Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (54 page)

Your loving Grandmother

"There is another letter," said Montrose. Roger ripped past the seal to read,

Dear Bab,

I will take care of Grandmama. You are not to worry. Now take care of yourself. You are in my thoughts, Bab, and my prayers. Grandmama has asked me to write you how they died. She said that later you would want to know, that you would have to know. The baby was first, Bab. He never regained consciousness—

   Roger folded the letter, trying to think what this news must mean to his wife. She had loved her brothers and sisters; she had wanted them to live with her. He had avoided this plan, not wanting his life cluttered with children, when his bride was child enough. But this….

   He raised his head. Everyone was staring at him, their faces strained.

   "How did she take the news?" he asked.

   For a moment, all of them were silent, which told him more than any words could. Finally, Justin said, "She was most distraught. That was when we sent for the physician. He–he bled her and gave her something to sleep. She is quiet now."

   Montrose said tersely, in shock himself, "We had to hold her down."

   "She was very upset," White said, his voice trembling slightly. "Very, very upset."

   Thérèse said nothing at all.

   Roger walked into the bedchamber. Someone had pulled the draperies, and it was dark, but he could see that the mirror on her dressing table was cracked. Bottles and jars and broken glass lay everywhere and a chair was overturned. He took a deep breath and went to the bed. She looked as if she were sleeping. Her face and eyelids were swollen. My poor dear, he thought. My poor, poor baby. He reached down to touch her face; her eyes opened and she clutched his hand. He sat down on the bed.

   "Bab," he said softly. "Bab. I'm sorry."

   "Do not leave me," she said.

   He sat by her, stroking her hair, until she slept.

* * *

   A week later, Roger stared at the gardens from his room. Around him, scattered on the floor, lay a wig and a coat of gray watered silk, a black armband still attached to the sleeve. This morning a memorial service for Barbara's family had been held. He had been surprised at the number of people who had come. He had wandered among them, listening to them chatter about the national bank, that miracle that was going to make everything wonderful, about the possibility that the Duc de Richelieu would stand trial for his duel, about the news from abroad that the Prince of Wales was said to be furious that his father was not going to make him regent for the summer when the king journeyed to Hanover, of how wan and thin Lady Devane looked, and of how exasperating it must be to Lord Devane that he had to cancel so many planned entertainments due to his young wife's mourning. He shook his head; they were here to observe him, to observe Barbara, to observe each other. He knew them well.

   Among the many flowers that had come was a huge bouquet of purple irises, interspersed with sprigs of rosemary. Iris, or fleur–de–lis, as the French called it; they were on the coat of arms of the Bourbons, Philippe's family. The flowers came from Philippe. Iris, fleur–de–lis, whose meaning was flame; I burn. Philippe had been at the back of the church. Flame. I burn. Barbara had fainted during the service. She wanted him with her day and night. He escaped each night, once she finally slept, into the arms of other women, any woman he could find, a compliant duchess, an opera dancer, a whore. He was drawn to them; he reeked of them, coming home at all hours, Justin putting him to bed like a child, most nights he was incoherent from drink.

   Philippe standing there. Flame. I burn—and nothing quenches the flame. Philippe was forcing a decision; he had given an ultimatum. Clever, clever Philippe. Among the fleur–de-lis lay a small note card anyone might have seen: I leave soon, it read. See me one time. Only that. Nothing more.

   You have a young wife, Roger said to himself, staring out into the gardens, and seeing none of their fresh greenness, their blossoms, their design and beauty. She loves you. She needs you. You will have children together. It is not enough. (Who may know the heart of another? How can any man judge another? Only the Lord God Almighty, and He does not exist.) She will be devastated….She does not have to know….Sooner or later, they always know….Sooner or later, they do not always care….Temptation opened her silky white arms and beckoned….My poor, poor Barbara.

* * *

   Roger stood on the steps of the doorway to Philippe's Paris home; it had once been the stables of the palatial Hotel de Nevers behind it. Philippe had leased it and had every interior wall torn out to rebuild a small, furnished house that exactly suited his city needs. Roger remembered it as being filled with the finest furniture, old paintings, chairs and tables that were built by the great Louis's own craftsmen, with different woods, oak and walnut, pearwood and limewood, repeated in the paneling of the walls and the room molding. The Duc de Nevers included the use of his gardens in the lease. There had been moonlight strolls, recitals, picnics. The most beautiful women in Paris found their way there, as did poets, playwrights, the cream of the nobility. In Louis's dying years, the best and wittiest of the court were not at Versailles, but at Philippe's.

