Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (65 page)

   She sighed. Desire would not be on Charles's mind at this moment. Or honey. Only rage. And she did not blame him. She had not been fair with him from the beginning. She had not been herself since that first moment of seeing Roger again…and Philippe. Charles could not know who she was. He only saw the image she presented to the world at large, but behind the image was a shadow, and the shadow was herself and all summer she had floated between the image and the shadow, knowing that if she was not careful she would do something she would regret. That she was on the edge. And there had been enough to regret in Paris. Enough. She had fallen off the edge there, and the climbing back had been so long, so arduous. Revenge had not been sweet. Richelieu had lied.

   "Boo!" she said to the woman in the mirror, the one with the shadows over her shoulder, old ghosts, old memories, old guilts. She opened Jemmy's door and ran down the stairs like a child determined to get as far away as possible from the scene of her mischief. Her mind raced ahead of her feet—the image of her Aunt Abigail rising up as she had done years ago when Roger had still been a dream. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. She could see her aunt saying those words… and her grandmother, too.

   Oh, yes. Grandmama would have plenty to say about this escapade, though, of course, she had no intention of allowing her to find out….For shame, Barbara. Have you no pride, Barbara? He is only a boy, Barbara…. But she was too wise—or too foolish—to stay at Tamworth and listen to her grandmother's sermons. Oh no, a brief visit when she had first arrived in England had been enough. She was the fashionable young woman of the world. Hiding behind a mask of joking and high spirits and the flippancy she had become known for (thank you, Richelieu), allowing Harry to pull her along any way he wished, as a diversion, with their entourage— a lady's maid, a page, two yapping dogs—headed for London before the dust of traveling was even off their clothes. I will come soon and visit, Grandmama, she had rattled, not looking her grandmother in the eyes, not wanting to see what must be in them, because if she could not yet live with all that had happened since Roger's leaving, sweet Jesus, what must her grandmother think? Those sharp old eyes would pierce through any mask she might wear, and she could not bear that. Not yet. Boo!

   Outside, waving her flimsy summer scarf like a banner, she flagged down a hackney carriage.

   "Devane House," she said to the driver, sinking onto the musty, worn leather seats, still thinking of when she had left her grandmother. She had told her she would come back soon and waved at her from atop her horse, Harry's horse dancing impatiently beside her, but not any more impatient than she was inside. Inside, she was fifteen again, and London was her destination. Her ultimate destination. It was all that was on her mind. It had called her from across the sea. Called to her in all the letters from Mary and Tony and her grandmama. For Roger was in London, and she had a longing to see him, to see what time had done, that pride could not suppress. And dreams…dreams that would not lie still, as they should in their graves in her mind, dreams which rose at night and haunted her in her sleep like old white ghosts. She put her hand to her head. Philippe smiled at her across the crowded, domed salon of Roger's newly built pavilion of the arts. Oh yes. Philippe had sent those dreams flying away like the wisps of nothing that they were. Not even Roger's amazed smile of welcome, the something she had seen blaze into life behind his eyes, something she was now old enough to recognize, could compensate for Philippe's being there. She had felt betrayed. Again. Not by Roger, who had never once made her any promises. But by herself. By the foolish girl inside herself. The girl she ran away from. The girl she pretended not to be. Never run away from the truth because you carry it on your shoulder and someday it will put its ugly face into yours and say, Boo. Well, the truth had put its ugly face into hers that day. But she had still run away. She could blame it on Harry. He was with her, and he and Philippe must not meet face to face. Not again. Not after Paris. But it really had nothing to do with Harry. It had to do with the way her heart felt when she saw Roger again for the first time in four years. And then saw Philippe too. And she could not bear it, all that which was still within her heart.

   She tore the leather of the carriage seat, gripping it with her nails. I will bear it, I will bear it, I will bear it.

