Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (44 page)

   He did not suspect her of being unfaithful, but that would come. He was far more experienced than she, and he knew how easy it was. One tiny step led to another, until it was done, and then there was no going back. At the thought of Barbara's being unfaithful, he felt as if something sharp had pierced his side. She was so young.

   "He is married, you know." What made him say that? The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He sounded like a sulking twenty–year–old.

   "Who is?"

   "St. Michel." There was a silence. Let it go, Roger thought to himself. You have said enough.

   Barbara squeezed Hyacinthe's hand and shut her eyes.

   "He leaves his wife and children in a chateau in Normandy, and comes to Paris to live as he pleases. His wife runs the chateau and farms and sends him money for his town house and his horses and his mistresses." Why am I doing this?

   The carriage lurched to a stop, and Barbara leapt out and ran, her cloak flying out behind her, until she reached her apartments. Hyacinthe ran behind her like a shadow. She stood for a moment in the doorway of her antechamber and leaned her head against the doorframe. From the bedroom, the puppies came barking and tumbling over themselves in their haste to reach her. Thérèse appeared at the opening to the bedroom. She was wiping her mouth with a handkerchief, and her face was pale. There was a sheen of sweat above her upper lip. But Barbara did not notice.

   "Madame is home early. Did you enjoy yourself?"

   Barbara could not speak. She ignored the yapping puppies and ran past Thérèse into her bedroom. She pulled at the strings of her cloak, she pulled at the feathers in her hair. She sat down on the stool before her dressing table and stared at herself. I will not cry, she thought. I will not.

   "What happened?" Thérèse whispered to Hyacinthe.

   He shrugged his shoulders. "Madame tells me to fetch the cloaks and carriage. In the carriage she is very quiet. I hold her hand."

   "And monsieur?"

   "He talks."

   "About what?"

   "I did not understand. I was thinking of madame. She looked as if she was going to cry. Will she cry, Thérèse? If she cries, I will hug her until she stops."

   Thérèse leaned down and gave the boy a quick hug of her own. "Madame needs to be alone. You take Harry and Charlotte in my room, and wait there for me."

   "But madame might need me."

   "Not tonight, my little one. Do as I say. Go on."

   In the bedroom, Barbara's back was to her, but Thérèse could see her face in the mirror. Poor little one, thought Thérèse, perhaps a lover's quarrel. And her husband knows and is angry.

   Quietly, Thérèse reached around and untied the strings on Barbara's cloak. When the cloak fell, and Barbara's shoulders were exposed, she squeezed them sympathetically. It was a gentle, quick gesture. Barbara bit her lip. Thérèse unfastened Barbara's gown and helped her out of her petticoats. She unfastened her jewels and unpinned her hair. Everything was done neatly and silently, and as if it were perfectly normal for Barbara not to say one word. Before Barbara even realized it, she was in her nightgown and Thérèse was brushing her hair.

   It was comforting to have her hair brushed. Her grandmother used to do that. At the thought of her grandmother, Barbara nearly burst out crying. She missed her; she missed them all. And Roger and St. Michel had nearly fought a duel over her, and it was not romantic and exciting, as in the French romances she had read. And now Roger was angry with her. He thought it her fault.

   There was a knock at the door. Thérèse looked at Barbara. Barbara nodded her head. Thérèse opened the door, and before her was the handsomest man she had ever seen. He was older, his face was tanned and thin, he had blue eyes with tiny little laugh lines on each side, and his short hair was gray–blond. He was in a robe. Lord Devane. Thérèse's mouth fell open.

   "I am Lord Devane," he said unnecessarily. "Would you ask my wife if she feels up to seeing me?"

   She turned. Barbara's face told her everything. She is in love with him, thought Thérèse. And I do not blame her.

   She stood to one side, and Roger went into the bedroom. Thérèse closed the door on them, and sat down in a chair in the antechamber.

   She had forgotten husbands and wives could love each other. No one did in the Condé household. It was enough to make her forget her sickness.

* * *

   "I was too harsh tonight," Roger said, walking toward Barbara. "I do not know what came over me. You are certainly to be allowed your own friendships. I will not interfere. I trust you, Barbara. I do."

