Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (41 page)

   "It is too complicated to explain," he said abruptly, "and I do not wish you to worry your head about it. Play, visit, gossip, buy whatever you desire, but do not become enamored of politics. It ruins women and I would not like it in you. Ah, here are Francis and Caesar. Good morning, gentlemen. Francis, I have a commission for you. I want you to go through the sketches of Le Vau and Le Notre that are compiled at Versailles. If you leave today, you can be finished by the end of the week. The regent has granted permission for us to see them. I want the earlier sketches—"

   "I cannot do that, sir," Montrose said. There was a silence. "Lady Devane has asked me to interview candidates for a lady's maid, and the task will take several days." He did not look at Barbara.

   How sneaky of him, thought Barbara, furious. Montrose put her status in the household to the test. Either she was its mistress, to be obeyed as Roger was, or she was forever relegated to a position of inferiority, respected by no one.

   Roger put his hand over his mouth so that no one should see his smile. Household maneuvers for power. More lethal than French politics.

   "You must certainly finish Lady Devane's business, then. Next time, I assume you will not need to ask." It was gently, charmingly done, but a reproof nonetheless. He looked over to find Barbara's eyes on him, adoring.

   He stood up, chucking her under the chin before he left.

   Everyone was silent.

   "Mr. Montrose," Barbara said. "That was unworthy of you. You may do Lord Devane's commissions before you do mine. You had only to ask." She left the room.

   "Her grandmother's child," White said to Montrose, teasing, reminding.

   Montrose sniffed.

* * *

   That afternoon, at dinner, Barbara listened more closely to the conversation swirling around her. There was talk of the bastards' rank. What bastards? Saint–Simon slammed a fist on the table as he complained that the illegitimate should not be recognized before the princes of the blood, those related legitimately to the royal family. And someone mentioned a rumor that the regent would betray the young king for a chance to rule Spain. And there was talk of finance. Always finance. France was on the verge of bankruptcy, and John Law believed he had a solution. She knew that much because he continually told everyone so. He was at their table this afternoon, interrupting Saint–Simon to say so once more. He had a concept for a national bank. She listened to Roger promise to meet with Law and the regent later this afternoon. He had said he might accompany her to Marie–Victorie's. Finance outweighed her own charms.

   Someone said the Duchesse du Maine was spreading more rumors about the regent's practicing witchcraft and incest. Someone else wondered why he did not arrest her. Someone else said he did not dare because the rumors were true.

   "Richelieu went into her private apartments, disguised as a dressmaker and stayed the night," the sister of the British ambassador was saying. A babble of talk followed her words. Richelieu topped witchcraft and incest. He made his mistresses wait together in his waiting room while he serviced them one by one in the bedroom; he was sleeping with the regent's daughter, de Berry—no, with the regent's mistress, Madame d'Averbe—no, with them both. Strange, thought Barbara, that the ugly young man she had been introduced to only yesterday could be so notorious and yet so irresistible. When Marie–Victorie had brought him over to meet her, she had thought him arrogant, and his eyes made her shiver. Roger was signaling her. It was time for her to lead the ladies away. He was not going with her this afternoon. She would have to go to Marie–Victorie's by herself. She wished he had not forgotten. The patient in spirit is better than the proud in spirit, she could hear her grandmother say, but her grandmother was not young and in love.

* * *

   That night, Roger did not return home from his appointment with the regent and John Law. After Marie–Victorie's, she had rushed to his apartments to find only Justin. She ate supper by herself, solitary at the long table. She dressed for the opera in silence. Martha was just fastening a necklace when the note came. He was unavoidably detained. He begged her forgiveness. She was to go on without him. He did not know what time he would be home. She had Martha undress her, again silent as the gown and underpetticoat and jewels and pins and laces and stockings and corset had to be unfastened, untied, put away. She was not going without him. Not to a public ball. She had no set of friends yet to go with.

