and now he could see her face. At the expression upon it, he said, “I love you.”

She ran to him and put her head to his chest, a movement that touched him, made something in him move and settle deeply, at the unspoken covenant between them.

“Come and see Jane,” she said and led him to the bedchamber where Jane slept, all the children in the bed with her, nestled as close as they could get. Back in Jane’s parlor they talked in whispers.

“I want to ride on to Tamworth,” Barbara said. “I must warn Sir John, tell him about Gussy.”

“He may already be arrested.”

“So he may, but I must make the effort. I was ready to leave when you arrived.” She smiled, touched his face a moment. “I will leave now if you will stay here for Jane. She and I have talked. She wants to go to London in the morning. She has an aunt there with whom she can stay. She’ll do more for Gussy in London than anywhere else. She has to begin the rounds of calling on people, Slane, asking for favors, for support.”

Yes, Barbara must do her duty, too. For all that was said of her, for all the duels, flirts, mistakes, she was a person of duty. “What did they take from here?”

“A codebook and letters.”

Gussy will hang, Slane thought.

“Will they behead him?”

He didn’t answer. Barbara stood up and walked to the door and opened it. He found her leaning against her horse, crying.

“Don’t tell Jane what you believe,” she said. She put her hand on her horse’s pommel; Slane helped her swing up in the saddle, then kept one hand around the ankle of her boot.

“You can ride safely at night?”

“There’s enough moon to see. I will be careful. I rode all over one end of Virginia for weeks looking for my servant. Take care of her, Slane. I’ve written a letter to my mother, telling her I had to go to Tamworth for a few days. See that she gets it, or she’ll tear London apart searching for me. Remind Jane to call on Tony, on Aunt Shrew, to enlist their aid. She and I made a list of those in London who might help her.”

“Go with God, Barbara.”

“With God. I like that. A friend in Virginia told me that the Lord would give His angels charge over me. Good-bye, Slane. If you have to leave London before I return, please let me know—not where you go, of course, but that you are gone. Otherwise, I will fret and think you in the Tower.”

Spoken as if they’d not just held each other in their arms, as if he were gone already. She held out her hand. He took it, held it tight.

“I would never leave you without a farewell.”

His reward was a smile, dazzling, her heart in it.

“I’ll take you down from that horse and make love to you again if you look at me in such a way.”

She laughed, leaned down, nuzzled her head against his shoulder, kissed his ear. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“A promise, Barbara.”

“Good friends call me Bab.”

“May I call you Bab?”

Lighthearted talk between them, except that it was not.

“You may call me anything you please.”

“Then I’ll call you Beloved.”

The look she gave him was worth everything. When I die, my last memory will be this expression on your face, Barbara, of tenderness, fierceness, and devotion, all mine.

He did not want to let go of her hand, but he did.

Chapter Fifty

A
FEW DAYS LATER
, B
ARBARA UNPINNED HER HAT AND SET IT
wearily on the table in the hall of her mother’s townhouse. Her legs and backside hurt. She had been in the saddle for too long. Take my carriage, her grandmother had begged, but being inside a carriage for two days, at the mercy of broken wheels, rutted lanes, or lame horses, would have driven her mad. Better, faster, to ride by horseback. So her grandmother had insisted that Tim go with her. Poor Tim was even now in the stable, groaning at the thought of having to ride back toward Tamworth tomorrow.

The house was quiet, almost as if no one was home. Good. Solitude would give her time to quiet herself; a bath and a rest would refresh her, soothe her, strengthen her to face whatever was happening. Sir John was not arrested—not yet, anyway. He was on his way to London, to see what he could do, as a man with many friends in both the House of Commons and the House of Lords. We must play it as Walpole’s word against Gussy’s, as a ploy of Walpole’s overweening ambition, he said.

In the bedchamber, Thérèse was at a window, sewing beads onto one of Barbara’s gowns. One glance at Thérèse’s face, and Barbara said, “She did not tell you I sent a note to say all was well, did she? Don’t cry, Thérèse. I am so sorry to have fretted you. It did not occur to me she would not tell you. Help me to undress. I am so tired. I have been on horseback for days. Tell me the news—what is happening? Who has been arrested?”

“The Reverend Mr. Cromwell—”

“Yes, I know. Who else, Thérèse?”

