Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (58 page)

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The handkerchief was in the pocket of her gown. She took it out and stared at it twenty times a day. Who was she? The material she was embroidering tore as she thrust the needle through it savagely, and she threw the frame onto the floor in a fit of temper and stared out the window. Harry, who had been hiding under her skirts, leapt on the frame, got it between his teeth, and shook it back and forth, killing it. Charlotte crawled out at his growls and ran after him, barking. She managed to grab an end. The game was on. Barbara sat brooding, her face mutinous, the hard line of her jaw showing. Was he unfaithful? Was he? Outside, in the garden, Roger and Philippe walked into her view. They stood at the edge of the terrace talking. Philippe, Roger's dear friend. She realized how much time they spent together. She ground her teeth. Philippe sent her flowers, he never failed to inquire after her health; he did not intrude on her presence too often, and yet she disliked him. What is happening to me? she thought. Has my grief unhinged me? Am I seeing devils where none exist? She was pitiful. She was disgusting. To be jealous of a man who was Roger's friend. Roger would despise her if he knew, but not any more than she despised herself. Roger and Philippe were no longer in view. She leaned back in her chair.
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There was a reasonable explanation and she was making herself sick. I must have a child, she thought, I need something to love. Why did he want her gone? What had she done?

   "Why are you sitting up here alone?"

   She started. It was Roger. He walked into the room, and Harry and Charlotte dropped the embroidery frame (the piece of linen it had held was shredded satisfactorily to pieces) and trotted to him, whining for his attention. He leaned down and absently scratched their heads.

   "You should not sit up here and brood," he told her. "It is not good for you. It will not bring them back."

   She stared at him, anger rising in her. She had never shown him her temper before. She had always managed to control it before him but now the grief, the worry, the fear had loosened her hold upon it. And she did not care. It would feel good to scream at him. Very, very good. It rose in her like sap up a tree, filling her throat, her head, her mind.

   "I am not brooding." She said each word through clenched teeth, the line of her stubborn jaw plain through the soft youthfulness of her face. He stared at her, startled. At this moment, she was the image of her grandmother, or of Diana. She reached into the pocket of her gown, while he watched her, eyes narrowed, obviously trying to understand her mood. Well, let him understand this. She threw the wadded handkerchief at him. It fell softly to the floor a few inches from him.

   In that single instant, Roger's heart seemed to stop, then to explode with a roar, a dull pain that filled his ears. To give himself time to think, he picked up the handkerchief and unfolded it. The
S,
the fleurs–de–lis, stared up at him like his own sentence of death.

   "Justin told me you went through my clothes," he said calmly. The calmness came from shock.

   That calmness maddened her. It was as if someone had lighted an explosive in her mind.

   "Who is she?" She screamed the words at him. The two dogs froze. Their tails tucked under, and their heads ducked down. They looked at each other.

   "W–what?" Roger stared at her as if he did not understand.

   She wanted to tear his heart out. She wanted to chop it into pieces and eat it raw. She wanted to scratch his handsome face until it bled, like her heart.

   "Who is she?"

   She was on her feet, screaming the words so loudly that the blood rushed to her head, and she was dizzy. She was also murderous. The dogs skittered over each other in their efforts to be the first under the bed.

   Roger half laughed. I will kill him, she thought. She took a step toward him, but his next words stopped her in her tracks.

   "That handkerchief is Philippe's."

   It was as if she were an inflated leather ball, filled with fire, and someone had just stuck a knife in her and all the fire fell out, leaving her empty. She could only stare at him.

   "I thought—" But she could not finish.

   He laughed out loud then, throwing back his head, looking like a handsome god. The sick, white color of a moment ago was gone.

   "You thought I had a lover," he finished for her. "Who? A dancer from the opera or a fat little serving maid? Thérèse, perhaps?"

   He crossed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms. She felt like a rag doll, all her stuffing gone. That instant from fury to relief had been too sudden.

   "There is no woman in my life who means anything to me but you," he said into her hair.

   She burst into tears and pushed him away. "I thought you were unfaithful! I thought you had someone else! I wanted to kill her! And you!"

