Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (24 page)

   "It is fashionable to be late," she assured Jane. "I am certain Lady Alderley is never on time." Maude was excited almost beyond bearing that she was to meet the notorious Lady Alderley. She had followed Diana's exploits for years in the veiled references, the cheap–news sheets printed: "Lady D-A seen in Lord F-R's carriage late Thursday night after the Queen's assembly." Diana was a disgrace to her name, to her dead father, to her noble mother, and Maude was dying to meet her.

   Inside, she was made almost speechless by the grandeur and symmetry of the hall, but she pulled herself together and shook out her gown and patted at her curls and grandly handed her cloak to the waiting footman. Her eyes fell on the matching side tables against the walls.

   "One hundred guineas if they are a penny!" she hissed to Jane.

   She frowned at Jane and her long arms came out like those of a crab and pinched Jane's pale cheeks. "Honestly," she had told her husband just the other night, "I do not know what we are going to do with that girl! It is a good thing she is already engaged. I should never be able to interest a young man in her. She has no life, no spirit, and no dash. You can say what you want, Edgemont, but I had dash!" Craning her neck upward to the spacious landing, with its loop after loop of holly, she and Jane passed by the portraits of the Duke and Duchess. "Ancestors," Maude whispered to Jane. Jane hardly even looked.

   They followed Bates to a side door in the hall. Maude immediately searched for the breathtakingly beautiful, bad Lady A, but saw only a pretty, blonde young woman and a girl about Jane's age. The girl had an odd look on her face, as if she were about to be sick.

   Barbara ran forward to hug Jane. Jane seemed a piece of home, a piece of Tamworth. Holding her hand, she introduced her to Fanny, smiling, but her mind kept going to Roger's face, and she had no idea what she was saying. Her face began to feel stiff. She felt sick.

   Jane blinked back unexpected tears. Barbara and Harry had the same smile, overwhelming, lighting up their faces and the recipient's heart. Oh, Harry. She was so glad to see Barbara, but in the corner of her heart, like a worm, was envy. Jane tried to ignore it, but Barbara looked so fashionable in her gown and new hairstyle. She seemed so at home in this huge, magnificent house. At Tamworth, the Saylors' great wealth and influence was forgotten. Here it was evident in every fold of the draperies, in every gesture Fanny made as she welcomed them. And Barbara was to marry an earl, while Jane had Gussy. Of course, their stations in life were different, always had been. Jane's father was a prosperous farmer and knight, while Barbara's was a viscount and her grandfather was a duke. But it had been forgotten at Tamworth, not emphasized. She was a fool to have ever thought of Harry! A fool! Her heart hurt worse than ever. She should not have come.

   Fanny, her eyes fastened to Maude's hat, gestured toward a small, oval table surrounded by four armchairs. Maude swept toward the table.

   "Is this not quaint? It is so tiny! Designed specifically for tea!"

   With difficulty, she restrained herself from turning over a teacup and looking at the signature of the manufacturer. She would do it later, when no one was looking. She asked about Lady Alderley and was disappointed to hear she was busy. She contented herself with noting every detail of Fanny's hairstyle and gown and with memorizing the room. The velvet draperies were held back with tassels of thick silver thread; they had a patterned paper on the walls; there was a piece of furniture she had never seen that looked like a series of armchairs linked together with a common cushion; two people could easily sit on it. She determined to buy herself a tea table.

   Jane and Barbara were whispering as Fanny began to pour tea. Maude had warned Jane that Barbara might be changed, might be less friendly, but to Jane, Barbara only seemed nervous and unusually pale. She kept glancing toward the door, as if she expected someone else to enter.

   '"Have you heard from Harry?" Jane whispered.

   Barbara shook her head no, and Jane felt better. Will this never end? Barbara was thinking. I cannot endure it.

   "—Lord Devane, you naughty puss," Maude was saying to Barbara. She had missed the first part. "You are a lucky girl! He is the handsomest man I have ever seen. He is! When is the wedding?"

   Fanny choked on her tea. Maude leaned over and slapped her several times on the back. When she could speak, she quickly asked Maude where she had bought her hat.

   "Oh, you like it?" cried Maude, touching its drooping brim. "I knew you would! I have an eye for things, for fashion especially. It is a gift, you know. Jane has not an ounce of taste but I help her—"

   Barbara stood up. She could not stand it. The three women stared at her. "Excuse me," she choked. "I—I must leave."

   "Barbara!" cried Fanny, but she ran out the door. Maude stared after her, her astonishment obvious.

