Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (34 page)

   Handing her the invitation, her aunt went into the kitchen, still talking to herself. Peggy was probably in the cellar, hiding. Peggy was a poor housekeeper, and she knew hardly anything about cooking. She was just a big, ignorant country girl who had come to London to earn a living. There would be much fussing and swearing from her aunt, who would threaten to replace her, and Peggy would cry, and somehow they would find a pen and paper. Jane knew where both were, but she said nothing. She set down the invitation carefully and wiped the flour from her arms and hands with her apron. Then she read the invitation:

The Duke of Tamworth and his family request the presence of Mistress Jane Ashford and Master Augustus Cromwell at the reception honoring the marriage of Mistress Barbara Alderley to the Earl Devane. Saturday, the 21st of January at 11:30 of the morning. Number 17, Saint James's Square. The favor of an answer is requested.

   Aunt Maude was not invited, but Jane knew better than to try to argue with her aunt. Wild horses would not keep her aunt away. It was kind of Barbara to invite her and Gussy. She felt sick. Harry, Harry, my love. She swallowed. Where are you? What are you doing? Do you ever think of me?

   She wiped at the tears that trickled down her cheeks. Sometimes now she could go for hours without once thinking of him. She found comfort in mindless routines: kneading bread dough, feeding the fire under the giant kettle for the hot water they needed on washing day, mending sheets and stockings. There were spaces of time when her thoughts were calm. But they were just that, spaces between the pain. Something, anything would set her off, and she would be thinking of him again, and then she would long for the quiet times when he was not on her mind. She wandered into the tiny parlor that her aunt considered the best room in the house, sat down in a chair and looked out the window. Across the street, a cart was delivering coal. Two men were dumping wheel barrow loads into the chute that led to the cellar. Gussy came once a week and sat with her here in the parlor. He had found an obscure reference to one of the earlier popes and was elated. His thin face became flushed when he was excited. Of course, then he also smiled and she saw his rotting teeth. Next month, her aunt was planning a betrothal party. It was old-fashioned, but her aunt was excited about it. She and Gussy would exchange betrothal rings, the rings that each would wear, but that could be interconnected to form one ring, a symbol of their future. Joining together as one. They would go to church, and one of Gussy's friends would pray for them, they would take the sacrament, then come back here for cake and punch and dancing. Her parents were coming up for it. And then a month or so after that she would marry. She looked at the cream–colored invitation, its dark ink, the embossed pattern of lilies and roses on the border. Oh, Barbara, she thought. You are so lucky. Why are you always so lucky?

* * *

   Barbara was awake long before the sun rose on the morning of her wedding, even though she had been up late the night before. Cousin Henley had arrived with Tom and Kit and Baby, and there seemed to be children and trunks everywhere. Then Aunt Cranbourne and Aunt Shrewsborough had arrived, and Fanny and Harold and their three children, and there had been much laughing and talking and hugging. Somehow Cousin Henley and Mary's governess had gotten the younger children upstairs, her Aunt Abigail had retired early with a headache, and she had sat up late with her two brothers—Tom was as tall as she was, Kit nearly so, they were growing like weeds—protecting her, proud of her, while her younger sisters and Mary hung on her every word. As had Tony. Dear Tony. He had been with her everywhere these last weeks, by her side at all times, looking out for her, introducing her, buying her silly little things, fans, books, ribbons. She had felt bathed in love last night, with her half–grown brothers and her adoring sisters and Mary and Tony and her grandmother and ancient aunts arguing over some long-forgotten, but remembered differently by each, incident at the court of Charles II. In just a few hours she would belong to Roger. It was impossible that three months ago she had been running the halls at Tamworth with her hair hanging down and her thoughts on simple, everyday things, like some child. Roger had simply been someone she loved the way she loved her absent father. Neither was ever there; she could not remember the last time she had seen her father, and surely it had been sooner since she had last seen Roger, but she loved them nonetheless. She did not miss them or pine for them; they were not part of her life. But she loved them with the same clear surety with which she loved her grandmother.

   A chambermaid tiptoed in to freshen the fire. Barbara sat up and stretched. Soon Martha—Martha, her wedding present from her aunt, who had paid her wages for a year to be Barbara's personal maid, bah!—would oversee her bath. And she would dress slowly for her wedding day, for Roger, for her beginning in life as a woman, as an adult. The chambermaid smiled timidly at her. She smiled back.

