Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (33 page)

* * *

Barbara sat on a whitewashed bench in the garden. It was now late afternoon, clear and cold, the sky above as blue as Roger's eyes. She was so happy she thought she would die from it. She had had to come outside, sit underneath the barebranched trees, and let the cold soften some of the excitement churning inside her. It was done, finally. In three weeks, she would be his wife. The dream was coming true. She had already told Anne and Mary and Charlotte, who had jumped up and down and screamed with her. And she had told them she wished them to be her bridesmaids, and they had started screaming again. Dear things. Now Kit and Tom and Baby would come for her wedding, and Roger could see all of her brothers and sisters, except Harry. Harry was going to be so surprised. She a countess, with her own home and servants and husband. When Roger was more used to her, she would have her brothers and sisters come to live with her, or rather her sisters, for her brothers would be at school. But she would have her sisters, and they would be her family, until her babies came. It was all going to be so happy.

   Someone's shoes crunched on the gravel, and she turned, expecting to see Martha, telling her it was time to come in. But it was Tony, his nose already red with cold, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his cloak. He smiled at her hesitantly. She smiled back and patted the empty space beside her. When he sat down, she put her arm through his and leaned her head against him. His big, bulky body was warm. She snuggled against it and rubbed her cheek against the rough material of his cloak.

   "Tony, I am so happy. Thank you for sending that note to Grandmama."

   He did not say anything. They both watched gardeners down at a far corner mulching flower beds. They worked with smooth precision. One would lift a shovelful of mulch and drop it; one would spread it; one would move the wheelbarrow. As the mulch spread, another shovelful was ready to be dropped. Their movements were as precise and unvaried as the workings of a clock.

   "Bab."

   She looked up at him. His plump face was unusually serious, and it was blotchy, almost as if he had been crying. Poor Tony. Whoever married him would have to be content with his title and fortune.

   "Happy for you, Bab…If you should ever need me…"

   She was touched by his words. His wife would also obtain devotion, if she were lucky. Not that devotion was what Barbara wanted. But then, she had everything she wanted. Devotion was for lesser mortals. She had the stars. They sat together silently, companionably, watching the gardeners until dark came.

   She slept late the next morning. And when Martha brought in hot chocolate for her to drink, she sent her back for more food. She was going to have to put some weight on; Roger should not have to spend his wedding night with a skinny stick. Back with the bacon and buttered bread Martha brought came her aunt, carrying in two boxes tied with soft velvet ribbons. She laid them silently on Barbara's blankets. Barbara opened the tiny, scented note half hidden under one of the ribbons.

   "Belated New Year's gifts—with fond regards, Roger."

   She kissed the note. Her aunt arched her brows and held out her hand. Barbara refolded the note and put it in the neck of her gown. She felt very safe with her grandmother in the house. Her dignity then abandoned, she fell on the largest box, pushing aside the rustling tissue paper to find a tippet, or shoulder cape, of dark green velvet with long trailing ends of black sable. Nestled beside the tippet like a small dark animal was a matching sable muff, dark green velvet ribbons attached on each side. Barbara draped the tippet about her shoulders and put her hands into the soft muff. The sable was the softest, most luxurious thing she had ever felt.

Inside the much smaller, narrower box was a fan, its end sticks frosted with tiny diamonds. It opened to reveal a pastoral scene, frolicking nymphs, blue water, green trees, fat clouds. A faint fragrance rose from it. Jasmine. The scent Roger wore. Barbara held the fan to her nose and breathed deeply.

   "Oh! I am, so happy!" she cried. "How can I ever be happier than this?"

* * *

   "Roses, pansies, violets," said Montrose to White. They were both huddled at Montrose's desk, a desk that was littered with papers. The fact that they were not in neat stacks showed how busy Montrose was.

   "Add gilded rosemary," suggested White. "That will make her posy perfect. Is this the guest list?"

   "Yes. Look how many people he has crossed off—" Montrose slapped his forehead suddenly. "The gifts! Her New Year's gifts—"

   "Sent yesterday. It is all taken care of. Settle down, Francis."

   "I do not see how I can have everything ready."

