Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (39 page)

   "Could you please select some books on architecture, books Lord Devane would be familiar with, and send them to my rooms? I lied before. I know nothing of architecture."

   The door closed behind her. White pulled up his lapel to smell the camellia she had given him. She was right; there was no fragrance. He said, "She may favor her grandfather, but do you know whom I am reminded of?"

   Montrose swelled up like a pigeon. "Who?"

   "Her grandmother. The Duchess of Tamworth."

* * *

She was pleased with herself. Enormously pleased. She had been cool and dignified, as befitting the lady of the household. She had spoken up to White and Montrose. Firmly, but not coldly (in her mind's eye, she could picture her grandmother's nod of approval). And now, she was going to go out. On her own. After all, she was a married woman. She could do so. She had an invitation to an afternoon at the Marquise de Gondrin's. She would be safe there; Marie–Victorie de Gondrin was only a few years older than she, and very kind. Her salon was as good a place as any to try her wings as a fashionable young matron. She took a deep breath. Forward, as her grandfather would have said (in the rose garden, holding his pruning shears before him like a sword, while she and Harry followed, the only soldiers left to him). Forever forward.

   Marie-Victorie's red-and-gold salon was crowded. Some of the guests sat in a circle of armchairs listening to a speaker. Others played cards at the three tables set up for that purpose. Still others were strolling around the room arm in arm, talking, stopping to listen to the trio of musicians playing at one end of the room or to eat and drink from the buffet table nearby. The hostess, Marie-Victorie, Marquise de Gondrin, was nineteen, with dark hair and eyes, and a figure that was fashionably plump. She was from one of the finest French families, and she had married into a family as distinguished. It was a marriage arranged by her parents, and she tried to be all that was dutiful to her husband, who had died some years ago. Most of her girlhood had been spent in a convent, where she had learned to embroider, say her prayers, dance, draw, read Italian, and do accounts. She had also learned a love of God from the holy sisters, and though she lived fashionably, she tried to practice God's commandments, even though her friends, such as the Duchesse de Berry and Mademoiselle de Charolais, most definitely did not. She saw Barbara standing in the doorway alone and excused herself from the guests she was talking with to go to her.

   A young man, whose hawklike nose gave his ordinary looks some interest, had been leaning against a wall behind one of the card tables. When he saw Marie–Victorie hurry to the doorway and greet her newest guest, a thin girl, wearing little rouge, but with beautiful red-gold hair, he straightened up and moved closer to them.

   "How lovely you look," Marie-Victorie said to Barbara, kissing her cheeks. "Fresh and unspoiled. Come, do you wish to play cards or listen to Monsieur Descartes declaim?"

   "I will listen."

   Marie-Victorie interrupted the thin man in a preposterous wig who was holding the armchair circle enthralled with his theory that Racine's dramas reflected both fantasy and life, to introduce Barbara. She was given cold nods and assessing looks. She wished she had worn more jewelry. She sat down in a chair next to an old woman who had been introduced as the Princesse de Lorraine. The other guests were once more listening to the lecture with absorbed looks on their faces. The princess smelled as if she had not bathed in a long time. She was looking Barbara up and down, paying no attention to the talk on Racine. Her rouge was crusted into the wrinkles of her face, and what few teeth she had were rotted.

   "So you are Montgeoffry's new rosebud. You look a rosebud, all pink and gold and fresh. But you sound like a courtesan. That voice. It ought to tickle Montgeoffry's fancy." The princess cackled like a witch. Barbara was reminded of her Aunt Shrewsborough. Why did old women always think they could say whatever they pleased?

   "I heard he married a child," said the princess, "and I see it is true. You look hardly old enough to wear rouge. You are not wearing enough, girl, and you ought to. It is the fashion, you know." The princess belched loudly. A servant standing behind her leaned over. The princess made an impatient movement with her hand.

   "No! No! Damned pest! I pay him to follow me about and make sure I do not fall out of my chair. And what does he do, but continually annoy me. There are no more decent servants to be found these days. In my day, we flogged them. Today, it is nothing but leniency."

