Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (26 page)

   "Cradock came to me, sir, not knowing what to do, seeing as the young lady seemed to be without an escort!"

   "Then why in God's name is Caesar downstairs with her? Who else have you told! Jesus Christ, man, I could kill you both! Get out of my way!"

   Roger walked swiftly from the room. Montrose wiped at his perspiring face with his handkerchief. He made no move to follow. Lord Devane would dismiss him later.

   White was patting Barbara's hand when Roger burst into the room. At the sight of him, White quickly stood up. Barbara said faintly, "Roger, I am so sorry. Please forgive me—" Roger jerked his head at White. "Tell Mrs. Bridgewater to join us immediately and"—he looked at Barbara, drooping in the chair—"tell Cradock, no one but Cradock, to bring some brandy and food immediately." His words were clipped and short, as if White were a soldier under his command. And like a soldier, White ran to do as he was told, relieved to give responsibility to someone who seemed to know what to do.

   Barbara was crying. "I do not know how this happened," she was saying. "I was walking, and then I was here. Please do not hate me, Roger. Please!"

   The angry expression on his face faded. Whatever he must have felt at seeing a sobbing fifteen-year-old, unchaperoned, in his house, paled beside her tears. She looked pitiful, and he had always had a soft spot for her, ever since she was a little girl.

   "Y-you are a-angry with me, and I do not blame you. It was a stupid, wild thing to do! Now I have disgraced my-myself in your e-e-eyes!"

   The last word turned into a wail. She covered her face with her hands. Roger, accustomed to years of women's tears, knew exactly what to do. He knelt down in front of her and held her. She gripped the lapels of his coat and sobbed against his shoulder. Part of him now wanted to laugh; the situation was really amusing. Justin would die when he saw what she was doing to his coat, yet she was crying so hard, and he would never hurt her feelings. He comforted her as expertly as he had comforted many a woman before her, thinking that with all that had been going on between Diana and him, they had completely forgotten the feelings of this child.

   "Hush, now," he comforted. "Hush now, my sweet girl."

   He felt tender toward her, an emotion that caught him off guard. It was a foolish, stupid, impetuous thing she had done, and she had his household in an uproar, and as he knelt there letting her pucker the satin on his coat, he had guests arriving in an hour—he had never felt more like laughing in his life. For the first time in weeks. But, of, course, he could not. She hiccoughed against his shoulder. He bit his lip and stroked her back. Through her cloak she was skin and bones. Were they starving her over there at Saylor House? Once again, he was struck by the realization that there was else besides himself involved in the marriage negotiations. That she might have been punished by her mother or her aunt; that he had never given it another thought as he walked out the door that afternoon at Saylor House. His selfishness appalled him.

   A cough sounded behind him. Mrs. Bridgewater, his housekeeper, stood a few feet away, taking in the fact that her employer knelt on the floor holding a weeping girl in his arms. Behind her, Cradock, his face perfectly expressionless, held a tray with brandy and food. Roger stood up, but he still held Barbara's hand. She was mortified at the way Mrs. Bridgewater was looking at her.

   "Mrs. Bridgewater," Roger said smoothly, "this is the daughter of a friend of mine, and she became lost on her walk. Luckily she recognized my house— her father and I are old friends—and knocked on my door. As you can see, the experience frightened her. I depend on your kindness to help me." He had neatly skipped over why Barbara should be taking a walk without her maid. "There is an adjoining room just here, Mrs. Bridgewater. Will you wait for me while I calm my young friend?"

   Mrs. Bridgewater did as she was told. Cradock had already laid down the tray and left the room. He had been a majordomo for too many years not to know when a crisis was at hand. He would pay for his part soon enough.

   Roger poured Barbara a little brandy. She managed to choke some down. He made her eat a little baked chicken. She ate it, and it stayed down. He pulled a chair beside her and watched her eat. If they spoke softly, Mrs. Bridgewater would not be able to hear every word. He had the feeling Barbara was about to say many foolish things. It came from years of experience. He wished to spare her as much humiliation as possible. Barbara had finished the chicken leg and ate another one. She felt better, if that were possible. She was in total disgrace and had made a complete fool of herself, but she felt better. Roger was amazingly kind.