   "Is she ill? How very odd!"

   Fanny put down her tea. "Do excuse me. I shall be right back."

   In the hallway, Bates was handing Roger his hat and cane. Barbara called his name. He turned to her. His eyes were like sapphires. His face was pinched about the nostrils.

   "Roger, what is it?"

   She was used to people who raged when they were angry; this quiet anger was something that frightened her. He reached out and touched her cheek. Like a kitten, she nuzzled her cheek against his hand, but he shook his head, dropped his hand, and walked away toward the door, which Bates was holding open. Bates was carefully not looking at either of them.

   "What is it?" she repeated.

   But he never turned around. She followed him all the way to the door, and he never turned around. Bates closed the door and he was gone. Her mother and aunt stood in the doorway of the great parlor, watching. She could feel the tension radiating from them as she ran over to them. Fanny stood in the side door, her mouth a round O. Behind her shoulder was Maude.

   "What happened?" Barbara shrieked the words at her mother. She was past caring what anyone thought. "What did you do? I hate you!"

   "Go to your room at once!" said her aunt.

   "It is over," said her mother.

   Barbara felt something crashing inside her.

   "Oh no, oh no, oh no!" she cried. Fanny was at her side, holding her. Be quiet, her aunt was saying. Hush now, hush, darling, Fanny was saying. But she could not be quiet. She could not hush. Her heart was breaking. Could they not hear it? She had lost Roger, her beautiful Roger, before she had ever really had him. It was not fair. It was not fair to have offered him and then taken him away. It was better to have never had the chance than this.

   Without a word, Fanny led her up the stairs. Below, Abigail, Maude, Jane, Diana, Bates, and the two hall footmen watched until Barbara and Fanny finally disappeared down a corridor off the landing. Barbara's sobs were the only sound.

   "Who is that woman?" Diana suddenly said.

   Maude, who was staring at her with avid eyes now that the scene with Barbara was over, blinked.

   Abigail stared. She had completely forgotten about Maude and Jane, and there they were, in the middle of the hallway, witnesses to the appalling thing that had just occurred. She closed her eyes for a moment, then straightened her shoulders and swept forward.

   "I am Lady Saylor," she said in her grandest mother–of–a–duke voice. "You must be Mrs. Berkley. And you dear must be Jane. Barbara has told us so much about you. Diana, come here. Surely you know Jane—"

   Jane shuddered as Diana came forward, her mouth smiling in that cruel way she had. Beside her, her aunt was practically quivering with her effort to take in as much detail about Diana as she could.

   "Know her," said Diana. "I know her intimately. She tried to marry my Harry."

   Maude gasped. Jane turned white and then flushed a dark red that stained her neck as well as her face. Her embarrassment was painful to see. Abigail sighed. How like Diana to do this. Now, when she needed help. When these two women were gone, she was going to tell Diana exactly what she thought of her—except that that might risk Bentwoodes. Well, she was going to tell her what she thought of Barbara. Acting in such a way! In front of everyone! Shocking! Appalling! Oh, dear, the girl Jane looked as if she were going to cry at any minute.

   "Forgive me, Mrs. Berkley, but this is a bad time for all of us. May I suggest that you take Jane home? She does not look well."

   "What?" Maude started and tore her gaze from the unscrupulous Diana. "Jane, are you ill? Come, pet, come right now and Aunt Maudie will make you one of her special headache cordials. Good day to you, Lady Saylor, Lady Alderley." Maude and Diana exchanged stiff nods like two men do before they fall on each other, fighting.

   "Thank goodness they have left," Maude heard Diana say just as the door was closing behind her. Her thin bosom heaved. In their carriage, Jane burst into tears.

   "Well!" said Maude. "Can you imagine! Such rudeness! She is all they said she was! How dare she speak to you so—beautiful, though. And older than I. I wonder how—Jane, do not snivel! Did you see Lord Devane? I caught just a glimpse of him! A handsome man! Barbara is a lucky girl—here; take my handkerchief—was a lucky girl. Poor thing! What manners! I would never have dared speak to my mother so! But he is too old for her. A man such as he needs a mature woman—a woman my age, to hold his interest—"