   And where was Roger? Perhaps, after all, in spite of his words this morning, he was at one of the regent's suppers. She knew a little about them, never mind her professed ignorance to Roger. They were said to be sinful, wicked orgies with naked women and wine and every kind of vice. She might not know much about vice, but she knew about naked women, and she did not want Roger seeing one. Jealousy and all its attendant emotions seized her. She knew about jealousy, too, for she had been jealous when Jane had begun to like Harry better than herself. But that feeling was nothing compared to what she experienced now. If Roger were to love another woman, she would die. She would kill the woman. And him. What if, at this very moment, he was smiling at another woman—touching her—

   There was a discreet knock at her door. She was learning her household. It must be Montrose. Only he would knock with such politeness. She pulled a long shawl over her nightgown.

   "Come in."

   Montrose stood at the doorway. "Lord Devane requested that I present these to you—to keep you company, he said. They were to be a surprise, but Mr. White thought, since you did not go out this evening as planned—"

   Barbara bounded up from her chair. "What? What?"

   She was not yet used to the lavish way Roger gave her presents. It could be anything—a ball gown, jewels. Montrose pulled something from behind his body—a small, black boy, with huge brown eyes, eyes that stared at Barbara as if she were an ogre. Montrose half pushed the boy, who looked to be four or five, toward Barbara, and the child swallowed and bowed.

   "Your servant, madame," he said in a soft, fluid accent.

Barbara stood transfixed. "But what is it?" she asked.

   "A page, madame. His name is Hyacinthe, and he is yours to do with as you please."

   Barbara bent down to the small boy. Why, he was the same age as Anne. His soft mouth trembled, but he did not cry. Very gently, Barbara held out her hand. After a moment, he put his into it. He was just a baby. Round his neck was a silver collar engraved with the Devane crest. It was the height of current fashion to own a small black slave, that silver collar proclaiming his status.

   "I am very pleased to have a page," Barbara said to him. "Particularly such a big boy as you. Are you seven?" Growing up with brothers had taught her much about the male ego. He shook his head.

   "You look seven," Barbara said.

   "I am five," he blurted out.

   "Five!" Barbara rolled her eyes. He half smiled. Montrose coughed.

   "Yes, what is it?"

   "There is more, madame."

   "More?"

   What else could there be? What could possibly exceed a small black page? Montrose went into the hall and came back with a basket. Barbara could hear small growls and yelps. Puppies! Roger had bought her puppies! Inside the basket were two fashionable pugs, with little pushed–in faces and bulging brown eyes. They howled when they saw Barbara, who leaned over and took them in each hand. They wiggled and squirmed and tried to lick her hands. They were tiny, hardly bigger than her hands.

   "Pugs! Aren't they sweet! Look, Hyacinthe, look at my puppies!"

   The puppies worked a change on the boy. He smiled at the wriggling, whining dogs.

   "You must be in charge of them," Barbara said, Again, Montrose coughed. Barbara looked at him. What else could there possibly be?

   "Where would you like them put, madame?"

   "Here," Barbara said at once. She was not banishing her page or her puppies to that cavernous kitchen so far away. They would stay here in her room with her. She need not be alone any longer.

   "Have a bed made in front of the fire for Hyacinthe. And leave the basket. Tell a footman to bring up some milk for…for Hyacinthe and the puppies… and me." There, let Montrose look down his nose at that. She knew how new puppies cried for their mother the first night from home. And she could not bear the thought of this little boy by himself in the servants' attic quarters. She knew how to protect what was hers. Someday Roger would learn that, the depth and fierceness of her maternal streak.

   Later that night, after the puppies had been fed and played with, and Hyacinthe was snug in a little trundle bed before the fire in her bedchamber, she thought about Roger's gifts. Nothing was so impressive as having a small black page to carry one's train or fan and bring wine to one's guests…and the pugs were dear. They had fallen into the bowl of milk in their puppy greed, and she and Hyacinthe had to clean them. Somewhere today or yesterday or the day before, Roger had taken the time to buy these for her. That meant he did care. And if he cared, she could be patient until he loved her. Grandmama was right.

