Now Face to Face (99 page)

Jane stood up. Even though Barbara had been expecting a reaction, she was not prepared for Jane’s swiftness. Jane was running, people were parting for her, making a cleared path down which she ran, before Barbara could even gather her wits together. The judge was calling order to his court, but people were murmuring and twisting and trying to see. Tony had already leaped up from his seat and was after her. Harriet reached over and squeezed Barbara’s hand. Beside her, Wharton shook his head. The Duchess was crying, tears solemn, clear rivers down her face, as was Lady Ashford.

Pushing through the crowd to the outside, Barbara looked around.

“There,” said Harriet. They saw Tony and Sir John just at the edge of the courtyard, where the openness closed to narrow streets and alleys. Tony held Jane, was talking to her.

Sir John took Jane from Tony.

“Oh, God,” Jane said, her face white and sick, “Oh, God, help me, help him, our children. I knew it but I cannot believe it now that it has happened. I cannot believe it.”

A carriage had come around. Sir John helped his daughter and his wife into it. Tony, Harriet, and Wharton stood across the courtyard; Tim held the Duchess. Others were there: Aunt Shrew, Pendarves, Colonel Perry. Barbara went to her grandmother, whose face resembled Jane’s.

“What is it, Grandmama?” Barbara said. “You are not going to die because Gussy is. Stop it.”

Tony’s carriage was here. Barbara told them to go on without her.

She found the small garden near the river, the one where she’d first seen Walpole upon her return from London.

Slane would weep to know Gussy died. She wanted to weep herself. Bad luck, the Duchess of Kendall had said of Tommy’s death. Now I won’t wear the sapphire. Ten thousand pounds and Lord Bolingbroke, an infamous traitor, is forgiven. Treasonous letters and Gussy Cromwell is hanged, drawn, and quartered.

Aunt Shrew’s words were in her mind: Love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

Love or foolishness?

Simplicity or error?

Who but a saint could live it?

Chapter Fifty-eight

T
HREE DAYS, THREE NIGHTS, AND THE PETITION ASKING MERCY
for Gussy was written. Barbara sneaked Jane into St. James’s Palace. “He always passes through here on his way to walk along the gallery. He is in a meeting with his council. You may have to wait a long time.”

Windows jutted in a buttress shape, and inside this gallery, woodcarvers had carved seats into the shape. Jane sat down in one. Fly, ladybird, fly, north, south, or east or west, fly where is found the man I love best, she thought. Gussy wrote lists of things she was to do after his death. He was being allowed visitors in these last days; two people at a time might visit him in his cell. She didn’t tell him what she was doing. He would not wish her to do it.

The hardest thing I have ever had to do, thought Jane, pressing her hands together to give herself courage, was put flannel over my child’s face. It was the custom to cover the deceased’s face with a square of flannel. That was harder than this, facing a king. Would she wash Gussy’s body the way she’d washed Jeremy’s? How did one wash a headless, disemboweled body?

How did she keep her mind from breaking? Go to Virginia, Barbara had said. You and the children and your father and mother. Go to Virginia and make a place for yourself. Barbara had described the French Huguenots living above the waterfalls, their neat farms and tiny houses. Marry a Frenchman when your heart is well again, said Barbara. Have more babies, for my sake if no one else’s. Have more babies. Jane was good at that, her only triumph in this life, having babies…. She started.

Men were moving toward her down the gallery, and she’d been somewhere else in her mind, she was always somewhere else these days, not even hearing people until they were almost upon her. Jane stood up abruptly, recognizing some of them—Lord Townshend, Lord Carteret, Lord Cadogan—men in whose hallways she had sat many an hour.

She took a step and nearly fell to her knees. Her foot had gone to sleep. They were going to pass right by her. These window seats were cut so deeply into the wall that a person could disappear in them. She mustn’t disappear. They must see her. She lurched toward them like a drunken woman, her foot worthless, betraying her, not even there. What they must think, she could not imagine.

She fell against one of them, and several men moved back, their faces serious, startled. She half fell, half sank down onto her knees in what was supposed to have been a curtsy and held out the petition to the man in the middle of them, a man who looked at her with remote, light-colored eyes.

She said rapidly, “Your Majesty, I am the wife of the unfortunate Augustus Cromwell, and I humbly beg that you receive my petition—”

But the King, looking at her no more, was moving on. He did not touch the paper she held.

No, Jane thought. He must at least hear me. I will make him hear me. He must take my petition.

She reached up and caught hold of the skirt of his coat, twisting it fiercely in her hand, not even knowing what she was doing anymore, knowing only that she must be, she would be heard. But he kept on walking, and she was being dragged upon her knees across the gallery, but she didn’t care. She would not let go.

“Your Majesty, please, I beg you, only take my petition. Let me know that I have done that—Ah!”

Hands were on her, on her shoulders, her arms.

One of the King’s men pried her hand from the King’s coat skirt; another took her hard by the shoulders so that she fell back onto her elbows. The shock of it, the shame, was unimaginable. She felt seared all the way through her body.

The King was moving away, surrounded again by his gentlemen. Half sprawled in the middle of the floor, she sat where she was. The King had dragged her halfway across the gallery before his ministers could make her loose him.

God have mercy on him, she thought, for I never will. Humiliation was like a candle’s light in her, but now there was a smaller flame, too: anger.