   Roger knocked on the door. One of Philippe's servants opened it. In the dark hallway were crowded trunks and boxes. Philippe was leaving, it was no bluff, as Roger had half-expected. The servant pointed the way to the upstairs green–and–gold salon, but Roger knew the way. It had always been his favorite room. He found himself running up the stairs and checked himself. He rapped on the salon door with his cane.

   "Come in."

   Across the room, at the windows, Philippe rose awkwardly from a chair. His face was as somber, as troubled as Roger's was smooth. Roger felt strangely calm as they stared at each other. This man had once been his love, the love of his life. The whoring of the past week had cleared his mind. He would say good-bye. It was better not to begin what he might not finish. The danger was too great. For his sake, and for Barbara's. She stayed in his mind, her face pale, like that of a ghost.

   It took Philippe a few moments to speak, a fact that moved Roger. Philippe was never without words, never ruffled.

   "I did not think you would come."

   Roger was silent.

   "Your wife…is she better?"

   "I came to say good-bye," Roger said easily. Philippe's having mentioned Barbara made it easy. "I wish you well."

   "And you, Roger."

   Roger crossed the room to shake Philippe's hand, so that Philippe, with his limp, should not have to move, and when their hands clasped, something electric leapt between them. What a fool I am, Roger thought, as Philippe moved closer.

   What an incredible fool. And then, this is all there is. This is reality. The other is a dream.

* * *

   They lay quietly in the bedchamber, listening to someone, Philippe's valet, begin to lay out places for supper in the adjoining room. They could hear the clink of glasses and silverware. Their first lovemaking had been violent, passionate, angry, as their bodies and tongues and hands expressed mutual hurt and desire and need. Now the anger was gone, but not the passion or the need. Philippe ran his fingers over Roger's face, tracing his profile, his cheekbones.

   "You are as handsome as ever. Do you never age?"

   Roger stared at Philippe's dueling scar. He had been present when Philippe had received that; Roger had been his second in a ridiculous duel over a wanton countess. Women had always wound themselves in and out of their lives. He had cradled Philippe's bloody head in his lap and known how much he loved him. Loved him more than he had ever loved anyone except Richard, and Richard was dead, and had never loved him back. (Would he have been a different man today if Richard had returned his love? Yet Richard's granddaughter loved him, the way he had loved Richard. The Fates, how they must be laughing at the coil of his life.) Yes, Richard was dead and Philippe was alive, never the man Richard Saylor had been and yet Philippe had stared up at him with eyes that understood, this man that was all Richard was not. Proud. Arrogant. Jealous. It had been an unforgettable moment, that moment of knowing. The physician had bandaged Philippe, and Roger had helped him to his house, and there had been the countess, weeping and wailing for Philippe. And Philippe had made love to her, bandage, pain, and all, there in front of Roger. Roger had joined in, and then, suddenly, over her body, they were making love to each other. It was the beginning. Odd that so many times before they had shared women and never touched each other. But it had all been a prelude to that final conclusion, to each other.

   Roger stretched. He felt soothed and relaxed, replete. "As for aging, I have just lost twenty years, thanks to you."

   Philippe laughed, and his laughter was rich, full, like melting chocolate, his teeth even and white. In his own way, he was a handsome man.

   "Do you remember the countess?" he asked, and Roger joined the laughter, thinking, How well he still reads my mind, my moods.

   "She always thought it was her own beauty that aroused us. I wanted you from the first moment I ever saw you, Roger. That moment you walked in behind the Duke of Tamworth. I wanted you for years. War divided us, and time and events, and still we found each other. We are destined together."

   Roger closed his eyes under the spell of Philippe's voice, his hands, which were caressing him and making him hard again. Desire held him, dark desire.

   "Do you remember," Philippe whispered against his ear, "how much we enjoyed sharing a woman? Having her first, one after the other, watching each other?" Roger groaned. "And then making love ourselves, love that was more exquisite than anything else on earth. Your wife, Roger, your Barbara…might she ever…join us?"

   Philippe's tongue was in his ear, but Roger felt as if he had been dropped into an icy river. He moved away and sat up.