   She heard a sound. Someone was crying…very softly…but she recognized it. Anne or Charlotte, and even Tom and Kit before they decided they were too old, had done the same many times, cried softly in their beds over some hurt. She got out of her big canopied bed and went over by the fire. The little boy was crying in his pillow. She knelt down.

   "What is it?" she said softly. "May I help?"

   He started and took a deep breath and sat up. "Forgive me, madame, do not beat me, madame."

   "Beat you? But why would I do so?"

   "They said I must be very good and not cry or I would displease you and you would be angry and beat me, as I would deserve, they said. They said I was lucky to be s–sold, and that I must be a m–man. It is only that I–I miss my friends, m–madame." His voice cracked and tears poured down his face. Barbara rubbed his hair, wondering who "they" were. She knew little about the beggar fraternity of Paris, who made money by buying children from women who did not want them or could not afford them, and then resold them to the nobility and rich bourgeois as pages and maids and companions. Children like Hyacinthe were sold as slaves. But that was a fortunate fate. A child that was not bright or handsome enough was maimed and put on the streets to beg, the fraternity reasoning that deformity in a child would strike pity in the hearts of passersby. Profit had to come from somewhere.

   "Shall I send you back?" she asked.

   "Oh, no," he cried. His fear made his tears stop. "Then I would surely be beaten! I was born to be a slave. Please, madame, do not send me back. I promise I will not cry anymore. Please, madame! They would be so angry. I am yours now."

   "Then of course you shall stay. And I will not mind your crying tonight. I think you will stop when you are used to me and to this place. Now, you lie back down. You have many hazardous duties, beginning early tomorrow when you must bring me hot chocolate to drink. The cook will grumble at you. But you will say proudly, 'It is for Lady Devane.' And now, you must let me put these puppies into bed with you; I think they will wake up in the night and miss their friends also. And how will I sleep with puppies crying? You know they will not worry whether it disturbs me or not. And another thing. Early tomorrow you must take them outside in the garden, so that they do not spoil my rugs. And you must feed them. Now go to sleep, Hyacinthe… go to sleep."

   She could see that her words soothed the boy. He had relaxed a little. She pulled the covers up about his small arms, each of which enclosed a sleeping pug. She thought of her brothers and sisters, of her grandmother, of Tamworth, its winter fields now covered with snow. Her eyes closed; she felt lulled by the warmth of the page and the pugs.

   When Roger tiptoed into her apartment hours later, he found her asleep next to Hyacinthe's trundle bed, her head pillowed in one arm. One hand was still in Hyacinthe's. Roger stood still for some time, looking at her. It made quite a picture, the sleeping child, the puppies, the sleeping girl, her hair tumbling down her back, a half–smile on her face, the fire behind her glowing red under its embers. He smiled down at her. She looked hardly older than the page boy. So young and innocent.

   Her innocence made the women he had been with that night seem jaded and ugly. Their perfume seemed to saturate his clothes, and the smell made him sick. The high, floating feeling of the champagne he had drunk was leaving him. He felt old, tired…unfaithful.

   This last was a new feeling, one he had never expected to have. What would she do if she should wake now and find him swaying over her, drunk and smelling of other women? Would she cry? Would she rage? He had no idea. He knew only that she would care, and it was suddenly very important that she should not know. She was such a strange, unexpected child. In the last week, she had more than made her presence known. The whole household was turned upside down by her. Interruption of his breakfast customs. Camellias from St. Michel. Interviews for a maid. If she should leave him tomorrow, he would miss her. He had not expected this. To like his wife. To be fond of her.

   She must be cold now that the fire was dying and she had no cover. He bent down and scooped her into his arms. It was no easy task—he was drunk, and she was almost as tall as he was. He swayed a moment to catch his balance. She half woke and said sleepily, "Roger, I'm so glad you are home." She was asleep again even before she finished her words. He carried her over to her bed, put her in it, and pulled the covers up.

   "So am I, Bab," he said to her softly. "So am I."