   Jane leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. She gave her aunt her handkerchief. The way Diana had looked at her. What she had said. She shuddered. She had a terrible headache. But at least she had never acted like Barbara. She remembered the way she had cried and begged her parents' forgiveness. Her one act of rebellion had been to try to meet Harry. She was a good girl, an obedient girl. Now Barbara was the same as she was. It did no good to be headstrong. She should feel sorry, but deep down she was glad, glad that Barbara would experience some of the pain she felt. Barbara sitting in that beautiful room in that beautiful house in her beautiful gown with her cousin so well-mannered and polite. Now Barbara would know how it felt to cry every day, until it seemed there were no more tears left—only there were and they would be back again. Her face would feel dry and stretched and empty from them. And the person she loved would wear a groove into her mind until she thought she would drop from the exhaustion of thinking about him. Yes, Barbara, strong Barbara, lovely Barbara, would now see how everyone else felt. Unexpectedly, she began to cry again. Without a pause in her monologue against the manners of the children of this generation, interspersed with various comments about the house and the gowns Fanny and Abigail and Diana had worn, her aunt handed her back the handkerchief.

Chapter Five

Barbara lay on her bed, exhausted. Abigail and Diana stood looking down at her, furious with her, with her stubbornness. They had been talking to her for a long time, and she was so tired. She knew she was rebelling against everything she had been taught; she knew that she had made a public scene, yet the will inside her would not allow her to bend. The more they pleaded, argued and threatened, the more set she became, even though she knew she could not win.

   "Be reasonable. He is too old. I will find you someone younger. I know any number of young men," her aunt said.

   "I want Roger," Barbara flung at her.

   "I will beat you until you cannot walk," Diana said.

   Although Abigail stood by Barbara's bed, Diana kept farther back. She spoke to Barbara from a distance, as she always had.

   "And I will still want Roger!" Barbara screamed the words at Diana.

   "He is too dissolute," said her aunt. "His friends are among the most notorious in London. He would never make a good husband."

   "I love him."

   "Love!" snorted Abigail, who secretly wished Diana would beat her, beat her until she finally closed her mouth, could no longer set that chin and argue like a female devil. Where was the obedience, the docility a young woman her age should have, if not naturally, then through rigorous training? It was obvious that Diana had neglected her duties as a mother, and just as obvious that the Duchess was going soft in her old age. If any daughter of Abigail's had ever dared talk to her so, she would have locked her away until she came to her senses, which is exactly what needed to be done to Barbara. Her impudence was unbearable.

   "You are fifteen," she said. "You know nothing of love! You have seen Roger Montgeoffry a bare handful of times—"

   "Less than that," interrupted Diana. "He has hardly been ardent in his visiting." Barbara bit her lip. But the stubborn set to her chin did not change. Her face was swollen from crying, and everything they were saying made her cry more, but she would not, could not, give up.

   "Heaven help me if my parents had allowed me to marry the boy I thought I loved at fifteen!" said Abigail.

   "My parents did allow me," said Diana. "And you see what a wise choice I made. We are doing this for your own good."

   "You made a promise! You broke your promise to me and to Roger!"

   Diana's face became even colder. "The choice has been made. You have to submit. And you will…sooner or later." Her low voice was soft, chilling. Barbara shuddered, but set her chin even harder. She would not show her mother she was afraid; she would not.

   Abigail took a deep breath. "A girl must marry as her parents decide. We are older and wiser and know more about life—"

   "You are not my parent!" Tears were streaming down Barbara's face. "You want Bentwoodes! You—you do not care what happens to me! You just want Bentwoodes!"

   "You need to be beaten," Abigail said in a shaking voice. "If you were mine, I would beat you until you screamed for mercy! You are rebellious, rude, ill– mannered, thoughtless, and selfish! As far as I am concerned, you may rot in this room! I shall be damned if I will help you!"

   The door slammed behind them. Barbara felt as if any moment her head would burst open, it ached so. Every part of her ached.

   "Bread and water tonight, nothing more," she heard her mother say. "Door locked at all times," she heard her aunt say.

   She turned her head in the pillow and sobbed.

   Outside, Abigail leaned against the wall of the corridor, upset over her outburst to Barbara. It seemed that Barbara had the same effect on her as Diana did; both could make her angry; both could make her say things she regretted.

   "I do not think Barbara will accept another marriage offer now," Diana said, with wonderful perceptiveness.

   "We will send her back to Tamworth in a week or so," Abigail said. She was exhausted from it all, the scene with Roger, Barbara's hysterics, Maude and Jane being there, Barbara's further hysterics and tears. She had not had a moment's peace since Diana had come back to London. "A year or so alone in the country with only an old woman for company will quiet her down. She will be glad by then to take any offer suggested to her."

