Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (28 page)

   Bates came into the room. Abigail noticed that his face was red with excitement. As she struggled to take in the awful, terrible words that he was saying, she realized that her cup was not full. The Lord had more for her. She could not believe this was happening to her. It was a horrid nightmare, and she was going to wake up, and it would be two weeks before Christmas and Diana still in Covent Garden. And she was going to leave her there.

   "Madame!" Bates repeated "The Duchess is here. It is her carriage in the drive. I would know it anywhere."

   Diana, who had been smiling at Harold, to Fanny's annoyance, stood up slowly, her smile fading. There was no expression on her face, but underneath the rouge, her face paled. Tony had jumped up and was already out of the room, followed by Fanny and Harold and Mary, while Abigail struggled to comprehend what was happening.

   She stood up, and like a prisoner in a dream, walked slowly into the hallway. Diana, even more slowly, followed her. Barbara appeared at the top of the landing and flew down the stairs. How did she know? thought Abigail. Was she a witch? Had she put a curse on them? Barbara ran past Tony and Fanny and Harold, past Bates, past the footmen waiting on the steps. An ancient carriage stood in the drive. The coachman leaned into its opened door, talking to someone. Behind the carriage was a cart piled to the brim with furniture. Barbara could recognize the posts from her grandmother's bed. There were other large, rectangular bundles covered with layers of soft leather that would prove to be a selection of the Duchess's favorite small tables from Tamworth, and a portrait of the duke, all items the Duchess considered necessary to her comfort when she traveled.

   "Hurry it up, man! These children are half dead with cold, and so am I!"

   It was her grandmother's voice, made even gruffer by the journey. Barbara pushed past the coachman and Abigail's footman, who had arrived behind her and were trying to unload the occupants from the carriage. Crowded inside the dark interior were her grandmother, Annie, Dulcinea, whom Annie was holding on to with a firm grip, Anne, who was crying, and Charlotte, who was about to.

   "Grandmama!
"
Barbara cried, scrambling into the carriage in spite of the fact that the coachman was half in and half out of the vehicle. She threw herself into her grandmother's arms, hugging and crying and kissing her face. Anne and Charlotte, sitting across with Annie, flung themselves on Barbara, and the Duchess was covered with crying, twisting, squirming grandchildren. Her face softened and she patted and hugged whatever body she could grasp.

   "Anne, Charlotte," Barbara sobbed. "I am so g-glad to see you!"

   "I love you, Bab. I am never leaving you again," Anne said. "Move, Charlotte! You are squishing me!"

   "Am not!"

   "Are, too! Grandmama! Charlotte is—"

   "Let us all get out of this carriage immediately! Anne, Charlotte, let John help you down. Barbara—" Here the Duchess, with a quick movement, patted Barbara's face lovingly. She had been about to tell her to move, but she did not. She wanted to keep the girl by her. What had they been doing to her? She was as thin as a stick, and that was an ugly bruise fading from her face, a bruise that had caused a black eye, now also fading. By God in His heaven above, there were some heads that would roll for it!

   Somehow, they all tumbled out. Anne and Charlotte were each carried in a footman's arms. Annie walked ahead of the procession like an irritable handmaiden to the Queen of Egypt. (Bates had been unable to take his eyes from her. She was as irritable, as proud, as wonderful as ever. He worshiped her with his eyes. She gave him one sweeping glance to note whether or not he was still her slave, saw that he was, and jerked her head for him to see about her duty in life, the Duchess.) One of Annie's hands grasped the Duchess's faded leather jewel case, the other a struggling Dulcinea. Finally came the Duchess, leaning on Bates and Barbara.

   "Where are the boys?" asked Barbara.

   "There was not room for them in the carriage. I left them at home to oversee the Christmas celebrations, though doubtless I will return to find my house burned to the ground. I promised them I would send for them for your wedding."

   "There is no wedding, Grandmama."

   "Madame," Bates was saying, his joy at having his Annie here making him fulsome and talkative, "I am inexpressibly delighted to see you. You are looking well."

   "Be quiet, Bates," rapped out the Duchess. "You are talking too much. Save it for Annie. As if she would have anything to do with you."

   "Yes, madame. Oh, madame, it is so good to have you here—watch your step."