   "Barbara," he said, laughing at her tenderly. She held her hand up.

   "No. Listen to me. I am not meek or obedient or good. I am not patient or dutiful. Grandmama tried to make me so—truly she did— but it was no use. She said I would just have to muddle through life as I was: feckless, impatient. You are right to want me gone out of your life. I would not blame you if you sent me away. I am not always a good person, Roger." She wiped her face with fierce swipes, but the tears continued to pour down.

   He pulled her to him. "Barbara," he said tenderly, holding her close, stroking her hair. "My dear, dear child. I adore you."

   She began to cry harder than ever. He tried to choke back his laughter. He felt so tender toward her that he laughed to cover deeper emotion—at her love, her innocence, and at his reprieve. The relief was so intense he covered her face with kisses, her jealousy dear and sweet to him. His dearest child, crying for the moon. I am her moon, he thought. He closed his eyes in bittersweet pain.

   "I love you," she said. "I have always loved you. I know I am young and foolish, but I would be anything you say, do anything you wanted me to. You are everything to me, Roger."

   He stepped back from her, tenderness gone now. In its place was guilt. Heavy. Interminable.

   "Do not say that," he told her, his face hard and cold. "Never say that to me again. I am not worth it. Dear God, Barbara, no one is."

   She tried to hit him. His words made her crazy. She had offered him everything, and he had refused it. He managed to catch her arm.

   "I hate you!" she screamed, struggling, trying to claw his eyes. "I hate you!"

   She was like a madwoman. He managed to pin her arms back. She tried to kick him, to bite him. He grabbed her and held her. He was panting. He managed to wrestle her toward the bed, she shouting and kicking the whole way. He picked her up and threw her on the bed, falling with her. The force of it knocked her breath away. The two of them lay there breathing heavily.

   She lay still, deflated, too exhausted by her emotions to move. He sat up, letting go of her gingerly, as if he expected her to strike him at any minute. He stared at her as if she were an escapee from Bedlam, a madwoman who ought to be in chains.

   She giggled. The expression on his face when she had tried to hit him… she laughed out loud.

   "Are you insane?" he said.

   She bellowed with laughter. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

   Laughter was better than tears.

   "Y–your f–f–face," she tried to tell him.

   He threw back his head and laughed too, laughing until he hurt. Finally, they lay side by side, every now and again laughing; but the storm was past. Roger wiped his eyes. It had been a close call, and not even Philippe amused him this much, but none of it could last. Choices were being forced upon him. Not yet, he thought. Let me savor it just a little longer.

   Barbara lay relaxed, the tension, the tears, drained from her. It was a wonderful release, her bad temper. A wonderful release.

   "Why did you try to hit me?" he asked her. "Was it because it was Philippe's handkerchief? I know you do not like him."

   "He does not like me."

   Roger was silent.

   They would never agree on this point, thought Barbara, and he can have his friend. I tried to hit you, my dear, stupid husband because you told me not to love you. And I do. I always will.

   "I am supposed to go to the opera this evening," Roger said, staring up at the bed canopy.

   "Tell me again." Barbara's voice was low, throaty, seductive.

   He half sat up, leaning on his elbow to stare at her. She stared back at him, her lips parted.

   "Tell me again."

   He touched her face. "There is no other woman but you."

   She opened her arms. "I want a child. Give me a child, my darling, darling Roger. And then you may go to the opera if you have the strength."

* * *

   She kept busy. She readied her household for Passion Week and Easter. There must be plenty of bacon to eat on Good Friday and Easter Sunday, as well as the traditional Good Friday hot cross buns. Eggs must be boiled and dyed different colors with herbal juices and then painted with gold leaf. Hyacinthe was excited about the eggs, and she gave him the job of seeing that they were decorated and displayed in a serving dish in one of the salons. She ordered mutton, ale, fish, and loaves to give to a certain number of beggars (she and LeBlanc decided on one hundred) whose feet she and her household would wash on Maundy Thursday, the Thursday before Good Friday. Thérèse told her that the Parisians dressed in their best clothes on Maundy Thursday and went from church to church saying prayers in each and giving beggars alms.