   She burst into tears. He smiled to himself as he took her in his arms.

* * *

   When she woke the next morning, he was not at her side. She sat up, and the bed covers slipped from her. She was naked. She smiled. Roger had not been his usual, controlled self last night; he had made furious love to her. If he should love her…she put her arms around her knees and hugged herself. If he should love her, life would be perfect.

   She had been in despair last night. Today she felt like singing. She got up. There was a soreness between her legs. She smiled again. Wrapping a robe around herself, she rang for Thérèse and sat down at her dressing table and began to brush her hair.

   "Help me dress, Thérèse," Barbara said. "I have to breakfast with Lord Devane."

   Thérèse took the brush from her hand. "Madame seems very happy this morning. Such a change from last night."

   Barbara laughed. She could feel a blush starting to burn her neck and cheeks. "I am."

   "So would I be. He is the handsomest man I have ever seen."

   "Do you really think so, Thérèse?"

   "Most certainly. You could have knocked me over last night when I opened the door and saw him. He is gorgeous."

   "I agree."

   They laughed together, like two wicked old ladies. Thérèse pulled Barbara's heavy hair from her face and began to twist it up.

   "This morning we make you innocent, but with a bloom, like a rose opening. The carmine rouge, just a touch. One patch, no more, by your mouth. It will remind him of last night's kisses. I assume he kissed you. We add the rose morning gown with the green belt. The little rose slippers. He will be enchanted."

   They were enjoying themselves immensely, but as Thérèse tied the belt around Barbara's waist, she felt the nausea rising, and she clutched her stomach. She could not help it.

   "Thérèse, what is it? Are you unwell?" Barbara helped her to a chair.

   "A stomach sickness."

   "I will send for a doctor—"

   "No. I will be fine in just a few moments. Please, madame, do not trouble yourself. Let me rest just a moment, then I will finish helping you dress. Lord Devane will be waiting."

   Roger was already eating when Barbara ran into the breakfast room. At the sight of him, her throat tightened. He stood to greet her, and a slight flush appeared on his cheeks, but she did not notice. Roger cleared his throat. She waited.

   "About last night," he finally said, quickly, in low tones, "if I hurt you—"

   "Oh, no. It was—you did not hurt me."

   "You look lovely this morning."

   She smiled, all her heart, her happiness, in her smile. She had never loved him so much in her life.

   "We have letters," he told her. "They arrived late yesterday. You have two. One from your grandmother and the other from someone whose scrawl I could not read." He handed her two letters.

   "Harry!" she exclaimed. "It's a letter from my brother Harry. If you knew what a miracle this is, Roger! I do not think Harry has written two letters in his life—"

   She ripped open the seal and read:

Dearest Bab,

What a shock Grandmama's letter gave me. You, a married woman, and to Roger, of all people. Does he know what he has taken on by marrying you, and being related to us all? I send him my condolences and confess that the thought of you as a married
woman was enough to make me laugh for days. I also got drunk to celebrate. And celebrate I do, for I need a rich brother–in–law. I have met a friend, the son of Lord Wharton, who is touring Europe, and he wants to come to Paris. When he does, I shall join him. We are in the midst of celebrating Carnival, however, and will not leave before it ends. But expect me, for I have a yearning to see you as a proper married woman. I need money, Bab, and ask you to lend me some. By the way, Grandmama wrote me that part of the marriage settlements included paying Father's debts. What do you hear of Father? I owe Roger a letter of thanks and welcome to the family, which I shall write soon. Meanwhile, try to behave yourself, and send money.

I remain your loving brother,

Harry

   The words "send money" had been underscored.

   Roger was watching her face as she read it. It was soft and smiling. He realized her face always became tender when she thought of her brothers and sisters. She would be a good mother to their children. A nursery. He must build Devane House a fine nursery. Not dark, tiny rooms under the attic, but a spacious, sun–filled chamber where his children would grow strong and tall like greening plants. The thought surprised him. His eagerness to have a child. Not just a child that would be related to Richard. But Barbara's child.