Chapter Eleven

The final two candidates for the position of lady's maid to the young Countess Devane sat waiting in the ground floor servants' vestibule until the countess should be ready to interview them separately. Both women were young, no more than twenty. Both were dressed stylishly, in good taste and with flair, as became a competent lady's maid. Both were already lady's maids in noble households, though neither was the chief one. They had experience with dressmaking, hairstyling, needlepoint, washing fine linen, starching tiffanies (a thin silk), lawns, points (needlepoint lace), and mending. In addition, both could read and write, speak English as well as French, play the harpsichord, and dance. One of them, Thérèse Fuseau, was even experienced in going to market for kitchen staples. She had worked in the kitchens of the Condé household before being promoted to the bedchambers. Montrose had done his job well; each was highly qualified for her job, which was an arduous one. They might be called upon to read to a sick mistress or play the harpsichord or sing to amuse her. They must dress her for going out and see that her wardrobe and jewels were kept in good order, which meant supervising a staff of chambermaids, necessary women, starchers, and washerwomen. They might have to nurse her through sickness or failed love affairs.

   For a bright, ambitious woman, however, this was the opportunity of a lifetime. Lord Devane was wealthy, and his young wife had brought no favorite maids with her from her home. A good lady's maid could make herself so indispensable that she became part of the family. It was a chance for permanence and security, along with responsibility.

   There was little difference between the two women. Each was pretty in a petite way, with dark curling hair and dark eyes. Thérèse Fuseau had a most definite nose, but it gave character to her already pretty face. She sat quietly, twisting her hands in her lap in a way that was foreign to her normal behavior. But those who worked with Thérèse in the Condé household had noticed that she was not her laughing, sunny self these last few weeks. Usually, she sang as she worked the long hours of an assistant lady's maid (up before dawn to light fires, running errands between floors all day, staying awake until the early morning hours to undress one of the young Condé princesses). She was one of those rare people who took life as it came and found the best in it.

   But this last month, she had not been herself. And now, she was seeking to leave the Condé staff. Suzanne, her friend and roommate, who was employed as a starcher and idolized Thérèse for her climb from kitchen maid to assistant lady's maid, could not understand it. Thérèse cried at odd moments, was preoccupied, snappish.

   What Suzanne could not know was that Thérèse was in trouble. She had given herself to one of the young princes de Condé, throwing away years of self–restraint. (She could have married the head footman; he had begged her. But she had no wish to end like her mother, dead in childbirth, tired and old years before her time from children, pregnancy, and the hard work of their farm outside Paris. It was better for a female servant to keep herself chaste; her life was easier; there was opportunity to advance, to save money. Thérèse had a secret dream of saving enough money to open a dressmaker's shop.) But it was a dream she had abandoned because she was, after all, only human, young and warmly passionate, and the prince was handsome and polished and said sweet things and she thought he loved her. And in a moment of weakness, she let him do as he wanted, as she wanted. For a while he could not possess her enough. He gave her money, which she would not accept, and gifts of flowers, which she would. The money made her feel like a whore, which she was not. She had given herself freely, out of love. Or so she thought. It did not take long for his interest to wane.

   The moment she realized it was a moment of stunning clarity. That she could have been so stupid, she who had been raised in a noble household, she who had seen many a maid ruined. And combined with that was heartbreak, because she had cared for him. Yet she could have survived that. It was his disrespect for her as a person that hurt most. He told his brother, and his brother began to haunt her, just one time, he begged. Money, he promised. Once he had found her alone in a hallway, sorting linens, and he had wrestled her to the ground, his hand up her skirts, before she had screamed, and he had run away. She realized that she had been nothing to her young prince but a hole into which he put his sex. And now, because of his brother, she felt terror, the sense of being helpless, which was black and suffocating like a nightmare. At first, she could do nothing but tremble and cry. These tears were added to the ones she had already shed. But then her innate common sense asserted itself. She would leave. She would find another position before they drove her mad or before the old Princesse de Condé found out and dismissed her without references. The life of a single woman without a job or family on the streets of Paris was not to be thought about. If she thought of it, even once, she would lose her courage and do nothing but lie on her bed and cry and be dismissed anyway for not performing her duties.