   "A box has come for you, ma'am," the girl said.

   "Send it up!" Barbara cried. She could not accustom herself to the sudden excess of wealth in her life; she knew, of course, that her grandmother had money, but they had lived simply at Tamworth, though, of course, she had had every kind of lesson imaginable, French, Italian, drawing, watercolor, dancing, but still, now she could have as many gowns as she wished, and so many presents came to the house and she loved opening each and every one of them. And now here was another. The chambermaid came back in with a box and placed it on the bed.

   "Light some candles," cried Barbara. The girl hurried to do so, obviously as excited as Barbara was by the box.

   "Look! Oh, look!" she cried.

   Inside, nestled in lightly moistened gray moss, was a posy of pink and white roses, mixed with winter violets, pansies, and rosemary. Around the posy lay a matching wreath for her hair. Green and silver ribbons were woven through the lovely, delicately tinted purple and white and pink blossoms. The chambermaid gasped and clasped her hands together as Barbara carefully lifted out the wreath. The green and silver ribbons unfurled themselves down her hands and arms. Gently she set it on her head. Today, and only today, she would appear before Roger and the world with her hair down her back and shoulders, a symbol of her purity, the purity a bride should bring to her husband. Tomorrow, and for the rest of her life, she would wear her hair up, in whatever the style. Only in private, in bed, would she ever again wear her hair loose. She smiled at the chambermaid whose hands were on her cheeks and who was looking at her in delighted awe. (She would never know that Roger had not seen her flowers, but had left the choice to Montrose and White, who had fussed and argued, and agonized over the choice as if it were their wedding. She would never know that they had been as excited as she when the florist had shown them his finished work; that Montrose had actually held the posy against his waist and walked up and down the library while White watched critically, and that the two of them had decided unanimously that there must be longer ribbons and that silver must be added to them, to the florist's disgust.)

* * *

   The Duchess stamped her cane impatiently against the floor.

   "Never mind me! You are as slow as molasses! No one will be looking at me. I want to see her dressed! Hurry, Annie! Hurry!"

   Annie slowly, deliberately, pushed another diamond–headed hairpin into the black lace cap the Duchess was wearing. She paid no attention to the Duchess's tirade, but continued her own task, that of making sure her Duchess looked as grand as possible. And she did. She was wearing a gown of dark green velvet, almost black the green was so dark, with an under-petticoat of black–and–green–striped satin. Over a chair lay a matching green velvet cloak lined with white fur. This was the first time since the duke's death that the Duchess had worn anything other than solid black or gray. Diamondheaded hairpins glittered here and there like tiny stars on her expensive lace cap. She wore diamond earrings, a diamond brooch, diamond rings, and diamond bracelets. As soon as Annie had brushed some rouge on her cheeks and set a patch against her temple, she waved her away and summoned a footman to help her to Barbara's room. Her legs were bad, as bad as they had ever been. After each outing—the signing of the contracts, the court appearance, this tea, that reception she had attended—she had had to spend hours afterward trying to endure her aching legs. Hot compresses, dandelion wine, laudanum. Then she could rise, with Annie shaking her head angrily, to do her duty to Barbara. Well, today was her last day. After tonight, she would crawl into her bed and stay there for days, gathering strength for the long journey home. She almost felt that once she got into bed, she might not be able to rise again. Already, her legs were beginning that tiny ache radiating from her ankles and knees and hips that would soon spread and devour her. But she had to see Barbara dressed. She had to see the child on her wedding day. She had to reassure herself once more that she had done the right thing.

   "Grandmama!"

   Barbara ran to her and hugged her. The Duchess sniffed and pointed to a chair with her cane. The footman helped her to it. Mary, Charlotte, and Anne, who were sitting on Barbara's bed, immediately climbed down and made respectful curtsies to her.

   "Look at the flowers, Grandmama," said Anne, bobbing up and down like a cork, talking all the while. "They are so beautiful. I am to have flowers in my hair also. Barbara said so."

   "Our gowns are green, Grandmama. Green is my best color. Barbara said so. She says it is Roger's favorite color. Barbara loves Roger. I do too," Charlotte said.

