Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (6 page)

   "Mind your manners, Barbara!" she said sharply. "Your mother spoke to you."

   Barbara's chin lifted a fraction, but she said politely, "I was about, seeing people, saying good-bye."

   "Well, enjoy your freedom while you may," Diana said. "In London, a young lady never goes out unescorted by family or servants."

   Dulcinea yawned and then with a quick, unexpected, graceful leap jumped into Diana's lap. Diana hated cats, and Dulcinea knew it, purring and stretching out her claws so that they caught in the fabric of Diana's gown. Diana picked her up to throw her off her lap, and one small, hard, ivory claw caught in the lace on her sleeves and tore it.

   "Damn it!" Diana pushed the cat to the floor with a shove and inspected her sleeve. "She has torn my lace, and it is expensive!"

   "When do you leave?" the Duchess asked, as Dulcinea leapt up and back under her mistress's hand, to purr once more and regard Diana with slitted, steady green eyes. The Duchess had begun to reconcile herself to the marriage. What better could she do for Barbara? And if Barbara found that, after all, she did not care for Roger, why, she could stop the negotiations. In spite of Diana. She could. And she would. The wine she had drunk gave her a feeling of well-being and made her fears and forebodings seem the crotchets of an apprehensive old woman. Roger was an experienced man, and he would be kind. Kindness went a long way.

   "I would like to leave as soon as possible," Diana was saying. Barbara did not speak, but her chest rose and fell a little faster. The Duchess gazed at her fondly. Dear pet. She would be married soon and have children of her own. I would like to live to see Barbara's children, the Duchess thought. She listened to Diana talk about what Barbara would need for London, and they discussed the cost of a court gown, and whether it should be made in London or here by Annie and the village seamstresses. Barbara never said a word. They might not have been discussing her at all, but the Duchess did not notice; she was too amused by Diana's sharp reactions to the new Hanover court. The king had a very long, pointed nose, clear blue eyes and the social grace of a turnip. His mistress Melusine von Schulenberg looked like a maypole because she was so tall and thin, unlike his other mistress, Charlotte Kielmansegge, who was fat. She spoke English, but the king communicated with his courtiers through French and Latin. And he kept to himself. Why, his bedchamber was guarded from unwanted visitors by two Turkish soldiers he had captured. The Prince of Wales was handsomer than his father, but that was not saying much. His wife, Princess Caroline, was plump and fair—all the Hanoverian women wore their hair in the most ridiculous style, built up on pads from temple to temple, looking like a row of hot–cross buns covered with hair! And on this concoction, they put gauze and ribbon and huge hairpins covered with jewels. The ugliest things ever seen! Oh, and she had seen the Hanover pearls. Magnificent! The Princess of Wales had worn them outlining the bodice of her coronation gown and set in hoops at the shoulders. They were everything rumor had said, but she had not yet seen the incredible necklace and drop earrings said to be part of the set. The coronation itself had been a disappointment; the Hanovers had no style, unlike the Stuarts.

   "It will be a dull court, that I prophesy," Diana sighed.

   "But then Queen Anne's was hardly lively."

   The fires in the two fireplaces snapped and crackled and filled the room with drowsy warmth. Cousin Henley rose and excused herself, taking her basket of mending with her. Diana yawned, raised her full, white arms overhead in a graceful stretch and rose from the stool she had been sitting on.

   "If you will forgive me, I am going off to bed. The country air tires me so. Good night, Mother…Barbara."

   The draperies lifted and drifted closed behind her. The log on the fire fell apart with flying, sizzling red–orange sparks. Barbara's needle jerked in and out. The Duchess lay almost dozing in the warmth…the peace.

   "You wrote to Mother of Harry and Jane!" Barbara accused, her voice low and furious. The Duchess sat up abruptly, startled, to focus her eyes on her granddaughter, hand poised above the embroidery frame, the firelight highlighting her red-gold hair, a seeming tableau of domestic contentment, now seething with anger.

   "I never believed you would betray them, Grandmama! What did it matter if they married? The Ashfords are a fine family! I have heard you say a hundred times that their kind makes up the backbone of England. They love each other!" Her needle had been flying in and out of the linen faster and faster with each word she spoke. Now it knotted, and she threw it down in disgust, staring coldly at her grandmother.