   "I can still see, man! You watch your step, Bates. My Annie will have you cut you down to size before this day is done."

   "Yes, madame," Bates agreed joyfully.

   "Grandmama," said Tony at the doorway. "Welcome. To my home. To your home, Grandmama."

   The Duchess felt tears start, tears that she should be entering this house after five years, this house where she and Richard had lived and loved and been at their zenith. This house, where Richard had lain dead in the great parlor, while all London walked by for one last view of him. She had allowed London its view. Then she had taken him to Tamworth to be buried. The queen had wanted Westminster Abbey, but Tamworth, his favorite residence, was good enough for the first duke. And there she would lie beside him in their eternal tomb when her turn came.

   They led her into the hall, where the rest of the family stood waiting, assembled at one end of the black and white marble floor like soldiers waiting for the drums to sound their march into battle. Yes, thought the Duchess, wiping fiercely at her eyes, this house brings too many memories back, but I am here now, and you will all of you pay for your unkindness to my girl.

   Fanny crossed the space first, with Harold following. She kissed her grandmother softly on each cheek.

   "Fanny, you pretty thing," said the Duchess. Out of the comer of her eye, she could see that Abigail and Diana still had not moved. She poked Tony in the ribs.

   "You are still too fat, boy. Your mother feeds you too much. Remind me to give you my recipe for elderberry tea. It will curb that appetite."

   "Yes, Grandmama." It did not hurt Tony that his grandmother's first words to him were criticism. They always had been; they always would be. He had accepted his inferiority long ago. Mary moved from behind the skirts of her mother, closer and closer to the two girls hiding behind Annie. She was drawn like a magnet to them. The Duchess, her grandmother, glared at her with bright, dark eyes, but said nothing.

   Abigail, who had been standing with the stunned stillness of someone who has had a great shock—she was looking at the two young girls half hiding behind Annie, at the restless, impatient, huge white cat in Annie's arms, at the baggage the footmen kept unloading in her hall—suddenly jerked forward like someone pulled by unseen strings.

   She swept forward grandly and touched the Duchess's cheeks with her own. "Mother Saylor, what a pleasant surprise. I—"

   "I am cold, Abigail, and I am tired. See that these two minx here are fed at once and put to bed. Anne, Charlotte, come forward and make your greetings to your aunt…and to your mother. Well, Diana, am I not even to have a greeting from you?"

   There was a silence in the hallway. Very slowly, Diana glided forward. She had a sensual, swaying walk that made her skirts swirl softly when she chose to use it. Harold could not take his eyes from her hips, but Diana's eyes were on her mother as she walked forward. They shifted once to Barbara, who was looking at her grandmother, and did not see her.

   "Mother," she said, when she finally reached the Duchess. "This is a surprise." She leaned forward and kissed the Duchess's cheek.

   "Yes," snapped the Duchess, "I imagine it is."

   Anne and Charlotte made quick curtsies to Diana, who never even looked at them. They scuttled back behind Annie's skirts, and their movement startled Dulcinea, who leapt from Annie's arms straight toward Diana. She landed on Diana's shoulder and clawed downward until she reached her skirts. Beads of bright blood popped up on Diana's forearm as Dulcinea skittered downward.

   "My arm!" she cried, trying to shake the cat from her skirts.

   Dulcinea ran around and around the hallway, searching. Finally, she stood still, appealed to the Duchess for understanding by meowing once, and daintily but thoroughly relieved herself on the white of a marble square. The sharp odor of cat urine and feces filled the hall. Aware that everyone's eyes were on her, Dulcinea stalked over to the Duchess and mewed complainingly. The Duchess scooped her up.

   "Abigail," she said. "I am going to my rooms now. See that my bed is set up immediately. It is among those bundles. The marble in this hallway is dull, Abigail. I will give your housekeeper a recipe to restore it to its proper shine. Tony, give me your arm. I must have a rest. Barbara, I shall want to talk to you after my nap. Give me another kiss, child, so that I may sleep well."

