Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (36 page)

   Gussy wanted to come, however, wanted to ask Lord Devane's permission to look through his library, which was becoming famous, said Gussy, and surely would hold an obscure book there that would help his researches. Her aunt had snorted. "Help his research. You just ask Lord Devane if he owns any livings, that is what you do, Augustus Cromwell. Maybe then you can receive your own church, instead of substituting for every clergyman in town!" Gussy, like most clergymen, needed his own church, with a living that would be his for life, but they were not easily found. One had to have a noble relative, or know the bishops. Poor Gussy. He would be so much better than the Reverend Mr. Latchrod at Tamworth, who forgot his sermons and mumbled the host. Gussy was kind and caring. If she were not such a coward she would ask Barbara herself, but Barbara was a countess now, and would have no time for her. She belonged to Barbara's past, not to her future. She felt someone tugging on her gown and looked down at a familiar face. It was Anne.

   "Come this way, Janie. Bab is asking for you."

   "You see! You see!" shrieked her aunt. "I knew she would ask for you. Go on, Jane. Go on! Edgemont, is my hat straight? Where is that footman with wine? I need just one more glass."

   They followed Anne, Maude grabbing a glass of wine from the tray of a passing footman. She drained it and handed the empty glass to her silent husband. Barbara was standing at one end of a crowded room, and the wall behind her was mirrored. It made the room seem full of people and movement.

   "Speak up!" hissed her aunt. "Introduce us, and tell her what you need! Put yourself forward, Jane!"

   Her aunt pushed her through the crowd of people surrounding Barbara. Barbara hugged her and said to the handsome older man at her side, "Roger, this is my oldest friend, Jane Ashford. May I present my husband, Lord Devane."

   He had the bluest eyes Jane had ever seen, eyes with many wrinkles around them in a thin, tanned face that was lean and beautiful. He smiled into Jane's eyes, and she felt suddenly welcome, suddenly warmed inside. Shyly, she introduced him to Gussy and to her aunt and uncle. He bowed over her aunt's hand, and she watched her aunt's mouth sag momentarily, then open in a series of continual sentences. Roger managed to get by them to her uncle. With a few graceful questions, he learned that her uncle was in the naval department and, motioning his hand, a neat young man in a brown suit appeared and at a few words from Roger, led her uncle out of the room, with Maude following.

   "I have some friends here from the navy. I thought he might enjoy talking to them," Roger said to Jane, as if he had arranged it all just for her benefit. And quite without knowing how, she found herself on Roger's arm, Gussy following, walking through his elegant, richly furnished house, bowing right and left to all the people who wished to talk to him, but he was talking to her, and she was telling him of her family at Ladybeth Farm. And somehow, behind them, Gussy was talking of his studies and his book to Roger. He led her through the house until they found the Duchess, who was sitting in a chair with her grandchildren gathered around her. The Duchess held out her arms, and Jane forgot her shyness and ran into them. And then naturally she had to introduce Gussy, and she had to hear all the messages from her family and friends, and Gussy had to explain his studies. She felt comfortable now, where she had felt awkward before. Roger left them. Every now and again, some way that Tom or Kit or the girls would move or smile reminded her of Harry. But then, everything reminded her of Harry. It hurt, but she could bear it. She heard music starting in the other room, but she let Gussy and the children rush off to see Roger and Barbara dance their first dance. She stayed where she was, with the Duchess. Later, she would ask her about Harry. She knew she should have more pride. But she could not help it. She had to ask. And she knew the Duchess would tell her. She had learned long ago that behind the Duchess's bark was a kind and understanding heart. Yes, she would stay here. The Duchess was home, a painful reminder of home, but home nonetheless.

   By late afternoon, the satins and velvets of the guests had begun to show food and wine stains; cravats were loosened; faces were flushed; quarrels were starting here and there; talk and laughter were too loud; the food tables with their ivy and wilting white roses were beginning to look ravaged; no one was ready to go; it was a successful party.

   Catherine Walpole was dancing with Roger. She was whispering furiously. His expression, one of pleasant interest, never changed.

   "When will I see you again?" she hissed.

   "Very soon, Catherine. You can hardly expect me to neglect my bride on my wedding day, now can you? Think, Catherine. Remember when you were a bride. What if Robert had flirted with another woman?"