   She and Roger and Philippe and Marie–Victorie and the Comte de Toulouse rode in an open carriage to the chapel in the Bois de Bologne to hear Passion Week psalms sung. Marie–Victorie had said they were lovely, uplifting, and that everybody in Paris came. And she was right. Everyone was there: carriages jostling one another as coachmen tried to squeeze in; people in and out of them, strolling among the trees in their new Easter gowns and coats, the women with tiny, dainty parasols and pastel gowns. Barbara felt like a crow in her gown of black. But it was good to be out. She said a silent prayer for her brothers and sisters. She cried a little when the psalms were sung, but no one seemed to mind. Roger put his arm around her; Philippe patted her hand. She and Philippe managed a truce of sorts. For Roger's sake. They looked into each other's eyes and knew what the other thought, but said nothing. She could live with Philippe, as long as she had Roger. And perhaps his child. She prayed with all her might that a child was growing within her at last.

   She saw Thérèse and White strolling together, hand in hand like two lovers, with Montrose trailing some distance behind. She pointed them out to Roger.

   "Why will you not let me come to your rooms?" White asked Thérèse, his plain face strained, whispering so that the crowds around them would not hear him. They saw the Devanes with friends in an open carriage and smiled and bowed. Thérèse snuggled against his good arm, smiling at him, her dark eyes glinting.

   "Caesar," she teased. "For everything there is a time, and it is not our time."

   "I–I think I am in love with you."

   She looked away. Sunlight glinted on her dark curls. White was silent, afraid he had gone too far, afraid of frightening her away.

   Barbara ordered Easter flowers sent to Lord Stair's mansion. A vicar was attached to his permanent staff, and Easter services for the English in Paris would be held in the chapel near his mansion. And she ordered a Pascal taper, a huge, white candle made of finest wax, to light for the vigil of Christ's death and coming to life again. It would burn on the gospel side of the altar from the Saturday before Easter until some forty days later on Ascension Day.

   She sat on a bench in the garden Easter Sunday afternoon. The lilac trees, the tulip trees were in full flower. The chestnuts and limes showed tender, green leaves. Pinks, daffodils, roses, sweet William and pansies bloomed. Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us, thought Barbara, repeating the Easter service in her mind, therefore let us keep the feast, not with old leaven, neither with the leaven of malice and wickedness, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth. At Tamworth there would have been many Easter festivities, rolling down Tamworth Hill, games of handball, foot races in which the winners were given tansy cakes, made with the tansy herb, which cleansed the humors left in the stomach and guts from eating fish for Lent. How was Grandmama this Easter? Was Tony with her still? Did she miss her grandchildren? Did she miss Barbara? Barbara wiped tears from her face. Would there ever be a time when thinking of them did not bring pain? Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

* * *

   Thérèse stood in her thin nightgown and gazed out her open window at the rooftops of Paris. The night breeze was pleasantly cool. She smelled the Easter lilac, now fading, its first riotous bloom going. LeBlanc would not visit her tonight. She was free. He was tired from Lady Devane's Easter activities and had one of his stomach humors and was suffering in his own room. She had seen that he wanted her to come to him, to hold his hand, to fuss over him, but she ignored his sulks. A man was a man was a man. Nothing more. Nothing less. She laughed at herself, sounding the experienced woman when LeBlanc was only the second man she had ever had. But he was the same as her young prince, minus the youth and slim stomach and her adoration. Full of himself. Of his problems. He was afraid of displeasing Lady Devane, who was too demanding. He was afraid he would lose his position to the younger, abler butler of the wine cellar, whom Lady Devane liked. He was afraid he was going to die of stomach pains.

   At night, after he was through, she lay like a dead woman under him, but he never seemed to notice. He settled himself and talked of his troubles, like anyone. He was becoming fond of her. She could see it. He worried about her bleeding and wanted her to go to another physician. He scolded her for going up and down so many stairs. It could not be good for her female parts, he said. He talked, and she listened, telling him nothing of herself. It was hers to keep, hers to give as she wished, and she wished to give nothing to LeBlanc.