   People began to disperse right and left. Footmen were carrying in trunks and wrapped furniture from the luggage cart. Mary had finally made her move and was smiling shyly at Anne and Charlotte, who smiled back. The two of them followed her up the stairs behind the Duchess. Annie barked orders right and left to the footmen. Bates stood nearby, staring at Annie with what could only be called an adoring expression on his face. Abigail watched the controlled pandemonium of her house. Fanny and Harold were whispering to each other. Fanny's whispers sounded like the sharp hisses of an irate goose. Barbara started up the stairs, but Diana caught her by the arm. She swung around to meet the lovely, violet, cold eyes of her mother.

   "You are cleverer than I gave you credit for," said Diana.

   Barbara said nothing, but ran up the stairs after her sisters and Mary.

Chapter Six

The Duchess lay now in her bed, the bed she had brought from Tamworth, which had been assembled in one of the huge state apartments, a series of three rooms, all connected, once used for visits from royalty. The bedchamber had been cleared of most of its usual furniture and replaced with that brought by the Duchess. A portrait of the duke,
the
portrait of the duke, was now hanging in a spot where she could see it at all times. She had hobbled about the rooms—the long, uncomfortable, cold journey had started her legs aching again—inspecting every corner and muttering to herself as footmen carried in trunks and assembled furniture and as chambermaids lit the fire and smoothed fresh sheets on the bed and unpacked trunks. She opened one of the intricately carved bookcase doors and ran her fingers along the spines of the books inside. No dust appeared on her finger, but there were several spots of mildew on the book spines.

   "Book mold!" she said aloud.

   She went to the windows to look outside, a drop of candle wax on the velvet draperies caught her eye. She touched it with a bony finger, "They are letting this house rot to pieces," she said to the window.

   At long last, her bed was together and made, and she lay in it. Servants still scurried in and out, one to make sure Charlotte and Anne had hot soup—she had a recipe which the cook could make up on the spot—another to make her special tea to soothe her nerves, another to tell Abigail and Diana that she was too tired to see them tonight, but that she would speak with them tomorrow, one to tell the housekeeper that she wished to tour the house, from top to bottom, in the morning. Annie had dressed her in her nightgown, unpacked her jewel case and was downstairs in the servants' hall. By tomorrow morning, she would have all the gossip.

* * *

   Late evening tea was being drunk when Bates ushered Annie into the hall. Bates, his pouter–pigeon chest thrust out even farther than normal, if such a thing was possible, led her to his chair, the best chair, by the fire. It was obvious to all the servants that this thin, ugly woman was important. The housekeeper immediately poured a cup of tea; the cook begged that she try some of his special lemon tea cakes, kept in a tin and reserved for special occasions such as this one. Annie accepted all the homage as if it were her due, as it was. She was the personal dresser, reader, soother, and confidante of the great Duchess of Tamworth. She had been with the family for years, knew its secrets, good and bad, and kept them. The younger servants were each introduced, then sent back to their corners, while the older servants gathered around Annie. To them, she was a symbol of those years when the duke was alive, and this had been his chief residence, filled with the most important people in London. When the duke died, and the Duchess packed her personal possessions and turned the house over to her grandson and his mother, it had been the end of an era.

   Once tea was drunk, a few of the chosen settled themselves about the fire, about Annie. Bates brought in a bottle of wine from the cellar. It was opened. Reminiscences began. Younger servants crept closer to listen, to listen to those times when this had been the most famous house in London. King William and Queen Mary had visited it on Sundays for tea and games of cards. How exciting it had been when their coach, preceded by a few Dutch and English guardsmen in their dashing scarlet uniforms, pulled into the courtyard. The people of London had regularly lined up outside in the street to cheer or boo the coach as it passed, depending on the latest news of the war in Europe. And Princess Anne always called on the Duchess's reception day with her favorite lady-in-waiting, Sarah Churchill. She was still calling when she became queen.

   When Dicken had died, for weeks afterward, the porters found bunches of rosemary tied in black crepe on the outside gates. It was the same for William's death a year later. The duke, campaigning with General Marlborough in Europe, had come home with those pieces of his son's body which could be found. He was changing; it was the Duchess who was the strong one; each death bent her body, but not her spirit. It was she who encouraged the duke not to retire, to keep soldiering. He was needed in the war against that great tyrant, the French King Louis XIV.

