Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (14 page)

   Barbara and Father James were climbing up more dark, twisting stairs, much narrower than the others. Her side was beginning to hurt from the climbing and the tightness of her stays. Father James unlocked a door and gestured for her to precede him. She stepped outside onto an intricately railed gallery circling the base of the lantern. She caught her breath, put both hands on the railing, and leaned forward. She was high, high above the city, up in the sky like a bird. The wind snatched at her cloak and hair and chilled her through to her bones, but she did not care. London spread before her in every direction she looked, a patchwork of tiled roofs, church spires, chimney stacks, narrow lanes, broad roads, the shining ribbon of the Thames, and finally fields and pastures merging into the overcast sky at its border.

   "It is not a day for it," said Father James beside her, "but to my mind, it is the finest view in the world. I have never been anywhere else; yet all our foreign visitors say so. And I cannot help but think that God in His beauty could not have created anything finer."

   When they were back inside, as soon as Roger and her mother walked up to her, even as she was breathing heavily, trying to get her breath back from all those stairs, she was aware that something had happened. It was in both their faces. Roger, who had wanted her to see the cathedral, now seemed anxious to leave. Father James took them to the effigy of John Donne, standing straight and tall in his niche, his marble eyes closed, his body encased in a marble shroud.

   "He was a dean of St. Paul's," Father James said to Barbara. "This statue is the only one from the old church to survive the fire intact."

   She stared up at Donne's severe, bearded face. "He posed for his effigy during his last illness, clothing himself in a shroud, and then keeping the portrait of his effigy by his bedside as a reminder of man's mortality."

   At that moment, a clerk approached them and said that Dean Sherlock, hearing that they were in the church, wished them to take tea with him. Diana sighed and Roger started to make an excuse, but seeing Barbara's face, seeing that she had correctly read his impatience to leave, agreed. They followed the clerk through a doorway and down a hall and up a flight of stairs to a room lined with books, its tables littered with papers. An old man with dark piercing eyes stood before the fire. Another, much younger, man sat beside a tea table piled with food, scones, biscuits, crumbling cake, and bread and butter. Diana opened her eyes wider at the sight of the young man: he was in his mid–twenties and handsome in a beefy, overfed way. Both men wore black, flowing gowns over their clothes and short, full wigs. Roger took Barbara's hand and led her to the man before the fire.

   "Dean Sherlock," he said, "this is a young friend of mine, Mistress Barbara Alderley. You know her grandmother, the Duchess of Tamworth. And Lady Alderley you know, I believe."

   Dean Sherlock nodded frostily in Diana's direction. She lifted one dark brow and curtsied.

   "I know your grandmother," Sherlock said to Barbara. "She argues as precisely as a fifth–year student at university, and did so any time my sermons did not please her. I miss her astringent presence. She kept me on my toes. You have the look of your grandfather, a fine man and a good Christian. Your grandmother does well, I hope?"

   Before Barbara could answer, Diana said, "My mother does beautifully, thank you."

   Sherlock pursed his lips. It was obvious he did not approve of Diana, and just as obvious that she did not care.

   "I thought you lured us here for tea," Roger said.

   "Tea…ah yes. Come, let us sit here, where Julian—he is my secretary— will serve us. Lady Alderley, Lord Devane, Mistress Alderley, my secretary, Julian Weathersby."

   They all nodded to one another, and Diana smiled slowly, brilliantly, with a great show of small, white teeth to Weathersby, who blinked. Diana sat down gracefully and batted her eyes at him.

   "The tea, Julian," said Sherlock.

   Weathersby started. Then he began to pour tea and pass around plates of food.

   "We were just admiring John Donne's effigy," Roger said to Sherlock. "An admirable man; I maintain his best writing was temporal, rather than spiritual."

   "And I maintain that it was a combination of both," said Sherlock.

   "You straddle the fence."

   "Not at all, my dear boy. But come, we bore your young friend."

   Everyone's eyes focused on Barbara, who was just taking a sip of tea. She choked. "No! Not at all. Please! Please, do go on!"

   Sherlock nodded his head approvingly. He held up a finger, as if he were ready to begin a lecture. "A short background might be in order. Would you care to hear it, Mistress Alderley?"

   "Oh, yes."

   "And I will have more tea," Diana said in her low, husky voice to Weathersby. He poured it at once, and she sipped it slowly, her violet eyes on him. Now and again he glanced at her and then quickly away.