   She pouted. "That was ages ago. All I know is that you have been avoiding me. And I will not be trifled with. What if I told your little bride about you and me, Roger? What if I did that?" She stared at him challengingly, her face hard.

   "If you did," he said, "it would certainly spoil my honeymoon."

   He surprised a laugh from her. "All right," she said. "I will be good. But do not think you can drop me like an old rag, because you cannot!"

   "An old rag. You remind me of many things, Catherine, a kitten, a flirt, a spoiled child, but never, never a rag."

   Diana was dancing with Harold. He leaned forward and whispered something to her. When she laughed, everyone in the room stared at them, so provocative was her laugh. The Duke of Montagu glared at Harold, as did Fanny. The Duke of Montagu had another glass of wine. Maude was dancing with Robert Walpole.

   "My husband, Edgeward—no, Edgemont, yes, Edgemont, is one of the most diligent workers in the department. But he was saying to me just the other day, 'Maude, what I really want is the treasury.' The treasury—"

   Francis Montrose gave a yelp and leapt away from Tommy Carlyle. White, who was sitting nearby and had had five glasses of port, was laughing helplessly.

     "If you ever touch me again, you repellent reptile," Montrose said to Carlyle, his voice shaking with outrage, "I will break every bone in your body." His round face was rigid.

   White cried with laughter.

   "You are too sensitive—" began Carlyle.

   "Sensitive!" shrieked Montrose, his voice unnaturally high, not caring that several people were staring at him. "You just keep your hands off me!"

   Carlyle turned to White and shrugged his shoulders. White wiped his eyes. Carlyle continued staring at him. White sobered up.

   "No, Tommy!" he stammered quickly. "Not me, either!"

   At seven, Barbara and Roger cut their wedding cake, and footmen passed out tiny pieces to guests. The unmarried women in the room were supposed to put the cake under their pillows and dream of their lovers. Gussy, who had been upstairs with White and looked at Roger's books and who had also had several glasses of wine, brought Jane a piece.

   "I am having a fine time, Janie," he said. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. It was the first time he had ever touched her. She said nothing, just stared at the piece of cake in her hand.

   "B–b–beautiful," slurred Tony, who was looking at Barbara as she cut cake. "Beautiful."

   Carlyle, standing next to him, hiccuped. "Roger certainly is."

   At eight, Robert Walpole opened the door to the library. Harold lay on the floor, half on and half off Diana, the front of whose gown was pulled down to expose her white breasts.

   "Who is it?" gasped Diana, trying to sit up.

   Instead of backing away and closing the door, Walpole walked in, leaned over, and pinched the dark tip of one of Diana's bare breasts. She shrieked and pulled her hands across her chest. Kneeling, Harold tried desperately to rebutton his breeches.

   "My turn next," Walpole said. He pulled down Diana's skirts. She lay still, watching him, not sure of what he would do. But he simply went back out the door, closing it behind him. Almost immediately he ran into Fanny.

   "Have you seen my husband?" Her mouth was trembling.

   "No," he said, blocking her way. "Tommy Carlyle is in the library there, dead drunk, snoring. Not a pretty sight, I warn you." Taking her by the arm, he turned her around and walked away with her.

   "Let us look this way. If I know your husband, he is at a punch bowl and three–quarters drunk. And if we cannot find him, well, you can go home with me."

   Abigail was concentrating on wiping a stain on her bodice. She could not imagine how she had come to spill her wine like that. Beside her, the great–aunts were quarreling over which of them had been the prettiest when they were young. Mary, Anne, and Charlotte ran shrieking through the room, chased by Kit. Barbara and Roger were standing in the hallway, shaking hands with departing guests, many of whom could barely stagger out the door. Abigail could just see them from where she sat. Roger's officious young secretary came up to her.

   "Excuse me, Lady Saylor," he said. "But have you your bride's favors?"

   Abigail stood up slowly. "Are you telling me it is time to leave?" She spoke slowly, carefully.

   "Time to leave!" shrieked Aunt Shrewsborough. Her rouge was streaked into the wrinkles on her face. "What about seeing the bride to bed!"

   "We are not going to do that tonight," Montrose said quietly.