   And two years later, the people of London surrounded the outside gates, this time wreathing them in flowers, crying and cheering the Duchess as she appeared at an upstairs window to wave at them after the news of the great battle of Lille and the duke's part in it. Queen Anne and the Duchess had ridden through the streets in the queen's carriage, while crowds tossed flowers and cheered. The house was filled with visitors from morning until night as the Duchess held court in her husband's place. But then Giles died, and the duke had come home. Everyone could see he was ill. And the Duchess had taken him to Tamworth Hall. The great house in Pall Mall was now empty most of the time. The servants waited, lived for those days when the Duchess, alone, would come up from Tamworth. The duke never came back, not until the Duchess brought his body to lie in state at Saylor House for three days so that hundreds of people might file past it, paying their last respects to England's most beloved hero, a man known for his kindness, his honesty, his fairness, his generosity. The servants had worked themselves to the bone, a last gesture toward their beloved master. Every china plate sparkled, every piece of silver shone. The house was at its most magnificent. The tables groaned with roasted meats, with stews and ragouts, with pies and jellies and tarts. Every room, every window, every door was draped with black crepe. Every important guest was offered food, rest, and asked to sign the mourning book. The house ran effortlessly, efficiently, as the Duchess had always wished it.

   She assembled them afterward, when the last guest was gone, and the duke's body was in a waiting hearse pulled by six horses, wearing black feathers in their harnesses. She thanked them for their service and loyalty. She shook each of their hands, gave them money from her own purse, remembered everyone's name. She said she would understand if any of them wished to leave, even though she hoped they would give the same loyalty and service to the new young duke. And they had stayed. Their loyalty was to the house, as well as to the family. Saylor House was as much theirs as it was the Tamworths'. They loved it. It was home.

   The hall was quiet now. Annie had grown soft with the wine and memories. The housekeeper wiped at her eyes. They all shook their heads for the good old days, while those younger servants who had stayed to listen stood up, yawned, rolled their eyes at such open sentimentality, and went to bed. Annie promised the housekeeper she would give her the Duchess's treasured recipes for washing white lace and mending china. The housekeeper nodded. Soon, in return, she would tell Annie all she knew of the present crisis with Mistress Barbara and Lady Diana, as would Bates and the senior footman and cook. It was not something to discuss in front of the younger, newer servants, who had not the old loyalties. But among the few who cared, the family upstairs was their family also. And Mistress Barbara had won hearts with her lively spirits and kindness to little Mary.

* * *

   The Duchess lay thinking in her bed, the pillows all packed behind her and her huge, favorite lace nightcap, the one that resembled a limp pancake, on her head. One hand stroked Dulcinea, who was tired after her confinement in the carriage with two noisy children and after the humiliation of having to perform natural functions in a marble hallway. The other hand stroked Barbara's red-gold hair, brushed to shining vitality by Annie herself. The girl was asleep in her white, virginal nightgown, her hair spread out over the pillow, one hand clutching the edge of her grandmother's gown. The first sight of Barbara's thin bruised face had been almost more than the Duchess could bear. She had had to hold on to herself with all her control not to tear Diana and Abigail to pieces then and there. But that would come later, when she knew more of the story than Barbara's version, told to her tonight in sobs.

   "Well, young lady!" she had snapped, irritation covering her love and worry and aided by the pain in her legs. "I understand you have been conducting yourself in a thoroughly unbecoming manner!" Thinking to herself, as she watched Barbara's face, Did I give the chit too much freedom? Did I not train her properly? Sweet Jesus, is this yet another mistake I have made?

   Bits and pieces of the story tumbled from Barbara's lips; she spared no one, least of all herself. "There I was, Grandmama! At-at his door. And I w-w-went inside. Oh, I know I should have been beaten, more so than M-M-Mother did but oh, Grandm-m-mama, I love him so-o-o. He is s-so kind. Please make it right! I k-know you can!"

   The Duchess had never seen her granddaughter so distraught, so unlike herself, as she sobbed helplessly into her thin hands. Gone was the happy, confident child she had given to Diana, and in its place was this.

   "I-I do not know what is the matter with me," Barbara was saying. She tried to wipe away the tears that kept streaming down her face. "I will do what you s–say of course, Grandmama." And she had lain sobbing against the Duchess's chest while the Duchess stroked her hair and thought. So the financial arrangements had gone awry, had they? So Barbara had gone to see Roger on her own, had she? A shocking thing to do.