   When she overheard the old Princesse de Lorraine gossiping with the old Princesse de Condé about the little English Countess Devane, and the princess mentioned casually, just a few words, really, that the young countess was searching for a lady's maid ("God only knew she needs one"), she had another moment of stunning clarity. Her God had not deserted her, though she had doubted Him in her days of trouble. The Holy Mother had truly heard her choking prayers every night and interceded.

   She waited now in the vestibule of the mansion Lord Devane was leasing, nervous, but also confident that God would provide. Monsieur Montrose, the neat, officious young man who had already screened her, came in and summoned the young woman sitting next to her. She stood up, smoothed out her dress, patted her curls in a confident manner, and followed him out. Thérèse refused to let the other woman's confidence undermine hers. She was the better choice. She was bright, honest, diligent, and shrewd. From the moment her mother had brought her to the Condé household, she had known what she wanted. Even before that. Her mother had been a lady's maid, and in the dark evenings when they gathered around the fire, her father already snoring because he was so tired from work in his fields, her mother would describe to them her life as it had once been. In place of the dark, cramped, one–room farmhouse was the great house, immense, shining, like a fairy palace with more rooms than there were children sitting before the fire listening with intent expressions. In place of the watery stew and the black bread was food only to be dreamed of: apples, oranges, strawberries, hearty soups and ragouts, chocolates and bonbons. Thérèse and her brothers and sister had never tasted an orange, much less a bonbon. In place of the heavy, serviceable clothes, passed down from their mother and cut to fit them, was the dressing of my lady for a ball, her diamonds, her jewels, her feathers and fans, glittering and magic.

   Her mother had lost that glory when she had fallen in love with and married an underfootman. They had taken their meager savings and put a down payment on a farm. The farm prospered, though the mortgage was never paid off, but her mother got smaller and sicker each year from the children that kept arriving. Thérèse was willing to escape the drudgery of the farm, the milking, the haying, the mucking out of barns and pigpens, to live in a large city household. When she was seven, her mother and father drove her into Paris in their wagon, and she was left on the kitchen doorstep of the Condé house, in which her mother and father had once worked. The housekeeper was still a friend, and had obtained for Thérèse the position of kitchen maid. She worked hard. She was out of bed long before dawn, lugging firewood and building the fires in the great kitchen fireplaces. With sand and potash she scrubbed pots and pans that were larger than she was. She chopped vegetables until her arms ached. She mopped floors that seemed as long as her father's fields. She sang as she worked. She was merry and laughing. By the time she was ten, she was shopping with the cook at the markets, sometimes bargaining even more shrewdly than he, using her dark eyes and her small frame and her quick answers to amuse the vendors into giving her a better price. But always before her she saw the glory and glitter of the bedchambers. She wanted to be a lady's maid. The cook begged her to stay in his kitchens, swore he would teach her all he knew. But the housekeeper also had a fondness for her, and when a position as chambermaid opened in one of the young princesses' bedchambers, she moved Thérèse there.

   Thérèse used every moment of her spare time to improve herself, learning to read and write, to speak English, to play music. She was ready when another position opened, that of lady's maid's assistant. The work was hard; the young princesses were spoiled and demanding, but she was happy. She had plenty of food, a small room shared with a friend, castoff clothes that were worn only for a brief while before the princesses tired of them, one free day a month, wages, which she saved, and a footman or two or three who died for her pert smiles. But then she had made her mistake….She closed her eyes and swallowed. She would not think of that now. She began to say her Hail Mary in a whisper. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you; blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus….

   It gave her courage when her turn came. She followed Monsieur Montrose through hallways and past ornate drawing rooms and up stairs until he opened the door to Lady Devane's antechamber. She had an impression of ornate furnishings and cold formality.

   "Lady Devane," Montrose said to a thin girl in a rich, autumn–green gown that made her hair the color of gold, two pug puppies with matching green ribbons around their necks at her skirts, "this is Thérèse Fuseau."