   In her mind she saw Charles as he had looked that day, staring down at her with arrogant, raking blue eyes, the same shade of blue as Roger's. I went to Paris to meet only you he had said, but you were gone. Well, here I am, she had answered, turning away, not knowing what she was saying, who was speaking to her. Feeling only the terrible, numbing shock of seeing Roger again, and then Philippe. How pitiful you are, she said to herself, her nails ripping the carriage seat. She had flirted with Charles because he was the first thing handy. She stared out the carriage window. Poor Charles; he possessed someone who did not exist. He did not understand her. But how could he? She did not trouble to explain herself. Richelieu had understood her, but then Richelieu had known her before, before she became the creation of lies and gossip and certain of her own foolish acts…laughing, stylish, flippant…with that hard Parisian polish that everyone found so fashionable, when the real Barbara was…who? Who was she? A fifteen–year–old child with her arms still held out, still believing in love and honor and truth…when she knew better? Oh, Jemmy, I am so sorry. Oh, Charles, it was the drink. I drank because of emptiness inside me, emptiness you cannot begin to understand. Her mind lurched to a stop. Where in the name of all that was holy was she? This was not the way to St. James's Square.

   Irritably, like a Fleet Street fishwife, she leaned out the window.

   "You!" she called to the driver, her voice sharp. "Where are you going?"

   "Devane House," he answered, missing her by inches with the spit of chewed tobacco that accompanied his words.

   "No! No! That is wrong," she shouted at him.

   He turned his head to look at her. "You said Devane House," he told her stubbornly, but he began to tug on the long reins of the carriage horses.

   She pulled herself back into the carriage. Damn his impudence! She did not live at Devane House and never had. Roger lived there. She stayed in his old town house at St. James's Square. (To the delight of London gossips, who buzzed about their separate living arrangements and waited expectantly each time she and Roger ran into each other to see what might happen. They underestimated Roger, his courtesy, his style. He treated her every time with teasing, provocative politeness, even if she was with Charles. He complimented her hair, her gown, inquired after her health, her family. It took her breath away, that polished surface of his manners. And in his eyes, there was always a look that hurt her heart.) Yes, the gossips had underestimated Roger, as she had also. If she had wanted rage and anger from him, and of course she had—some surge of feeling to show her worth—she had forgotten his facade of urbane sophistication, which could gloss over anything and still smile…and so beautifully. When he smiled at her, that look in his eyes, holding her hand to kiss it, she felt the touch of his lips all the way to her heart. Time had not erased that. No, there was never outward rage from Roger. It was not his style. (Only when he had noticed the bruises on her neck, bruises Richelieu's kisses had made, had she seen rage. In his eyes, in the sudden frozen posture of his body. And she had been glad. Now he would know. Now he would feel what she did. An eye for an eye. She was ready for his rage, for ugly words of accusation. But he never said them. He simply turned on his heel and left her. She could bear the lack of emotion. It was the leaving that killed her. But they were too far apart for anything to bring them together. The duel between Harry and Philippe was too fresh in both their hearts, not to mention on everyone's tongue. What would Paris have done without them to gossip about that summer?) She closed her eyes, squeezing the lids tightly shut at the thought of the girl she had once been, the girl who had lain sobbing on her bed for hours because she had been unfaithful, and now…now she could not finish her thought. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Richelieu, you lied. Revenge was not sweet. But darling, he answered, grin ning at her (even in their final parting, he was able to find a certain, grim amusement), it was for me.

   The driver's exasperated sigh made her open her eyes. He had pulled the carriage over and was outside it, staring at her with those world–weary eyes that all London hackney carriage drivers seemed to have. His expression said, My lady, I have seen everything, and it no longer bothers me, and I just want to know where you wish me to drive you so I may collect my money and go home and smoke a pipe of tobacco in peace. She looked at him. He waited. An impulse seized her.

   No one will be there, she was thinking. Roger is in Richmond. Everyone was in Richmond with the court. Even she was supposed to be there. Who would know if she should stop in for a visit? After all, it was also her home. She had a perfect right to see it. It was the talk of London, and she had never set foot in it, not since that first time. Today seemed to be her day for reminiscing, so why should she not go all the way home, home to what had once been her dream as well as Roger's? He would never have to know. She could bribe the housekeeper. She could walk in, ask for something to eat—her stomach was clawing at her insides like a lion—explore its finished rooms to her heart's content in private, then go home, her curiosity about Devane House sated, home to think of some way to see that her latest idiocy did not harm anyone else. Yes, just a small visit. No one would ever know. And if they did, she could blame it on a mood. A whim.