   "Do not take that tone with me, missy!" the Duchess snapped automatically, stalling to gain time, so surprised was she by Barbara's attack. How like the chit to burst out in such a way. Impetuous. She was never one to hide emotion. Dulcinea leapt down and stalked from the room, her fluffy white tail up in the air, a signal flag that said, I am bored with your petty human concerns.

"I betrayed no one!" the Duchess said. "I did my duty! Do not clench that jaw at me, Bab Alderley! I will slap it off! I did my duty, pure and simple, and I care little whether you like it, or Harry, or Jane! I did what I had to!"

   Barbara's steady, contemptuous stare goaded her into more speech. "Harry must make a proper marriage. The circumstances demand it. And never forget he is the grandson of Richard Saylor, first Duke of Tamworth! The daughters of country knights are not for such as we! We do better!"

   Barbara tossed her head. The firelight glittered through it. Like Richard's.

   "Do you think I do not love Harry, child?" she continued in softer tones. "Do you think I want him hurt? Bloody hands of Jesus! You children are my heart. But duty comes before love. Harry will heal, as will Jane. First love seldom lasts, seldom endures. Only one thing does—"

   "If you parrot 'duty' once more, I shall scream!" Barbara flashed.

   "Do so!" her grandmother flashed back "And I will strike you with my cane!"

   "Impossible! You do not have it with you!"

   The Duchess glanced about her. The child was right. She looked back to Barbara. They glared at each other, both jaws set, both pairs of eyes hard.

   "Shall I fetch it for you, Grandmama?"

   She meant her words to be contemptuous, but the idea of fetching her grandmother's cane so that she might then be beaten with it made her bite her lip not to smile, which took a little of the edge off her anger. The Duchess saw it at once and pressed her advantage

   "Impudent chit! If I could move, Bab, I would beat you."

   She sighed. "As I cannot, take your punishment by coming here. Sit by me. Let us try to understand each other." She moved her legs so that Barbara could sit on the edge of the stool they rested upon. Barbara pushed her embroidery stand aside. I will never understand a duty that hurts others, she thought stubbornly. She sat down haughtily on the spot the Duchess had indicated and stared at her grandmother, her face closed and mutinous.

   Where on earth does she inherit that stubbornness? the Duchess thought. Yes, Richard had been stubborn, but not with this locked–in setness that could not be moved except perhaps by reasonable argument, and not even then if the girl decided she was right. I have been too easy on her, the Duchess thought. I should have beaten her more often. She is not docile and quiet enough. I would never have dared look at my grandmother so. Ah, the young today do not know what manners and duty are. She leaned her head against the tall back of the chair. The wine had given her a pretense of strength, but underneath its false sweetness crouched her age, her fatigue, always ready to pounce, to drag her down and shake her lifeless. She closed her eyes and spoke softly, to spare herself as much as possible.

   "Likely neither Harry nor Jane will remember the intensity, the pain, two years from now, Bab. Two years is such a long time when you are young. Harry will find an amusing mistress. Jane will marry and have a baby. Life goes on…our duties go on…I hardly knew your grandfather until the contracts were signed." What liars we become with age, she thought. Tell the girl how you followed Richard Saylor with your eyes and heart long before he ever spoke to you. Tell her that. "But I knew my duty. I knew what I owed my family. And I did it." She paused, her face soft with memories, and Barbara, staring at her, caught a sudden, unexpected glimpse of how she must have looked years ago. She listened, in spite of herself, intrigued by the idea of her grandmother's youth.

