Now Face to Face (93 page)

Satisfying, the look upon Bolingbroke’s face.

Philippe moved impatiently among the crowds on the piazza. Here it was October, and he had yet to see King James. Looming against Jacobite slowness was the coronation at the end of the month of France’s boy Prince, who would become Louis XV. Philippe, the Prince de Soissons, could not miss it. As a royal cousin, a prince of the blood, he had a part to play in the grandeur and pageantry that would mark the event. It had been far too many years since a king of France had been crowned. They’d saved this boy from the smallpox and the dread red rash that killed his great-grandfather, his grandfather, and his father. This boy was a miracle; his survival, his coronation, were a sign that France was destined for the greatness dimmed by England’s generals Tamworth and Marlborough. Three more days. It was foolish to make him wait. He would lay waste the earth to avenge Roger. He had pledged a quarter of his fortune to the Jacobite cause.

Barbara, mentioned in the dispatches by France’s ambassador to England, walked the corridors of his mind. “We must court her,” the ambassador said. “It is clear she is a favorite of both King and Prince, yet apparently she graces the bed of neither. Interesting.”

Dear Barbara. He could have seen her crushed beneath the debt like an insect crushed beneath one’s foot. But Walpole betrayed friendship, betrayed Roger. So Philippe would see that betrayal avenged. And Barbara, dear Barbara, must rise now, so that Walpole might fall.

T
HÉRÈSE TRIED
to stop crying, but she could not. It was All Hallow’s Eve, the night ghosts and spirits roamed, and in the Leicester House kitchen, servants were roasting nuts in the fireplace and telling tales to frighten one another. Thérèse needed to hear no ghost tale to be frightened. They’d taken everything this time and turned it upside down. The straw mattress was pulled from her bed, the straw ripped from inside and tossed everywhere. The water in her pitcher was puddled upon the floor. Her clothing, her letters, her combs, her needles and thread, even the pins in her pincushion were thrown about. The laces she’d been sewing to the Princess’s dress were torn from the sleeve, dangling like shredded ribbon. The word “Papist” was written across one wall with rouge, the “i” dotted with one of her patches.

Why did they do it? What did they want?

Four days ago, the pillow had been at the other end of the bed from where she’d left it. Three days ago, all her gowns had been dumped on the floor, but nothing else was touched. Two days ago, the linens had been pulled from the bed and folded in a neat pile outside her door. The first time and even the second, she’d thought: Someone teases because I am new, because I am French.

Yesterday, as she had walked through the series of grand front parlors, she saw written upon a mirror, the word “Treason,” and with it a stick figure of a woman hanged. She left the house then, had herself rowed upriver to the village of Twickenham, to find her friends, Caesar and Montrose and tell them. They were upset.

This was a difficult household. The Prince had a temper, which he could not manage. It fell at will upon everyone from his wife to the random groom who handed him his horse. And Mrs. Howard, the Prince’s mistress, lived in the household as bedchamber woman to the Princess. Swift, constant currents of malice flowed from such an arrangement.

The Princess did not forgive the King for keeping the three Princesses, did not forgive Madame Barbara for being made their lady-in-waiting. It was said the Prince’s mother was locked away in a castle in the mountains of Hanover, her crime an old adultery, the reason the King had divorced her and banished her. He’d killed her lover, buried him under the floorboards of the house of their tryst, it was said. There was a curse upon the King: He was to die a year after his wife. Thérèse had heard the Princess believed she would die upon a Wednesday and was always restless and difficult upon that day.

This house had an air of unhappiness as tangible as the stone of the walls outside, unhappiness that spread to her. Now she must go to Mrs. Clayton and explain that the gown would not be ready for this evening, when the Princess had particularly asked for it.

Her whole inside vibrated with the harm wished her. She could feel it. Who did this to her? And why?

Chapter Fifty-five

T
HE FIRST OF
N
OVEMBER.

“Visitors,” Bathsheba said, in that soft whisper of hers. “They wait.”

Barbara opened the kitchen door. Thérèse and Caesar and Montrose stood under the trees of the park behind her mother’s house. She smiled, happy to see them. Montrose met her at the garden gate, which creaked with cold as Barbara opened it.

“Something’s happened. Pretend all is well. We’re likely watched.”

“Watched? Why?”

“Please, Lady Devane.”

Montrose waved cheerfully, falsely for Caesar and Thérèse to join them. One look at Thérèse’s face, half hidden under the hood of her cloak, and Barbara felt her insides tighten.

“We’ll go inside. After all, what harm is there in visiting Lady Devane, for whom we all used to labor?” Montrose said, too loudly. He was a poor actor.

In the kitchen, Barbara listened to Thérèse with what was at first bewilderment and then became anger.