   "A disgrace!" cried Aunt Cranbourne. "In my day we knew how to end a wedding! And that was seeing the bride to bed and more drinking! Do not stand there staring at me, young man. I could take on two more like you. Come along, Louisa. It seems the wedding is over."

   Sitting in a chair, the Duchess watched Roger's young secretary and clerk and butler skillfully herding people out. In the hall, she saw Barbara, surrounded by children, her brothers and sisters and Mary. She was hugging them, unpinning ribbons as favors to give them, kissing them goodbye, promising that tomorrow she would come to Saylor House to see them. The rooms, which had seemed so overheated, so crowded, full of people and noise and light, grew silent. The Duchess saw Jane's uncle staggering out with his wife in his arms. She had passed out behind one of the punch bowls some hours ago. Jane and her young clergyman followed behind. Who would Jane dream of tonight, thought the Duchess, when she put her bride's cake under the pillow? Harry? Or the thin, earnest young man with her? A candle guttered on the table near her, once a beautiful tableau of food and flowers, and now a littered mess of plates and half-eaten food. The silence pressed around her. How different from her own reception, where laughing girls had seen her to bed, had undressed her and combed out her hair and stayed with her until Richard, in his nightshirt, had joined her, his young friends crowding around. And her family had been there, and everyone had made crude suggestions and wondered who would be more tired in the morning, Richard or she. And they had drunk the bridal caudle, hot wine and cinnamon and egg yolk and sugar, and everyone had clapped and had some too. And then finally, amid good wishes and laughter, she and Richard had been left alone.

   "Excuse me, madame," said White, smiling at her. "May I escort you upstairs?"

   The Duchess gave him her arm. She walked past chairs pulled this way and that, past spilled wine and food, past candles slowly being extinguished by a footman, past wilted flowers, past garlands being pulled down by a chambermaid. Already they were cleaning up the wedding. But then, Roger was leaving in just a few days. There would be no round of bride's visits for Barbara. She would be in France, far away. The Duchess's heart squeezed. Her legs ached. She had drunk too much wine. But she had this final duty to her grandchild. Some relative must put her to bed, and Diana had disappeared hours ago.

   Martha was brushing out Barbara's hair when the Duchess entered Roger's bedchamber. The wedding gown and petticoats and stockings lay on the carpet in a pool of white. The room was silent. There was no one in here but Barbara and that maid. Yes, a far cry from her own wedding night. Doubtless Roger thought himself too old for all the wedding night fuss, the joking, the caudle. Well, he should not be too old for his other task, the deflowering of her granddaughter. She hobbled around the room, inspecting the paintings hanging on the walls. She stopped at the one of Richard. She had no idea Roger possessed it. She stared at it, admiring Richard's handsomeness, trying to pinpoint exactly where they had been in their lives when it had been painted. It was an early portrait of Richard in his twenties. Where had Roger found it? The Duchess only knew she had never seen it before.

   Suddenly, the foreboding was in her, filling her, frightening her, making her breath stop. She groped for a chair and sat down heavily, taking in deep rasping gasps of air. Her vision was blurred. She could just see Barbara standing naked as her maid slipped a white nightgown over her head. She concentrated on breathing evenly. Gradually, as the maid began to gather up the clothes from the floor, her breathing slowed. Barbara came to stand by her. Her dear girl. Using Barbara's strong, young arm, the Duchess hoisted herself up. She was exhausted. Together they walked toward the bed. Its draperies were pulled back. The bed linens looked fresh and white. On a table near the bed, beside a candle, was a vase of flowers, the same flowers that Barbara had worn today. There was a wine decanter and two glasses waiting. The sight of it made the Duchess feel better. Roger knew what he was doing. He would see that her girl was not hurt any more than necessary. He had had many women. Many women. She was a silly, fearful old woman. She started to cry. Barbara, who had already climbed into bed, exclaimed, "Grandmama, what is it?"

   It was a moment before the Duchess could speak. She was a noisy crier, sniffling and rasping. "I feel so old," she finally croaked.

   "You are tired, Grandmama," Barbara said, hugging her, trying to wipe her tears. "You should be home in bed."

   She jumped out of bed and pulled the bell pull before the Duchess could speak. Martha opened the door.