   "And Bentwoodes?"

   Diana had no subtlety. "It would look odd for us to transfer it right away, Diana. Let all this settle. Roger will be gone in less than a month, we will do it then." And meanwhile, she would have to watch Diana like a hawk, or she would sell the land out from under her. And she would have to be careful with Tony, who had not been himself lately. Nothing was going quite as she had planned, but somehow they all had to get through the next few days, when London would be whispering the gossip. Christmas was around the corner, there were card parties and dinners planned here at Saylor House. There must be no behavior from Barbara that fed the gossip. She must behave herself, or she would literally stay in her room on bread and water until Abigail determined it was time to send her to Tamworth. It was the Duchess's fault as much as anyone's that the girl knew nothing about obedience about familial duty. Let the Duchess deal with her! Meanwhile, she would send Fanny—dear Fanny, upset by all the emotion, so softhearted—to talk some sense into that mule–headed child.

   At a knock on the door, Barbara sat up and rubbed at her eyes. She must have fallen asleep, her head felt as if it were stuffed with flannel; she felt ill. She heard a key being turned—already her door was locked. Fanny walked in.

   "Oh, my dear," said Fanny, running to her and kissing her. Barbara began to cry again. Fanny rocked her back and forth in her arms until she was able to stop. She stroked her hair and began to talk softly of marriage and its responsibilities. Of its not being up to a woman, who was weaker and lesser in the eyes of God, to decide whom she could marry. Of the strength and Christian love there was in accepting whatever God willed and making the best of it. She spoke of the responsibility a parent had to make the best marriage possible, of there being things other than love upon which to base a marriage, things such as background, comfort, compatibility. To all of this, Barbara shook her head while tears streamed down her swollen face.

   "I love him, Fanny."

   Fanny sighed and went to the water basin and wrung out a rag, made Barbara lie down and patted her face. The rag was cool and soothing, like Fanny's carefully chosen words.

   "We were created from man's rib; were we not told to be in subjugation to our husbands? And to our parents? It is our duty to do as our parents so desire. It is God's will. I know you know this, Barbara, in your heart. I cannot believe Grandmama has brought you up in any other way."

   Barbara gulped and turned her head away. It was true. Her grandmother had brought her up to do her duty, to be aware of her weaknesses and her duties as a woman. Yet somehow, her grandmother had always seemed to respect her feelings, had treated them as if they were as important as Harry's. She knew she was being rebellious and awful, but she could not help herself. Finally, Fanny went away. In a little while, the door opened again. She heard the sound of someone setting something down. The door closed. The key turned. She sat up, but it was difficult for her to see. Martha had not lit the candles, and her eyes were hurting. She walked dizzily into the little room that connected to the corridor. There on a table was a silver tray with a jug of water and a plate holding a few slices of white bread. Barbara climbed back into her bed. It did not matter, she felt too sick to eat.

   By the next morning, her stomach ached for food. She had not eaten since luncheon the day before, having been far too upset to eat any of the delicious creamy cakes made for tea. Last night she had been unable to do more than sip at the water and nibble on the bread before she began retching. This morning she felt ravenous, but Martha had come in during the night while she was asleep and removed the tray. Martha was too hard–hearted even to leave her the dry crusts. How long were they going to keep her on bread and water? How long could she last? And what was the point? They were correct; all of them. A girl did as her parents wished; she knew that; she had been raised on it. It was just that she had become so excited at the thought of having Roger, she had allowed herself to build a hazy, light-filled dream in which he was her husband and they lived happily ever after. If her mother had never mentioned Roger, she would not have dreamed the dream, except sometimes. She would have done her duty. She had behaved badly; it shamed her so that she writhed at the thought of it, the words of apology to her aunt, and her mother would choke her. How she hated to be wrong! For now, until she could not stand it any longer, she wanted to be alone. She could take another day or two of bread and water. Then apologize. She sat down in the window seat and stared out at the gardens. Bare and brown and cold, like her heart. Oh, Roger, I will always love you. They cannot take that from me. From somewhere, tears seeped up and filled her eyes and fell with fat plops onto her gown. The key turned. She did not even bother to look. She would never look at that sullen Martha again. She wanted her grandmother to come and make everything better.

   "Bab! You—you look awful!"