   "You-you are leaving, soon," she said.

   "Yes, Barbara, I am. Did you come to say good-bye?"

   She blushed at the irony in his voice, but it also made her laugh a little. She looked around for something to wipe her hands on. Roger handed her his handkerchief. After she had wiped her hands and mouth, she blew her nose in it. He watched her without a word, but declined to take the handkerchief back. She wadded it into a ball in her hand.

   "I know you would like to kill me for coming here—"

   "You exaggerate, my dear."

   "But not any more than I would like to kill myself. I-I should not have, come alone. I-I know that. I really do not know how I got here—"

   "But here you are."

   "Yes." There seemed nothing more to say.

   "'May I take you home?" he asked gently.

   She nodded her head. The tears were welling up again. "You are not going to marry me, are you?"

   "No, it is not possible now. And may I say, that after today, I think I regret it very much."

   She smiled at him. Her face was swollen and her nose was red, but it was still the Saylor smile.…He was touched again as he had been that first time he had seen her and she had reminded him so of her grandfather.

   "You are very kind, Roger. And—and I know you do not mean a word of it. You might have someday. I thought I would make you fall in love with me if I had the chance. But now—well, since I am here, and it is Christmas Eve, and when I go home, I will most likely be killed—"

   He laughed, but she plunged on.

   "I have something I want to say." She looked down at the crumpled handkerchief in her hands. "I love you. I always have. I hope that your life is long and happy. That—that your future w-wife brings you joy and happiness, as I wished to. Please do not despise me for coming here today, and please do not despise me for what I am saying. I may never again have the chance, and I-I just wanted you to know." Tears were rolling down her cheeks. They fell with fat plops onto her hands.

   He could not speak. Of the many things that had been said to him, he could think of none that made him feel the way he felt at this moment— wistful, poignant, very, very old. He leaned forward and took one of her hands and gently unfolded the fist she had made in her earnestness and fear and held the palm to his mouth. Like a lover would, he kissed her palm tenderly, and then held it against his cheek. They looked at each other, and for that moment they were close. (All her life, no matter what happened, she would always remember that moment.)

   "I must take, you home, my dear."

   She nodded her head, and he released her hand. It tingled. She stood up, obedient, quiet, her cloak hanging down her back like a little girl's.

   He called for Mrs. Bridgewater and gave Barbara his hand. They walked out into the hallway, Mrs. Bridgewater following. White and Montrose and Cradock were huddled at the front of the stairs. At the sight of Roger, they broke apart like guilty children. He strolled over to them. Montrose could not help backing away slightly.

   "I want to present my dear friend, Mistress Barbara Alderley. All of you met her earlier under distressful circumstances. Mistress Alderley lost her way walking and recognized my house. I am taking her home. Cradock, send for my carriage and fetch my cloak, and one for Mrs. Bridgewater, who will accompany us. White, tell Justin I have ruined his coat. I spilled water on it. I shall need another when I return. I leave you and White to entertain any guests who might show up in my absence. I need not remind any of you that Mistress Alderley is quite embarrassed and does not want to be reminded of what has happened today."

   "My lips are sealed!"

   "Not a word will be mentioned."

   "Your cloak, sir, Mrs. Bridgewater."

   "Excellent. Gentlemen…"

   Cradock opened the door and walked them down the steps. One look passed between White and Montrose, then they broke into a run and headed for the Neptune Room, which had a clear view of the street.

   "They are getting into the carriage," White said. He was leaning against the pane of the window, his nose pressed against the glass. Montrose was two panes over. Roger had only to look up to see them, but luckily he did not do so.

   "Mrs. Bridgewater looks as if she has eaten a prune," said Montrose.

   "Lord, I would give a million pounds to know what he is thinking. He looked…tender, I thought."

   "I cannot see his face!" complained Montrose. There was an aggrieved tone in his voice. White smiled to himself.

   "I would love to be a fly on the wall at Saylor House when they arrive there," he said.

   "Or when he returns home. I have the feeling that he is not finished with us, Caesar, and I must say, I think it is entirely your fault."