   Dean Sherlock settled more comfortably in his seat. He sniffed, then began to talk in a dry, lecturing tone. "He was a great man, Mistress Alderley, an unusual man, a sinner who found God's way. In his youth, he loved wine, women, and poetry—"

   "As who does not?" Roger smiled.

   Sherlock ignored him. "He was the son of an ironmonger, of Roman Catholics. He went to both Oxford and Cambridge, taking his degree at neither. He was admitted to Lincoln's Inn as a law student, but he never finished. He served as a gentleman volunteer in the Earl of Essex's expeditions at Cádiz and Azores, which seemed to have partially quenched his taste for adventure, for when he returned home, he became secretary to Egerton, the lord keeper, and even sat as a member of Parliament. But fate—in the guise of love—interfered—"

   "How poetically you put it," said Roger.

   Sherlock sniffed, "He fell in love with his master's niece, Anne More, and married her. Her father was furious and had him thrown into prison and dismissed from his post as secretary. Her father even brought a lawsuit to test the marriage—"

   "Donne is said to have signed his letters to friends at this time as John Donne, Anne Donne, Undone." Roger smiled at Barbara, his eyes crinkling in the corners. She smiled back.

   "Oh, dear," Diana said softly, "I have spilled my tea." She looked at Weathersby, who immediately handed her his handkerchief. The stain was on the bodice of her gown, just above and around where her nipple would be. She rubbed at it with the handkerchief. Her nipple grew stiff and pointed through the fabric of her gown. He could not take his eyes from it. She looked at him.

   "I need your help," she said. "Will you try to see if you can remove it?"

   He swallowed and glanced at Roger and Sherlock, but they were deep in their discussion. He leaned forward and took the handkerchief. It hovered just above her breast.

   "Perhaps we had better move here near the window, where the light is better and we can see what we are doing," said Diana. Weathersby nodded.

   "After his dismissal," Sherlock was saying, "it took him some thirteen years before he finally found his true vocation—the church. From then on his rise was rapid. Preaching was his forte, Mistress Alderley, not poetry, as Lord Devane insists, though I concede he was a good poet. St. Paul's—the old St. Paul's—was completely crowded on the days he preached, and he left us the legacy of his thoughts in his
Devotions,
written when he was ill."

   "The world lost a fine poet to the church," said Roger. "Listen to this, Barbara. It is from a poem to his mistress.

   "License my roving hands, and let them go

   Before, behind, between, above, below.

   O my America! my new–found–land,

   My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,

   My mine of precious stones, my empery,

   How blest am I in this discovering thee!

   To enter in these bonds is to be free;

   Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.

   "There are other lines I could recite, but will not, for your innocence," Roger said.

   Someday, Barbara thought, I will ask you about those lines, Roger, and you will tell me.

   Sherlock held up a finger. "That same man wrote, 'No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to 'know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.'"

   They were silent. Sherlock sniffed. "I rest my case. That was from his
Devotions upon Emergent Occasions
." No one spoke. Sherlock leaned over and smiled at Barbara. His teeth were brown with tobacco stains.

   "You have been a good, patient child to put up with an old man's prattling. How old are you, dear?"

   "Nearly sixteen, sir."

   "Time to be thinking of a husband and family, Lady Alderley."

   From the window, Diana looked over at him. She had been enjoying herself with Weathersby.

   "It is time this girl was married," he said.

   "The thought has crossed my mind."

   "Julian!"

   Weathersby jumped and moved back instinctively from the dangerous Diana.

   "Find
The Lady's New–Year Gift.
It is there on the fourth shelf by the Greek testaments. I will give it to you, young Mistress Alderley. It was written by Lord Halifax to his daughter."

   Sherlock took the slim volume handed to him, pursed his lips, sniffed and opened the book. Its thin pages rustled in his hands. He ran his finger down the pages.

   "Religion…husbands…here. Listen, young lady. 'It is one of the disadvantages belonging to your sex that young women are seldom permitted to make their own choice; their friends' care and experience are thought safer guides to them than their own fancies; and their modesty often forbiddeth them to refuse when their parents recommend, though their inward consent may not entirely go along with it. In this case, there remaineth nothing for them to do
,
but to endeavor to make that easy which falleth to their lot, and by a wise use of every thing they may dislike in a husband, turn that by degrees to be very supportable, which if neglected, might in time beget an aversion."