“Lord Russel.”

Charles. Charles arrested as a Jacobite? There must be some mistake. To have committed himself to Jacobitism required a loyalty, a steadfastness Charles did not possess.

“No one else?”

“No.”

Thank God. Barbara went to the pile of invitations and letters on a table, and sifted through them, opening at once the one whose handwriting she did not know. I love you, it said in French; there was other writing in a language she did not understand. The letter was signed with an
L.
His given name was Lucius. My mother calls me Luc, he had told her. Someday you must, also. She traced the
L
with her finger. He had not been arrested. Rochester held fast, and Gussy, but there had been no question about Gussy. Perhaps not about Rochester, either.

“Tommy Carlyle has called for you several times, left notes,” said Thérèse, “and there have been messages from the Prince and King.”

Barbara was writing a quick note: “I am home, please call on me at your earliest convenience. Bab.” She opened her mouth to tell Thérèse to take it to the theater, then quickly changed her mind. She must be as wary, as careful as ever she’d been in her life. My life of deceit deepens. I hope I don’t lose myself in it.

She opened some of the other notes. “My divine,” wrote Carlyle, “a position as serving woman to the Princess of Wales is open. I suggest you put forth your own servant. It has come to my ears that the Princess would like to have her among her serving women. The positioning of pawns is as important as one’s own position. It would be a favor you did the Princess, to offer someone who is so dear to you.”

No, thought Barbara. Not Thérèse.

She opened a note from Sir Gideon Andreas, who told her he had the honor of holding two large notes upon her estate and would like to speak with her, at her earliest convenience, about them. So the hawk took aim, did he? He chose his moment well. She was distracted by this plot, by her lovemaking with a hero.

“Has there been any protest over the Bishop’s arrest, Thérèse?”

“All the first night he was in the Tower, people gathered outside—a great crowd, it is said, who were there all the night. It is an attack against the Church, people are saying.”

Good, thought Barbara. That won’t help Robin, to have people saying he tries to destroy the Church of England.

“Your mother wishes to see you, now.” It was Clemmie, standing in the doorway, blocking the servants who brought water for Barbara’s bath.

“Tell Mother I will come to see her in an hour.”

“If it was me, I’d go now.”

Thérèse brought forward a shawl and gave it to Barbara, whispering: “She’s been in a rage for days. She fainted when she heard the news about Lord Russel.”

Barbara nodded and went out the door.

T
HÉRÈSE STOOD
a moment in the empty room, then began to pick up the notes scattered haphazardly across a table. She could not help seeing her own name. She spread open Carlyle’s note.

B
ARBARA OPENED
her mother’s bedchamber door just in time to see Diana slap Clemmie.

“Won’t come to me now?”

Diana’s voice was shrill. Barbara knew the tone well.

“I’ll beat you until you are bloody, you great, fat fool. You go right back and tell her I require her presence immediately. Tell her I demand it.”

“I’m here—never mind beating your servant, Mother.”

Diana swung around to take in the sight of Barbara, standing there in a chemise and shawl.

“Do messages from the King, from the Prince of Wales, mean nothing to you? Are you so dowried, so moneyed that you do not need anyone? Carlyle has called three times, ready to brim over with the news he has. Where did you go? Were you with a lover?”

Barbara didn’t answer or move.

“I told everyone you were ill. It was all I could think of. This is no time to disappear from London, when everyone is frightened at what may happen next. Charles has been arrested, have you heard that? Have you no feelings for that? Where were you?”

Her mother had crossed the chamber as she spoke, raised her hand to slap her. Barbara caught it, held the wrist tight.

“If you strike me, I walk away from this chamber, from you, and never return.”

“Walk away! Leave me! Do you think I care a fig what you do!” Diana spat out the words.

Halfway down the hall, Barbara heard Clemmie call after her.

“She’s weeping, Mistress Barbara, go see to her.”

“No.”

“Please, Mistress Barbara. She is not herself.” Then in a whisper, “She’s with child.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“It’s true, Mistress Barbara.”

Back in the bedchamber, Barbara saw that her mother lay upon her bed, saw how white Diana’s face was, how pinched in at the nostrils. There was something tired and strained about her mouth. Barbara sat down on the bed, took her mother’s hand in hers. Diana allowed it.