* * *

   The carriage pulled into Saylor House courtyard. Barbara shuddered. Next to her, Roger patted her hand and said, "You could not help becoming lost, Bab. Remember that." It was as if he was warning her not to tell the truth, but she needed no warning. It was wonderful of him to help her this way, to escort her home. She would never forget it. If she lived.

   "Mrs. Bridgewater, you wait here," Roger told her as the carriage stopped. An expression of intense disappointment crossed the woman's face, but Roger did not want her in the house, talking to any of the Saylor servants. This story had to be stopped now.

   "Mistress Barbara!" cried Bates as he opened the door. "We were so worried."

    "Tell Lady Saylor that Lord Devane is here, and wishes to speak with her at once," said Roger.

    Beside him, Barbara was having difficulty breathing. She was afraid, far more afraid than when she stood waiting in her grandmother's withdrawing room while Annie tattled on her. She hated to face her grandmother's anger, but she hated to face her aunt's and mother's more. Behind her grandmother's anger was love. Behind her mother's and aunt's was nothing. And what she had done was nothing so simple as stealing Vicar Latchrod's church key and locking pigs in his study or riding off by herself without a groom to escort her. Her grandmother understood such things. This she would not understand. Her legs felt weak. Roger caught her arm at the elbow.

   "Courage," said Roger. "Remember our story. Stand fast to it, no matter what."

   She wanted to cry, but she had done enough of that for one day, and she hated to cry in front of other people, though you would never know it by the way she had been acting today.

   Bates opened the door to the great parlor. Never had the walk across the hallway and into that room seemed so long. It was as if her perspective of distances had become distorted. Abigail and her mother and Tony, all grouped near the fireplace, seemed far, far away. The figures in the war murals, the horses with their mouths open, the men shouting in silent screams, seemed to be closing in on her. Abigail stood with one hand on the mantelpiece. Diana sat in an armchair nearby. Tony stood by his mother. Like Roger, Abigail was expecting guests, and both she and Diana were dressed in velvet gowns and jewels. It was a question as to which one of them showed the most bosom. Abigail's was pushed up high and full, while Diana's lay more naturally. Abigail wore a turban and feathers in her hair. It was an unfortunate choice, for her face looked fat and square. Diana had on a beautiful diamond necklace. The biggest diamond fell into the valley made by her breasts. Even Tony looked splendid, in a velvet coat and a blue sash and a full, fuzzy blond wig. He watched Barbara gravely as she came forward, her hand on Roger's arm. Abigail's hand tightened on the mantle as she watched them walk forward. Diana's eyes flicked from Barbara's face to Roger's and then back again.

   Ignoring Abigail, Roger led Barbara to Diana.

   "I return your daughter, Diana; it seems she went for a walk and lost her way. Luckily I found her. Here she is, unharmed, untouched, but extremely upset, though I have assured her you will deal kindly with her."

   "Have you indeed?" Diana's eyes flicked over Barbara. What Barbara saw in them made her hold on to herself and not cry, at least until Roger was gone.

   "Thank you, Lord Devane. Indebted to you. Worried. Thought Bab had done something crazy. Mother upset, you know, Christmas Eve and all. Something to drink?" Tony had come forward and was speaking earnestly to Roger.

   Abigail closed her eyes. Roger was their mortal enemy and Tony was offering him something to drink. Roger saw her look and had the audacity to grin at her when she opened her eyes. She scowled at him. He made a sweeping, graceful bow. Even Abigail had to admit he looked magnificent.

   "Thank you, no. I, too, have guests expected. I only wanted to ensure that Barbara got home safely." He picked up Barbara's limp hand, but this time he did not kiss it.

   "Courage, little one," he said softly, but Barbara was not looking at him, she was looking at her mother.

   With another ironic bow, he walked from the room, with Tony escorting him.

The door closed behind them. The silence in the great parlor could be cut with a knife. Barbara shivered. The room was cold, as cold as her mother's heart. She waited. No one said a word. She swallowed and began.

   "It—it is true." Her normally low voice came out high and strained. "I saw the gate open. I—I only wanted to take a little walk. I—"

   "Did you sleep with him?"