   "I sympathize with you," Barbara began cautiously. "I am looking for a lady's maid myself because—"

   "Just what you need!" interrupted the princess. "A bright, pert lady's maid who knows what she is doing. She will bring you into style, put more color in those pretty cheeks. I will keep you in mind—"

   "That would be wonderful. I—"

   The princess belched again. It was loud enough to halt the lecture in midsentence. Once more the servant leaned over her.

   "Go away!" she cried. "Fool! Impertinent fool!"

   Monsieur Descartes picked up his thread of thought smoothly. As did the princess.

   "Speaking of impertinence, have you heard the latest, rosebud? Orléans's daughter, that slut de Berry, is said to be sleeping with a lieutenant of the dragoons, someone named Riom, they say. I thought she was involved with young Richelieu, but my daughter was telling me just the other day that de Berry has to ask this Riom's permission to go anywhere. That he slapped her in front of a room full of people. And she puts up with it. Bad blood! Bad blood! That's what happens when cousin marries cousin…the mind goes. All the Orléanses are half-crazy. In my day one might go to bed with a lieutenant, but he did not tell one what to do."

   Barbara sat transfixed. She had no idea what she should say.

   "Excuse me for interrupting," said a voice over her shoulder, "but Madame de Gondrin wishes Lady Devane to meet an admirer of hers." Barbara did not recognize the speaker, but she was glad of any excuse to leave both Racine and the princess.

   "Go on, then," cackled the princess, waving bony arms. "You are only young once, heh, rosebud?"

   The young man led Barbara to one of the long windows that overlooked the gardens, rather than to Marie-Victorie.

   "You are fortunate," he said. "The princess considers it beneath herself to use a chamber pot and often relieves herself directly on the floor. That servant behind her cleans up, but it is hell on priceless rugs and whoever may be standing near."

   She stared at him. He acted as if they were old friends when they had not even been introduced, and she was trying to decide whether she should be insulted by it or not when he, as if by magic, held up a camellia before her. She had no idea how he managed it, and that did not matter. What mattered was the grace of the gesture and the fact that the camellia was a pink one, edged in white. He grinned at her.

   "You." Barbara's afternoon began to be interesting, after all.

   "Henri Camille Louis de St. Michel, at your most humble service."

   "But how did you know me?"

   "I asked Marie-Victorie to tell me the moment you arrived. I watched you with the princess, and at the moment I gathered her smell was overwhelming you, I came to the rescue."

   So this was her first admirer. She considered him. He was about twenty, ordinary in every way except for his hawklike nose, which gave him a predatory look. He seemed certain of himself.

   "Did you receive my flowers? Camellias are my trademark."

   "They were lovely. My husband thought so too."

   "The half-opened ones remind me of you. You have that half-wakened, fresh look about you. Very English, very appealing. Like a woman just learning of love."

   "It must be the lack of rouge. The princess says I do not wear enough."

   He stared at her, not certain whether she was serious or not. She was not playing according to the usual rules, which required that she should either draw back, offended, or let him know that his pursuit would be welcome. Confused, he decided to laugh.

Barbara's eyes sparkled. Already she had an admirer. She tossed her head. It was exhilarating not to have a chaperone hanging over her. Before her marriage, she could not even speak to a man without her aunt frowning or her grandmother drawing her away. It was not that they did not trust her; it was that the reputation of a young, unmarried woman was so easily damaged. If she laughed too loudly or smiled too much, if she seemed to like talking to young men…there were a hundred things she must do and not do. A young lady must always be modest, quiet, demure, obedient. Now, as a married woman, she had none of those restrictions—unless Roger wished to impose some—and he did not care to…yet. The freedom was wonderful, as was the knowledge that this man found her attractive. If he found her so, then surely Roger must also.

   St. Michel backtracked a little. "Are you enjoying Paris?"

   "I am now…"

   This he understood. He stepped closer to her. "When may I call on you?"

   Her eyes were wide and blue and innocent. "Lord Devane and I would be happy to receive you at any time."

   She curtsied and went to Marie-Victorie. She had enjoyed herself. St. Michel was fast, as Roger had said.

   Armand, the Duc de Richelieu, sauntered over to St. Michel, who was still watching Barbara. Marie-Victorie was escorting her around the room, introducing her to more people. If St. Michel was ordinary, Richelieu was ugly, with a thin, narrow face and strange yellow-brown eyes, eyes that made people shiver when they saw them in certain lights. His voice, however, was soft and caressing. If a woman closed her eyes and listened only to his voice, she would swear he was the most handsome man in the world. Some women said his voice bewitched them.