“Last night,” said Thérèse, “I was told you’d come to see me, and I went downstairs, and then out into the garden, looking for you, and two men were there. I’d never seen them before. They put me in a coach, threatened me with harm if I spoke out or tried to escape them. They covered my eyes, madame. They kept the cover upon my eyes even after the carriage stopped, until I was in some room, and there they questioned me. I must say nothing, they told me, or I would be sent to France, to prison there, lost to the world and all I love. ‘You know your countrymen imprison without trial and throw away the key,’ they said to me. ‘We can make certain that is done to you.’”

“Questioned about what?” Barbara said.

“About—About Paris, Monsieur Harry, the Duke of Wharton. A-About you.”

Wariness moved, snakelike, through Barbara.

“They asked about Rome, about your father, about Monsieur Harry and his actions there. About
your
actions. I did not know what to say. Had you called upon the Pretender while in Rome? they asked. ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘everyone did.’ They asked about Virginia, about the overseer, Blackstone. ‘Were you and he lovers?’ they asked. ‘No,’ I told them. How dare they ask such a thing? I said. Did I know he was a Jacobite? They threatened, madame. They said I would have to leave England if I did not tell the truth. ‘I have told you the truth,’ I told them, but they asked me over and over again, until I became tired and cried. They liked it that I cried. They told me if I said anything about being questioned, they would find me no matter where I was, and have my tongue cut out.”

Robin. Barbara felt cold. Do not underestimate his determination or implacability. Words of Carlyle’s, before the pillory. Sentiment had not served Tommy and would not serve her, for sentiment died before the push of Robin’s ambition.

She made Thérèse repeat everything again.

“You’re to stay here this night, behind a locked door,” she said. “I think someone tries to implicate me in the Jacobite plot.”

All everyone was talking of was the treason trials. Barbara could feel fear stalking the corridors at St. James’s Palace. One could feel the tension gathering everywhere, like dark clouds.

“Who would do such a thing?” cried Montrose.

“Are you safe?” Caesar’s face was grave.

“No, I am not. I want the three of you to remember this. If I disappear, look for me in the Tower.”

“Who threatens you so?” asked Caesar.

“Robert Walpole. Remember that, too. Walpole.”

They were silenced. Yes, thought Barbara, if I disappear, you will have to take on the mighty.

What to do? A note to Slane. They must not see each other again. He must leave London. I can see the danger coiled, tongue flickering, ready to strike, she thought. A visit to her grandmother and to Tony. Tony was angry with her, but he was family. He would help. Walpole pushed. She must push back. She must use her own strength or be trampled.

C
HILDREN SANG
the songs and rhymes of the season:

“Remember, remember!

The fifth of November,

The gunpowder treason and plot;

There is no reason why the

Gunpowder treason should ever be forgot!”

Revelers paraded a scarecrow figure of Guy Fawkes. London’s Catholics, who had been allowed back into the city, kept their doors locked tight this night. Church bells rang. Scarecrow figures of Fawkes curled up and burned in the smoky evening bonfires throughout the city.

Barbara, watching with her grandmother, Lady Doleraine, and the young Princesses, shivered. She was in a carriage among a crowd of carriages at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where there was a giant bonfire burning, where Londoners danced around the flames and threw in straw figures of Fawkes. Her grandmother reached over and took her hand.

“Can you endure until tomorrow?” her grandmother said. Their interview with the King was then.

“Yes.”

There was a knock upon their carriage door, and Lady Doleraine leaned out the window.

After talking a moment with someone, she said to Barbara, “It’s Lady Shrewsborough. She asks if you’ll walk around the fire with her.”

“Oh, let us go, too,” said Princess Amelia.

Lady Doleraine, their governess, shook her head.

To the sound of the Princesses’ begging, Barbara stepped out of the carriage.

Lord Carteret, a minister to the King, had told her that the King talked of building his granddaughters a house on Devane Square, on the spot where Roger’s house had been. Princess House, thought Barbara, seeing it in her mind, nestled at the crest of a slight hill, behind it the quiet fields and lovely village of Marylebone, before it the vista of the Virginia garden and the roads that led to St. James’s Palace.

Laurence Slane walked up behind Aunt Shrew. His expression was solemn, his eyes on Barbara’s face. He had arranged this.

“I prefer to walk with my aunt alone,” she said to him. If he couldn’t read her coldness, couldn’t see her fear, he was a fool. Why hadn’t he left? Sweet Jesus, she was frightened. “Stay away from me and leave England,” she’d written.

“Why did you send Slane away? He’s harmless enough, and I like a handsome fellow holding my arm,” Aunt Shrew said as she and Barbara began to walk around the fire. It rose some twenty feet above them, the flames hissing, crackling, roaring from deep within its kindling heart. The light from the fire made flickering shadows.

“I didn’t want him to hear what I have to say to you. I’ve told no one, not even my mother. Walpole has been looking into my past.”

“What on earth for?”

“To see if I am Jacobite.”

“My God.”

“Yes. Let us keep walking, keep talking the way an aunt and a niece would. There is no one close enough to hear us, but I want to take no chances. I have an interview tomorrow with the King and with Walpole. I intend to challenge him openly. Tony and Grandmama will be there.”