   Philippe, leaning on an elbow now, stared at him. That scar gave an ironic twist to his mouth, but then why not? What could be more ironic than for his lover to mention his wife and for him to feel defiled? As if Philippe had touched a part of himself that must remain inviolate. Barbara was his innocence, his talisman. Emotions twisted themselves inside him. He was a fool to have come here. To have begun again. But it was not too late to leave. To end it.

   "I apologize," Philippe said, watching him carefully, not making a move to touch him. "I should never have said such a thing. Some men do not care, but you do. Do you love her?"

   Roger was silent. Philippe's easy apology caught him off guard, as did their nakedness. The old Philippe would never have apologized. He was touched…and aware that he wanted to make love with Philippe again. He despised himself.

   "Come here," said Philippe, opening his arms.

   They lay together without desire, while Philippe stroked Roger's face.

   "It will be all right," he said.

   "I do not want her hurt."

   "No, of course not. I promise. We are together. Nothing else matters."

Chapter Sixteen

At first, it was like swimming up through muddy water. She managed to put her head above the surface: events, people, conversations were clear; she understood. But then she was sucked back down, down into the murky waters of grief and everything was filtered through pain. She remembered the service held by a visiting bishop; she had no memory of her fainting or of Roger's panic. She remembered Thérèse telling her of people who called to offer condolences: the regent and his wife; Lord Stair; the Duc and Duchesse de Saint–Simon; John Law; Marie–Victorie; the Comte de Toulouse; the young Comte de Coigny; the Chevalier de Bavi`ere; the Prince de Dombes. She lay in bed and turned her head away. She wished to see no one. She wanted no one but Roger. Her Roger. And even her memory of Roger was unclear. Sometimes she called his name, sitting upright in panic, and he was there. And sometimes he was not.

   She cried herself to sleep. They have died, she sobbed to herself, and I never even got to say good-bye. There was so much she had envisioned: arranging their marriages, being godmother to their children, seeing to their futures with Roger's wealth and power behind her. Always, always she had cared for them, since she was old enough to carry one of them straddled on her hip. They were part of her growing up, of her girlhood, of who she was. It seemed that for all her life, until Roger, she had held on to hands smaller than hers….She was going to give them what they deserved out of life; she had made so many plans. And now she felt as if she had lost a part of herself, as if a piece of her heart had been hacked off, and she must live with the bleeding remainder. The ache. If only I had insisted they come to France, she thought, over and over, they might be alive today. She could not sleep; then she took laudanum and slept too much; she could not eat; she could do nothing but be in her bed. Thérèse and Hyacinthe were there; two loyal sentinels guarding her. And Roger. He was there. He rocked and held her. He talked to her. He was her anchor; he was her soul. When he was gone to an appointment, to a reception (after all, they were not his flesh and blood, she did not expect him to stop living), she was at the bottom of a muddy sea, and the sunlight seemed far, far above her.

* * *

   "What a dreary place this is…all this black crepe," said White, at the breakfast table, which was still littered with the remains of breakfast, highlighted by a streak of sunlight which came through the windows to gleam dully on the huge silver epergne in the center of the table. Swags of black cloth draped the doorways and windows of the room. The mirror above a serving chest had its surface covered with black cloth.

   "It is no wonder Lord Devane is gone so much. He seems in strangely good spirits, does he not, Francis? He liked my fourth canto. He wants me to compose a poem for Lady Devane's birthday—she will be sixteen in May. I forget what a child she still is. 'Superbly executed,' he told me after he had read it. What are you working on?"

   "An inventory Lord Devane wanted of the items stored in the Pont Neuf warehouse. For his journey." Montrose sniffed.

   White understood that sniff. Neither of them approved of this journey. It was a new emotion in both their lives to feel the slightest disapproval of what Roger might do. He was going to visit the estate of the reclusive Comte de Bourbon, an elderly, eccentric, and extremely wealthy relative of the Prince de Soissons. The comte's estate was one of the most beautiful in France, designed by Le Vau, and visitors were rarely allowed. Neither thought—though they had not said as much as one word to one another— that he should be leaving his wife at this time, even if it was only for four days. The extent of her grief had touched them both. White understood it better, because of his own large and loving family. But Montrose had a younger brother, and Barbara's family tragedy touched some place deep down inside of himself which he kept private. He, too, had plans for his brother; he, too, wanted to use his influence and position to help his brother advance. And once, there had been an even younger brother who had died, a sunny, open, good–natured child, whom Montrose had adored. He remembered his pain at the boy's death, his mother's tears.