   Only Mary was silent, having been raised in a household where it was unwise to address an adult unless the adult indicated interest. But even Mary's eyes were shining. Barbara is good for her, thought the Duchess, her mind for a moment leaving the figure whose red–gold hair was streaming down her back. For all the children. They need her.

   Martha entered with a gown of heavy white brocade draped over her arm. The gown had a pattern of flowers embroidered with silver and green thread across the skirt, and there were flounces along its hem. A silver corded belt with long tassels at its ends tied about the waist. Barbara clapped her hands at the sight of her gown and danced around the room. She had on white stockings tied with green garters, a white corset whose stomacher was tied with green ribbons and a green-and-white-striped petticoat. Anne stepped into the white brocade shoes that Barbara would wear. She clumped over to Barbara.

   "I am the bride. Look at me!" she said.

   Martha frowned. Anne stepped out of the shoes. She looked as if she were going to cry.

   "Martha," Barbara said, "send for my grandmother's tirewoman. I want her to do my hair."

    Once Martha shut the door behind her, Anne, with a daring glance at her grandmother, stepped back into the shoes. Mary and Charlotte giggled. The Duchess chose to ignore Anne's behavior.

   "Come here," she told Barbara.

   Barbara came and knelt before her grandmother. The Duchess put her hand under her chin. Barbara's face was lovely, shining with happiness, almost full again. The Duchess kissed her on each cheek.

   "Be happy, child."

   Barbara hugged her tightly. "I am. I am so happy I could burst. Thank you, Grandmama—"

     Annie came in. She barked for Anne to get out of her sister's shoes, and immediately ordered Barbara to sit down so she could begin the task of brushing and curling and braiding Barbara's glorious hair. Everyone became involved. Charlotte ran to put the curling tongs in the fire; Mary held Barbara's hands while Annie brushed and pulled her hair, Anne held the ribbons and pins which would hold it all together. Annie deftly braided the sides, then she curled the back and joined the two side braids there, weaving them together with green and silver ribbons. One braid now, they lay atop the long, curling, thick red–gold hair that trailed down to the middle of her back. The Duchess unscrewed the diamond earrings she wore and motioned Charlotte to take them to Barbara.

   "Oh, no, Grandmama. I could not!"

   But in spite of her protests, Annie screwed them into her ears. They sparkled like giant teardrops in each ear.

   "How can you bear all the noise?" Annie asked irritably.

   Anne and Charlotte were quarreling over who should take Barbara her shoes. Barbara only smiled. But Annie sent the younger girls from the room. It was time they were dressed. They left after kissing Barbara.

   "Promise we will live with you," said Anne at the door.

   "Promise," said Barbara.

   "You are lucky," Mary said to Anne.

   "The gown," the Duchess said. "Put the gown on. Let me see her in it."

   The Duchess's hands, folded over the top of her cane as she watched Annie fluff out the skirts of Barbara's wedding gown and petticoat, worked convulsively. The girl looked an angel.

   "You are certain?" she asked gruffly, knowing there was nothing they could do if Barbara did have any last–minute doubts, and seeing with her own eyes that of the two of them, Barbara was by far the more calm. But that was because Barbara had never been married before. The Duchess had, and knew there were moments ahead in which Barbara would be greatly hurt, whether Roger grew to love her or not.

   "Remember what you read to me when I left, Grandmama?"

   The Duchess nodded her head. "Keep thy heart with all diligence," she had read to Barbara from the Bible, "for out of it are the issues of life."

   "Well, that is what I am doing, Grandmama. Keeping my heart."

   The Duchess nodded again and pursed out her lips. She would not cry, not now, when she had the ceremony and reception to get through. Sweet Jesus, the child looked like Richard.

   "I wish your grandfather could have seen you today," she said gruffly. "He would have been so proud."

   The servants of Saylor House, chamber and kitchen maids, ladies' maids, the footmen and butler and porters, the stableboys and coachman, the gardeners and cook, the laundry maids, the housekeeper, the grooms, slowly began to fill the hall, along with the family already waiting. It was tradition that they see the bride, that they strew herbs and flowers before her. They had already sprinkled rosemary and bay and dried lavender and rose petals on the front steps and inside the carriage she would ride in to the church. Now they waited expectantly to see her, and as she left, they would cheer for her and throw their flowers and herbs after her.