   "You will do it. I will help you. By the way, does he want the drums and fiddles or not?" It was the custom for the bride and groom to be greeted with music at daybreak on the morning after their marriage unless the musicians were tipped not to do so. Butchers made their own serenade by striking their cleavers against marrow bones on the wedding evening to salute the bride.

   "Are you mad? Absolutely not! I will take the money to the Marrow Bones and Cleavers Society and to the Fiddles and Drums the day before the wedding and make sure they understand they are not to follow the procession or stand outside the windows."

   Roger's favors, knots of gold, silver, blue, and green ribbons, began to appear pinned to hats and sleeves. Even though the wedding was to be small, people were talking of it. The news that James III was going to be crowned King of England in the Scotch palace of Scone added relish. That Roger could so coolly marry a known Jacobite's daughter showed his power. Or his stupidity. It was whispered that he had withdrawn his petition sponsoring Lady Alderley's divorce. Barbara made her first appearance at court amid rumors that the Pretender was already on the march to London. She walked proudly between her grandmother and Roger, and bestowed her famed grandfather's smile on the king, who talked with her in French for several minutes. The Prince of Wales danced with her three times and was seen watching her wherever she moved.

   The Duchess worked her way slowly through the crowd in the drawing room. She wore a black gown of satin (she always wore mourning for the duke) and rubies everywhere, in her hair, around her neck, on her bony fingers. Walking slowly, one hand on her cane, she had a word for everyone she knew, reminding them of old times, old favors. She was using all her influence to add dignity to the haste of Barbara's marriage.

* * *

   Barbara floated through the days. Life was rich beyond imagining. She had only to count her new gowns, their colors like an artist's palette: cherry, sky, primrose, flame, dove, smoke, daffodil, topaz, violet. There were new petticoats to contrast with every gown; stomachers (panels that formed the top of the gown) so stiff and crusted with embroidery and jewels that they could almost stand by themselves, or else trimmed with a ladder of soft, gauzy bows. There were small caps of handmade lace; ribbon garters; chemises as light and thin as air; gold and silver hairpins; gloves, white, fitting to the elbow, perfumed; stockings of green and pink, scarlet and white. There were domeshaped hoops of rich damask and silk and velvet cloaks. Shoes of salmon pink damask with shiny, black wooden heels, or of white silk edged with gold lace or fawn–colored brocade with diamond bows. There were wedding presents to open, and teas and receptions and dinners to attend: Tony held one in her honor, as did the great-aunts and Fanny and Harold.

   She had gone with her grandmother to meet Roger's staff. Roger's servants had stretched out in a long line, waiting for her. She had dressed in a new afternoon gown and worn the lovely velvet tippet and muff Roger had given her. All of the servants had watched her with shining, curious eyes as Francis Montrose introduced her. She had known exactly what to say to them all, from Caesar White, who had winked at her—she had ignored it in her best dignified manner—to the tiniest kitchen maid, who had stared at her, eyes wide in a grubby face, as if she were a fairy princess. Her grandmother had been sitting in a chair watching, and every now and again she would glance at her and she would see the love and pride on her grandmother's face and know she was doing well. She had not even blushed when she had met the housekeeper's disapproving glance.

   "Mrs. Bridgewater," she had said clearly, so that all could hear and did not have to strain themselves, "how nice to see you again." Later, if it were necessary, she would dismiss her. Her grandmother had taught her how to deal with servants firmly but fairly. They were part of the family. They must be taken care of. A loyal one was worth his weight in gold; a disloyal or lazy one should be dismissed at once. Never keep a bad servant, the Duchess said. They are like a bit of yeast gone sour. They will ruin the whole loaf. Firmness tempered with a drop of mercy was her grandmother's motto.