   Barbara had woven herself into the fabric of their lives. Her presence at the breakfast table, teasing them, ordering them about, casting adoring looks at her husband, which they mocked, but secretly respected. Her late afternoon teas, held impulsively, randomly, in the blue–and–gold salon off the terrace. The trays overflowing with food, with mouth– watering biscuits and cakes and tarts that were recipes from Tamworth. Her curiosity, her interest in what they were doing, while they stuffed their faces with her food as if they were once more hungry schoolboys. Thérèse and Hyacinthe would be there, and White would recite verses from his poems, and Hyacinthe would make the puppies do tricks, and Thérèse would make them laugh with some story of her life with the Condés. Lady Devane sat behind the teapot and applauded them all, and told them stories of herself, of her family. Lord Devane had even joined them sometimes. There was something comfortable and easy about her teas. (Is there one today? they would ask each other, never knowing until they saw the parade of footmen, laden with trays and urns and teapots on their way to the blue–and–gold salon.) Before she had married their master, the household had been formal, distant, masculine; she brought a hominess, spontaneity. If Lord Devane was their father, she, for all her youth, was becoming their mother. She had become an integral part of their lives; no one quite knew how it had happened. They found that they missed her, for in the shock of her first grief, she was staying in her apartments. Each, in his own way, had grown used to her presence.

   They would not openly criticize Roger, who was as happy and laughing and busy these days as either of them had ever seen him. They might find his good spirits strange, compared with his young wife's grief, but it was a welcome change from his mood of the previous weeks. Therefore, Montrose went back to his inventory, doing nothing more than allowing himself that one, expressive sniff, and White's mind jumped to the birthday poem he would compose…and to Thérèse, who was much in his thoughts these days. He lived for the times when she strolled in the gardens with him, or allowed him to buy her supper at some crowded, noisy tavern. He found himself telling her things he had told no one else—of his ambitions, his admiration for Lord Devane, his family background. She was a good listener. He dreamed of the day when she would allow him to kiss her…and more.

* * *

   "It is just for four days," Philippe had urged. "He rarely allows anyone to see his estate, and it will be an inspiration for your Bentwoodes." Roger had wavered, feeling guilty about leaving Barbara. "She will never know you are gone," said Philippe. "I know what grief is. In those first weeks, you are conscious only of yourself."

   "How do you know what grief is like?" asked Roger.

   "I lost you," said Philippe. "It nearly killed me. And once, long ago, there was a girl I loved. I could not marry her; she was an innkeeper's daughter. Her name was Angelique, and she looked like an angel. I loved her with that boyish intensity with which all men love their first true loves. I set her up in a house in town and visited her whenever I could, and when she became pregnant with my child, I used to lie with my head against her belly and feel the child kick, and I could have wept with happiness. What plans I had! I would educate him with the best tutors—naturally I dreamed it was a boy—and he would become my personal secretary, and I would oversee every step of what would be a long and glorious career for him, while Angelique grew old, but beloved, beside me. Ah, the dreams of youth. She died in childbirth. It was a boy. The child died. And my dreams died. I know what grief is, my Roger."

   "You never told me this," said Roger.

   Philippe had smiled, a sad, wistful smile such as Roger had never seen. He thought, we are closer than we ever were. I am learning more about him than I ever knew, and he about me. It is better than it was. My life is richer, fuller, more wonderful than it has ever been. He shivered suddenly, one of those superstitious chills when the Fates brush their cold hands against one's cheek and say, Beware, beware such happiness. But Philippe was urging him to hurry, and the sun was shining, and their horses were stamping their hooves against the ground, impatient for their morning exercise, and the feeling vanished before it even completely registered in his mind.

* * *

   The little kindnesses helped. They came from unexpected sources and in unexpected ways. White composed a eulogy in honor of her brothers and sisters and sent it tied with a blue ribbon. There was Tony's letter, his assurance that he would see after Grandmama, unexpected and, therefore, even more dear, for now Grandmama was alone, and she, for all her grief, still had Roger. There was her grandmama's letter. After a while she found that rereading those words, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help"—beautiful, inspiring words, words that contained tiny, healing droplets of comfort as they echoed in the mind—rereading that letter, feeling her grandmother's sorrow and strength reach across the miles that separated them, helped. Montrose, stuffy Montrose, sent a message saying he was answering the cards and letters of condolence for her, and that he had saved them, cataloging them as to importance (as only he would), and would send them in to her whenever she felt strong enough to read them. She began to notice that every day Thérèse brought in a fresh bouquet of spring flowers—all the fragile, lovely bulbs, nested with ferns, the fat tulips, regal hyacinths, fragrant narcissi, proud daffodils and lilies. They were from the Duc de Richelieu, said Thérèse, who sent a note every day along with the flowers asking after her health. That Richelieu could be so thoughtful surprised her. And there were little homemade bouquets, new lilies, fresh roses, sprigs of lilac, from the housekeeper, a gardener, a favorite footman, the cook, Montrose, and White.