   She looked up. "He congratulates us, Roger, and thanks you for your generosity in the settlements and says he will visit us."

   "Does he? And there is no mention of money, of a loan? When I was his age, I always needed money."

   She handed him the letter. He read it while she opened her grandmother's letter and read to him from it.

   "Let me see…Her letter is dated two weeks ago. Our wedding made her tired, the journey back to Tamworth was miserable—their carriage lost a wheel. She was in bed a week with her legs, but now she is nursing the boys, who are ill. Some kind of fever—" She looked up.

   "They will be fine. Children always have fevers."

   She scanned the rest of the letter quickly. "That is the only mention of it. She says Aunt Abigail is trying to marry Tony to Sir Josiah Child's daughter, but Tony is having none of it. Good for him. Jane had her betrothal ceremony—I must write a letter. One of Squire's daughters is engaged! That is news—"

   In spite of himself, Roger was interested. "Who is Squire?"

   "Squire Dinwitty. He owns Trinity Farm, next to one of ours. He has three daughters, none of whom are married. Grandmama does not say which one is engaged. Let me see, what else…she says she looks forward to my letters and sends her love to us both, and she tells you to beat me if I should cause any trouble."

   They smiled at each other.

   White and Montrose, who had entered and seated themselves in the midst of Barbara's explanation of the letter, exchanged a look.

   "Well, I have a letter from Carlyle," Roger said. "In his usual inimitable style, he writes that he has decided to cut his fingernails. He does not understand how the Chinese mandarin lords ate anything with such long nails, and he can find no one who is willing to feed him. He claims we are missed at court."

   "You are missed. They do not know me."

   "You would be missed if they did, Bab. What else…the rebellion in Scotland looks to be a failure, and captured Scot lords are being brought to London for trial. The mob wants their heads cut off, but rumor, according to Carlyle, has it King George will be merciful. And your mother may be seeing Robert Walpole. No one is sure yet, he says, and London is rife with gossip." Carlyle's exact words were:

Now that bitch in heat, or in other words, your mother–inlaw, has poor Robert in her clutches. She is playing with him the way a cat does a mouse. And such a mouse! No one knows what their—dare I call it a relationship—is. Bets are four to one in Robert's favor at White's. I put my money on Diana. Montagu is fit to be tied, and it looks as if Robert will find sponsors for her divorce. Trust Diana to land on her feet. She is wearing the most awful new emerald necklace, interlaced with diamonds, and will tell no one who it is from. I, for one, know Robert could not afford it. Everyone is dying of curiosity, including me.

   "Walpole is the fat one?" Barbara asked, without much interest. She did not care whom her mother was seeing. "The one who spilled punch on Aunt Abigail at our wedding party?"

   "The very one."

   "An apt memory," murmured Montrose.

   "Francis," said Roger, "what do you have for me?"

   Silently Montrose passed Roger a stack of invitations. Roger sifted through them quickly, handing several of them to Barbara and saying as he did so, "Francis seems to have mixed some of your invitations in with mine. I see a note from Richelieu. Open it and see what he wants."

   His voice was casual, but he was watching Barbara's face. Without hesitating, she ripped past the seal and read the note.

   "He invites me riding this afternoon, Roger. I forgot to tell you that I tried to buy his black horse last night. You remember the one—we both thought she was beautiful and he wants to see if I can manage her. As if I could not! But I thought I already had something planned—"

   "You do," White said. "We were going to the Palais Royal to look at the regent's collection of paintings. We can easily do it another time." He smiled at her.

   "Pooh," said Barbara. "I would much rather be with you than the Duc de Richelieu. He makes me angry every time I speak to him. I will see to his horse another day."

   "What time is this expedition planned?" asked Roger.

   "After dinner," answered White.

   "I want to buy some toys, also," Barbara said to White. "For my brothers, who are ill."

   "The baby too?"

   Barbara nodded her head.

   "Not the baby," Montrose said, involuntarily.

   "I know a place," White said. "A little shop on the Ile Sainte–Marie."

   "I shall accompany you," Roger said.

   Barbara clapped her hands, jumped out of her chair and kissed him on the cheek.