And now here was Barbara, dear Barbara, straightening her skirts, helping her up, chafing her hands, saying her name over and over, walking her to the window seat, into which Jane sank like a rag doll, for her body felt as if it belonged to someone else.

“I cannot believe they treated you so,” Barbara was saying, and in her voice was the anger Jane could feel, far down inside herself, under the shame.

“Lady Devane.”

In another chamber, a guard called out Barbara’s name.

Barbara froze. Jane saw fear move into her expression. Barbara squeezed Jane’s hands tightly.

“I have to leave you for a while. Can you get home?”

“Yes. Are you all right?”

“No. I am in dreadful trouble.”

I did not think of that, thought Jane, what it meant for Barbara to do this for me. The King will know she placed me where I would see him.

Barbara followed the guard. In her mind was the picture of Jane being dragged across the floor as if she were nothing, the picture of three men, all of them twice Jane’s size, pulling her away from King George and leaving her as if she were nothing, in their wake.

The King was in his closet, most private of places, the little chamber attached to the bedchamber. He was standing before the fire, arms raised to the mantel, leaning into it.

The guard announced Barbara and closed the door. She was alone with the King, who raised his eyes from the fire to move them over her.

Furious, thought Barbara, he is furious.

“Never again do I want to endure such a thing. Never again will I.”

Livid, thought Barbara. I am to be dismissed.

“I dragged her across the floor upon her knees. She was weeping piteously, begging me to hear her. Do you think I have no ears, no heart?”

And now he stepped from the fireplace to face Barbara, and she wished he had stayed as he was, for he was, quite literally, trembling with rage. His eyes raked over her, furious, scathing, unforgiving.

People do not give him enough esteem, thought Barbara, a rapid, darting thought, like a summer’s bat, and she sank to the ground in a curtsy instinctively, her head and neck bowed.

“Do you think I have not seen Cromwell’s children? Do you think I do not understand that with his death they will have no father? Do you think I have not heard over and over what a good man he is, what a careful priest he was in the tending of his flock? He plotted treason against me, do you understand the meaning of that? And I cannot allow it, not the smallest part of it. I must crush it wherever I find it, and crush it I will.”

She stayed as she was as his words beat down on her. She clasped her hands together tightly.

“My granddaughters adore you, but I will not have you foment discontent and malice against me in my own household. I have family who do that.”

“May she—will you still allow the visits, her visits and the visits of friends and family?” Barbara spoke breathlessly, raggedly, each word chopped and short. “It is all they have. Please don’t deny the visits because of this. Augustus Cromwell is her husband, the father of her children. She could do nothing other than plead for his life. If your life were threatened, don’t you see that the Duchess of Kendall, that your granddaughters, would do the same, would plead for you? That is all my friend did, Your Majesty, attempt to make a plea for a beloved husband. There is no crime in that. There is only love.”

The King was silent, his expression grim, and Barbara closed her eyes. It would almost be easier if he struck me, she thought. This moment is endless. Have I lost all?

“I will not deny the visits,” he said. He held up his forefinger, warningly. “But I wish never to see her again.”

“I understand, Your Majesty.”

“You may go.”

She could feel his eyes on her, cutting through her, feel the anger still flickering out from him. As she walked back to her chamber, she thought about what an older lady-in-waiting had said about court, how heartbreaking it was, how difficult. I am to hide inconvenient friendship and heartbreak, never mention them, pretend they do not exist, she thought. That is what they expect.

I don’t know if I can do it, thought Barbara. How can I behave as if Gussy’s death doesn’t matter? What do I become if I can? What am I becoming?

“D
IANA THOUGHT
you ought to know,” Pendarves said. “It is all everyone is talking of. A dozen people saw Jane Cromwell dragged across the gallery this afternoon.”

“Is Barbara dismissed?” The question was Tony’s.

“Word is, His Majesty spoke to her, and harshly, but she won’t speak of it, and no one dares to ask him.”

“Give Diana my thanks.” The Duchess held her hands out to Pendarves, who bowed over them and left the bedchamber.

“I’ll ride out to see about Barbara,” said Tony.

“See if she will come here awhile, stay with me. Tell her I need her, Tony.”

Tony knelt. “What is it? Tell me.”

“All this. Sir John.”

The Duchess could barely get his name out. Go to Virginia? he had said. He said the word “Virginia” as if she had suggested traveling to Sodom and Gomorrah. Leave me be, Alice, please. As soon as Gussy was executed, the Duchess was leaving for Tamworth. The trial of Rochester would be the event of the spring, a final clash between the old ways and the new, but she would miss it, letting Tamworth’s woods and ways, its seasons and bees be what her eyes finally closed upon.

Tony was reaching out to her, moving her, sitting himself in her chair and putting her in his lap, as if she were a child, and he the parent. He was holding her close. They are made of playing cards, thought the Duchess, our ambitions in life. Don’t follow James, I told Richard, so that we would not live in exile or lose our fortunes in a war. If, years ago, I had allowed Richard to do as he truly wished, would things now be different? Would he be alive? Would my sons? Had she treated Barbara, treated Tony, like pieces on a chessboard, moving them to her will? What of their will? Futility and sorrow were bitter in her heart.

Chapter Fifty-nine