   She smiled at the driver, her grandfather's smile.

   "Devane House, after all," she said.

   The driver eyed her a moment before climbing wearily back up to his seat and clucking at the horses.

   Inside the carriage, Barbara sighed. He thought she was insane, or spoiled. Yes, that was it, a pampered, lazy noblewoman who did not have enough to do, so in her boredom she provoked hardworking hackney drivers who were simply trying to earn a living. He was a good judge of character. She began to repin her hair, straighten her gown, pinch her cheeks for color. She would not go to Devane House unkempt.

   The carriage was now on Tyburn. Traffic along Tyburn was never heavy, except during those times each year when the sessions for trying criminals were held, and the condemned, sometimes as many as twenty men and women, were taken to be hanged at Tyburn Tree, a scaffold farther away toward Hyde Park. Then Tyburn and New Bond Street and the roads to Oxford and Edgeware were crowded with humanity, on foot, on horseback, in carriages, come to see the hanging. It was like a festival or a fair, and the number of people depended upon the notoriety of who was to be hanged, but a good show was expected by all. The condemned rode to their destiny in a rough cart, the fatal ropes around their necks. Some dressed for the occasion, and these were the ones the crowd loved for their style and bravado, the men in fine coats of velvet or taffeta, the women in white, with great silk scarves and with baskets of oranges and flowers to be thrown to the crowds thronging around the cart. Friends and family ran on foot alongside, often carrying the coffin their loved one would rest in, but, more important, they were there to perform the function of pulling on the feet of the hanged ones, to bring death more quickly, The condemned might make a speech, and, the crowds always hushed expectantly for last words; the speech might even be printed and distributed afterward as a keepsake. Some thought Roger a fool to build anywhere near Tyburn, but others said it would provide the perfect seasonal entertainment to bored houseguests.

   The carriage turned off Tyburn onto Montgeoffry Road, which ran parallel for a half–mile to the road to Hampstead. On Barbara's left was Devane Square, still unfinished, its surrounding streets named for her grandmother and grandfather; Richard Street on the public side, which faced Tyburn Road, and Alice on the other, opposite from Montgeoffry. Only one section of the town houses was finished (Philippe lived in the largest and most expensive; Wart had found that out for her). Their white fronts of gleaming Portland stone and brick shone in the hot sunlight— none of the stonework yet dirty from London's perpetual coal smoke. All of the houses were similar, with entrances on their upper first story, under classical temple–front porticoes, up handsome steps. Another section of houses was framed out, and she could see workmen hammering and sawing and carrying boards, sweating in the sun. A construction captain, sitting on one of the benches in the gardens that formed the center of the square, doffed his hat at her as her carriage drove by. Already the gardens of the square with their fountain and green lawns and trees and flowers that Roger had assembled from around the world were gaining a reputation as a botanical curiosity. Londoners came to stroll here in the cool of the evening, came to watch the progress of the houses, to admire the outside facade of Wren's small church at one end of the square, to cross Barbara Lane, behind the church, and peer through the gates at the magnificent grounds and house beyond, rising before their eyes.

   The carriage began to circle around the grounds of Wren's lovely church—workmen were busy here, too—until it turned into the short road that was Barbara Lane, her lane, before the gates of Devane House, into which Roger had been pouring his money and energy these last few years. Her house, also. She gave her name to the gatekeeper, who allowed himself one glance of startled curiosity before he ran to open the massive wrought–iron gates. The carriage rolled onto a circular drive, on each side of which were planted rows and rows of young lime trees. Barbara had the carriage stop, and she stepped out. She walked through the young trees to the fountain opposite the gates. Gardeners were everywhere, digging, hauling, planting.