   St. Michel and Richelieu were all that was currently fashionable in young French noblemen, and of the two, Richelieu, with his more ancient pedigree and his sense of arrogant confidence, was the leader, while St. Michel was a determined copy. Both were married, but true to the mode of the times, neither lived with his wife. St. Michel, who was a second son, had married a rich young woman whose background was not as good as his, and he kept her in a family chateau miles from Paris, seeing her only once or twice a year. Richelieu, who had been forced to marry his stepsister when he was fifteen, had never slept with his wife and refused to have anything to do with her. His father had imprisoned him in the Bastille for over a year to force him to acknowledge and make love to the girl, but Richelieu refused. He was content that she should do as she please and did not mind that she had lovers. A current story said that he had recently and most unexpectedly visited his wife and found her making love to another man. His only comment had been to say that she was fortunate no one else had seen or she would have been embarrassed.

   "To whom were you talking, Henri?"

   "The young English countess Devane."

   Richelieu watched Barbara as she stood by Marie–Victorie. She was laughing. Her laughter was unrestrained. Her face was clear and fresh and free of care. His strange eyes glinted.

   "Still innocent. A rarity in Paris."

   "Spirited, also, I think," said St. Michel. They might have been discussing a horse. "And you have not heard the voice. Once you hear it, it lingers in your mind."

   Richelieu tapped a finger against his mouth, his eyes still on Barbara.

   "I saw her first, Armand," said St. Michel.

   Richelieu laughed at him, a laugh that was soft, dangerous, challenging. St. Michel put his hand to his sword. Once more, Richelieu's eyes glinted.

   "Temper, temper, Henri. Marie–Victorie would be furious—and rightly so—if we spoiled her drawing room with a quarrel. And over what? A woman. Let us toss a coin. The winner has the first crack at the little English lady. The loser stands aside…for a while. Agreed?"

   After a moment, St. Michel nodded his head. Richelieu reached into a waistcoat pocket for a coin. St. Michel put a hand on his arm.

   "We will use one of my coins, my friend."

   "I can remember when I was first married," Marie–Victorie was saying to Barbara as they strolled through the drawing room. "I was overwhelmed, even though I went at once to live with my husband's family. My mother–in–law was rigid in her standards. She frightened me completely—that man staring at us is the Duc de Richelieu. I will introduce you in a few moments. Beware of him. He has a terrible reputation, but women love him anyway. Each desires to be the one that has the power to hold him. None do. Armand always moves on. But what was I saying? Oh, yes, how I used to long to be on my own, as you are, to run my own household. You are fortunate to be alone with your dear Lord Devane. You must visit me whenever you have a question. We will pretend I am your mother–in–law, your Parisian one. I had such a crush on your husband when I was younger. He used to be in Paris often on diplomatic missions for the court in Hanover. He never once looked at me. You are the envy of half the women in Paris."

   "Whom did he look at?"

   Marie–Victorie laughed and patted Barbara's hand. "To tell you the truth, I cannot remember. His name was always linked with someone's. A man as handsome and charming as your husband is much in demand. But I cannot remember that anyone was his favorite. He was great friends with the Prince de Soissons; that I do recall. Ah, here is someone I want you to meet. Louise– Anne, may I present Lady Devane. She is newly married to the divine Roger Montgeoffry. Do you remember how we used to moon over him as girls? Barbara, this is Louise–Anne, Mademoiselle de Charolais."

   The young woman Marie–Victorie was introducing her to looked to be no older than Barbara, though her small, sulky face was heavily rouged and powdered. Her eyes flicked over Barbara in just a few seconds, and Barbara felt herself weighed, assessed, and found wanting. Louise–Anne was one of the daughters of the head of the great house of Bourbon Condé. Her bloodlines on both sides stretched far back into French history and royalty, for her grandmother had been one of the mistresses of Louis XIV, a position more honored by the French court than that of his legitimate queen. Louise-Anne had learned arrogance, the knowledge of who she was and from whom she sprang, before she could walk, for she was a granddaughter of France, of the great Louis, master of the world, builder of Versailles, creator of all that was cultured and civilized in the existing world.