   And there was Thérèse. Barbara was beginning to understand the complicated relationship that had always existed between her grandmother and Annie. When another woman, a woman whose heart and organs were the same as yours, who shared the same cycle of blood and moods, comforted you and dressed you and saw you at your worst as well as at your best, a special bond slowly formed, even though that woman was your inferior, a servant. Thérèse brushed her hair each morning and night. (Bringing memories of Tamworth, of her grandmother. She could picture her grandmother's room, the wealth of tables, their tops spilling over with books and vases of flowers and potpourri. Dulcinea, purring, complaining, jumping from person to person. Grandmama and Annie arguing, as they always argued, as one or the other of them brushed her hair. Anne and Charlotte curled on the bed, watching.) Thérèse insisted she change into a fresh gown each day, insisted she sit by the window, rather than lie in bed, and watch the gardens. This, too, brought comfort. Tamworth rose and fell to the cycle of the seasons, of crops. Her grandmother was always bottling, drying, pruning, and flowers and plants were part and parcel of her life. Cowslips, daisies, marsh marigolds, and bluebells in spring. Summer was roses, masses of them climbing over the garden walls, and snapdragons and pinks; autumn was chrysanthemums, berries, oak and beech leaves; winter was red nettles, blue forest periwinkle, shy wood violets, snowdrops. There was comfort now in watching the buds unfurl and open, the trees leaf out, in watching the gardeners and weeder women at their year-round tasks. It gave her a sense of time as a continuing thing, a thing beyond her own self, a thing that had its own rhythm, in which she was only a tiny cog.

   And there was Hyacinthe. He tried, valiantly and often without success, to be still. Having grown up with brothers, she, even in her grief, her new need for stillness, could appreciate his efforts. He would sit by her for hours, if that was what she wished. He practiced in secret with the puppies, now into their first real growth, but still tiny, yapping things, and was proud when he could make her laugh with some new trick he taught them. He ran up and down the stairs for books that might interest her, bonbons that might tempt her fragile appetite.

   She was touched by all these kindnesses, small but dear, showing she was loved. To find that the pretty compliments she had listened to when she was well and dancing and happy had now disappeared, along with their creators, when she was sad and thin and dispirited was a bitter thing, though Richelieu had warned her. You will be fortunate, Barbara Alderley, her grandmother had once said, if you have three true friends throughout your life. There will be many acquaintances and easy, laughing people who will call themselves friends, but a true friend is there when you are in need. At Tamworth, secure, like a fledgling bird in its prickly nest, she had not known what those words meant. But now that grief began to open new depths within her, now that, for the first time, she thought to ask, What is life about? she began to understand a little more of what her grandmother meant. Nothing was as you expected it, she thought to herself. Not yourself. Not life. Not other people.

   Rags between her legs held the fresh red blood of her flux. No child. She wanted a child now more than she wanted anything. It was a pledge to life, to her brothers and sisters, as well as to her love for Roger. She felt only a child could truly heal her.

   She was looking at the gardens, which stretched before her eyes in a style made fashionable by Versailles. First there was a handsome stone terrace connected to the house. At the edge of the terrace, which swept downward into broad steps to a graveled edge, were great bronze vases which contained whatever flower was in season. From the steps and gravel edge were parterres, those flower beds whose shapes are outlined by rigidly pruned evergreen box shrubs. Inside the centers were masses of bulbs, blooming ferociously and riotously under the spring sun. Between the parterres was a wide, single path leading to a landscape pond at the other, far end of the gardens. On each side of the path, behind the terrace's vanguard of parterres, was a grove of trees and shrubs, inside of which were fountains with benches so that the visitor might rest and enjoy the view. These fountains were hidden by the massing of the trees and shrubs; they were a surprise, a visual treat.