   It was Tony, leaning over her and patting one of her hands, but above and beyond Tony was the smell of food, the smell of fried bacon and coffee! She leapt off the window seat and ran to the tray of food be had brought. She pushed crisp bacon and chunks of buttered, soft bread in her mouth. She dipped her finger in the jam and sucked it greedily. Food! Tony was an angel. She gorged herself, wiping greasy fingers on her gown like a peasant. It filled her stomach; it fed her courage. Each mouthful seemed to make the day brighter, her future less bleak. Suddenly, the food stuck in her throat, and her stomach heaved. She was going to be sick—she ran for her chamber pot and leaned over and everything she had eaten came up in chewed, smelly pieces. She retched and retched until she thought she would faint. The final bitter, yellow bile that came up burned her throat.

   When she had finished she made her way, holding on to the wall, to a basin and rinsed out her mouth. Tony, who had been hovering helplessly nearby, took her by the arm and led her to a chair. He knelt in front of her.

   "Bab. You are sick. Let me call Mother!"

   "No!"

   "You look terrible. What can I do?"

   "I am in disgrace, Tony."

   "I know. Everyone does. Heard you all over the house. You—you love him very much, do you not, Bab?"

   The tears were there again, closing her throat. She looked away and nodded her head. He clumsily patted her hand.

   "You are very kind." She wiped at her eyes. The heartache was as fresh as if a day had not already gone by, it hurt even more. How was she ever going to endure it? Her body was vibrating with it, the smell of the food made her sick. Dear sweet Jesus, help me. Oh, Grandmama. She looked at Tony.

   "What, Bab? Anything, short of abducting Roger. Told Mother not to keep you locked up. She is a good girl, I said. Headstrong. But good. Told her it was my house. Brought you food. Did not mean to make you sick."

   She laughed feebly. His big, round, placid, white face was so earnest and serious. He was a big love.

   "How brave of you, Tony."

   "Mother is angry at me. Do not like it."

"
Tony, listen—I want to write a letter to Grandmama, and I want you to post it for me. It must be a secret, Tony, because Aunt Abigail would never let me send it. All I am going to do is ask her to come and take me home. I will let you read it. Will you do it for me, please, Tony?"

   He took a while to think about it. Then nodded his head.

   "Oh, Tony." She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Then she got up walking slowly, like an invalid, into the next room to her little writing desk. Tony touched his fingers to his lips, a delicate, tender gesture.

   Her hands were shaking so that she spilled ink and blotted her letters, but she managed to write, "Come to London, Grandmama. I am in desperate trouble. I have been bad. Please, please come. Your loving granddaughter, Barbara Alice Constance Alderley."

   She scattered sand everywhere drying the ink. She needed her grandmother. She could endure anything if her grandmother were with her. She would make it better. Oh, she needed her. The pain was so bad.

   Tony took the letter, folded it and put it inside his pocket. He took Barbara's hands in his.

   "Told Mother you would behave yourself. Will you, Bab?"

   "I will try, Tony. It just hurts so."

   Somehow, she was in his arms. He was tall, and she only came to his shoulders, but they were nice shoulders, comforting shoulders, and he did not seem to mind that she was crying on his good coat. He was so dear.

   Her door remained unlocked, and Martha brought her trays of food, food she could do little but pick at. She had no interest in it, and too much made her sick. She stayed another day in her room, then straightened her shoulders and went to apologize to her aunt and her mother, both of whom she found in her aunt's withdrawing chamber. Diana sat at a card table playing solitaire. The tables had been designed during the reign of the late Queen Anne, when card playing had become so popular. They seated four people, and each corner of the table featured a sconce in which to hold a candle. Diana barely looked up from the cards that were lying across the parquet squares of the tabletop. The deck she was playing with had drawings on one side of King George landing on the shores of England, saluting the English flag, being met by important members of Parliament. Once there had been a deck of cards that celebrated her grandfather's victory at Lille.

   Seething inside, Abigail listened to Barbara's mumbled apologies. That Tony should have countermanded her orders was beyond belief. She did not know what was happening to the boy; she only knew this girl had something to do with it. Abigail indulged in a long lecture on Barbara's behavior, a lecture Barbara found very hard to bear. It had taken all her will to make herself apologize. Her pride was bruised, throbbing, and her aunt's words were like salt. She gritted her teeth and tried to concentrate on home, on Tamworth, on her grandmother and her brothers and sisters. Her aunt was saying something about confining her to the house throughout the Christmas season, about having her stay in her rooms during the festivities as Mary had to, since Barbara had the manners of a nursery child anyway. That was fine. She had no wish to celebrate this season. Diana never said a word; she only continued idly slapping the cards against the table.