   Barbara did not know how to reply. She had no aversion to her parent's choice. Sherlock handed her the book.

   "You keep it. Study it. It will make you a better daughter, and God willing, a better wife."

   Roger stood up
.
"She must read it, then, by all means. See that you do so, Barbara. Dean Sherlock, you have more than entertained us with your interesting conversation, you have edified us. But I must see this young lady and her mother home before dark." Weathersby offered to walk with them to the carriage. He tucked the fur throws carefully about Diana and Barbara's legs. Diana, watching him, smiled. As the carriage lurched away Roger said, "Do you always find someone to flirt with?"

   Diana tossed her head. "If I can. It helps to pass the time. What a pompous old windbag Sherlock is! He hates me. He always has! Old ass!"

   Embarrassed, Barbara glanced at Roger, but he was knocking his cane against the ceiling of the carriage, which obediently lurched to a stop.

   "I want Barbara to see the monument commemorating the great fire," he said. It was now so cold that his breath made little puffs of smoke with each word.

   "Do hurry!" Diana called after them, "I am ready to go home!"

   It was dusk, but not so dark that Barbara could not see a Doric column rising up into the sky, higher than the buildings around it.

   "Charles II had this built to commemorate the great fire, the one that destroyed St. Paul's and the surrounding acres," Roger explained. They walked around its square base. Two sides held Latin inscriptions relating a history of the fire and what had been done to rebuild the city. Roger helped Barbara translate them. A fourth side was an English inscription accusing Roman Catholics of being the authors of the fire in hopes of destroying the Protestant religion.

   "Is that true?" she asked.

   "Some people believe the fire was a warning from God, against man's ungodliness. Others, as you see, think it a plot. When James II was king, a Catholic king, mind you, he had the inscription erased. When he was overthrown by William III, a Protestant king, the inscription was out deeper. I think it a symbol of man's ignorance."

   Something in his face made her say quickly, "Do you not believe in God?"

   It was obvious her question surprised him. "When I am in St. Paul's I believe with all my heart. But when I am anywhere else, I confess I doubt He exists!"

   "But that is heresy!"

   He laughed and she felt foolish. Back in the carriage, she thought, He is the first person I have ever known who does not believe in God. She had been raised with God as one of the cornerstones of her life. It had never occurred to her to question His existence. That Roger did so was upsetting. Her mother's next words put the subject completely out of her head.

   "When do you leave for France, Roger?"

"Around the twenty–third of January. I am anxious to leave. They will still be celebrating Carnival. Then I shall summer in Hanover if the king goes there and also stop in Italy. So you can see why I wish our affair settled."

   "Yes, I can see."

   Barbara had become as still as one of the statues they had just seen in St. Paul's. She was doing some rapid figuring. In a little over six weeks Roger would be gone. And it sounded as if he would not be back for months! Her mother had not said one word to her. She had thought they might be married by spring. Now it looked as if it would be almost a year. A year was forever.

   The carriage stopped. A ragged child ran forward with a basket in which bunches of winter violets and holly were tied together. Roger bought two and gave one to Barbara and one to Diana. He walked with them up to their lodging, chucked Barbara under the chin and told her to be sure to read Sherlock's book, but he declined to stay, and he did not say when he would call again. Barbara stood staring out the parlor window after his carriage. She had not taken off her cloak; the slim volume Sherlock had given her was still in one gloved hand. She turned around. Diana sat at a table working on a column of figures. Her face was absorbed. She had already poured herself a glass of wine. Clemmie was back in a chair in front of the one fire they were allowed a day. Her slippers were off, and her feet were dirty. She picked at her teeth—what few she had left—with a whittled piece of wood. The room was shabby again. Here and there, pieces of its borrowed finery were missing. Returned, no doubt, before the rental could add up. Barbara looked down at the violets in her hand. They were already wilting. She unfastened her cloak and took off her gloves. She poured some water from a pitcher into a cup and put the violets and holly into the water. Balancing an unlit candle and the book in one hand and the violets in the other, she went into her room and shut the door. She lit the candle and then sat on her bed to read. She opened the book, smoothing back the title page until she came to the first page of text. She began to read the tiny, cramped words: "Dear Daughter, I find that even our most pleasing thoughts will be unquiet; they will be in motion; and the mind can have no rest whilst it is possessed by a daring passion. You are at the present chief object of my care…"