   If she had not looked so pitiful and been crying so hard, the Duchess would have caned her for it herself. But instead, she found herself only sighing inside, at the heat and impulsiveness of youth. At Barbara's naiveté. At her own lack of moral fiber. Tomorrow she would summon the cook and prepare a special menu for Barbara. Some flesh had to go back on that child's bones. She would tour the house and she would hear what the others involved had to say for themselves. She would even go see Roger—though not tomorrow. No. Not yet. She smiled at the thought of that, at the surprise and dismay of the others…Abigail, Diana, possibly Tony, if he had the brains to be part of it all. If it were not for Barbara's heartbreak, she would have enjoyed watching them squirm before her. Sweet Jesus, how she hated double dealing. It was something she had learned from Richard, who had despised lying and deceit. She had adopted his standards as her own, but she had not his inherent sweetness, his love of his fellow man, to temper her. She was like an avenging goddess, without mercy. She knew it and did not care.

   The only person who mattered in this entire mess was Barbara, her most beloved, her most dear granddaughter. It did not matter what Diana or Abigail or even Roger thought. Dear Lord above, it did not even matter that Barbara had gone to see Roger without a chaperone. I am old, thought the Duchess, that I should no longer care for society's standards, standards I raised my own children on. But she did not. She loved Barbara with all her heart. Barbara was a gift the sweet Lord above had given her to help her mend over Richard. And she was going to do whatever she had to to make sure her granddaughter was happy. And woe to the man, woman, or child who tried to stop her. She felt better immediately, acknowledging that so clearly in her mind. It made her ruthlessness easier. Her mind relaxed somewhat as she lay between her sleeping cat and her sleeping grandchild. Sleep was hovering, its great, black, soft cape extended on the edge of her mind. She was dropping off, and it seemed to her that Richard—not the kind, gentle stranger who had lived with her the last four years of his life—but Richard the man, Richard her lover, young, handsome, ardent, was in the room with her, sitting on the bed, watching over her as she drifted off. It is this house, she thought on the edge of sleep. Our house of glory. She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

   By the next morning, long before Diana and Abigail were even stirring in their beds, she had been on a secret inspection of the house (Abigail was not the manager she had been, servants were getting slothful, her visit would do them good) and had Annie carefully writing notes, notes that would be delivered throughout London this afternoon by several of Abigail's underfootmen, telling friends and acquaintances that the Duchess of Tamworth was in town and would be receiving visitors. By tomorrow, the door would be sounding constantly with messages, flowers, and invitations, all for her. She might be retired, but she was a retired somebody and it was time Abigail was reminded of that. This afternoon, she was going to round up her young granddaughters, Barbara, Mary, Anne, and Charlotte, and go over to St. James's Palace. She had a feeling that his majesty, even though busy, would take time to see her, and she was furious that Barbara had not yet been formally presented at court. This would be no formal presentation, but it would be a reminder of whom Barbara was related to. After that, they would stop at the New Exchange and buy New Year's gifts. Tomorrow was New Year's Day, and the Duchess had no gifts for family and friends. Except for the one or two that she would be giving Diana and Abigail over the next few days. Now she waited for Tony. She had a few words she wished to say to him.

   "Grandmama," he said hesitantly, as he crossed the room to her chair.

   She sighed as she watched him. He had none of his father's or his grandfather's handsomeness. This was the second Duke of Tamworth, heir to all she and Richard had amassed. This boy had taken Dicken's inheritance, had taken Dicken's baby son's inheritance. Abigail's fair, stupid boy, the least of her grandchildren. The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, she thought to herself, looking at Tony. Neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all….I have not been kind to him, she thought. Richard would have been kind.

   "Grandmama. Are you well?"

   "Of course I am well. Do not just stand there staring at me. Give me a kiss. Here!"

   She touched her lips imperiously with her fingers. Gravely, Tony leaned forward and kissed her. Then he stepped back quickly, as if he expected to be caned for it.

   "Sit down," she snapped. "Barbara told me what you did for her, boy. I am grateful. Grateful and touched and surprised. Is there more to you than I thought?"