He bowed and left them alone. The girl stared at Thérèse with wide, blue eyes in a heart-shaped face. She was far younger than Thérèse had imagined she would be. Her face was pretty, but she did not make it up either fashionably or to accentuate its best feature. The pugs bounded over and barked in such small, shrill yaps that Thérèse laughed. "May I?"

    At Lady Devane's nod, she bent down and patted them. They immediately began to whine and tremble under her hand, pushing at each other so the other should not get more patting, rolling over so that she might scratch their fat puppy bellies. (Barbara had named them after her brother Harry and her sister Charlotte. Harry was always in trouble and Charlotte whined.)

   "Bad dogs," Thérèse cooed to them. "Bad, bad dogs." They loved it, straining themselves into contortions to stay on their bellies yet lick her hands at the same time.

   "Hyacinthe!" Lady Devane called.

   A small page appeared in one of the doorways. He was a handsome child with full, smooth cheeks and dark eyes with long lashes.

   "Take the puppies away," Lady Devane told him. He glanced at Thérèse and scooped up the puppies, who tried to lick his face. When he was gone, Lady Devane began to ask Thérèse about her background, how long she hid been with the Condés, what references she could provide, and finally why she wished to leave.

   "It is time, madame," was all she said. Then she stood waiting. Lady Devane was looking at her with those intent blue eyes, assessing her. Please, Holy Mother, prayed Thérèse, please—make her like me. I beg you. I will say ten Hail Marys and light five candles to you if you will make her like me.

   I like her, Barbara was thinking. I like the way she dresses and the way she answered my questions and the way she patted my dogs. Trust your instincts, she heard her grandmother's voice say in her mind, trust your instincts.

   "When could you start?"

   Thérèse clapped her hands together. "Within a week."

   "Good. I will inform Montrose, and have him arrange a footman to carry your things."

   "You will not regret your decision, madame. I promise that. I will serve you faithfully and proudly."

   Barbara smiled. It was her grandfather's smile. In that moment, Thérèse felt that somehow her life was intertwined with this girl's. She smiled back. Outside the antechamber, in the corridor, she leaned against the wall and burst into tears. Wiping them quickly, furtively, she walked down the hall. Outside the house, she had to stop and vomit in the kitchen gardens, but the only one who saw her was a beggar child staring through the fence.

* * *

   Within a week, Thérèse was surveying her new domain—Lady Devane's apartments and the room on the ground floor which would be used for laundering and starching. The puppies yapped and bit at her heels as she walked through the formal room that separated Lord and Lady Devane's apartments to the antechamber that was the first room of Barbara's suite. It was as she remembered, a cold, formal room clearly used for little but receiving guests. Crossing it quickly, the puppies still at her heels, she entered the bedchamber, which would also be used as a sitting room. This would be the center of her life.

   The walls were the color of a robin's eggshell. A canopied bed occupied an old-fashioned, dark alcove. Near the fireplace was an overturned basket and an embroidery frame. The basket was frayed from small, pointed teeth. Thérèse shook her finger at the puppies. "Bad dogs," she told them. They stared at her, heads cocked to one side, tongues hanging out. She picked up the scraps of linen and dangling embroidery threads and put them back in the basket and shook her finger at the puppies once more. A pair of shoes lay in the middle of the floor, green satin shoes with stiff embroidered bows. A dressing table was littered with bottles and jars and feathers and ribbons and spilled powders. She would straighten it later.

   She crossed to two identical doors set into the wall. One would contain Lady Devane's most private room, where she could be left alone. The other would be hers. Thérèse opened the door on her left. Lady Devane's room. Rich blue damask on the walls and on the two matching armchairs pulled before the fireplace. A window at one end, beneath which was a marquetry table littered with papers, quill pens, an ink pot, and a Bible box. Thérèse closed the door. She was much more interested in the room adjoining. Hers. She opened the door. A small fireplace, a luxury she had not expected. A narrow cot. Trunks and an armoire for Lady Devane's clothing. Pegs for hers. A table under a window. A window! Another luxury. A close stool. And a piece of mirror in which she might see herself to comb her hair. A small door, which she opened. The back stairs leading down to the kitchens and basements.