   "Ah, Bab…he was the handsomest man in four counties, besides being the best! At first I loved him because it was duty. But then I loved him because I could no more help myself than the sun can help rising in the morning." That is how I feel about Roger, Barbara thought. "And he learned to love me—a sharp–tongued, skinny stick like myself. And we worked together to build our fortune." What a brave, handsome soldier he was, the Duchess thought to herself, picturing him in his scarlet general's uniform, the medals pinned to his coat and glinting in the sun. Second only to Marlborough, and in the Duchess's eyes, not even second. Ah, those were good years. Three strong sons survived all the other dead babes, the estate rebuilt, added to, a daughter coming like a lovely bloom of love—a girl as beautiful as her father was handsome. Life seemed so rich, so easy. Nothing could stop them; they would rival anyone in power and land and wealth. They did. And then, the wheel of fate shifted: one son dead in a battle in that years–old French war, the other two dying unexpectedly of smallpox, a demon from the Devil himself, also finding and killing their oldest and dearest grandson—the heir since his own dear father had died. The dukedom went to Abigail's son. Sweet Jesus. She had always disliked Abigail, wondering how her funny, charming William, who was never jealous of his older brother's inheritance, always with a joke and a smile, dying like a dog in a faraway land—they never found all of his body—could have married her. So, in five years, after twenty years of good fortune and prosperity, all that was left of their children was Diana. It was far too late to bear any more. Three fine sons—strong men to continue the family name, the family honor, to care for them in their old age—gone. And with them, Richard's heart. He, too, dying. Widows and children left, gone. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

"Grandmama? Are you well? Shall I call for Annie?" The look on her face stabbed Barbara's heart. Betrayal or not, this old woman was her rock, her touchstone for life.

   The Duchess shook her head wearily, her face once more thin, old, sad.

   "I love Roger, Grandmama," Barbara said slowly. "The way you loved Grandfather."

   The simple, startling truth of Barbara's statement hit the Duchess between the eyes. Yes…perhaps she did. But Roger was forty–two, and Richard had been two years younger than she when they married. Roger was a man, established in his ways…his faults as well as his graces. Richard and she had grown old together, twining around each other like two young greening vines until you could hardly tell one from the other. And even then, they had had their share of quarrels and troubles. Roger was not the man Richard was. Once more a feeling of foreboding clutched at her. "You are fifteen!" she said more harshly than she meant because she was afraid. "What do you know of love? It comes from being with someone, from facing life together! Life in its awfulness as well as its joy! You love a handsome face. Nothing more!"

   Barbara shook her head, her face stubborn and mutinous once more.

   "Listen to me, chit! I will tell you of love—the kind of love you feel. Your mother fell in love with Kit Alderley, a handsome, worthless devil, even then—may God forgive me for speaking so of your father—and we let her marry him because he came from a good family, and because we had three boys to inherit. Diana could do as she pleased, your grandfather was always too soft with her! I begged her to wait. I begged him. She was fifteen at the time, mad for Kit. Yes! Stare, chit! You cannot think that your mother was ever fifteen." She moved impatiently. She was expending too much energy on this, but she was beyond stopping herself. "Well, she was! And a wild, willful piece if ever there was one! Worse than you could ever be! So we let her have Kit. And one morning, Diana woke up with seven children to feed, a traitor for a husband, and no more money left. No! And no love, either! It had dribbled away in fits and starts for years! So do not speak of love, missy! Even the greatest love will fly out the window without truth, honor, and duty to anchor it down!"

   Barbara was silent. Am I wasting my breath? the Duchess thought, staring at her, trying to fathom what lay behind that smooth, young, untouched skin on her forehead. Does she understand? Can one understand at fifteen? A Bible verse sprang into her mind: "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things."

"Make your mother tell you why she wants this marriage," she said harshly. "Make her tell you why Roger Montgeoffry considers you at all. It is for land, for property, and not for your pretty self! Make no mistake about that!"

   "Your love came later," Barbara said softly. "His will too."

   "And what if it does not?"

   Barbara smiled a slow, seductive smile, one the Duchess had never seen on her face before. "I shall make him love me, Grandmama. I can do it."

   Sweet Jesus! Had not Richard often said the same thing, smiled the same way, thinking to charm someone into doing what he wished—and succeeding! Except for death. He could not charm death from his sons or from himself.

   "Your love for Roger may change after you marry, Bab," she said, exhausted now by the futility of this talk, by the girl's stubbornness, by her own old woman's fears. "You may not find him to be all you want him to be. That is when you need to remember your duty. It is all that lasts." These last words were faint; the color of her face looked like putty. Barbara rose quickly to ring for her grandmother's tirewoman, thinking as she did so, Grandmama is old, she does not understand, does not remember. Of course she would do her duty; after all, she was a Tamworth as well as an Alderley. But she would also follow her heart.