   The days were flying by. Barbara considered it an omen that her wedding day was St. Agnes's Day, when young maidens across the country would be fasting so that at night when they slept they would dream of their future husbands. When she slept that night, it would be by the side of her husband. Fanny had attempted to explain her sexual duties as a wife. Having grown up at Tamworth, which had its own farms, she had seen animals mate and knew what happened. She had also attended many a village wedding, where jokes and toasts to the wedding night were crude and graphic. She knew what was going to happen, and she was only a little afraid. She had been told it only hurt the first time because it was then that her hymen would be broken. To listen to Fanny, who would not look at her face, speaking of a wife's duty to submit—but never saying to what—in a high, breathless voice made Barbara want to giggle. Her grandmother had already cross–examined her and been much more forthright.

   "You know what he is going to do, do you not?"

   "Yes, Grandmama."

   "It is the same as the animals you have seen mate, except one hopes Roger will have more finesse."

   "Grandmama, please!"

   "Are you afraid?"

   "No, Grandmama…well, perhaps, a little."

   "Some women find relations with their husbands offensive, Bab. The Lord above only knows that Roger Montgeoffry should have enough experience with women to know what is pleasing—what is that look on your face, chit? Are you jealous? You ought to get down on your knees and thank your lucky stars he knows how to kiss a woman the way she likes—what is wrong? Has he kissed you yet, has he?"

   "No, Grandmama."

   "And you are sorry for it, are you not? Baggage! I wonder if I should warn Roger what is in store for—"

   "Grandmama, please!"

   "You just tell him what you like and do not like, girl. He is experienced enough to take it from there."

   "Grandmama!"

   Not all of her modesty was real. She looked forward to her wedding night, when, finally, Roger would be concentrated on her. For that, she would endure whatever pain came with bedding a man. Though they were to be married, she never saw him, except for a few moments at some reception. The most time she had spent with him was the afternoon she had been presented to the king. She knew he was busy, she knew he was important, but he had never so much as kissed her! Of course, how could he, when they were never alone? Still, she imagined that a man such as Roger would have known ways to get her alone if he wished to. He was not in love with her. She knew that. But he would be. She was going to use every wile she possessed, and any she could learn. Unfortunately, she had to wait until she was married before she could begin. Now, as a virgin, as a modest girl of a noble family, she was surrounded with rules, restrictions, family always guarding her, as if she were a precious jewel that could be stolen at any moment. Marriage would bring some freedom.

* * *

   "Merciful God in His heaven above!" Maude cried. Jane, who was helping the maid bake pies and had flour up to her elbows, came running into the hallway. Her Aunt Maude stood clutching an invitation to her heart.

   "It has come!" she said to Jane, waving an envelope of cream-colored parchment sealed with red wax. "It has come."

   "What, Aunt Maude, what?"

   "An invitation to her wedding!" Maude ripped under the seal with one of her razor-sharp nails, even though Jane could see that the envelope was addressed to her. Maude had been dumbfounded when the news filtered down to her that Lord Devane was once again going to marry Barbara Alderley, and in indecent haste. She had told the tea party story to anyone who would listen; in fact she had become a minor sensation among her friends and in her neighborhood.

   "I could tell straightaway," she said to her mesmerized listeners, building her story step by step, detail by detail, so that they could see themselves the white, sick look on Barbara's face, the flashing blue of Lord Devane's angry eyes. "I could tell that something was not right. I could feel it in my bones. The atmosphere in that great house was heavy. I had a feeling of doom—of doom, I tell you! And I was correct."

   Maude had the gift, people were saying. They had begun to come to her about advice for arranging marriages, she was said to have the gift of foretelling whether or not they would be happy. So when the news of the wedding was once more current, Maude declared she had felt that too, in her bones, a lightness, a kind of happiness, but she had not known for whom or what. Then she had heard about Lord Devane and Barbara. She was happy for them; she blessed them. She retold the story. People listened a third, a fourth time. And she dreamed at night of being invited to the wedding.

   "Saturday, the twenty–first of January at eleven–thirty. It is the reception, Jane," Her aunt sounded aggrieved. "You might have thought we would be invited to the wedding. However…let me see, I will need a new gown and hat and shoes and gloves. Edgemont has his good suit. You will need clothes also. We cannot go in rags. A list. I will make a list of what I need. Now where is some, paper? Peggy! Peggy? Where is that girl when I need her? I tell you, Jane, you cannot get good help these days! No matter what you pay. Peggy!"